by Brenda Joyce
He simply stared back at her and tension knifed between them.
BLANCHE THOUGHT her mare lovely. She was quiet, sweet and willing. Sir Rex pointed ahead as they paused on a high rise on the moors. The sky was blue, filled with faraway white clouds, and the sun was brilliantly shining. Winter seemed to have left Cornwall; it was warm and mild out.
“Can you see those stones?” Sir Rex asked, turning his gray gelding to face her.
“The ruins?” she asked, seeing a lone tower rising against the horizon.
“Yes. Are you up for a canter?” he asked eagerly.
She looked at his handsome face, his eyes filled with warmth and happiness. “Yes.”
He gestured for her to gallop off first.
Blanche lightly tapped the mare with her crop and she set off at a canter. She laughed, pleased, because the mare was as smooth as a sofa. Sir Rex caught up with her. “She is like a rocking chair, is she not?”
“Very much so,” Blanche called to him.
The tower loomed as they approached. Stone hedges crisscrossed the moors, which were dotted with the first of spring’s wildflowers, and she saw the remnants of the castle’s walls. The tower was three stories high, but clearly lacking an interior or a roof. They slowed their mounts to a walk and then halted beside it. It had become amazingly silent, as if ghosts truly haunted the place.
Blanche could see past the ruins, which were perched on a high slope. Below was a lush wooded valley and a picture-perfect village. “It is so lovely.”
“Yes, it is,” he said. “The local myth says that just after Hastings, my ancestor erected the original fort here. But Rolfe de Warenne was then sent to harry the north, and he never came back. The fort was passed into the hands of one of William’s other lieutenants.” He smiled at her. “Even in those days, the de Warenne men found and claimed true love. You do know he fell for a Saxon princess—who was not his wife.”
Blanche beamed, wondering if the story was true. “And did he end up with his lady love?”
“He most certainly did, for she is the matriarch of our family. Her name was Ceidre.”
“An unusual name,” Blanche said, now studying Sir Rex closely. His humor had become lighter and lighter with every passing day—ever since the accident, or even before it. He was more smiles than not. She had not seen any sign of anger or frustration. When he had been bedridden, she had checked on him every night. He had been soundly asleep early every evening. And she had not seen him drink more than a single glass of wine with his supper.
She still wondered who had broken his heart. If family legend was true, he would pine for her forever. But he did not seem to be pining at all now.
He slid from his mount, crutch in hand, landing on his left foot and then settling onto his crutch. If his chest pained him, there was no sign. He dropped his mount’s reins onto the ground and the animal stood obediently there. Blanche watched him move to her left side with some surprise. He raised his left hand. “Come down.”
She hesitated, but he was smiling and her heart was melting into a pool, somewhere below her, on the grassy ground.
“I won’t fall over and I won’t break,” he murmured softly.
So much tension arose that her mare snorted. Sir Rex instantly laid his left hand on her neck, fingers splayed, caressing her. He murmured a soft word and Blanche saw her mare drop its head. She could almost hear the animal sigh in pleasure.
Even my mount is affected by his touch, she thought, trembling.
Sir Rex looked up slowly. His eyes were very dark and they gleamed. In that single lazy moment, he appeared so much like the lion from her dream—indolent but intent, predatory and watchful and oh so certain. “Come down,” he murmured again in that silken and impossibly intimate tone.
Blanche took his hand and as their palms locked, her heart pounded wildly, urgently. She slipped down from the mare, landing lightly on her feet and in Sir Rex’s arms.
He smiled at her as if this was exactly what he intended, and she knew it was.
She couldn’t smile back. Her skirts covered his good leg from thigh to toe, and they stood so closely, she felt his hard knee against her thigh. No more than a few centimeters separated her breasts from his chest. And although he held her loosely, she felt his left hand on her waist, his right hand on her back.
“Have you enjoyed our hack?” he murmured, his gaze heated now and searching.
She tried to swallow. “Yes.”
“Can I give you Isabelle as a gift?”
Her eyes widened. “You do not have to do such a thing,” she gasped brokenly. She could barely think, standing like this, in his carefully controlled embrace.
“But you get along famously. And you are a perfect match. She’s a beautiful horse—a beautiful horse for a beautiful woman.”
Blanche felt faint. “Are you flirting…Sir Rex?’
“Yes, I most definitely am.”
She couldn’t think of a thing to say to that. She looked at his full and now-still mouth. She swallowed hard again. Could he hear her heart pounding? For it was deafening in her ears.
His voice softened. “I have come under the impression that you might not reject my advances.”
Her knees buckled and she swayed against him, her breasts flattening against his chest. His arms tightened around her. “Am I correct?” he whispered.
She somehow nodded. She couldn’t speak. Desire was drumming through her.
“I wish to make advances, Blanche,” he said roughly. His hands splayed out on her back and shoulder, pulling her more closely against his hard, powerful body. “I wish to kiss you,” he said, his tone now thick. “May I?”
She inhaled, nodding. She raised her face, realizing she was ready to cry.
“Don’t cry,” he said softly, his face tightening. “Just allow me this kiss,” he breathed.
