He flinched, but did not wake.
Her hand remained with the soft locks caught between thumb and forefinger; then her palm moved lower, tracing the warm, stubbly curve of his jaw and cheekbone. She put her hand against his cheek, and with a soft sigh, he leaned his face into it.
And then his eyes—beautiful, mystical, almost magical in the kiss of the starlight—opened.
He said nothing, only looking at her. There was no fogginess in his gaze, none of the customary adjustment most people must make from sleep to wakefulness. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her; then, he seemed to remember himself, and reaching up, gently encircled her wrist with strong, warm fingers.
The moment was broken.
“Your arm—”
“My arm is fine.”
He frowned, seeing her face. “Are you alright, Ariadne?”
Her eyes pooled with tears. Slowly, she shook her head.
He sat up, leaned against the wheel of the chaise, and patted the ground beside him. She swallowed hard and joined him, feeling very tiny beside him, feeling very foolish for making such a mess of things. Anguish filled her, and the tears slid unchecked down her cheeks. He was too gallant to call attention to them, merely pulling out his handkerchief and dabbing silently at her eyes until she had herself until control. Then he slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, and only her breeding and manners kept her from huddling against him and burying her face in the warm cup of his shoulder.
“I love you, you know,” she said. Then she raised her chin and stared mutely out into the darkness. Her lip trembled, but her voice was firm with resolution. “I love you, Colin, have loved you from the moment I first saw you, I think, and I don’t quite know what to do about it.”
Sighing, he drew up one knee, lay back against the wheel of the chaise, and gazed wordlessly out at the coming dawn.
“Colin, did you hear me?” Feeling suddenly foolish, she looked down and began to twirl a clump of grass around her finger.
“Yes, sweetheart, I heard you.”
“I . . . don’t know what to do about it.”
“Yes—it, uh, well . . . certainly does present a problem, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, and it is all your fault, because I wouldn’t even be in love with you if you’d only stop doing things to make me love you!”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a helpless grin. “Oh, well, yes. I really should have left you to bleed to death.”
“And you should not have rescued Thunder from that heinous ogre, and you should not have saved that poor dog from bloat, and you should not show such patience with me, and—”
“Ariadne.”
She sniffled and glanced at him, her eyes glassy with tears, her lower lip quivering. “What?”
He smiled, a bit sheepishly. “You are missing a beautiful sunrise.”
To his surprise, she began to sob, and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Colin . . . I am so confused.”
He tightened his arm around her shoulders. “I know. I am, too.”
“I don’t know what to do . . . what to say . . . what to feel.”
Again, he drew his handkerchief and gently dabbed the tears from her cheeks. “Neither do I.”
“What do you think we ought to do about it?”
He looked up again, off into the gathering pink dawn, with eyes that were distant and sad. “Keep away from each other, I guess. It’s . . . safer that way.”
“Is that what you want?”
“What I want, and what I shall have, are two different things.”
“That is not what I asked you.”
“Very well then.” He turned to face her, his gaze holding hers in the faint light. “What I want is a beautiful young noblewoman who is promised to another. What I shall have, is the heartbreak of having to deliver her into the arms of somebody else.”
She pulled her knees up to her chest, locked her hands around them, and propped her chin on her kneecaps. A lump rose in her throat, and she looked down at the ground, seeing it through a haze of tears. “Colin . . . I’m not so sure I still want to marry Maxwell.”
“Have you ever been, Ariadne?” he asked, gently.
She swallowed hard, feeling something thick and harsh catching in her throat.
“No,” she whispered. “Not . . . after having met you.”
“You’ve only known me for a few days. Not so long as you’ve known Maxwell, and not long enough to consider giving up your future.”
“You’re too noble.”
“No, merely practical. And older than you.”
“You mean, wiser?”
He shrugged and gave a little grin. “Maybe.”
Her eyes sad, she gazed at him, her cheek still lying atop her kneecaps. “You will make some lucky woman the perfect husband,” she said wistfully. “You are the gentlest, yet strongest, man I have ever met, and you make all those London blades to which I am accustomed look like a bunch of whining sissies. You stand up for what you believe in, you defend what you think is right and just, you are . . . a man.”
His grin widened. “Yes, I was, the last time I checked—”
“Colin?”
“Yes?”
“Do you love me?”
He plucked a blade of grass, began knotting it around his finger, and slanted her a chiding look. “Do birds fly?”
“Do you?”
“Fly?”
“No, silly . . . love me.”
He tossed the grass aside and looked into her eyes, his gaze so full of feeling she thought she would drown beneath the force of its intensity. Then he gave a great sigh, took her hand, and turned his face to the dawn. “Yes, Ariadne. For all the good it does me, I do.”
The words hung in the still air, and there was not even any breeze to sweep them away. They glanced at each other, he looking a bit sheepish by what he had just confessed, she gazing at him with a slow grin spreading across her face that lit up her entire countenance. Then, shyly, they both looked away from each other.
She looked down at her feet. “So now what do we do?”
“You need to think about whether you will go through with this marriage to Maxwell, and if not, how to end it.”
“And you?”
