by Jo Beverley
Astonishingly, she wanted him to bite harder.
But then he lowered her hand and tugged her along a path. “Come on.”
She laughed and went, their bare hands clasped as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And it was. They were friends. They were joined. He was hers, and she was his, and before they returned to the civilized world she would be sure of it.
He often had to hold back invading branches. At one point, Clarissa raised her skirts to work past a brambly spot. It was necessary, but she didn’t mind showing an extra bit of leg.
“Daisies,” he said, admiring her stockings with a grin. “Are all your stockings fancied in some way?”
She deliberately fluttered her lashes at him. “Why, sir, that is for you to find out!”
When he reached for her, she ducked under a drooping branch and evaded him. Something snagged at her, and she realized that her hat was still down her back. She didn’t mind, but waited for him to unhook her. Then froze at the tender touch at her nape…
They seemed magically transported out of the real world and real cares, to a place where wild rules reigned. She turned slowly to look at him, but he shook his head and drew her onward.
Then they came to the water, a little stream trickling out of a rock to splash into a moss-covered dip and flow away into a weedy pond. Clarissa put her hand under the cool stream.
“Piped, of course,” he said.
She flicked a handful of spray at him. “Just because you have a house that looks as if it’s grown where it stands! That’s no reason to sneer because others have to construct their little bit of heaven.”
“Minx.” Laughing, he brushed away the sparkling trail from his hair. “Nature is beautiful enough. Why try to turn it into something it isn’t? But we did have fun here as boys.”
He looked around. “I remember we knotted a rope onto a branch up there,” he said, pointing at a tall elm that overhung them. “We were planning to swing from one side to the other, like pirates boarding a Spanish treasure ship. Van broke his collarbone.”
“Your parents must have been terrified.”
“We hid the rope and said Van had fallen on the path. We were going to try another time, but never did. Perhaps we did have some sense.”
He put his hand under the water, letting it stream out between his fingers like diamonds in a shaft of bright sun. She watched him carefully, expecting retaliation.
He turned to her, and with his wet hand he gently traced a cool line across her brows, down her cheek, and to her lips. Then he kissed her, hot against the cool, so she hummed with pleasure.
He drew back, frowning. “This is no good. Maria will send out a search party.”
She grasped his jacket and pulled him back. “Can’t we hide here and never be found?”
“Hide in the wilderness?” He freed himself, gripping her hands to prevent further attack. “No, fair nymph, I’m afraid we cannot. The world is a demanding mistress and will recapture us.” He looked around. “The paths wind all over, but we can cut through by going that way.”
She looked where he pointed. “That’s the pond.”
“It’s about six inches deep.” He suddenly swept her into his arms.
She shrieked, but then wrapped one arm around his neck and kissed his jaw. “My hero!”
“You may want to wait and see if I can do this without dropping you. I suspect the bottom is pure slime.”
As soon as he put his boots into the water she felt them slip. “Hawk…”
“What is life without risk?”
“This is a brand-new gown!”
“O little mind, tied down in mundane cares.”
The pond was only about ten feet wide, but he was having to take each step with exquisite care. Clarissa began to laugh.
“Stop that, woman. You’ll have us drowning in duckweed!”
She stopped it by sucking lightly at his jaw.
“Is that supposed to help?”
“Promise of reward?” she whispered.
He halted. “Stop that, or I drop you.”
She looked into his smiling eyes. “Do I believe you?”
“Do you think I wouldn’t?”
“Yes,” she said, and nibbled him.
He groaned and stepped quickly, rashly, the rest of the way across, then set her on her feet. He kept one arm around her, however, and swung her hard against him for a kiss that made their others seem lukewarm.
Clarissa sagged, her knees weakening under that assault. The next she knew she was sprawled back against a rock, a sun-warmed rock, grit and heat clear even through cloth. It was only slightly inclined. Perhaps if his legs weren’t so pressed to hers she would slide down.
All she could think of, however, was his passionate eyes, on her. On her. Everything she wanted in life was here.
“Your gown is probably becoming stained with moss.” he whispered, leaning closer, supported by one arm. The other hand rose to play on her cheek, her neck…
“Is it?” Her own voice astonished her with its husky mystery.
“Your new gown,” he reminded her.
“Am I supposed to care?”
“Yes,” he said. “I rather think you are.”
“But I’m rich, Major Hawkinville. Very rich. What is one dress here or there?”
His lips twitched. “Then what about the evidence of moss on a lady’s back?”
“Ah. But isn’t the damage done? And I can always claim that you were a poor escort and let me tumble in the wilderness.”
“ ‘Tumble,’ ” he said, brushing his lips over hers. “That has two meanings, you know.”
“Like ‘rod’?” she dared.
Those creases dug deep beside his mouth. “Very like ‘rod,’ yes. You frighten me, Clarissa.”
“Do I? How?”
“Don’t look so pleased. You frighten me because you have no true sense of caution. Aren’t you at all afraid?”
“I’m not afraid of you, Hawk.”
“You should be afraid of all men here, alone in the wilderness.”