She saw his lashes lower sensually; she saw him drift his mouth toward hers. In disbelief, in hope, she waited, and she felt his lips ever so barely feather against her mouth.
She gasped at the sensation, eyes closing, as he began to slowly, gently, brush his mouth back and forth against hers. Blanche felt her heart explode frantically, and with it, a shocking pulse began, beneath her skirts. She clasped his shoulders and pressed closer and the moment she did so, his mouth firmed, the pressure increasing.
She cried out.
His mouth opened hers, his hand now on the back of her head, and he began to kiss her with hunger and need. Blanche felt him stabbing against her hip and a terrible excitement began. She hung on to him more tightly and he swept his tongue deep. He was kissing her as if he could never do so deeply enough.
The world spun.
Air failed.
His huge hard body, his mouth, his embrace, consumed her entirely. His hands moved low, almost to her buttocks, and the pressure between them grew. Blanche felt shocking moisture dripping and for the first time in her life, she wished he would slip his hand beneath her skirts and touch her to ease her aching.
His tongue thrust deep. He grunted, the sound male, sexual and intent. Blanche gave up and cried out softly.
He tore his mouth from hers and held her tightly, pressing her face to his chest, his cheek against her temple. She was aware of her heart, pounding wildly in her chest, and his heart, pounding even more furiously beneath her cheek. He was breathing harshly, but so was she.
Desire, Blanche thought, so much desire.
Tears began.
She had never dreamed that this day would really come.
She wanted Sir Rex. She wanted him to kiss and touch her and she wanted to kiss and touch him back. And she wanted more than that, no matter how shocking it was.
“Blanche,” he finally said somewhat breathlessly. He tilted up her face. “Why are you crying?” His eyes went wide with alarm.
She didn’t hesitate as the tears rolled down her face. “I did not know a kiss could be like that.”
He started. Then, “Neither did I.”
IT WAS VERY DIFFICULT to stand there like a gentleman. He had never dreamed Blanche would be staring at him with dazed eyes, swollen lips and mussed hair. He had never dreamed he would ever kiss her. But more importantly, he had never dreamed he would want a woman as desperately as he wanted her.
A soft breeze sent tendrils of pale platinum hair against her cheeks. He summoned a smile, as if they had not just shared a devastating kiss, as if his loins were not straining the confines of his breeches, as if he did not wish to crush her soft, small body in his arms again and do far more than kiss her. “Shall we?” he gestured toward the ruins.
She swallowed and breathed, her soft lips opening. He vividly recalled their moist texture and sweet taste. Everything had changed that day at the church. Or had it been the result of her stumbling upon him at midnight while he was foxed—and refusing to condemn him? He had been stunned again and again by her kindness, her admiration, her respect. Maybe their relationship had changed because of the accident. Or was it every single moment combined, rolling together like the rocks in a landslide, gaining momentum and growing in force, since her stunning appearance at Land’s End?
He knew when a woman was receptive to him. She had begun to flit about him nervously…and steal glances at him when she thought he was not looking. And that had begun in the great room at midnight when he had been anything but a gentleman.
Subsequently she had been filled with gratitude for his concern after she had fainted outside the church, and somehow, he knew she had wept over him when he had been seriously injured by the stud colt. Most importantly, he would never forget awakening after her surgery to find her openly staring at his body, hunger in her blue-green eyes.
He was never going to define the precise moment in time when Blanche Harrington became aware of him as a man, but it had happened, and with every passing moment, he had become more certain of it.
And now, there was no doubt. He had kissed her, meaning to remain rather chaste, but his passion had spiraled almost uncontrollably until he had taken her with hunger and need. And she had kissed him back, not quite as wildly, but wildly enough; she had also shed tears in his arms.
Now she nodded and smiled tremulously at his suggestion that they stroll among the ruins. He was aware of a distinct aching in his heart, as well as his body. Desire was one thing, any other yearning another, and therefore, forbidden. He could imagine taking her to bed, but he must not go further than that. He limped carefully after her, as the ground was both uneven and strewn with rocks.
And he smiled inwardly. He had somehow known that she was a fiery woman, never mind her infallible grace.
But her single remark still seemed strange.
I did not know a kiss could be like that.
What, exactly, had she meant? Was it at all possible she had enjoyed his kiss that much more than anyone else’s? It was unlikely—he’d have better luck betting his entire fortune on the nag with the worst odds at Newmarket, than having such false hope here.
Blanche paused, glancing up at the tower. She smiled hesitantly at him, over her shoulder. “If there are ghosts, they can’t be your ancestors.”
He marveled at how elegant and lovely she was, even after such an interlude. “My ancestors haunt the far north if they have bothered to linger at all.”
She reached down and picked a small purple flower, lifting it to her small, delicate nose.
“The gorse rarely bloom until midsummer,” he said. “This is an unusual turn of the weather.”
She faced him, her cheeks pink.
He felt his own color increase and he stared at her, unable to think of a thing to say. He kept recalling her taste and feel and how wildly she had trembled in his arms. He reminded himself that they had shared a simple kiss, even though it didn’t seem simple to him. It could not possibly lead anywhere. Could it?
