Between the Devil and Ian Eversea: Pennyroyal Green Series

by Long, Julie Anne

  A peculiar prickling started up at the back of her neck. The butterflies were now performing a vigorous reel.

  As he’d implied before, she didn’t know quite what to do about it.

  Which made her feel young and gauche again.

  And a little angry. He never seemed to tire of pointing out her naive inadequacy to her in all manner of ways.

  There was an odd little silence as they perused each other from a safe distance.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Ah. Well, there’s a stream, nearby, Narcissus.” His voice had gone gruff. “I think you can see yourself reflected in it. Have a look, if you must.”

  They rode over to a likely place, and he dismounted, produced a handkerchief, and spread it out along the ground at the bank, which was mercifully not too damp. He gestured with a flourish for her to kneel.

  Just like Sir Walter Raleigh. Well, almost like Sir Walter Raleigh.

  Like an empress, her nose exaggeratedly in the air for effect and just to make him smile, she strode over and gracefully knelt, and bent to see if she could indeed use the surface of the stream as a mirror.

  She could. And he was right. If they were going to reference the Greek myths, she would have to go with Medusa.

  She set about pulling out the pins which were askew. A swift run of her hand over her head told her she’d lost a few of them. She thrust her fingers up through it and gave it a good raking, an attempt to tame it.

  She was so preoccupied with the reconstruction of her hair it took her a moment to realize he’d been absolutely silent for quite some time.

  She turned to make sure he hadn’t disappeared.

  An expression she couldn’t decipher fled from his face as she did.

  She might have called it “rapt,” but it was gone far too quickly for her to be sure. Perhaps it had just been gas.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just engaging in the time-honored pastime of suffering the loss of precious minutes of my life for the sake of a woman’s vanity.”

  “Oh, you poor thing, to be so very ill-used. You’re fortunate you’re passable looking, Captain Eversea. Because if you actually possess any of that vaunted charm, I’ve yet to witness it.”

  This, as she’d suspected, just made him laugh. “Hurry,” he said ungraciously, just to prove her point.

  She managed to twist and tame her hair and jab pins into it, and she was satisfied with the result.

  “How did I do?”

  He studied her, wearing a faint frown, so long and in such a way that it suddenly became a bit more difficult to breathe.

  “Less interesting, but more presentable,” was his cryptic verdict.

  She eyed him suspiciously for signs of mockery. None was evident.

  He looked a little preoccupied himself, in fact.

  He hadn’t blinked in quite some time. Unnerving.

  She felt a bit like prey.

  And again, she wasn’t quite certain what to do about it. The butterflies did a slow orbit in her stomach. This is why I oughtn’t ride alone, she thought.

  She stood without his assistance, plucked up his handkerchief, and he took two steps toward her horse in preparation for hoisting her up again.

  And then—

  Later, she would find it ironic that she hadn’t actually thought to feign a stumble before then.

  All she knew was that she was upright one moment and on her way down the next. She saw the ground coming at her and thrust her hands out with a muffled shriek and—

  She hit what felt like a wall.

  Which turned out to be Ian, who had lunged for her with lightning speed. Her head thumped his chest, and her hands latched into his shirt and pulled as he levered her smoothly upright again, as if they were performing some sort of awkward tango.

  When she’d oriented herself again she realized she’d managed to yank open his shirt and her hand had slipped between the buttons.

  It was a moment before she realized:

  She was touching his skin.

  Instantly she felt the leap and tension of his muscles.

  She stopped breathing.

  Judging from the tension in him, so had he.

  The moment seemed suspended in time.

  Her fingers fanned out, tentatively, just a little. She just couldn’t help it. She wanted to touch a little more of it, while the opportunity presented itself. She wanted to imagine the rest of him unfurling from just that spot.

  And a beat of held-breath silence ticked by before he spoke.

  “Don’t,” he said gruffly.

  It was too late. She couldn’t have moved her hand if he’d aimed a pistol at her.

  His skin was hot and silken over a chest that was frighteningly, fascinatingly, hard. She was a little afraid now, but she could not have pulled away if she tried. “Tansy . . .” His voice was a soft warning.

  He didn’t pull away from her, either.

  Time suddenly seemed to slow, to thicken, to soften, like . . . like . . .

  Lava.

  His voice was softer now. The edges husked. It stroked over her senses like rough velvet.

  “You try too hard, Tansy. Do you know what you remind me of?”

  “A dream come true?” she whispered it. I’m touching Ian Eversea’s skin I’m touching Ian Eversea’s skin.

  “Someone who always grabs the soap too enthusiastically, and finds it flying out of her grasp over and over.”

  “Imagining me in the bath, are you?”

  He laughed. Shortly, though. A distracted laugh. Somewhat pained.

  “I think you come at everyone before they can come after you, Tansy. You’re afraid to be—”

  He stopped abruptly.

  Vulnerable, she completed silently in her head, astonished. Certain that’s what he meant.

  It was astonishing for a number of reasons.

  Because it was true.

  Because he’d been unnervingly insightful.

  And because she realized he’d stopped because . . .

