My Dearest Enemy

by Connie Brockway

  “I don’t think you do,” she said. “If I didn’t buy them they’d have been slaughtered outright or sold cheap to drag plows or overloaded carts in the city. They’re race horses. They’re built differently. Delicate. They’d be broken and dead within a month.”

  He sniffed again.

  “That’s not fair. They gave their hearts and souls. It isn’t their fault if they didn’t win the bloody races.”

  His gaze remained fixed on her fingers still clutching his jacket. Flushing she removed them, patting the wrinkles her clasp had left behind.

  “You keep failed race horses.” His voice sounded odd, rough.

  “Not all failed,” she said. “India placed in any number of county races and there’s a gelding in there that showed against Gladiateur himself.”

  “Congratulations. “

  “Don’t patronize me,” she said. “I know full well the drain these horses are on my finances. But at least as of now they’re my finances.”

  “I didn’t suggest otherwise.” He cleared his throat.

  She tried to read any hint of mockery in his extraordinary blue-green eyes. She couldn’t. They were suspiciously reddened around the edge and the sheen of moisture dazzled their blue-green color to brilliance. Realization hit her with the force of a blow. Avery Thorne was struggling to keep his emotions in check. He’d been touched … no deeply moved by these horses’ story. She stared at him in mute amazement.

  “Can we get away from here?” he asked gruffly.

  He must deem the expense of keeping the horses a nearly cretinous mismanagement of money. Yet he didn’t argue at all, he simply looked miserable, his wide mouth pulled down.

  “Would you—” she hesitated “—would you like to see them?”

  His brows drew together, as if he suspected her of some nefarious purpose.

  “No,” he answered, clearing his throat again. “No, I think we’d better press on.”

  He motioned her to precede him, falling into step beside her as they followed the footpath into the orchard. Ancient, gnarled arms of apple trees bowed beneath the weight of blossoms. Bees, like diminutive courtiers bedecked in gold pantaloons, complained drowsily as they went about their errands in the pink shadowed warmth, and an occasional breeze sent handfuls of thin petal confetti swirling down upon their heads.

  “I thought the orchard larger than this,” Avery said.

  “It’s exactly the same size it was five years ago,” Lily said quickly. In here, his eyes appeared darker, deeper, like smoky blue-green jade.

  “I only meant,” he said, picking up a slender stick, “that when I was a child I thought this orchard stretched to the sea. It was a vast wilderness and the potential for adventure just as far as the next hillock. A dragon, Robin Hood, Lancelot, they all lived here. I met them all.”

  He lunged forward as if he wielded a rapier. A quick parry and he saluted her. Without thinking, she scooped up a slender branch, the end still tufted with leaves and raised it before her face.

  “En garde!”

  For a second his eyes widened in surprise. She took advantage, lunging forward and plunging the leafy tip into his mid-section.

  “Point!”

  His eyes narrowed, with delight or promise of retribution? she wondered. Probably both.

  “Thornes don’t die so easily, m’dear,” he said and with that whacked her branch away with his stick before swirling it in a series of dizzying feints and parries that had her stumbling backward.

  “No fair,” she panted. “You’re mortally wounded.”

  “A mere scratch,” he contradicted, knocking away leaf after leaf from the tip of her woodland épée. “Never underestimate the power of sheer determination.”

  “Or sheer perverseness?” she asked darting behind a gnarled ancient apple’s trunk and giving him a cheeky grin.

  “That, too,” he allowed and disappeared behind another tree.

  She withdrew behind the trunk to catch her breath before peeking out and looking for him. He hadn’t yet emerged. With a small, triumphant smile she stole from where she stood, moving behind a tree directly to his left. She could see the edge of his jacket. She had him.

  With a triumphant cry she jumped forth, branch at the ready, arm curled behind her head in the prescribed manner, eyes gleaming and cried, “Throw down!”

  His jacket hung from a broken limb.

  “That would be my suggestion, yes.”

