He gaped at her. The woman was actually refusing a marriage offer he hadn’t even made! Of course, technically Lady Rosalind hadn’t refused him—she’d refused Daniel. That fact only slightly assuaged his trampled pride, however.
They emerged suddenly from the woods onto a hillside that sloped down toward the fruit orchards below. The sun had broken through a phalanx of creamy clouds to make the air once more sticky, warm, and tangy with the scent of crushed grass.
They paused at the top of the hill to survey Swan Park, but he felt as if the ground fell away from him in every respect. All his expectations about his visit had proven wrong. The spinsters wished to remain spinsters. They weren’t shrews, but amiable and attractive. And they were all too eager to hand his inheritance over to him unencumbered.
Yet one thing hadn’t changed—he still didn’t have his parents’ marriage certificate. So although he’d happily oblige the ladies by leaving, he couldn’t.
He considered striking a bargain with Lady Rosalind: She could wheedle the certificate out of her father, and he would leave as she wanted. But he feared she was too intelligent to accept a simple bargain. She’d ask why he wanted it, how her father had come by it, what the history of it was. And once she learned all his plans…
No, that wasn’t a chance he could take. So until he found what he wanted, he—or rather, Daniel—must continue to pretend an interest in an alliance, despite what Rosalind thought and Griff himself desired.
“I perfectly understand what you’re saying.” Griff stood viewing the land—his land—with his hands gripped together behind his back. “But I fear you won’t convince my employer. He seems amenable to your father’s plan.” He slanted a look at her. “I doubt he’ll refuse it merely because of your assertions.”
“What!” she cried, rounding on him. “You mean he truly wants to marry one of us? But why? He’ll inherit Swan Park one way or the other, so what possible advantage could marriage to one of us give him?”
He shrugged. “Prestige. He has money—now he wants something more. Possibly a better position in society. Or perhaps he’s simply enamored of you all. In any case, he can hardly make a decision about your father’s proposal on only one day’s acquaintance. He’ll probably want to remain here at least a week or so.”
With a snort of disgust, she started off down the hill. “Well, that’s just wonderful. Your blasted employer is looking for a wife, and my foolish father sanctions the entire idea, so what my sisters and I want doesn’t even signify.”
“I didn’t say that,” he said as he followed her down the hill, unable to take his eyes off her fetching derriere.
“Men!” she grumbled. “They never learn! ‘What is wedlock forced but a hell?’ Shakespeare wrote that while locked in his own unhappy marriage, yet his words go unheeded.”
Did the woman quote nobody but Shakespeare? He was fond of the bard himself, but he didn’t consider every pronouncement the greatest wisdom. Not to mention that her sweeping interpretation of an obscure passage to suit her needs irritated him. “No one knows if Shakespeare’s marriage was unhappy or not.”
“For pity’s sake, he left his wife here in Stratford-upon-Avon for nearly thirty years while he pursued his own interests in London. I don’t know about you, but I don’t call that marital bliss.” She faced him, her eyes shadowed with anger beneath the brim of her bonnet. “And what kind of man seeks to marry a woman against her will, anyway?”
“I take it we’re no longer speaking of Shakespeare,” he observed dryly.
With a sniff, she set off down the hill again. “Why the bloody hell does my cousin want us? Doesn’t he know we’re the Swanlea Spinsters? We don’t marry for money or station—so why doesn’t he seek elsewhere for a wife? He’s rich enough and heir to an earldom beside.”
“He is indeed.” He couldn’t suppress his grin, for she did make Knighton—him—seem like an idiot. And she clearly didn’t know of his supposed bastardy.
She misunderstood the source of his humor and glowered at him. “If Mr. Knighton thinks that forcing one of us into marriage—”
“For the love of God, woman, calm down. I didn’t say he’d force anyone to marry. I only said he wouldn’t leave merely on the strength of your dislike of him.”