“Should I? Show me why.”
With a laugh that sounded partly like a groan, he looked down, down at her bodice. Her gown’s waist was very high and the bodice very skimpy, though made demure by a fine cotton fichu that tucked into it.
He pulled that out.
Clarissa lay there, heart pounding, as he softly kissed the upper curves of her breasts, a feather-stroke of lips across skin that had never known a man’s touch before. A wise and cautious woman would stop him at this point. She raised a hand and let her fingers play with his hair as his lips teased at her.
Then his hand slid up to cup her breast. A new, strange feeling, but she liked it. His thumb began to rub and she caught her breath. Ah, she liked that even more!
She realized her hand had stilled and was clutching at the back of his neck. Her eyes half-focused on sunlight on his hair…
A sudden coolness made her start and look down. His thumb had worked both gown and corset off her nipple! She watched numbly as his mouth moved over and settled…
She let her head fall back and closed her eyes, the sun a warm haze behind her lids as he stirred magic in first one breast, then the other.
No, not just in her breasts.
Everywhere. Perhaps because his hand was beneath her skirt, up on her naked thigh. At some time her legs had parted and he pressed between them. She moved her body against his, holding him closer.
So, this was lovemaking.
Ruin.
How very, very sweet.
A deep beat started between her thighs, teaching her what wanting truly was. Wanting a specific man, in a specific way, at a specific moment.
Now.
She wriggled to press closer.
“Good God!”
He pushed away, jerking her up straight. Clarissa opened dazzled eyes to see him in a shimmering halo of light. He pulled up her bodice and searched around for her discarded fichu.
Sh
e put a hand on the rock to stay upright, but she was laughing. “That was astonishing! Can we do it again?”
He straightened, fichu in hand. “You’re an unrepentant wanton!” But he was flushed and half laughing too. “You’ve bewitched me completely out of my senses. Heaven knows how long we’ve been here.” He flung the soft cotton around her neck and began to tuck it in with unsteady fingers.
Then he stood back. “You do that. Maria will want my head. And Van will want—”
He stopped what he was saying, and she fixed the fichu over her breasts, fighting back her laughter. She was incapable of anything except total delight. That kiss, that encounter, had wiped away the last trace of doubt about his feelings. He’d gone further than he’d intended. He’d lost track of time.
He, the Hawk, had been lost in his senses with her.
She knew he was appalled, and that spoke of the power of their love.
Their love…
“We need only say we were lost in the wilderness, Hawk.”
“We need to get out of here. Where’s our damned inadequate chaperone?”
He took her hand and virtually dragged her up some more steps and around another boulder out into an open grassy space. There sat Jetta in front of a gate in the estate wall, waiting.
“Don’t ask how she knew where we were going,” he said. “She’s never been here before.” He strode forward and grasped the iron bolt, then swore. “It’s stuck. My apologies.”
“For language or gate?” But Clarissa knew laughter was in her tone. She couldn’t help it. She’d laugh at rain at the moment, at thunder, or at hurricane. He was anxious to get through the gate for fear of her! Of what more they might do here.
She rather hoped the latch was fused shut.
He struggled with it for a moment more, then suddenly stood back and kicked at the rusty bolt. The gate sprang open, the bolt flying off the shattered rotten wood.
She caught her breath.
Crude, effective violence.
A side of Hawk Hawkinville that she had not seen before, suddenly reminding her of handsome, civilized Lord Arden lost in rage, hitting his wife…
He shook himself and turned, the elegant man again. “Come.”
Chapter Eighteen
Clarissa went through the splintered gate. All the beautiful certainty she’d floated in had gone, and she was jolted to dubious earth. Would his next violent outburst be against her? When she told him the truth?
Beyond the gate lay civilization. The English countryside. A well-trodden pathway ran along the edge of a field of barley, winding up the hill behind them, and down toward the village in front.
The path to where? She had vowed to ask him to marry her if he didn’t propose first. Now she faltered before uncertain flames.
“The path rises up to Hawks Monkton,” he said in a very normal voice. “It’s about three miles.”
Jetta rubbed past their legs and headed down. What was there to do but follow?
“Perhaps you would care to visit it one day,” he said as if giving a guided tour. “We have the remains of a monastery there. Very remaining remains. The stones were too useful to be left untouched.”
“We?” she asked. “Does the manor hold this land?”
“No, this is Van’s. The only manor land on this side of the river is around Hawks Monkton. On the other side, we own the village, and land nearly all the way to Somerford Court up there.”
From this height Clarissa could see more of Lord Amleigh’s home—a solid stone block with a lot of chimneys. “Jacobean?” she guessed.
“Early Charles I, but close enough. It doesn’t have the elegance of Van’s house, or the age of mine, and the Somerfords haven’t been wealthy since the Civil War, so it’s shabby in places. But it was always my favorite place to be.” He’d come to a halt considering it. “It was always a place of love and kindness and tranquil days.”
“What happened to them?”
More violence?
