“Good morning.” She bobbed a curtsy as he bowed over her hand.
The sun had managed to struggle free of the clouds; the beams of sunshine playing over the foliage in the back garden drew Tristan’s gaze.
“Walk with me in the garden.” He retained possession of her hand. “I’d like to see this back wall of yours.”
She hesitated, then inclined her head; she would have led the way, but he didn’t free her fingers. Instead, he curved his hand more definitely about hers. She threw him a brief glance as side by side they walked to the French doors. Opening them, they passed through; as they went down the steps, he drew her hand through his arm.
Aware of the skittering of her pulse, the way it quivered beneath his fingers.
She lifted her head. “We need to go through that arch in the hedges.” She pointed. “The wall is at the back of the kitchen gardens.”
Which gardens were extensive. With Henrietta ambling behind, they strolled down the central path, past rows of cabbages followed by endless rows lying fallow, long mounds covered with leaves and other debris waiting, slumbering, until spring returned.
He halted. “Where was he standing when you saw him?”
Leonora glanced around, then pointed to a spot just a little way ahead, about twenty feet inside the back wall. “It must have been about there.”
He released her, turning to look back up the path, through the archway to the lawn. “You said he whisked out of your sight. In which direction did he go? Did he turn and walk back toward the wall?”
“No—he went sideways. If he’d turned and run back down the path, I would have been able to see him for longer.”
He nodded, surveying the ground in the direction she’d indicated. “That was two evenings ago.” It hadn’t rained since. “Has your gardener been working here?”
“Not in the last few days. There’s not much to do here in winter.”
He put a hand on her arm, pressed briefly. “Stay here.” He continued down the path, treading carefully along the edge. “Tell me when I get to where he was standing.”
She watched, then said, “About there.”
He circled the area, eyes on the ground, then moved between the beds away from the path in the direction the man had gone.
He found what he was looking for a foot from the base of the wall, where the man had stepped heavily before jumping onto the thick creeper. He crouched down; Leonora came bustling up. The footprint was clearly delineated.
“Hmm…yes.”
He glanced up to find her bending near, studying the impression.
She caught his eye. “That looks about right.”
He rose; she straightened. “It’s the same size and shape as the print I found in the dust by the side door of Number 12.”
“The door the burglar came in through?”
He nodded and turned to the creeper-covered wall. He scanned it carefully, but it was Leonora who found the evidence.
“Here.” She lifted a broken twig, then let it fall.
“And here.” He pointed higher, where the creeper had been dislodged from the wall. He glanced at the heavy gate. “I don’t suppose you have the key?”
The look she threw him was coolly superior. She drew an old key from her pocket.
He swiped it from her fingers. Pretended not to see the flare of irritation in her eyes. Moving past her, he fitted the key to the huge old lock and turned it. The gate groaned protestingly as he hauled it open.
There were two clear prints in the alley running behind the houses, in the accumulated dirt covering the rough flags. A brief glance was enough to confirm they were from the same boot, made as the man jumped down from the wall. Thereafter, however, there were no clear traces.
“That’s conclusive enough.” He took Leonora’s arm, urged her back to the gate.
They reentered the garden, Leonora shooing Henrietta before them. Tristan closed and relocked the gate. Leonora was the only one who walked in the garden; he’d been watching long enough to be certain of that. That the burglar had singled her out worried him. Reminded him of his earlier conviction that she hadn’t told him all.
Turning from the gate, he held out the key. She took it, looked down to slip it into her pocket.
He glanced around. The gate lay to one side of the path, not in line with the archway in the hedge; they were out of sight of the lawn and the house. Courtesy of the fruit trees lining the side walls, they were also screened from any neighbors.
He looked down as Leonora raised her head.
He smiled. Infused all the art of which he was capable into the gesture.
She blinked, but, somewhat to his chagrin, seemed less addled than he’d hoped.
“Those earlier attempts to break in here—the burglar didn’t see you, did he?”
She shook her head. “The first time, only the servants were about. The second time, when Henrietta raised the alarm, we all came tumbling down, but he was long gone by then.”
She offered nothing more. Her periwinkle blue eyes remained clear, unclouded. She hadn’t stepped back; they were close, her face turned up so she could look into his.
Attraction flared, raced over his skin.
He let it. Let it flow and build, didn’t try to suppress it. Let it show in his face, in his eyes.
Hers, locked on his, widened. She cleared her throat. “We were going to discuss how best to go on.”
The words were breathless, uncharacteristically weak.
He paused for a heartbeat, then leaned closer. “I’ve decided we should play it by ear.”
“By ear?” Her lashes fluttered down as he leaned closer yet.
“Hmm. Just follow our noses.”
He did precisely that, lowered his head and set his lips to hers.
She stilled. She’d been watching, skittish, but had not anticipated such a direct attack.
He was too experienced to signal his intentions. Not on any battlefield.
So he didn’t immediately take her in his arms, instead simply kissed her, his lips on hers, subtly tempting.
Until she parted hers and let him in. Until he cradled her face, sank deep and drank, savored, took.
Only then did he reach for her, and draw her to him, unsurprised, as his tongue tangled with hers, that she stepped toward him without thought. Without hesitation.
She was caught in the kiss.
As was he.
Such a simple thing—it was just a kiss. Yet as Leonora felt her breasts meet his chest, felt his arms close around her, there seemed to be so much more. So much she’d never before felt, never before even realized existed. Like the warmth that raced through them—not just through her but through him, too. The sudden tension, not of rejection, not of reining back, but of wanting.
Her hands had risen to rest against his shoulders. Through the contact, she sensed his reaction, both his ease in this sphere, his expertise, and beneath that a deeper yearning.
His hand on her back, strong fingers splayed over her spine, urged her closer; she acquiesced, and his lips turned demanding. Commanding. She met them, gave her mouth and felt the first lick of glory in his hunger. Against her, his body felt like oak, strong and unbending, yet the mobile lips that held hers, that played, teased and made her want, were so alive, so assured.
So addictive.
She was about to sink against him, about to willingly slide deeper under his spell, when she sensed him ease back, felt his hands slide to her waist and grip lightly.
He broke off the kiss and lifted his head.
Looked into her eyes.
For a moment, she could only blink at him, wondering why he’d stopped. Regret flashed through his eyes, superceded by resolve, a hard glint in the hazel. As if he hadn’t wanted to stop but felt he must.
