“Have you ever seen the running of the pilchards, Lily?” Devon asked, breaking in on her thoughts.
“No. What’s that?”
“It’s a wild sight. They come from the deep water west of the Scillies and run along the coast in huge shoals. Once when I was a child, there was a school of them that stretched all the way from Mevagissey to Land’s End. That’s over a hundred miles if you figure the windings of the coast. My father took me to see it.”
She glanced up at him again, intrigued. This was the first time he’d spoken of his family to her, or of anything personal.
“The whole town comes out to watch from the cliffs. The water looks as if it’s alive with a great seething army of fish, being chased by hordes of hake and cod and seagulls and people. A kind of mania comes over everybody. Fishermen on the shore and in boats all along the coast stretch drift nets, and the pilchards struggle to escape, and you can’t hear yourself think for all the shouting and laughing.”
“When does it happen?”
“It starts in July. You’ll see it.”
July was two weeks away. Yes, she supposed she would see it. She hoped she would. The thought staggered her.
“Did you grow up here, then?” she asked shyly, thinking that a few days ago she would not have dared to ask him that question.
“Part of the time, when I would come to visit my father. The rest of the time I lived in Devonshire with my mother.”
She waited for him to go on, but he didn’t, and she lacked the nerve to ask him why his parents hadn’t lived together. But she wondered. “Do you have other brothers besides Mr. Darkwell?” she ventured after a minute.
“No, but I’ve a sister. She lives in Dorset. I don’t see her often.” At the top of the cliff steps, he stopped walking and looked down at her. The afternoon sun was behind her, back-lighting strands of her heavy, dark-red hair like a halo around the delicate oval of her face. Her eyes were a guileless gray-green, grave and intelligent, and she watched him with complete absorption, as if everything he said fascinated her. She was lovely, and he’d had enough of talk.
The new look in his eyes stirred Lily, made her cast about anxiously for something else to say. “Do you—expect your brother back soon?”
“Soon, yes. Let’s go down to the water, Lily.”
“But—are you sure? You ought not to tire yourself on your first day out.” He only smiled, and courteously preceded her down the steep stairs. After a second’s hesitation, she followed.
A pile of jagged stones jutted out from the base of the rock cliff, across the tawny shingle to the shore. The tide was out; sun dazzled the choppy surf, dancing on wavelets, casting black shadows on the dark sides of the huge, hulking boulders that seemed to doze in the sucking sand. I will miss this, Lily thought unexpectedly, breathing in the wild salt wind. The idea shocked her, for she had not been happy here. But it was true—she would miss this remote splendor, the beauty and loneliness of the sea and the unkempt, inhospitable land.
He led her along the shore a little way and stopped among a silent circle of sea rocks, dry now, a safe distance back from the foamy line where the waves broke. They stood with their backs to a rugged, waist-high boulder and stared out at the Channel. As their silence lengthened, Lily threw a furtive glance at Devon’s hard-edged profile, but as usual it told her nothing. He was a strange man in many ways, and her intuition had warned her long ago that he would be capable of hurting her. Yet she missed him when he wasn’t with her, and was unexplainably happy in his company.
She glanced away, blushing, when he turned his head and caught her watching him. “How do you feel?” she asked, to cover her nervousness.
“I hurt, Lily. I’m in terrible pain.” The stark alarm in her eyes made him smile quickly, to reassure her. “I need the cure again, and you’re the only one who can give it to me.”
In her relief, she couldn’t help laughing at him. He touched his knuckles to her cheek, silencing the saucy reply she had ready. Heat gathered inside, so swiftly it scared her. He stepped closer, and she felt solid rock against the backs of her legs. “You—I thought you wanted to get some exercise, Mr. Darkwell.”
“I intend to, Miss Troublefield.”
He bent to kiss her, and just for a second she stiffened—because the name he’d never called her before unlocked so many unsettling memories. But the gentleness of his kiss melted her, scattering thoughts of anything but this moment and the heavy sweetness of his lips on hers. His tenderness disarmed her completely. One of her hands crept to the side of his face; the other opened on his chest, caressing him shyly. Holding her breath, she let him nibble at her lips. He moved his head slowly from side to side, and his open mouth stroked hers with each skimming pass. Her arms went around him in the most natural embrace, and the kiss deepened while everything seemed to slip away from her, all the boundaries and restraints she was used to. “Oh, don’t,” she sighed when his hands slid up so softly to touch her breasts. But she didn’t stop him—couldn’t stop him.
He murmured, “No?” and through her dress began to trace slow circles around the soft swell of her bosom with his fingers. She ought to stop this, it was wrong, it couldn’t lead to anything but disaster. But she was drugged, and deprived of every sense except the one that was monitoring the achingly gradual progress of his fingers toward the sensitive tips of her breasts. “Let me love you, Lily,” he whispered. “Say yes. I have to make love to you.”