  He’d been talking about himself.

  She didn’t dare say that out loud.

  She turned her face up to him.

  He must have seen the wondering realization in her face, because his eyes almost literally shuttered. Cool, inscrutable. If it was a color in an artist’s palette, she would have called it “Warning Blue.” She’d have to be a masochist to want to breach that defense. He’d immolate her with a few drawled words.

  “What happened to you?” she whispered, before she could stop herself.

  Because after her parents died, she’d stopped knowing when to be afraid.

  Something had made him the way he was. Just as something had made her the way she was.

  Somewhat distantly she was aware of his heartbeat quickening beneath her palm. A glorious feeling. How incongruously soft and warm his skin was in contrast to those cold, guarded eyes. Her imagination wandered. Would his skin be like this everywhere on his body? Would she find different textures, curling hair, more muscle . . . his hands were on her thighs.

  His hands were on her thighs!

  She’d been so distracted by her own reverie, she hadn’t noticed, and now it was too late. They’d landed softly, stealthily. And now he was drawing his fingertips up along them, up over the curve of her hips, lightly and achingly slowly, as if pointing out to her precisely how female she was, how he saw her, how ensnared she was.

  Because she certainly was.

  The hairs stirred upright at the back of her neck and over her arms; her nipples were suddenly almost painfully alert, and his dragging fingertips over the fine, fragile muslin sent rivulets of flame fanning out through her body. It was so exquisite and fascinating, she forgot to draw breath.

  In seconds he’d knit a
net for her out of her own desire.

  Then, with the speed of a wolf seizing a hare, he scooped his palms beneath her buttocks and pulled her hard against him. And held her. He looked down into her eyes, his pupils large, black. He waited, it seemed, just long enough for her to feel the beginning of what would undoubtedly prove to be a very fine erection. For her body to soften, to yield, to fit to him. For her hands to slip around his neck and clasp him.

  What followed wasn’t a kiss so much as a siege.

  When his lips landed against hers—magically, her head was already tipped back to receive them—she tensed. An instant later it seemed the rightest thing in the world, the fit of his mouth over hers. Suddenly, it was the answer to everything. Ah, and too late she understood, here was the danger of which he spoke. Firm, warm, sinuously clever, he brushed his lips over hers, introducing her to the universe of pleasure that could be had from her lips alone.

  Before he plundered.

  Her mouth parted beneath his with a sensual knowledge as old as time and stronger than sense. Her hands slid down and she clutched at his shirt for balance as layer upon layer of new pleasure was revealed to her in the stroke, the dive, the twining of his tongue with hers. And somehow what began as a proving kiss of near violence evolved into something different. Something sensual, depthless, heady, drugging. She could feel him slow, his body ease. She was spiraling in some place where gravity didn’t apply. She would fall forever if she didn’t hold on to him; the kiss was her world now.

  She moaned softly, her pleasure, wonder, spilling into sound. His body tensed as he pulled her more tightly. She could feel the outline of his hard cock at the crook of her legs, and a shocking pleasure cleaved her. She pressed herself closer still, and he ground himself against her, and it hurt, and it felt wonderful. She wanted to disappear into him.

  “Tansy,” he breathed hoarsely. “God.”

  And suddenly she knew that he could take her right here, right now, and she would not have minded. She wanted something from him with a savagery she’d never known. His hands moved up over her back, slid upward to cradle her head, to hold her at her mercy as his mouth took and hers gave, and he hoarsely whispered, “Sweet.”

  He gently dragged his fingertips over the bare skin of her throat, leaving fine little fiery rivulets of sensation that traveled, shockingly, boldly to her breasts. Lightly, one of his fingers hooked into her bodice and he dragged it roughly over her nipple.

  It was exquisite and terrifying.

  “Ian.” A raw gasp. She wanted more. And she was afraid.

  He tore his mouth from hers, dropped his forehead against hers. His breath was hot, swift, ragged, against her face. And like that they breathed together, her breath so tattered it sounded nearly like sobs.

  She would never be the same, she was certain.

  And then he abruptly released her and stepped back.

  Which seemed an unthinkable cruelty.

  The two of them stood and stared and breathed like pugilists backing into their own corners again.

  Her senses were in utter ruins. She would be ages collecting them again. Perhaps she’d never get them back in the proper order.

  It could have been an eternity or seconds later when he spoke again.

  “Many, many men wouldn’t have stopped, Miss Danforth.” He said it quietly.

  Ah. So this was yet another lesson. Or at least that was what he wanted to pretend. How altruistic of him.

  She gave a short, bitter little laugh.

  And still she couldn’t speak. She’d once possessed the skill, she was certain of it.

  He could.

  “Please stop playing at things you don’t fully understand, Tansy. It will be the undoing of you. It’s so very, very easy to lose yourself this way. ”

  She still couldn’t breathe or think properly. She was furious that she needed to leave one hand against him to steady herself. She was furious at him for being right. And for being so bloody self-righteous.

  And for being steady on his feet as he regarded her.

  And then she realized he was trembling. She could feel it beneath her palm.

