Her smile was assured; he couldn’t very well deny her. With an easy gesture, he replied, “You perceive me all ears, Countess.”
“Such a strange English saying.” Claiming his arm, she waved to two chairs set at one side of the clearing. “But come—I have messages from my husband and the duke, and must discharge my duty.”
He had his doubts about the importance of her messages, yet her citing of duty struck an oddly true note. What was going on?
Regardless of his curiosity, he was acutely conscious of being led away from Caro. He would have made some effort to include her, even in the teeth of the countess’s clear wish for a private discussion, but when he glanced around, he saw Ferdinand deep in conversation with Kosminsky.
The little Pole was in full flight; Ferdinand was presently engaged.
Relieved on that score, he went without argument, waiting while the countess settled in one chair, then sitting in the other.
She fixed her dark eyes on his. “Now…”
Caro glanced at Michael, leaning forward, relaxed yet focused on whatever the countess was telling him.
“Sure you won’t come?”
She looked back at Edward. He met her eyes, flicked his gaze to Ferdinand and back, then raised his brows.
“Ah—no.” Caro looked past him at the youthful group heading down the path that led to a pretty dell.
The afternoon had grown warm; the air beneath the trees was heavy, redolent with the scents of the forest. Most of the older guests were showing definite signs of settling for a postprandial nap, all except Mr. Kosminsky and Ferdinand, and Michael and the countess, who were absorbed with their discussions.
“I’ll… sit with Lady Kleber.”
Edward looked unimpressed by her strategy. “If you’re sure?”
“Yes, yes.” She flicked her hands, shooing him toward where Elizabeth and Miss Kosminsky dallied, waiting for him. “Go and enjoy your ramble. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with Ferdinand.”
Edward’s last look plainly said,
Caro rejoined Lady Kleber, Mrs. Kosminsky, and Mrs. Verolstadt. Their talk, however, quickly became desultory, then faded altogether. A few minutes later, a gentle snore stirred the air.
All three older ladies had their eyes closed, their heads back. Caro glanced swiftly around the clearing; most others, too, had succumbed—only Kosminsky and Ferdinand and Michael and the countess were still awake.
She had a choice—pretend to fall asleep, too, and fall victim to whichever of the two men pursuing her first came, like Sleeping Beauty’s prince, to wake her—as she would wager her best pearls they would—or…
Quietly rising, she drifted around the chairs—and kept drifting, silent, wraithlike, until the trees closed around her, and she was out of sight.
Quite what she’d hoped to achieve—by the time she reached the stream, sanity had returned.
Sinking onto a flat rock nicely warmed by the sunshine, she frowned at the rippling stream and decided it had been her vision of Sleeping Beauty, trapped, forced to wait and accept the attentions of whichever handsome prince turned up to press a kiss to her lips… it really had been too reminiscent of her own situation, so she’d done what any sane woman would have—even Sleeping Beauty if she’d had the chance. She’d upped stakes and run.
The problem was that she couldn’t run far, and was therefore in danger of being run to earth by one or the other of her princes—pursuers. On top of that, one knew this piece of forest even better than she.
Worse still, if she was destined to be caught by one, and had to choose, she wasn’t sure which of them she should opt for. In this setting, Ferdinand would be difficult to manage; Edward had been right there. However, regardless, Ferdinand had little chance of sweeping her off her feet and into any illicit embrace. Michael, on the other hand…
She knew which of the two was more truly dangerous to her. Unfortunately, he was the one with whom she felt immeasurably safer.
A conundrum—one for which her considerable experience had not prepared her.
The distant snap of a twig alerted her; concentrating, she heard a definite footfall. Someone was approaching along the path she’d taken from the clearing. Quickly, she scanned her surroundings; a thicket of elder growing before an ancient birch offered the best hope of safe concealment.
Rising, she hurriedly climbed the bank. Circling the thicket, she discovered the densely growing elder did not extend to the trunk of the massive birch, but instead formed a palisade screening anyone standing under the birch from the stream. Beyond the birch the ground rose steadily; she might be visible from higher on the bank, yet if she stood in front of the birch…
Slipping into the screened space, she took up a position before the huge birch trunk and peered toward the stream. Almost immediately, a man came striding along the bank; all she glimpsed through the elder leaves was a shoulder, the flash of a hand—not enough to be certain who he was.
He halted; she sensed he was looking around.
Stretching this way and that, she tried to get a better sight of him— then he moved and she realized he was scanning the bank, the area where she stood, simultaneously realized the coat she’d glimpsed was dark blue. Ferdinand; Michael was wearing brown.
She held her breath, still, eyes locked on where Ferdinand stood… childhood games of hide-and-seek had never felt so intense.
For long moments, all was silent, unmoving, the heavy heat beneath the trees a muffling blanket. She became aware of her breathing, of the beat of her heart… and, suddenly, a disconcerting ruffling of her senses.
Those senses abruptly flared; she knew he was there before she actually felt him, moving silently toward her from around the tree. Knew who he was before his large hand slid around her waist; he didn’t urge her back against him—her feet didn’t move—yet suddenly he was there, all heat and strength at her back, his hard body, his solid masculine frame all but surrounding her.
She hadn’t been breathing before; she couldn’t now. A rush of warmth flooded her. Giddiness threatened.
Raising a hand, she closed it over his at her waist. Felt his grip firm in response. He bent his head; his lips traced the sensitive skin below her ear. Suppressing a reactive shiver, she heard his whisper, low, deep, yet faintly amused, “Stay still. He hasn’t seen us.”
She turned her head, leaned back into him, intending to tartly tell him “I know”—instead, her gaze collided with his. Then lowered to his lips, mere inches from hers…
They were already so close their breaths mingled; it seemed strangely sensible—meant to be—that they shifted, adjusted, closed the distance, that he kissed her and she kissed him even though they were both highly conscious that mere yards away Ferdinand Leponte searched for her.
That fact kept the kiss light, lips brushing, caressing, firming even while they both continued to listen.
Eventually came the sounds they were waiting for, a faint curse in Portuguese followed by the sound of Ferdinand’s footsteps retreating.
Relief swept Caro, softening her spine; she relaxed. Before she could collect her wits and retreat, Michael seized the moment, juggled and turned her fully into his arms, closed them about her, parted her lips and slid into the honeyed cavern of her mouth.
And took, tasted, tantalized… and she was with him, following his script, content, it seemed, both to allow and appreciate the slowly escalating intimacy that each successive encounter brought. Wrought. A reflection of the steadily escalating desire building within him and, he was sure, in her.
He felt confident of that last even though she was extremely difficult to read, and apparently set on denying it.
Recalling that, recalling his real purpose in coming after her, and accepting that greater privacy would be wise, he reluctantly eased back from the kiss.
Lifting his head, he looked into her face, watched the shadows of emotions swim through her eyes as she blinked and reassembled her wits.
Then she glared, stiffened, and pushed back from his embrace.