“I think—” he squeezed his eyes shut and pushed the heel of his hand against his forehead— “I think I need to go take a walk.”
He got to his feet, and left her sitting there in the grass by herself.
“Why?”
“I need to think.”
“Why?”
He stood staring down at her. “Because if I don’t think, I’ll take action, and then both of us might—correction, both of us will—regret it.”
He turned and began walking away.
“But would we regret it?” Feeling rejected, Ariadne stared after him. “And would the ‘action’—I presume that means lovemaking—be so very bad, Colin? If we both want to do it I can’t see why—”
He spun around, shoving his hair off his brow. “For God’s sake, Ariadne, think about it! At the moment you’re engaged to another man, and you need to make some major decisions before you can even think about marrying me—”
“I never said anything about marrying you.”
“What?”
“I mean, I cannot marry you. That should be obvious.”
He stared at her, shocked. “You would make love with me, then go off and marry somebody else?”
“Colin, I don’t want to marry Maxwell, but I have to! The future of the Norfolk Thoroughbred depends upon it! Don’t you understand?”
“No, I guess I damn well don’t.”
He turned and began walking angrily away.
“Colin!”
He kept walking, his shoulders stiff with fury.
Ariadne leapt to her feet and ran after him. She caught his arm, her fingers sinking through the soft cotton of his sleeve and meeting hard muscle before he spun around, his eyes flashing, his mouth hard. “Damn it, don’t
you know enough to leave me alone?”
And then, before she could shrink back from his anger, he shoved a hand through her hair, yanked her up against him, and slammed his mouth down atop hers. The kiss was hard, hot and punishing, his lips almost brutal, his tongue plunging deep within her mouth. He caught her behind the waist with his other hand and ground his hips against hers, and she felt his arousal against her belly, the heat of his body burning her through their clothing. Her head fell back beneath the onslaught even as she wrapped her arms around his neck and drove herself upward to meet his kiss, and she would’ve lost her balance if not for the hand beneath her head, the arm behind her waist. And then, like a storm blowing itself out, he became gentle, loving, the pressure of his mouth growing sweet instead of savage, the hand that crushed her head against his now gently cupping her skull, the thumb caressing her cheek.
He broke the kiss, and breathing hard, let his brow rest against the top of her head. For a moment neither moved, their hearts pounding and their bodies clinging to each other with desire and need. From somewhere off in the distance a crow called . . . then, he gently cradled her jaw in his hands and lifted her head.
They gazed into each other’s eyes—
And time stopped.
Her hands caught in his shirt front as they stared at each other across mere inches of space. She blushed and smiled nervously. He gave a slow, defeated grin. And then they sobered, their anger, hurt, and pride forgotten as their bodies began to respond to each other.
“Doctor Lord?”
He gazed down at her, his body catching fire where it touched hers. “Yes, Lady Ariadne?”
“Will you kiss me?” she asked, in the softest of whispers.
His eyes darkened, and Ariadne knew in that final, triumphant moment that he was hers. She watched the long lashes sweep down over his eyes as his head bent, his mouth neared hers and his warm breath feathered against her cheek . . . felt his fingers thread through her hair and cup the back of her head; then, there was only the gentle pressure of his lips, the sweet thrust of his tongue . . .
And nothing more.
She slid her palms up his chest and sank against him. The kiss went on, drawing her up and into its heat until her head was swimming and her flesh went up in fire. She heard herself moan somewhere deep in her throat, and then all thought, all reason, fled, and the only occupant of her universe was . . . him.
Colin . . . how I love you, adore you, want you, want—
Dimly, she felt his hand caressing her back, pulling her shirt out from her breeches and then sliding beneath the fabric to move down her spine. . . .
Lady Ariadne St. Aubyn sobbed deep in her throat, and began to melt.
CHAPTER 18
Some distance away, Shareb-er-rehh came awake and raised his noble head. His ears went back and sulkily, he heaved himself to his feet. He heard the veterinarian’s voice, his mistress’s answering giggle, and jealousy—ripe, hot and searing—tore through him.
Nostrils flaring, he skulked past Thunder, who regarded him with a warning look in his old eye.
Not bothering to honor the gelding with even a glance, Shareb-er-rehh paused.
And then he spotted the doctor’s sea chest.
One ear went forward, and he glanced stealthily off toward where his human was giving her attentions to the hated newcomer. He lowered his nose to the chest, lifted out the last remaining rum bottle, and managing to uncork it with his teeth, consumed every drop of the fiery spirits with a single, triumphant gulp. Then he raised his shod foot and began pawing through the chest.
Sharp pain burst in his shoulder and savagely, he whirled around to see what had caused it.
The old gelding stood there, his ears flattened in warning.
They glared at each other for a moment; then, defiantly, Shareb raised his front foot once more. The gelding bit him again, this time, hard, his yellowed old teeth tearing into Shareb’s flesh and raising a trickle of blood.
Shareb lunged for the other horse, but Bow leapt between them at the last moment, barking furiously. Her small body hit Shareb squarely between the eyes. The impact was painless, but it knocked some sense into the stallion and with an angry squeal he galloped a short distance away, where he stood sulkily eyeing the other animals. They ignored him and frustrated, he reached for an overhanging tree branch and began to take out his wrath on it, instead.
