breeches’ pockets, he fixed his dark gaze on her.
They’d been lovers once. Just once.
Once had been enough for her to realize that continuing to be lovers would not be wise, not for her. He’d been twenty, she sixteen; for him, the encounter had been purely physical, for her…something so much more. Yet their physical connection continued; even now, after thirteen years and her best efforts to subdue her susceptibility, it still sprang to quivering life the instant he got close. Close enough for her to sense, to be able to touch-to want. Even now, looking at him leaning with casual grace against the tree, the breeze stirring his black hair, his eyes dark and brooding fixed on her, her heart simply stopped. Ached.
Her susceptibility irritated, annoyed, sometimes even disgusted her, yet she’d been forced to accept that regardless of him having no reciprocal feelings for her, she would always love him; she didn’t seem able to stop. That, however, was something he didn’t know, and she had no intention of letting him guess.
Forcing her eyes from him, she looked ahead and continued to swing. “Nicholas is no fool. If I was following him out of the Wallingham Hall stables, he’d notice.”
“How often have you followed him?”
She swung a little more, considering how much, if anything, to reveal. “I first realized he was visiting places no nonlocal gentleman such as he should know of in February. I don’t think he’d started before then-none of the grooms were aware of it if he had-but in February he spent all five days he was down here riding out. I’d done the same then as I did this time, coming here to the Abbey when he arrived, so I didn’t realize he was also riding out by night until it was too late.”
His silence made it clear there was a lot in that he didn’t like. Eyes on the corn rising green in his fields, she said nothing more, just waited.
“Where did he go? Smugglers’ haunts, I assume, but which?”
She hid a resigned smile; he hadn’t missed the point of her seeing Mother Gibbs. “All the major gathering places in Polruan, Bodinnick, Lostwithiel, and Fowey.”
“No farther afield?”
“Not as far as I know, but I missed his nighttime excursions.”
“Did you ask Mother Gibbs what he’d been doing in those places?”
“Yes.”
When she didn’t elaborate, he prompted, his voice carrying a wealth of compulsion-no, intimidation. “And?”
She set her jaw. “I can’t tell you-not yet.”
A moment passed, then he said, “You have to tell me. I need to know-this isn’t a game.”
She looked at him, met his eyes. “Believe me, I know it’s not a game.”
She paused, holding his gaze, then went on, “I need to think things through, to work out how much I actually know and what it might mean
His gaze sharpened. For a long moment, he studied her, then quietly said, “I may represent the authorities in this, but I’m still…much the same man I was before, one you know very well.”
She inclined her head. “My point exactly. Much the same, perhaps, but you’re not the same man you were thirteen years ago.”
That was the matter in a teacup. Until she knew how and in what ways he’d changed, he remained, not a stranger but something even more confusing, an amalgam of the familiar and the unknown. Until she understood the here-and-now him better, she wouldn’t feel comfortable trusting him with what she knew.
What she thought she knew.
Recalling her intention in coming to the orchard, she rubbed a finger across her forehead, then looked at him. “I haven’t yet had a chance to work out what the snippets I’ve learned amount to-I need time to think.” She stopped the swing and stood.
He straightened away from the tree.
“No.” She frowned at him. “I do not need your help to think.”
That made him smile, which helped her thought processes even less.
She narrowed her eyes. “If you want me to tell you all, soon, then you’ll allow me a little peace so I can get my thoughts in order. I’m going to my room-I’ll tell you when I’m prepared to divulge what I’ve learned.”
Head rising, she stepped out, intending to sweep past him. The trailing skirt of her habit trapped her ankle.
“Oh!” She tripped, fell.
He swooped, caught her to him, drew her upright. Steadied her within his arms.
Her lungs seized. She looked up, met his eyes.
Felt, as she had years ago, as she always did when in his arms, fragile, vulnerable…intensely feminine.
Felt again, after so many years, the unmistakable flare of attraction, of heat, of flagrant desire.
Her gaze dropped to his lips; her own throbbed, then ached. Whatever else the years had changed, this-their private madness-remained.
Her heart raced, pounded. She hadn’t anticipated that he would still want her. Lifting her eyes to his, she confirmed he did. She’d seen desire burn in his eyes before; she knew how it affected him.
He wasn’t trying to hide what he felt. She watched the shades shift in those glorious dark eyes, watched him fight the urge to kiss her. Breath bated, helpless to assist, she waited, tense and tensing, eyes locked with his, for one crazed instant not sure what she wanted…
He won the battle. Sanity returned, and she breathed shallowly again as his hold on her gradually, very gradually, eased.
Setting her on her feet, he stepped back. His eyes, dark and still burning, locked with hers. “Don’t leave it too long.”
A breeze ruffled the trees, sent a shower of petals swirling down around them. She searched his eyes. His tone had been harsh. She wished she had the courage to ask what he was referring to-divulging her secrets, or…
Deciding that in this case discretion was indeed the better part of valor, she gathered her skirts and walked back to the house.
CHAPTER
SWEEPING INTO THE ABBEY’S DRAWING ROOM AT SEVEN o’clock, just ahead of Filchett, she fixed Charles, watching her from before the massive fireplace, with a narrow-eyed glare, then stepped aside to allow Filchett to announce that dinner was served.
Unperturbed, Charles nodded to Filchett and came to take her hand.
Steeling herself, she surrendered it, but didn’t bother to curtsy. As he laid her fingers on his sleeve and turned her to the door, she stated with what she felt was commendable restraint, “I would have been quite happy with a tray in my room.”
“I, however, would not.”
She bit her tongue, elevated her nose. She knew better than to waste breath arguing with him.
Half an hour after she’d regained her room, a maid had tapped on her door and inquired whether she would like a bath. She’d agreed; a long, relaxing soak was just what she’d needed. The steam had risen, wreathing about her; her thoughts had circled, constantly returning to the crucial question. Could she trust Charles, the Charles who now was?
She still wasn’t sure, but now understood she couldn’t-wasn’t going to be allowed to-put him off for much longer. Witness this dinner he’d jockeyed her into.
When the maid, Dorrie, had returned to inquire which gown she wanted laid out, she’d replied she intended to have dinner in her chamber. Dorrie’s eyes had grown round. “Oh, no, miss! The master’s told Mrs. Slattery you’ll dine with him.”
An exchange of notes had followed, culminating in one from Charles informing her she would indeed be dining
