What Price Love?

He cursed and tightened his grip, but then they hit the ground, him on top with her on her back stretched full length beneath him.

The impact jarred them; they both lost their breaths. For one instant, all was still, then she transformed into a wildcat, twisting sinuously beneath him, hands rising, claws extended for his face.

He wrenched his arms free, caught her hands half a second before she made contact.

She swore at him in Gaelic, bucked, kicked, fought him like a heathen. He had to shift, twist; he only just managed to avoid her rising knee, to block it and press it back with his thigh.

“Hold still, damn it!”

She didn’t listen. He could hear her ragged breaths, almost sobs, but she seemed beyond the reach of his voice.

Ruthlessly, he exerted his strength, pressing her hands to the ground on either side of her head, relentlessly using his full weight to subdue her.

It wasn’t-definitely wasn’t-his idea of a wise move. He could feel every undulation of her supple body beneath his, every caress of her remarkably feminine, sinfully suggestive curves as she writhed beneath him.

His body had reacted instantly-painfully-to the feel of hers. Now…

“For God’s sake!” He bit off a curse. “Unless you want me to take you here and now, be still!”

That got through to her; she froze-totally and utterly.

He waited; when she remained quiet, rigid beneath him, he dragged in a breath, braced his arms, and eased his weight onto his elbows, enough to look down at her face-not enough for her to have any hope of dislodging him.

They lay in the open, their faces inches apart, but her features were shaded by his head above hers; looking up, she wouldn’t be able to see his expression any more than he could see hers.

He had to fight not to glance down at her lips, and farther, at her breasts, still heaving, repeatedly brushing his chest. He forced himself to concentrate on her eyes, wide and framed by the dark curve of her lashes. “What are you doing here?”

For one instant, she stared up at him, then she flung another Gaelic epithet at him and tensed-but she didn’t try to buck him off. Possibly because he now lay between her slender thighs. Then she spoke. “Is this how you entertain yourself, then? Accosting ladies in the woods?”

She’d poured scorn and more into her sultry voice, but there was a hint of panic edging it…

The accusation seemed singularly inapt.

Dillon frowned. He stared into her wide eyes. Despite not being able to see their expression, he suddenly understood. Suddenly realized on a wash of sensual heat just what was causing her to lose her grip on her wits.

Realized what it was keeping her lovely eyes doe-wide.

Keeping her breathing skittish and panicky.

Beneath him, he felt her quiver, recognized the response as involuntary, something she would die rather than admit to-something she couldn’t suppress or prevent.

He could feel his heartbeat heavy in his loins, could feel the heat of hers trapped beneath him, pressed against him. He felt the telltale tension thrumming through her, resistance combined with a reaction she couldn’t control.

One that left her weak.

He would never have a better chance of getting her to tell him all she knew. Deliberately, he let his hips settle more definitely between her thighs.

Her breath caught; alarm flashed through her. “Get off me.”

The last word hitched, caught.

He froze. Inwardly swore. She was one step away from outright panic. Damn-he couldn’t do this.

He was about to tense and lift from her when a crashing in the wood captured both their attentions.

Turning his head, he watched Barnaby stagger from the trees. He was holding his side and had clearly failed to capture the Irishman.

Very much the worse for wear, Barnaby slumped against the bole of a tree. “Thank God.” He dragged in a painful breath. “You caught him.”

Dillon sighed. Without releasing his captive’s hands, he pushed up, got his feet under him, and rose, hauling her unceremoniously up before him.

He looked over her head at Barnaby. “No. I caught her.”

3

By the time Caxton steered her into his office, Pris had her wits firmly back under control. It helped that, in marching her back to the Jockey Club, he’d done no more than grip her elbow. Even that much contact was more than she would have wished, but it was a great improvement over what had gone before.

Those moments when she’d lain beneath him welled again in her mind. Resolutely, she jammed them down, buried them deep. She couldn’t afford the distraction.

He thrust her into the room, in the direction of the chair before his desk, the one she’d previously occupied.

After hauling her to her feet, with a detachment that, to her in her highly charged, overwrought state, had somehow smacked of insult, he’d tugged loose her kerchief, pulled her arms behind her, and bound them. Not tightly, but too well for her to slip her wrists free.

She’d borne the indignity only because her wits had still been reeling, her traitorous senses still whirling, leaving her weak-too weak to break away.

But their plodding journey through the wood had given her time to catch her breath; she was feeling considerably more capable now.

Halting beside the chair, she narrowed her eyes at Caxton as he came up beside her. “You’ll need to untie my hands.”

It was the earl’s daughter who spoke. Caxton met her eyes, considered, then reached behind her and tugged the knot free.

Leaving her to untangle her hands, he walked on; rounding his desk, he dropped into the chair behind it.

Behind her, Pris heard the door shut and the latch click home. As she sat-noting that Caxton hadn’t waited for her to do so before sitting himself-she glanced at his friend. He limped to the armchair and slowly let himself down into it.

She managed not to wince. Her confidence in Rus hadn’t been misplaced; there was a bruise on the man’s cheekbone, another on his jaw, and from the way he moved, his ribs hadn’t escaped punishment. He looked thoroughly roughed up, yet she detected a shrewdness, an incisiveness in his gaze; he was still very much mentally alert.

Shaking out her kerchief, she rolled it, then calmly knotted it once more about her neck. She looked at Caxton, noted he was frowning, then realized his gaze had lowered to her breasts, rising under the fine shirt as she reached to the back of her neck.

Thanking the saints that she didn’t blush easily, she lowered her arms. “Now that we’re here, what can I do for you, gentlemen?”

She had every intention of making this interview more painful for them than for her.

Dillon blinked, then locked his gaze on her face, on her fascinating eyes. “You can start by telling us what you were doing skulking about the wood.”

Her emerald eyes opened wide. “Why, skulking about the wood, of course. Is that a crime?”

He didn’t try to stop his jaw, his whole face from hardening. “The man in the wood-who was he?”

She considered asking what man. Instead, she shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“You were there to meet him.”