“Will the horses run off?” she asked softly.
His entire body had stirred. It was not a good idea to think of her in his bed. “No.”
“Do you think the ruins haunted?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
She nodded. “Neither do I.” She drifted toward the tower wall. This gave him the opportunity to openly admire her face and figure. But the moment she glanced at him, he lowered his gaze. He had to get a firmer grasp on his raging desire, he thought. A kiss between two adults their age meant nothing. It certainly did not signal the beginning of an affair.
He had only begun to consider actually kissing her since he’d awoken after her surgery. Her concern for his welfare had indicated she would be receptive to his advances, if they were made in a proper manner. He had never considered an affair, and he should not do so now. She would choose someone else, someone lighter in nature, someone younger, someone who was whole, and not just physically, but in spirit, too. Her kisses did not indicate a willingness to go further with him.
His tension knew no bounds.
“You are so deep in thought,” she exclaimed softly.
He jerked and felt his cheeks heating. “I have been admiring the scenery,” he heard himself say.
She colored. “I am somewhat advanced in age,” she began.
“I meant it.” He limped over to her, more swiftly than he should have, and his crutch hit a rock. He stumbled but righted himself—she seized his arm, alarmed.
“I have fallen a hundred times learning to use this crutch,” he said flatly.
“Falling cannot be pleasant.”
“It is hardly pleasant, but neither is losing one’s leg.”
“It must be difficult, walking on this kind of terrain.”
“It is…but not impossible. Blanche.”
She started at the familiar use of her name.
“I meant my every word. I do not speak lightly. I am not a flirt by nature. I was admiring your silhouette.”
She inhaled. “I do not know what to say…thank you.” She glanced away, but she was smiling. “This is silly, for I am flattered all the time.” She looked up. “I truly appreciate your admiration, Sir Rex.”
He hoped so. “I am going to be incredibly bold.” He did not pause, even though her eyes widened. “I did not quite understand your meaning earlier. You said you had never known such a kiss. I cannot imagine what you meant.”
She glanced away, toying with the strands of her hair. “Do you really wish to discuss this subject?” She asked, her voice low.
“Yes, I do. We are both adults, and obviously we are rather fond of one another. There is nothing wrong with our sharing a kiss—even a heated one.”
Her gaze flew to his. “Sharing a kiss, and discussing it, are two distinct matters.”
She was right; he was wrong. The topic was sensitive and intimate. But he wanted to know if she had meant that she had felt more for him than any other man. “I have admired you for a very long time. I have wanted to kiss you for a very long time,” he said bluntly.
“Oh…I didn’t know.” She sat down on the edge of the stone hedge, seeming stunned. “Really?”
He limped closer. “May I?”
She nodded and he sat beside her. “Really.”
She glanced at him with confusion. “But we rarely spoke, and then so briefly.”
“By now, you know I do not get on in society. And the truth is, the gossips are right. I have no charm…I am boorish.”
“They are wrong!” she cried passionately. “You have been charming to me.”
He did smile. “It is easy to be charming around you. Your grace makes it so.”
“I wish,” she said slowly, “that you thought better of yourself.”
He started.
She stared at him very directly now. “I wish whoever broke your heart, that she had never done so.”
He flinched, aghast. It took him a moment to rearrange his expression, and in doing so, he looked away. “I beg your pardon. I hardly have a broken heart.”
“The way you spoke of love that night,” she said,
her voice low and husky, “makes me firmly disagree.”
He felt breathless. How could she know, when no one did, not even Ty, that Julia had hurt him all those years ago? But the blow had not been inflicted solely by her, it had been equally inflicted by Tom Mowbray, now Clarewood. And with the passage of a decade, he wasn’t sure either one of them had done more than wound him deeply. If his heart was broken, it was because of young Stephen.
He spoke slowly, and with great care. “I cared for someone once, long ago. She betrayed me. But it has been over for years. I do not recall how I spoke that night, but I do know that my heart is not broken.” He looked at her for emphasis.
“You said love was grossly overrated.”
“I don’t recall,” he said firmly, but now, he recalled his exact words.
She looked at her lap. “Well, as I am prying, that is convenient. But it seems obvious to me that is why you linger at the end of the world.”
He was incredulous. “I am the earl’s second son! My choice was to join Her Majesty’s forces. I was awarded this estate, Lady Blanche, as you know. Of course I linger here. I have lingered here to make Land’s End thrive.”
She flushed and he saw the glint of tenacity in her eyes. “You could come to town more often, do not deny it.”
He sighed. “I concede defeat. I could come to town more often, but the truth is, I do not care for polite society, outside that of my family. I am sorry. And that,” he spoke with a triumphant edge, “is why they call me a boor.”
“Yes, they know you do not like them, that you scorn them, and they throw stones in return,” she said calmly.
He had to smile. But he was relieved they had gotten past the loathsome subject of his possibly broken heart. “Is it so terrible, for me to linger here at the end of the realm and make a modest living for myself?”
She clasped his forearm and he stiffened. “In many ways, it is admirable.” She looked at her palm on his jacket sleeve for one moment and then removed it.