A bare patch on the hillside impeded her progress, her bootheels sinking into the soft earth with every step, and that seemed to further infuriate her. “So we’re stuck with you and my cousin for weeks, while he decides if he wants to marry one of us.”
“If you keep showering us with this effusive hospitality, I doubt it’ll be weeks. For my own part, I hope it’s less.”
“Now see here, Mr. Brennan, I didn’t ask you to come here and complicate my life with your snooping about and your—”
“Snooping about?” His gut tightened. So she still suspected what he was up to. He couldn’t have that, or she’d dog his every step. He said derisively, “What on earth do you mean? Why would I be snooping? What would I be looking for?”
She stiffened. “I-I have no idea. But you’re clearly intent upon ridding yourself of me for some reason.”
He thought quickly. “Mere expedience, I assure you. My employer pays me to determine what improvements the estate will require once he inherits. I can accomplish that aim quicker without a woman underfoot telling me where to go and what to see.”
As he’d hoped, she took offense. “You men are always so blasted pompous.” She glared at him. “I don’t see why having me about wouldn’t be a help.”
She was so caught up in reprimanding him, she missed seeing the stone jutting from the hillside until her bootheel caught on it and she pitched forward. Instinctively, Griff grabbed her elbow, swinging her around into his arms to prevent her from tumbling down the hill. She clutched at his shoulders to steady herself.
Then they froze, locked in an embrace on the hillside. Her eyes lifted to him, the pupils narrowing to pinpoints to take him in so close. Too close. Although he’d stood easily this near her last night, she hadn’t been facing him. He hadn’t been gifted with an intimate view of her sun-dappled cheeks nor her feathery brown lashes nor the finely wrought lips that parted on a breath exactly as they’d part beneath his kiss.
Damnation, he mustn’t think of kissing her. Because if he kissed her, he’d surely do something more stupid.
He wouldn’t stop with kissing.
He ordered himself to release her, but his hands paid him no mind. His thumbs already stroked her ribs, moving higher, itching to be bolder, to touch the untouchable. And now his lips considered rebellion as well. They wanted to press against her fragile eyelids, her impudent chin, and certainly her lush mouth.
It was her fault, the way she looked at him now as if she desired him, too. And those parted lips. Damn them for daring him to kiss them. He’d never been a man to refuse a dare.
He started to lower his head, but the brim of his hat collided with the brim of her bonnet, and that brought her to her senses. With a little “Oh” of alarm, she released her death grip on his shoulders, then wriggled free of his embrace.
“Are you all right?” he heard himself say as she retreated. Was he all right? Would he ever be all right again? His stiffening cock said he wouldn’t.
Half-stumbling, she turned away from him, then hastened down the hill, moving markedly faster than before.
“Slow down,” he cautioned as he strode after her. “If you don’t, you’re liable to twist your ankle on this slope.”
“That would certainly be convenient for you, wouldn’t it?”
“What the devil does that mean?”
“Then you’d be rid of my company for good.”
She increased her mad pace in long, rushing strides. Though he grew increasingly alarmed, she obviously had no concern, for she flung words over her shoulder at him like a whist player dealing cards. “I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Brennan, but I’m giving you no excuse to be rid of me. You might as well face it—I shan’t leave your side no mat
ter what you do.”
“You’re leaving my side now,” he growled, and grabbed her arm to slow her down, but she snatched it from his grip immediately. Catching her skirts up to an indecent height, she raced down the hill. It was a miracle she didn’t tumble to the bottom.
What had come over her? Why was she running from him like a woman possessed?
Then it dawned on him. She was running from the same thing that had consumed him seconds ago when he’d stared down into that intriguing face. Passion. There was no mistaking it. The blatant attraction between them was driving her away.
That was it! He’d been wrong about last night—it wasn’t the blade at her throat that unnerved her, but his hands on her, his body against hers. She might pretend immunity to such things, but he’d recognized the flare of need in her gaze moments ago. She wasn’t immune, and that damn well frightened her.