  He was a seasoned rogue, and that kiss had shaken him.

  Suddenly this unnerved her more than the kiss itself.

  “Is that why you do it?” she asked softly. Ironically. “To lose yourself?”

  Swift anger kindled in his eyes again. “Have a care.”

  So he didn’t care for having his secrets unraveled, did he?

  She took her hand away from him finally, slowly, as if he were a rabid dog and would lunge at her if she made any sudden moves. She was steady on her feet now. Her breathing had nearly resumed its usual cadence. She couldn’t yet back away; he maintained a peculiar gravitational pull. She could still feel the warmth of his body on her skin. She wondered distantly if she always would. As if she’d been branded.

  “What if I want to be lost?” she whispered.

  Something wild and dangerous flared in his eyes. An almost incinerating longing. It was there and gone.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  His hair had fallen down over his brow, and he looked faintly ridiculous, and never more beautiful.

  Despite the fact that his face was suddenly granite.

  “I know one thing. I know that you want me.”

  She didn’t say, As much as I want you.

  His head went back sharply. And then he froze. He was utterly motionless apart from the spirals of hair the wind was lifting. Did he look like this when he took aim at a target with a rifle? She suspected he did.

  She would love to wind her finger in one of his spirals, let it unfurl.

  At last he ducked his head into his chest and dropped his shoulders. Then he spun on his heel and strode to her horse. He wordlessly held the stirrup for her, and with a jerk of his chin beckoned her over.

  He helped hoist her up as if she were a sack of flour, and not a woman he’d just kissed witless. Then he mounted his horse and stared down at her, wearing a faint frown.

  He gave his head a rough shake. “It’s time we get back.”

  He wheeled his horse around and urged it forward.

  She thought she heard him mutter a single bemused word under his breath.

  She wasn’t certain, but it may have been “devil.”

  Chapter 17

  IAN CLOSED HIS EYES.

  Two birds were calling a leisurely, liquid sounding duet to each other across the enclosed garden. The hush had a waiting quality, perhaps because the plants had been allowed to flourish with abandon and muffled any sounds that might want to enter or escape.

  He opened his eyes again, and slowly—the sound of his footsteps almost an intrusion—followed the inlaid stone path, which was tufted with grass and determined flowery weeds in some places and completely overgrown in others. The loosely serpentine walkway meandered through birches and oaks, walnut and apple and cherry trees, old and solid now, leafed out and healthy. A few lucky flies buzzed over fruit that had plopped to the ground.

  The flowers were clearly planted according to a plan, but now every variety had run amuck, brilliant and fighting for room, like a crush at a ball. He didn’t mind it, really. He liked a little chaos.

  In the corner, the ivy was dense and inches thick. A peculiar sort of anticipation ramped in him as he approached it. He hefted it like a curtain and it released its grip reluctantly, its dry little fingers scraping against the wall.

  He peered.

  And there, ambered in the morning light, laboriously scratched into the stone, was one word: Tansy.

  He put his finger on the word, tracing each letter. It had taken determination and a knife to do that. He gave a short laugh. A “wallflower” who wasn’t afraid of guns and knives or riding at breakneck speed.

  He wasn’t certain why he�
�d wanted to come here today. It had something about how she’d looked when he said “Lilymont.” Something brilliant and raw and very real had suffused her face, and then she’d tamped it. She’d uttered the word “Oh” with the rawest yearning he’d ever heard when he told her the home was for sale.

  In so many ways she remained a walking question mark.

  But this was real to her.

  And he supposed he wanted to see why.

  Because he thought he had tasted all of those things when he kissed her. Desperation and abandon, an unnerving, thrilling, recklessness, a fierce joy, a devastating depthless sensuality. She tasted of endless, endless pleasure and possibility.

  It had shocked him badly.

  And so he had taken refuge from it all by couching that kiss as a lesson. A dexterous bit of reasoning on his part, he thought.

  And it had been a lesson.

  For him, anyway.

  After that kiss, he wasn’t certain he’d ever truly kissed anyone before in his life.

  Is that why you do it?

  He hadn’t fooled her.

  She knew that he wanted her. Had likely known it before he did; the want of her stealthy, creeping into his blood over a series of days.

  It infuriated him to be seen through, to the point where a red haze nearly crept over his eyes. It was fury, primarily at himself, for becoming ensnared.

  And it also filled him with a sort of helpless, reluctant, very amused admiration.

  He sucked in a long breath, held it in for a punishingly long time. Released it slowly, as if she’d been opium he’d inhaled into his lungs and he could expel her.

  She would be better served by indignation and hurt pride and by at least attempting to believe that he’d meant to teach her a lesson, and by staying far, far away from him.

  He’d been doing his part and avoiding her rather successfully ever since by rising very early and disappearing into good, wholesome, consuming physical work with hammers and boards and the like and taking his meals at the pub and lingering there over the chessboard with Culpepper and Cooke and retiring to his rooms very late at night, too late to peer out his window and catch Miss Danforth in the act of some new vice. He’d managed to allow an entire week to go by in just this fashion. He hadn’t thought about her at all.