He looked at her as if coming out of memories. “Was I speaking in the past tense? That comes out of my mind rather than reality. But Con’s father and brother died while we were in the army. It was his father’s heart. His brother drowned. Fred was boating mad. His mother and younger sister still live there, however, and he has two older sisters who are married with families of their own.”
Clarissa gave thanks for what sounded like a normal family. She was beginning to think such things a matter only for fable!
“And Lord Vandeimen? He doesn’t mention any family.”
He gestured for them to walk on, and she obeyed. She noted, however, that he didn’t touch her this time as he had so many times before. Had that burst of violence indicated a change of mind in him, as well as for her?
What was she to do about that?
“Sadly, Van has none left. It’s hard to believe. Steynings was always so full of life. His mother and one sister died in the influenza that swept through here. His other sister died in childbirth a year ago, on the exact day of Waterloo. God alone knows, death was not short of business that day.” He collected himself. “It’s not surprising that his father went downhill. He shot himself.”
“And Lord Vandeimen came home from battle to all that? How terrible.”
“But his marriage has begun to heal the wounds.”
Marriage. Capable of healing, capable of wounding. She suddenly saw it not as a device, as a comfortable matter of orange blossoms and beds, but as an elemental force.
“My parents were not like that,” she said, half to herself. “I’m sure their marriage was always… and.”
“Perhaps not. Many marriages begin with dreams and ideals.”
She looked at him, realizing that they were talking about marriage—now, when she had become dreadfully uncertain.
“What of your parents, Hawk?”
“Mine?” His laugh was short and bitter. “My father tricked my mother into marriage to gain her estate. Once he had it, he gave her no further thought other than to push her out of his way.”
She stared at him, thinking perhaps she at last understood his lack of action. “You fear to be like your father?” she asked softly.
They had stopped again. “Perhaps,” he said.
She grasped her courage. “If we were to marry, would you give me no further thought other than to push me out of your way?”
Humor, true humor, sparked in his eyes. “If I found you in my way, I’d likely ravish you on the spot.”
She laughed, feeling her face burn with hot pleasure. “Then marry me, Hawk!”
And thus Hawk found himself frozen, pinned to an impossible spot by the words that had escaped him. If he said no, she would shrivel. If he said yes, it would be the direst betrayal.
He could not trap her without telling her the truth. If he told the truth, she would flee.
He’d been silent too long. Mortification rushed into her cheeks, and she turned to stumble away down the path.
He caught her round the waist, stopping her, pulling her against him. “Clarissa, I’m sorry! You are being very generous, and I… Dazzled by sunshine and wilderness adventures with you, I’m in no state to make a logical decision.”
She fought him. He felt tears splash on his hands. In fear of hurting her, he let her go.
She whirled on him, brushing angrily at her eyes with both hands. “Logical! Do you deny that you went to Cheltenham in search of the Devil’s Heiress?”
“No.”
“Then why, for heaven’s sake, when the rabbit wants to leap into the wolfs jaws, are you stepping back?”
“Perhaps, dammit, because rabbits are not supposed to leap into jaws!”
She planted her fists on her hips. “So! You will hold my boldness against me and cling to conventional ways!” Her look up and down was magnificently annihilating. “I thought better of you, sir.”
With that salvo, she turned and marched away, and this time he did not try to stop her. He watched for a moment, transfixed wi
th admiration and pure, raging lust.
My God, but he wanted this treasure of a woman in every possible way. He forced his feet into action to follow, plunging madly back into thought to find an answer, a solution. And it was as much for her as for him. He could not bear to see her suffer like this.
He could accept her offer of marriage. He recognized it for the worm it was, but he could make a clear case in favor.
She loved him. Perhaps she would forgive. Perhaps she would accept a future as Lady Deveril. If not, she would be the offended party, and could march off, banners flying. He’d keep not a penny more of her money than he absolutely needed, and would never try to restrict her freedom. He’d give her a divorce if she wanted it.
But divorce always shamed the woman. She would never be restored to the promise of life that she had now. He would be stealing that from her.
And it would have to be an elopement, with all the problems he’d already considered. All the problems that had made him reject that course. He had always prided himself on courage and an iron will, but now he’d found his weakness. He seemed able to stick to nothing where Clarissa was concerned.
Van.
He had made his friend a promise. He’d already gone further than he ought. Elopement, though—that would be an outright violation. Van might even feel obliged to call him out.
God Almighty! That would be the hellish nadir, to risk killing or being killed by one of his closest friends.
The path separated from the high stone wall, and Clarissa took the branch heading toward the river and the humpbacked bridge. He watched her straight back and high-held head.
Such courage, though he was sure she was still fighting tears. She hurt. He knew that. She wouldn’t agree now, but it was a minor hurt that time would heal.
He must stick to his other plan and let her fly free.
Clarissa watched a crow flap up from the field in front of her and wished she could simply fly away from this excruciating situation. All she could do, however, was hurry to rejoin her party and return to Brighton.
Empty, purposeless Brighton.
No more Hawk.
Why had he pursued her if he did not want her? Why had he kissed her like that in the wilderness if he did not want her? Was it true what they said, that a man would kiss and ravish any woman, given the chance?