  She whirled. Avery stood behind her, one shoulder jammed nonchalantly against a tree trunk, legs crossed, twirling his stick like a baton. He raised a dark, winged brow. “In the parlance of popular melodrama, I believe I have you in my power.”

  A deeper meaning seemed to suffuse his words and for a second his extraordinary eyes were dark with speculation … and something else. And then the moment was gone.

  “Aye, sir. I’m yours to command,” she said cheekily and tossed her branch at his feet.

  “Oh, I sincerely doubt that,” he said, smiling, a deep dimple carved into one darkly tanned cheek, before he tossed his leafy épée away.

  “A wise man,” she agreed a bit breathlessly. If a woman only sits and waits for what she wants, then she cannot complain of leftovers. Drat Francesca!

  Lily cleared her throat. “I suppose … we’d best go.” Without waiting she turned away, hurrying ahead until they emerged from the orchard into a meadow ringed by an ancient hedge and found the break in the thick dog roses that had long since been mended by a tall wooden stile. If she’d been alone she would have climbed the rails and cut across the field.

  “I used to cross the meadow on my way to see old Drummond. Saved myself a fifteen minute hike,” Avery commented. He plucked a deep crimson rose and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. His hands were strong-looking and lean, the nails trimmed and clean, the tips blunt and callused. Yet he set the little rose dancing with a touch as adroit as it was heedless.

  “Did you?” she mumbled.

  He held the rose up, closing one eye and squinting at her through the petals. Probably comparing its color to the blush she felt rising. Drat Francesca anyway for seeding her thoughts with such things.

  “Yes.” He reached out and poked the flower into the hair at her temple, catching her so completely off-guard that her mouth fell open. “Care to save yourself some time?”

  “I … well … I …”

  He placed a hand against the top rail and vaulted over, landing lightly on the other side. “Come.” He held out his hand.

  She wanted to take his hand, to place herself, even in such a small capacity in his care, and so she ignored his offer. Putting her boot on the bottom rail, she clambered ungracefully to the top. She perched on the top rail, studying the uneven ground below for a landing place.

  “You really adhere to your ‘I can do it myself’ code, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.” She looked up and found herself just above his eye level. It was a lovely level to be. His razor mustn’t be very sharp because a dark cast already covered his chin. For some reason the thought heartened her. It made him seem more human. Less all powerful. A razor had bested him. And she rather liked being taller than Avery Thorne.

  She swung her legs, unwilling to give up her vantage. “I take my independence seriously,” she said. “You would, too, were you a woman.”

  He rested his forearm on the top rail, very near her hip, leaned close in a confiding manner, and said lazily, “Happily, I’m not a woman.”

  It felt as though someone had knocked the air out of her. Her breath came out in a rush. No. Most definitely not.

  “And, being a man,” he continued, “I don’t have to protect my independence quite so fiercely. Must be frightfully tiring, always having to be on guard lest someone jeopardize your right to climb a fence unaided.”

  “It’s easy for you to mock,” she said. “If you were a woman you would know that any act of self-determination is to be celebrated. Little battles are only a prelude to the larger o
nes.” Like legal equality under the marriage contract, she thought but did not say.

  “Rest assured, Miss Bede, I have no desire to thwart your independence. I simply offered you the aid any gentleman would offer a lady.”

  “Mr. Thorne,” she said, “my father had a pedigree but my mother had none. Her great-grandparents were itinerant laborers. You would call them gypsies, if not tramps.”

  His brows drew together. “That explains it.”

  “I suppose you refer to my lack of refinement. You’re offended, aren’t you?” she said, without any of the satisfaction she should be feeling at having shocked Avery Thorne.

  “Not in the least,” he said with haughty simplicity. “My comment was made in reference to my discovering where you come by your extraordinary coloring. You, Miss Bede, are a snob. I have encountered your ilk before.”

  “My ilk?” she sputtered.

  “Yes. Those persons with an exaggerated opinion of their lineage and how it affects others. I assure you, I do not give a rip what your ancestors did or did not do for a living. According to Mr. Darwin all of our ancestors swung in trees. Your type will always want to discuss whose swung on the higher branch.”