She tried to shake her head, but he was kissing her again and it wasn’t possible. She was poised on the edge of something indescribable, and each second was separate from the past or the future, each moment new. She did not know what she would do. So she held perfectly still, eyes closed, and let the delicious fondling go on; she even forgot to kiss him back. He left her lips to murmur his urgent message in her ear, punctuating it with the soft, persuasive caress of his tongue. She was melting, weakening; she longed to give in to him. It was the helplessness of her desire that alerted her to the danger, and the fear of losing herself that gave her the strength to stop him.
“No, I can’t,” she whispered as she wrenched his hands away and twisted out of his reach.
In disbelief, Devon watched her walk away, hugging herself, staring out across the glittering water. He shut his eyes, just for a second, and said through gritted teeth, “Are you trying to drive me crazy? Because if you are, it’s working.”
She turned back. “I’m sorry—I made a mistake!”
“No, I did.”
“No, I did. I shouldn’t have let that happen.” Her voice was quaking. “I apologize if I misled you into thinking there could be something between us. There can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just—it’s impossible. I can’t do what you want me to do.” What I want to do.
“Why?”
She shook her head, helpless, at a loss. “Please, don’t make this so hard. I can’t—see you anymore, like this. You don’t really need me now anyway. I have to go back to my old work. Please!” she cried when he swore and started to interrupt. “You’re a gentleman, you won’t take advantage of my situation, I know you won’t. Let me go, Devon—sir—” She curled her hands into fists and drew a shuddery breath. A major part of her dilemma was contained in those stumbling last words, for in truth she didn’t know what he was to her, or what she should be to him.
Her explanation hadn’t settled anything, she saw; he was still glaring at her with smoldering eyes. She had an idea. It had worked with him once—it might again. “It—it’s because of my young man. He would not like it if I—if we—” Blister it! How could she convince him she had a lover if she couldn’t bring herself to say the simplest words? “If I was unfaithful,” she said finally, feeling like a child. She took a step back when he came toward her, because the fire in his eyes frightened her. But his voice was low and controlled.
“Tell me about your young man, Lily. What’s his name?”
For a terrifying second, sh
e couldn’t think of a single man’s name, not one. “John,” she got out belatedly.
“John. Where does he live?”
“In Lyme.”
“Is he your lover?”
“No—yes.”
“No, yes? Are you engaged?”
“No, we—”
“How long since you’ve seen him?”
“Two months.”
“Do you write to him?”
“Yes!”
“How does he make a living?”
“He’s—” She went blank again. “I don’t have to tell you—Why are you asking me this?”
“Because I don’t believe in him,” he all but snarled as he took her by the shoulders with his big hands. “I think you made him up. What I don’t understand is why.”
“He’s a stonemason! He builds cathedrals and houses and—buildings. He’s an apprentice—I mean a journeyman, he became a journeyman a few—”
Out of patience, he gave her a shake. “Why are you lying?” But then, all at once, he understood, and wondered how he could have been so stupid. He’d thought such naïveté had been safely consigned to his past. Gentling his hold, he smiled thinly. “I’m sorry, I should have made it clear from the beginning. I’m not asking you to give me something for nothing; I assure you I’d make it worth your trouble.”
Mistaking his meaning, she blushed and gave a little half-hysterical laugh. “That—that’s—I don’t have any doubt of it!”
“Well, then?”
She turned her face away and didn’t answer.
“What is it you want? Name an amount. How much, Lily? Or is it a place of your own you want? Just tell me.”
Her eyes widened and she stared at him, dumbfounded. “Money? Are you asking me to take money?”
Either she didn’t want money or she was an extraordinarily gifted actress. “No? What, then?”
She was too appalled to be angry. That would come later. “What do I want?” She couldn’t put a name to the things she wanted because they were all secrets—freedom, vindication, respectability. Friendship, affection. And, yes, money. “Nothing! Nothing you could possibly give me. Let go of me, Mr. Darkwell, you’ve made a mistake.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Let me go!”
“What game is this? I don’t need coyness, Lily. I’ll pay you well, if that’s what it—”
“Damn you—I’m not playing any game.”
“Like hell you’re not. You’re no shy virgin. What is it you want from me?”
“How do you know what I am? You don’t know anything about me!”
“I know because I listen to your lies. You tell me this ‘stonemason’ is your lover. Is it true or not?”
“Yes, it’s true!”
“Then I won’t be your first.”
He jerked her to him and she started to struggle. “Touch me and I’ll be your last!” That only made him laugh. “Don’t kiss me!” She craned her neck sideways to avoid his mouth. “Don’t!” she cried when he pulled her closer and buried his face in the hair behind her ear. “Damn you, I don’t want this!”
Devon shut his eyes tight. For a long moment he just held her, feeling the rapid hammering of her heart and the tremors that shuddered through her. He’d never touched a woman this way before, in anger, demanding what she didn’t want to give. He felt disgust for himself even as he acknowledged that he was not going to let her go. He told himself that no one understood the kind of woman she was better than he. She was toying with him, raising the stakes as high as she dared before granting him what Clay would call the “last favor.” But there was one way in which she was not like Maura, and it would be her downfall: she really was hot-blooded. Lily’s desire for him had never been an act.
That was what he intended to use against her. In cold blood, he would seduce her. The callousness of the plan troubled him not at all. Besides, he’d make it good, so good she wouldn’t even be sorry afterward. Then he would be free of her.
