He suddenly increased the intensity of their exchange with a flagrantly incendiary kiss-—one that curled her toes and left parts of her she’d never imagined could be affected throbbing.
Her breasts ached—then he eased back. She gathered her wits to protest—
His hand at her waist released, glided up and settled, hard and definite, his palm spread over her breast.
Her protest died, frozen in her mind. Panic awoke with a jerk—
His hand closed, firm, commanding; her senses splintered. The odd ache eased, then swelled anew.
Eased again as he caressed, kneaded.
For one instant she teetered, uncertain… then heat rose in a wave, rushed through her—and he kissed her more deeply, she kissed him back, openly sharing, and his fingers firmed again.
Panic was smothered beneath a welling tide of sensation; deep and very real curiosity held it down. He’d succeeded in teaching her how to kiss. Perhaps he would, perhaps he could, teach her more…
Michael knew the instant she decided to allow him to caress her; he felt no inward smirk, only heartfelt gratitude. He needed the contact as much as she; she might have starved for years, yet his desire was, at least at this point, the more urgent.
That, he promised himself, would change—he had a very definite vision of what he wanted from her—but that time was not yet. For now…
He kept his lips on hers, artfully distracting her every time he edged their intimacy deeper. Instincts prodded him to open her bodice, to savor her exquisitely fine skin, yet they were standing in the middle of the woods and too soon would need to return to the picnic clearing-
That last prompted him to gradually lighten the kiss, until, without jarring her, he could lift his head and study her face while he continued to caress her. He needed to know her thoughts, her reactions, so he would know how and where to recommence when next they met.
When next he managed to whisk her away and trap her in his arms.
Her lashes fluttered her lids opened a fraction. Her eyes, bright silver, met his. Neither of them was breathing all that evenly. The first step toward intimacy—the inital commitment to explore what might be—had definitely been taken; their gazes touched, acknowledged.
Caro drew in a tight breath, eased her hands from his neck, his shoulders, and looked down—at his hand, large, strong, long fingers skillfully caressing her breast, circling her now tightly furled nipple, sending sensation streaking through her, leaving her nerves tight, tense, skittering. Her fine voile dress was no real barrier; taking her pebbled nipple between his fingertips, he gently squeezed.
She sucked in a breath. Closed her eyes, let her head fall back— then forced her lids open again and fixed her gaze on his face. His lean, austerely handsome face. If she could have frowned, she would have; she had to content herself with a studiously blank expression. “I didn’t say you could… do this.”
His hand closed again. “You didn’t say I couldn’t, either.”
A faint frown finally came; she narrowed her eyes on his. “Are you saying I can’t trust you anymore?”
His face hardened, so did his eyes, but his hand never faltered in its languid caressing. He studied her for a moment, then said, “You can trust me—always. That I promise. But I’ll also promise more.” His hand firmed about her breast; his eyes held hers. “I won’t promise to behave as you expect.” His gaze lowered to her lips; he leaned closer. Only as you want. Only as you deserve.“
She would have frowned harder and argued, but he kissed her. Not with ravenous heat, but in a straightforward, deeply satisfying exchange. One that left her social conscience feeling somehow appeased, as if there was no reason she couldn’t simply accept all that had happened between them, adult to adult, and leave it at that.
Despite his high-handed, domineering behavior, she didn’t feel overwhelmed. She knew, absolutely, that he would never hurt or harm her, that if she struggled, he would release her… both actions and words suggested he simply wasn’t going to let her deny him, or herself, purely on the grounds of social strictures.
If she wanted to deny him, she’d need to convince him she really didn’t want to fall in with his plans. Simple enough—except…
Her head was pleasurably swimming, her mind detached, her body warm and heated under his hand.
Suddenly, he broke the kiss. Lifting his head, he looked past her, past the tree. She turned her head, but couldn’t see past the bole.
He’d frozen—all except his fondling fingers. She drew in a tight breath, about to ask what was there—his gaze flicked back to her face, his eyes widening in warning.
Then, swift and silent, he moved, stepping to her side, turning and drawing her with him around the tree; he ended with his back to the bole, more or less to the pond itself, while she stood trapped against him, her back to his chest, facing away from the pond, shielded from whatever danger threatened.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him looking over his, peering around the tree toward the pond. Then he looked back, met her gaze. Lowering his head, he nudged hers until he could whisper in her ear, “Ferdinand. Keep quiet. He doesn’t know we’re here.”
She blinked. He straightened again; she sensed he was keeping watch, yet… while his attention had diverted and his fingers had slowed, they hadn’t stopped. Her skin still felt hot, her breasts tight, her nerves jangling.
Worse, his other hand had risen to minister in apparently absent-minded concert.
It was, she discovered, extremely difficult to think.
Regardless, she couldn’t protest.
Minutes of nerve-tingling tension passed, then the alertness gripping him eased. He turned back to her, leaned close, and whispered, “He’s heading away from us.”
Valiantly ignoring the preoccupation of his hands, she turned and peered past him, and glimpsed Ferdinand striding into the forest, following a path leading away from the pond’s opposite side.
Michael had seen, too. He caught her eye, closed his hands firmly, then eased his hold, trailing his palms down her body as he released her.
She dragged in a fractionally deeper breath.
He studied her eyes, then bent his head and kissed her—one last time. An ending, and a promise—until next time.
Lifting his head, he met her gaze. “We’d better get back.”
She nodded. “Indeed.”
They set out around the pond; when they reached the opening of the path that led back toward the clearing, she paused, looking further around the pond to the path Ferdinand had taken. “He’s going the wrong way.”
Michael met her gaze; his jaw hardened. “He’s a grown man.”
“Yes,
She was right. He sighed, and waved toward the other path. “Come on—he can’t be far ahead.”
With a quick smile in acknowledgment of his capitulation, she led the way. Fifty yards on, the path hit a downward slope badly crisscrossed with roots; he stepped past her and went ahead, giving her his hand to ensure she didn’t slip.
They were concentrating on their descent, not speaking but watching their feet, when low voices reached them. They paused, looked ahead; both knew another small clearing opened to the side of the path a little way along.
He glanced back, put his finger to his lips. Frowning, Caro nodded. This was his land, but it wasn’t fenced; he’d never prevented locals from using it. But they’d both caught the furtive note of the murmured conversation; it seemed wise not to walk into a situation where they might not be welcome. Especially not with Caro by his side; there were at least two men, possibly more.
Luckily, it was easy to step off the narrow path, then continue between the trees. The undergrowth was sufficient to screen them. Eventually they reached a spot where they could look through a large bush into the clearing.
In it, Ferdinand stood talking to two men. They were slight, rather weaselly, dressed in threadbare frieze. They were definitely not Ferdinand’s friends; from their interaction, however, it seemed likely they were his employees.
Michael and Caro had arrived too late to hear any of the discussion, just assurances from the weaselly two