  “Oh!” He took all of her fears, her insecurities and dismissed them as snobbery?

  “And, Miss Bede, as much as I hate to contradict you—”

  “You adore contradicting me. In every letter you sent me you—”

  “And much as I hate to contradict you,” his voice rose, drowning out her protests, “I insist that I certainly know a lady when I see one. You are a lady.”

  Having made this declaration, he nodded, as though the matter were now settled and turned, propping both elbows on the rail and staring placidly out at the meadow, apparently content to stay there as long as she wished. Him being a gentleman and all.

  He looked absolutely masterful, completely at ease, gorgeously masculine and she … she was … what had Francesca said? She was in a state.

  He turned his head and smiled benignly at her.

  It was the last straw. “Would a lady do this?” She leaned over, grabbed his head between her hands and kissed him.

  He jerked back and she grabbed his shoulders to keep from pitching into the ground, inadvertently deepening the kiss. Beneath her lips his were warm as sun-heated plush, an exquisite blend of pliancy and firmness. In an ecstasy of sensitivity her own grew deliciously, dazzlingly responsive.

  Her hands crept from his broad shoulders to his neck and finally his lean cheeks, bracketing his face between them. His beard stubble rasped her palms and his skin heated the pads of her fingertips as she explored the slight indentations beneath his high cheekbones, the angle of his jaw, and finally the corners of his lips. With a deep moan, she explored the heart-stopping rush of sensations.

  Passionately, fervently, she gave herself completely over to that kiss, growing light-headed, utterly in volved, barely aware of what she did, where she was, of anything but his mouth.

  Avery wasn’t so fortunate.

  He was aware, too damn aware, of every inch of Lily and most of it wasn’t anywhere near as close as he wanted her to be. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  God knew why she was kissing him. He sure didn’t. One minute he’d been congratulating himself on handling her insecurities with such delicacy and managing to pay her a rather nice compliment, the next she was kissing him—with far more anger than passion. At least that is how it started out, but in just a few seconds anger had burned into something a great deal hotter.

  In some fascinated, near-panicking part of his brain he knew that somewhere, somehow, this had to be a trick. But he couldn’t think, was barely functioning on a conscious level at all. Only a deep instinct for self-preservation kept him from dragging her off that rail and laying her on the ground and covering her body with his own. The craving to absorb her, to feel her melt beneath him, to feel her soft curves accommodate his hardness, nearly brought him to his knees.

  He wanted her beneath him, her mouth open, by God, not dragging over his with soul-destroying tantalization. He shuddered where he stood.

  But the will he exerted to control his limbs could not control his lips. Her kiss teased him, made him hungry, and like a man dying of thirst and bound staked in the desert, his mouth opened, seeking more of the rich flood of sweet sensation. He slanted his head, lining the soft velvet of her lips with the tip of his tongue. On a sigh, her mouth opened. With a throaty groan, he slid his tongue deep within, exploring with sensuous thoroughness the warm, sweet flavor of her, mating his tongue with hers.

  Too much. Not enough.

  He moved forward, just a step, until her breasts brushed him, sending jolts of furious need ricocheting through him. With each shuddering breath she took her nipples, firm pebbles, traced a line of fire across his chest. Her thighs grew lax in abandon and he took advantage, angled between them, moving closer until the pliant weight of her breasts rested fully against him, the promise of the lee in which he stood drawing him like a magnet.

  Her head fell back and her throat arched. God help him, he needed to kiss that slender column, lick the salty sheen from the small indentation at its base, gently suck the delicate tender lobe of her ear as her intoxicating, throaty purrs reverberated in his mind.

  But he could not touch her, no, he wasn’t touching her. Not with his hands. At least he had that much discipline. But for how long? Panic and desire rode him hard. He wanted her beneath him, by God, not simply to stand here undone by soul-destroying tantalization. Yet he dared nothing more.