He kept his arms around her, but relaxed his urgent grip. “I’m sorry for what I said,” he murmured against her hair. “Forgive me, Lily, I misjudged you. I would never hurt you.”
“Let me go, Devon, you must.”
“Say you forgive me. I was angry, and those words—they were not well said. If I hurt you, I’m sorry.” She stayed rigid, fists tight against his chest. “But I wanted you so much. I still do. I can’t stop thinking about you, Lily, you’ve taken over my mind.”
Her heart was racing. She ought to hate this painless but unbreakable embrace, but she didn’t. “Don’t say these things to me. Nothing’s changed. It’s impossible.”
“Why is it?” One hand began to stroke the slim length of her back, slowly, shoulder to waist and back again. “I would never hurt you,” he told her again, and this time he almost meant it. “You liked it before, when we kissed. Let me kiss you again, just once. Let me, Lily.” He brushed his lips along the dainty line of her jaw, breathing softly, seducing her with gentleness. “Your skin is so sweet.” He knew the moment she started to tremble. Nuzzling her resolutely closed mouth, he coaxed a tiny opening and slipped his tongue between her lips, caressing the velvety undersides. She sighed, shuddered, and turned her face away.
But he could be endlessly patient. “Do you know you taste like flowers?” he whispered as he ran his tongue lightly across her fluttering lashes. “Kiss me, Lily. I’m dying for you.”
She tried to call back her defiance, but it was skulking away like soldiers in retreat, outnumbered by a vastly better-armed enemy. She wasn’t pushing him away anymore, she was clutching at his shirt with both hands, holding him. “This isn’t fair,” she pointed out, ready to weep. She kept her face averted, but every sense was concentrated on what he was doing with his tongue—and now his hands, softly skimming her sides with restless, pent-up need.
“I know. I can’t help it,” he said as he walked her slowly backwards to the rock they’d leaned against earlier. It was almost true, he though; he could probably stop now, but in another minute it wouldn’t be possible. He touched her soft cheek. With gentle, insistent pressure, he turned her head until she had to look at him. The beginnings of surrender had darkened her eyes, from gray-green to jade. That was just as well, he had time to think, because he was through asking. His mouth came down, hot and hard, and captured hers in a fierce kiss devoid of art or gentleness. She swayed and he caught her, held her fast, pulling her arms around his neck and making her embrace him.
“Your wound,” she got out, the words muffled. “I don’t want to hurt you!”
He raised his head long enough to laugh out loud. Immediately he returned to her lips, savaging them with his tongue and his teeth. In seconds, his groping fingers untied the ribbons of her dimity dress and pulled her bodice apart. She whimpered when she felt the warm air on her skin, and then his warmer hands as he eased her breasts out of the constricting folds of her chemise. He stopped kissing her to look at them. “Oh, Lily, how beautiful,” he murmured, tugging her hands away when she tried to cover herself. “Let me kiss you. Here, yes.” He made her turn until her back was against the rock again, and then he leaned over her until she half lay on it, bent backwards at the waist.
“Devon, oh God—!”
“Shh, love, it’s all right, it’s all right.” He crooned comfort into the warmth of her throat and the hollow between her breasts while his fingers stroked slow rings around her nipples. She sucked in her breath; he felt her clench and unclench a handful of his shirt at the shoulder. “Lovely,” he murmured, touching his tongue to the tip of one tight peak, and she groaned, high and loud, as if he were torturing her.
She ground her teeth and raked her hands through the cool sleekness of his hair, meaning to pull his head away; but somewhere between the intent and the act her will deserted her, defected to the enemy, and instead her traitorous fingers held him close, coaxing, urging him shamelessly. He chanted passion-words she could barely hear, some coarse and some honey-sweet,
while his lips tugged and sucked one breast and his rough palm slid urgently over the other. The roaring in her ears was too loud to be the sea, it must be the sound of her own desire, frantic, pleading for release. He took her mouth again, and she felt herself giving up the last of her control. She was floating up to a high, new, frightening place, a whirling wall-less funnel where there was nothing but sensation. In self-defense, she put her hands on either side of his face, filled with a sudden compulsion to see him and understand what manner of man he was. Words were useless, irrelevant. She searched his eyes, hot with wanting, and traced the harsh lines at the corners of his mouth, as if they could reveal to her something true and vital.
But the last thing Devon wanted was to be understood. Holding her intent gaze, he used his knee to part her legs. He felt the panicked clenching of her thighs, watched her eyes widen with dread and excitement, and muffled the start of her ragged, uncertain protest with a ruthless kiss. Groping now, blind with need, he dragged up her skirts to bare a long, sleek thigh. Soft, oh God, she was soft. Her little gasps, quick and desperate and uncontrollable, made him burn for her. A sound, an impossible, unthinkable sound, tried to penetrate the wall of pure feeling that surrounded him like armor, like a second skin, but he would not let it in. Lily’s soft, wet mouth tasted like sugar water. He buried his fingers in the springy web of hair at the top of her thighs and shut out the sound by making her moan.
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