Savagely, he ripped a spray of leaves and twigs from the branch and ground it between his teeth. He tore off another branch, began to chew—and suddenly found himself with a stick wedged across the roof of his mouth and braced hard against his teeth.
He shook his head, trying to dislodge it. The stick remained. He stamped his foot and angled his jaw and tried to twist his tongue around it, but the branch was stuck fast.
He broke out in a hard sweat and snorting, shook his head once more, furiously this time—but the ends of the branch only dug themselves in deeper, and suddenly the proud young horse knew he was in trouble.
# # #
Colin lay back in the grass, Ariadne atop his ribs and the dawn sky a crown of fire and fading stars around her face. She felt tiny within the cradle of his arms, her shoulders and bones fragile beneath hands that suddenly seemed big and clumsy. Fiercely protective instincts rose within him and he held her close, the need to take her, to possess her, so fierce that he was trembling with need and desire.
God help him, he hadn’t wanted, hadn’t meant, that is, to find himself in this position; wasn’t he stronger than this?
No.
But it was too late now. Her slight weight inflamed him, her sweetness filled his senses, and now, she was passing her tongue over her well-kissed lips in an unconscious plea for more.
No. He could not do this. She was no dockside tart, no practiced whore, but a fine, well-bred gentlewoman who was still promised, and engaged, to another. He reached up to push her off of him—and found his hands pressing into her shoulders instead, his mouth seeking her lips.
There was no help for him.
None at all.
Cursing himself, and his weakness, he gently rolled her over until they lay side by side in the grass, staring into each other’s faces as if seeing each other for the first time.
“I think you have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen on a man,” Ariadne murmured, touching his cheek. “I could get lost in them, and never find my way out. Never want to find my way out. Why, if you were to take my pulse right now, I’m sure you would not be able to count it, so rapidly is my heart beating!”
“Perhaps you should take mine instead,” he said suggestively, his eyes glinting as he drew his finger down the slope of her nose and traced her lips.
“Why, I wouldn’t know what to do,” she said, blushing.
“I can show you . . .” Propping his head on one hand, he offered his wrist and smiled lazily at her. “Put your finger right there, against the underside of my wrist,” he instructed, watching her with amusement. “No, no . . . higher.”
“Right there?” she said, shyly, placing her finger where he had directed and feeling no pulse, but hot, hard, male strength.
“Up another half inch—amah, you have found it. My pulse.”
“Yes . . .”
“Can you count the beats, Ariadne?”
She felt herself going hot with anticipation at what was to come. Beneath her finger, his pulse was racing.
“You’re blushing,” he said teasingly, his eyes darkening with desire. “Perhaps your temperature is rising . . .”
“Perhaps,” she agreed, her own heartbeat matching his.
“Perhaps the good doctor should do something about it, quick.”
“Yes . . . perhaps he . . . should.”
“Perhaps—” he slowly pulled his wrist from her hand, his fingers drifting up to the base of her neck, where her own pulse beat like a butterfly’s wings against the fragile skin “—what my lady needs is some cool air to . . . revive her.”
“Cool air
,” she agreed, as his fingers moved against the buttons that closed her shirt at the throat. She felt one button slide through the hole; another, and a cooling wash of air against her hot skin. His fingers lingered against the sensitive flesh, beginning to move downward toward her breast. A last, maidenly instinct swept in to save her, and she lightly slapped at his hand, bringing a rich chuckle of laughter from him. He did not make another attempt to undo her buttons, but simply lay there, lazily watching her with his head still propped on his hand, his eyes intense, clear, and beautifully violet.
And then his gaze shifted, looking down, and she saw one brow raise.
“A wonder, what that cool air does to . . . revive things,” he said, suggestively.
She followed his gaze—and saw that her nipples were taut, hard, and clearly visible in high relief beneath her shirt.
“Oh!”
Again, his hand came out, making a slow, lazy circle around her shoulder before drifting down toward her breast. But he did not touch her aroused nipple, merely let his fingers caress its perimeter through the fabric until the ache of pleasure withheld made her shut her eyes in bliss and yearn to shove herself against his hand. “Perhaps some more cool air is in order, to effectively revive this patient?”
“Yes, cool air . . . I feel faint.”
“Feverish?”
“Dizzy.”
“Afraid?”
She opened her eyes, stared into his gentle, understanding ones.
“Yes.”
He smiled and gently rolled her over onto her back, his mouth coming down to claim hers as his fingers undid the last button at her throat and slipped beneath her shirt to caress her skin. She was half-aware of shifting her body so that he could drag the shirt up and over her head; cool air tingled over her skin and her leg came up of its own accord to encircle his thigh. His kiss grew hot and demanding, his palm—strong, warm, hard with callous— dragging fire over her breast. His fingers found her nipple. She moaned deep in her throat and arced upwards, into him, helpless beneath the building heat.
He lifted his mouth, kissed the side of her jaw, her cheek, her neck.
“Still afraid?” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin.
“No, feverish,” she said, burning up. “So hot . . .”
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