'I decided it wouldn't be wise to tell him we'd found his contact, in case he took it into his head to do something rash-like go into town to see the man himself. It wouldn't do for him to be recognized and taken up for questioning, just when we're making progress.'
Demon suppressed a cynical snort. Dillon was no hothead; he was lazy and indolent. Flick was the one who, with eyes wide open, would rush in where wiser souls feared to tread, supremely confident in her ability to pull things off-to make things happen. To unmask the syndicate.
Loyalty, devotion-and good bottom. Her hallmarks.
The thought slid through his brain and captured his attention. Focused it fully on his angel in disguise.
Lifting his lids a fraction more, he studied her; at the moment, she was all angel-a creation from one of his recent dreams. The sunshine turned her hair to blazing glory, framing her face in golden flames. Her cheeks were delicately flushed-from the warmth of the day and the champagne. As she scanned the meadows, her eyes, soft blue, large and wide, were alive with innocent intelligence.
His gaze dropped-to the slender column of her throat, to the firm swells that filled the bodice of her demure gown, rendering it anything but demure. The fall of her dress hid her waist, the folds swathed her hips and thighs, but having seen her so often in breeches, he didn't need the evidence to conjure the vision.
His smile deepening, he let his lids fall, and he relaxed on the rug. He waited until the basket was neatly repacked and, with her arms wrapped around her knees, her half-filled glass in one hand, she settled to enjoy the view.
'It occurs to me,' he murmured, 'that now we've identified Bletchley and will be following him in earnest, and you no longer need to change clothes and horses morning and afternoon, it would be wise not to go to the cottage at all-just in case Bletchley, or one of his friends, turns the tables on us and follows us back to Dillon. As it's central to our plan to keep Dillon safely hidden, the last thing we want is to lead the syndicate to him.'
'Indeed not.' Flick considered. 'I'll send a message with Jiggs.' Staring at the stream, she narrowed her eyes. 'I'll say that there's no longer any point in me working at the stables-that we think someone from the syndicate is about and don't want to compromise his safety.' She nodded. 'That should keep him at the cottage.'
Sipping her champagne, Flick abandoned all thoughts of Dillon. Dillon was safe at the cottage, and there he could remain until she and Demon had resolved the imbroglio he had mired them all in. On such a lovely afternoon, she refused to dwell on Dillon. A sense of pleasurable ease held her. A curious warmth, like the glow from a distant fire, enveloped her. It wasn't the breeze, for her curls didn't dance, and it wasn't the sun, for it didn't affect all of her at once. Instead, it washed like a warm wave over her, leaving her relaxed, oddly expectant.
In expectation of what she had no idea.
The fact didn't worry her-with Demon, so large, so physically powerful beside her, nothing on earth could threaten her.
The moment was perfect, serene-and strangely intriguing.
There was something in the air-she sensed it with every pore. Which was odd, for she was hardly a fanciful chit. She was, however, abidingly curious-in this case, abidingly interested. Whatever it was that hung in the air, shimmering like a fairy's spell in the bright sunshine, almost of this world but not quite substantial enough for mortal eyes to see-whatever that was, she wanted to know it, understand it.
Whatever it was, she was experiencing it now.
The buzz of the bees, the murmur of the stream, and that undefined, exciting something held her in silent thrall.
Demon slowly sat up and reached for the basket. She turned to see him draw out the almost empty bottle. He refilled his glass, then glanced at hers, almost empty. He looked at her face, briefly searching her eyes, then reached over and tipped the last of the wine into her flute.
It fizzed; she smiled and took a sip.
The bubbles got up her nose.
She sneezed. He looked up; she waved his concern aside. She took another, more careful sip as he returned the bottle to the basket, leaving it by the side of the rug. That done, he lay back again, this time propping on one elbow, his glass in his other hand.
'So,' she asked, shuffling to face him, 'how are we going to follow Bletchley?'
His gaze on the stream, Demon fortified himself with a long sip of champagne, then turned his head and met her gaze, studiously ignoring the expanse of ivory skin, the warm swells promising all manner of earthly delights, now mere inches from his face. 'It's not a hard task. I've got Gillies and two stablemen rotating the watch. It's a small town-now we know what he looks like, and where he's staying, keeping an eye on him shouldn't overtax us.'
'But-' Flick frowned at a nearby willow. 'If we don't learn something soon, won't he notice? Seeing a particular stableman forever about will surely make him suspicious. Newmarket stablemen don't have nothing to do.'
A warm flush swept her shoulders, her breasts. She looked at Demon; he was looking into his glass, his lids veiling his eyes.
Then he looked at the stream. 'You needn't worry. He'll presumably be at the Heath during morning and afternoon stables-I'll watch him there and in the High Street.' He drained his glass. 'Gillies and the stablemen will watch him in the inns and taverns-they won't be so identifiable in a crowd.'
'Hmm. Perhaps.' Flick stretched her stockinged feet to the sun. 'I'll help, too. About the tracks and in the High Street.' She met Demon's gaze as he looked up at her. 'He won't suspect a young lady of watching him.'
He stared at her for a moment, as if he'd lost the thread of the conversation, then he murmured, 'Very likely not.' His gaze grew intent; he lifted one hand. 'Hold still.'
She froze so completely that she stopped breathing. A vise clamped about her lungs; her heart stuttered, skipped, then raced. She held quiveringly still as his fingers slid through the curls above one ear, ruffling the locks as he disengaged… something. When he withdrew his hand and showed her a long leaf, flicking it onto the grass, she dragged in a breath and smiled weakly. 'Thank you.'
His eyes met hers. 'My pleasure.'
The words were deep, rumbling; the tone set something inside her vibrating. Her gaze trapped in his, she felt flustered panic rise. She looked down and gulped a mouthful of champagne.
The bubbles hit her again; this time, she nearly choked. Eyes watering, she waved a hand before her face and hauled in a much-needed breath. 'I'm really not used to this.' She lifted her glass. 'This is all new to me.'
Demon's gaze had remained steady, his eyes on hers. His lips lifted lightly. 'Yes, I know.'
Flick felt curiously warm, distinctly light-headed. There was a light in Demon's eyes, an understanding she couldn't fathom.
Demon saw confusion grow in her eyes-he looked away, uncertain of how much of his interest, his curious, newfound obsession with innocence, showed in his. He gestured to the sylvan scene before them and looked at her, his expression easy, controlled. 'If you haven't been here before, you couldn't have strolled the path by the stream. Shall we?'
'Oh, yes! Let's.'
He retrieved her almost empty glass, drained it, then set both glasses back in the basket. Then he rose and held out his hands to her. 'Come. We'll investigate.'
She gave him her hands; he drew her to her feet, then led her to where a beaten path followed the meandering stream. They strolled along; she ambled beside him, sometimes ahead of him, furling her parasol when it limited her view of his face. Demon was grateful-the parasol had prevented him from watching her-any of her. They saw a mother duck with a gaggle of tiny ducklings, all paddling furiously in her wake; Flick pointed and exclaimed, and smiled delightedly. A sleek trout broke the rippling surface, chasing a fat fly; a kingfisher swooped out of the shade, dazzling them with his brilliant plumage. Flick grabbed his arm in her excitement, then sighed as the bird flew on down the stream.
'There's a bronze dragonfly.'
'Where?' She searched the banks.