He smiled broadly as he slowed to a stroll. At last he’d figured out his Amazon’s most secret fear. So she feared passion, did she, especially from a man whose character she held in contempt? Very well, then passion he’d give her. He’d send her fleeing for good.
An obnoxious voice in his head mocked his aims, saying they had nothing to do with driving her off and everything to do with his itch to get his hands on her. He ignored it. Besides, he deserved some enjoyment out of the woman after she’d tormented him all morning.
The thought of what he intended to do made him quicken his steps as he neared the bottom of the hill and the avenue of short trees. He entered it to find her waiting for him, a gleaming beacon of color against the line of dark trunks. Here her striped gown wasn’t garish, but a silvered ray of sunlight amidst the brilliant green leaves and rich purple globes hanging over her head. Here she radiated an earthy allure that took his breath away and made his loins tighten painfully.
Yes, he deserved a taste of her—a little taste. Just enough to drive her off and quench his absurd need.
“This is our plum orchard,” she announced as he neared her. “I thought you might like to see it as long as we’re here. We have an apple orchard and a stand of cherry trees on the estate, but our plums are particularly fine, don’t you think?”
At the moment he didn’t care about plums or cherries or apples. But he’d play along to lower her defenses, since she looked as if she might bolt again if he took one step toward her.
The trouble was, she would never go far, or at least not far enough. So he’d have to frighten her so much she’d flee his presence for good. He stared up into the wizened branches heavily laden with newly ripened fruit. “I don’t like plums,” he said truthfully.
Frustrated laughter pealed from her. “Why does that not surprise me?”
He cut his gaze back to her as an idea took shape. “Plums are tart, and I don’t like tart fruit. When I put something in my mouth, I want it to be plump and sweet and juicy.”
He let his gaze drift to the parts of her that fit those qualities so well, then exulted when her breasts rose and fell rapidly. She understood his meaning, was alarmed by it. She even blushed a little before whirling away to approach one of the trees.
This is working. She’s as skittish as those deer who seek the comfort of Swan Park’s thick woods.
“These plums aren’t tart.” She kept her eyes carefully averted from him. “You’re thinking of damsons, which are used for pies.” Removing one of her gloves and tucking it in a pocket, she then reached up to pluck a plum from a low-hanging branch. To his surprise, she turned to hold it out to him. “Here, taste it,” she challenged him.
Even naked Eve in the Garden of Eden couldn’t have looked so tempting as Rosalind did with one bare hand offering him ripe fruit. What was she up to now?
A rampant eagerness to find out assailed him. He stepped closer and removed his own gloves. Holding them in one hand, he reached for the fruit with the other.
Instead of taking it, however, he imprisoned her wrist and forced her hand with its prize up to within easy reach of his mouth. Her lips parted in surprise, and her eyes turned a delicate shade of greenish gold as she watched him bite into the plum, yet she didn’t pull away or throw the plum at him or flee.
No, she fixed her gaze on his mouth. As if she tasted the plum herself, she moistened her bottom lip with the pink tip of her tongue, sending a jolt of need straight to his cock. When he swallowed, she did, too, and the working of her smooth throat captivated him.
Damnation, he thought as he snapped his gaze back to her face, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She should be slapping him, raging at him, stalking off in a huff. Yet she stood there frozen, lips parted and eyes huge in her face.
She needed more prodding, that’s all. With deliberate boldness, he slid his mouth from the plum to her sticky hand and sucked the tangy plum juice off.
“You’re right,” he murmured. “It’s not tart at all.” He lapped plum juice from her wrist, triumph surging through him when he felt her pulse stammer beneath his tongue. “It’s sweet…delicious.”
He waited for her to bolt, yet she stood motionless while he licked her hand clean of juice. His grip on it tightened as he thought with longing of licking a path beneath her gown and all over the fulsome body she’d unwittingly displayed last night.