  Because some tiny piece of his mind that was still operating sanely suspected that as soon as he actually touched her, she’d send him packing.

  So he just stood, his arm muscles bulging with the strain of keeping them from her, his body hard with ungratified want, breathing deeply, accepting her mouth in a dazed attitude of suspension, his own wildly devouring the texture and taste and heat of her.

  Don’t touch her. Don’t touch her. For God’s sake, do not touch her.

  Suddenly her eyelids snapped open. With a sound of utter horror her lips broke free. “Oh, my Lord!”

  She jerked away, tumbling off the rail and landing on her back. For an instant he could not move, his eyes closed in frustration and anger, and then he followed her over, vaulting the stile and standing above her as she stared wild-eyed up at him.

  “I didn’t touch you!” he shouted.

  “I know that!” she shouted back and began thrashing about, trying to get upright.

  In her frenzy, her skirt hiked high above her knees, displaying lace trimmed undergarments—Lily Bede, lace?—and improbably embroidered silk stockings. Pins flew from her head and a cascade of gleaming black corkscrew curls fell around her neck and shoulders in an inky fantasy of abandonment.

  She almost made it to her feet, but her boot got caught in her hem, upending her once more. Lying flat on her back, Lily’s heels drummed the ground in frustration. Finally, after long moments of this utterly fruitless activity she stopped.

  With an air of one exercising great restraint, she took a long, deep breath, pushed the hair out of her face and glowered up at him. “Well,” she said in a fiercely controlled voice, “you’re always going on about being a gentleman. Help me up!”

  “Ah. Yes.” He eyed her warily. “Certainly.” Hesitantly he held out his hand. With a snarl or a sob—for the life of him he couldn’t have said which—she pulled herself to her feet.

  “You might want to fix your … petticoats.”

  She snapped her skirts down over the tops of her boots and began dusting off the grass and leafy bits clinging to her derrière.

  “And your hair.”

  “What of it?”

  “It’s down.”

  “Oh!” Her hands collected the unruly mess. She stabbed some pins into it, utilizing some sort of arcane womanly power to make it look all tidy and neat where seconds before it might have been a talisman for wantonness.
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br />   Then with another of those deep breaths, she hitched up her chin and looked him squarely in the eye. Fascinated, he waited to see what she would do next.

  “I apologize.” Fiery color seared her face.

  Whatever he’d expected, it had not been that.

  “I have no excuse for my actions. I acted like a complete … like a …”

  “Like a cad?” he suggested, utilizing the name he’d been giving himself.

  “Yes! A cad!” She enthusiastically fell on the word. He should have known a gender-crossing appellation, even a negative one, would appeal to her.

  “I apologize and ask that we forget this unfortunate little incident.”

  The way she said it, so primly, so impersonally, made him see red. He’d withstood temptation before but nothing compared to what he’d just withstood. His body still ached with frustration. He could still smell her on him, taste of her, and feel her. Oh, no. She wasn’t getting off that easily. Just because whatever little game she’d concocted hadn’t come to fruition didn’t mean she wasn’t obliged to pay the price of playing.

  “You might. I certainly won’t,” he said.

  She gaped at him. “But … how can I make amends?”

  “Amends?” Lily being beholden to him had its definite appeal. “I don’t know that you can make amends for having”—he had paused for dramatic effect—“accosted me. But then, since you’re a woman, I have no choice but to accept your apology, do I? But Lord, if the roles were reversed we would hear a hue and cry, wouldn’t we? Don’t let it trouble you that I find this incident hard to forget.”

  Her glorious dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You won’t be able to forget?”

  God. If she only knew. No. But not for the reasons he was giving out. The vision of countless ice cold baths filled his thoughts, making his voice rough. “Why so surprised? Women haven’t cornered the market on sensitivity. Just because I’m a man doesn’t mean I can’t be offended. But since you, a woman, offer the offense, it shall be summarily disregarded.”

  “That’s not fair,” she blurted out and then looked immediately as though she wished to recall the words.