When she cleared her throat, he knew instinctively she would protest any further outrages. Before she could get the words out, he turned her hand up to her own mouth, and urged, “Here, eat some yourself. I know you’re as hungry as I am.”
Her dusky lashes dipped down with uncharacteristic modesty, making it clear she understood what kind of hunger he meant. Yet curiously she obeyed him, taking the plum between her fine, even teeth and tearing away a silver, just enough to satisfy the letter of the law. A single drop of juice trailed fatefully down her chin, and he bent his head forward to catch it on his tongue.
It was an outrageous thing to do, but not nearly as outrageous as what he planned next. He lifted his mouth the half inch needed to meet her lips, then kissed her.
He kept the kiss light, soft, tender. Though he ached to make it deep and slow and hot, his aim was to frighten her, not make her accuse him of assaulting her.
Unfortunately, when he broke off the kiss and drew back, she didn’t slap him or run or even protest. Instead she gazed at him with a wide-eyed look of wonder as the plum dropped from her fingers. “You do…have a talent for…kissing, don’t you?”
Damnation. Obviously, this would require a bit more than he’d anticipated. He dropped his gloves, slid his arm about her waist, then dragged her flush against his body. “What did you expect? You said I was no gentleman.”
This time he held nothing back, surrendering to the fiery need sparked by last night’s encounter. Lost in the scents of plums and sunshine, he ravaged her lips as thoroughly as he ached to ravage her body.
To his shock, she kissed him back. By God, she kissed him back, with an enthusiasm unimaginable in a woman of her station and limited experience. So much softness, so much temptation…how could he resist it? His hat tumbled off as he pressed closer, running his tongue along her virgin lips until they gave way and allowed him entrance to the silken depths of her mouth. She stiffened a little at the intimate coupling of their tongues, then went fluid and limp in his arms, making him exult.
He delighted in how she leaned into him for more, how she twined her arms about his neck, sending her shawl floating to the ground. It made him stab his tongue deeper, harder, nearly losing his slender hold on his control.
This is mad, he thought. But it was less mad than not touching her, not kissing her. If he didn’t have at least a taste of her he’d surely snap before the week was out, would throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to bed like Petruchio claiming his shrew.
He was in danger of doing so anyway. He needed to fill his hands with her bountiful breasts, to tear off her outrageous gown and explore all her secrets until her cries of pleasure echoed in the orchard. She was summer ripening to excess, and he was damned
well ripening to excess himself. Only her virginity kept him from pressing her down to the plum-spattered earth, lifting her shirts, and planting himself between those smooth white thighs.
If she didn’t stop uttering those enticing little sighs, however, his conscience would vanish in the wake of his lust. It already took all his will not to grip her hips and urge her against his erection.
“Oh, Mr. Brennan—” she purred against his lips.
“Griff,” he said savagely. “Call me Griff, sweet Rosalind.”
What was he doing? Had he lost his mind? He should be driving her off so he could be free to search for the certificate.
Yet he rebelled at the thought, especially now when she pressed tentative kisses along his jaw and down his neck. She was every bit as passionate as he’d expected. Nuzzling her hair scented with lilting notes of rosewater and soap, he made no move to end the delirium.
By God, how could he when all he wanted was another taste, another kiss? Yet he feared that after that kiss ended he’d want another…and another and always another, until she’d enmeshed him in desire.
He must stop this. Soon.
All he needed was a few more moments—then he’d put her away from him and return to his real purpose in coming here, his real purpose in kissing her.
Just a few more moments of heaven…
Chapter 8
Can spirit from the tomb, or fiend from hell, More hateful, more malignant be than man—Than villainous man?
Joanna Baille, Scottish playwright, Orra
Why must he be so good at this? Rosalind thought as she welcomed Griff’s delicious kisses. His mouth was firm and secret, the mouth of a man who’d probably tasted every kind of darkness. It moved roughly on hers, too insistent to deny.
A Dangerous Love Page 9