wanted her naked under his hands, under his mouth, now.
Some remnant of his mind screamed the words, battling to remind him…they had to stop.
She framed his face again, pressed an incendiary kiss on his ravening lips-then abruptly pulled back and broke the kiss.
Gasping, panting, holding his face between her hands, she stared at him; eyes wide, through the moon-washed dimness she searched his. They were both reeling. Both fighting to breathe, both struggling desperately to regain their wits, and some measure of control.
To hold against the fiery tide that surged around them.
Never in his life had he felt so swept away, been so helpless in the face of something stronger than he. Something beyond his will to contain or restrain.
He was acutely conscious of her slender body wrapped in his arms, plastered against the much harder length of his.
She was, too.
He saw her eyes widen, simultaneously saw her grasp on her wits firm.
She hauled in a huge breath, then pushed back in his arms.
“
He couldn’t argue. The last ten minutes had amply demonstrated how desperately urgent and necessary it was that she quit his roof.
She wrenched away-had to-he couldn’t, yet, get his arms to willingly let her go. He had to battle just to let her step away, to force himself to lose the feel of her body against his and not react-not grab her and pull her back.
Watching him, still struggling to breathe, she seemed to sense his fraught state; she swung on her heel and walked, albeit unsteadily, away.
He watched her go, watched her turn into the corridor; unmoving in the shadows, he listened to her footsteps fade, then heard the distant thud of her bedchamber door. Only then did he manage to drag in a full breath, to fill his chest, to feel some semblance of sanity return.
Never before had he felt like that, not with any other woman, not even with her long ago.
Eventually, when the thunder in his veins had subsided enough for him to hear himself think, he stirred, his body once more his own. Nevertheless, his strongest impulse was to follow her to her room. To her bed, or anywhere else she wished.
With one soft, succinct curse, he turned and headed for his apartments.
Tomorrow she’d be at Wallingham.
Tomorrow,
Despite her earnest expectations, Penny wasn’t ready to leave the Abbey until late the next morning.
She’d had difficulty falling asleep, then had slept in. She had breakfast on a tray in her room the better to avoid Charles.
Her behavior the previous night had been a revelation. Until she’d lost her temper and stopped holding everything back, she hadn’t appreciated just how much she’d been concealing, bottled up inside her. Until that moment, she hadn’t fully understood how much she still felt for him, or more specifically the nature of what she felt for him.
That last had been a revelation indeed.
It was more, far more in every way, than before, and now he was home, spending more time close to her than he ever had, her feelings only seemed to be growing, burgeoning and extending in ways she hadn’t foreseen.
On the one hand she was appalled, on the other…fascinated.
Just as well she was going back to Wallingham.
Crunching on her toast, she replayed that last interlude; she couldn’t tell whether he’d seen what she had. In the past, he hadn’t been at all perceptive where she was concerned; she hoped and suspected that would still be the case. For all she knew, women habitually threw themselves at him; if he hadn’t realized that with her, such an act meant a great deal more, well and good. Bringing her unexpected feelings to his attention was the last thing she needed. That his attention in a sexual sense had fixed on her anyway was no surprise. It always had; it seemed it always would.
Her thoughts circled to her principal reason for returning to Wallingham-Nicholas, the investigation, and now Gimby’s murder. Her determination to do her part was set in stone; sober, committed, she drained her teacup and rose to dress.
It was only as she left her room properly gowned in her riding habit that she recalled Charles had planned to go that morning to report Gimby’s death to Lord Culver, the nearest magistrate. If she hurried, she might get away before he returned.
She whisked through the gallery and was pattering down the stairs before she looked ahead.
Charles stood in the center of the hall watching her rapid descent. She slowed. He was dressed in riding jacket, breeches, and boots; his hair was windblown, as if he’d just come in. So much for an easy escape.
He dismissed Filchett, with whom he’d been talking, and came to meet her as she stepped off the stairs. “Come into the library.”
Together they walked the few steps to the library door. He held it for her, and she went in, walking to one of the chairs before the fire. She turned and coolly faced him. She doubted he’d mention their interlude last night. If he didn’t, she certainly wouldn’t; the less he dwelled on it, the better.
When he waved her to sit, she did. He took the chair opposite.
“I’ve seen Culver. He’ll do all that’s necessary, but the crux of the matter-the reason behind Gimby’s death-is the subject of my investigation, so beyond managing the formalities, Culver won’t be further involved.”
Charles locked gazes with Penny. “I’ve sent a messenger to London with a report of Gimby’s death and a request that the possibility of the traffic through here being incoming rather than outgoing be thoroughly checked.”
Something flickered behind her eyes. “You don’t believe it was.”
“I don’t at this stage know what to believe. I’ve been in this business too long to jump to conclusions that may not prove warranted.”
One fine brow arched, but she made no reply. Her face was a calm mask; he could read nothing in it, certainly nothing about how she felt about last night. “Have you reconsidered your decision to return to Wallingham?”
She shook her head; her lips set in a determined line. “It’s my family that’s involved. Even Nicholas is a relative, albeit distant. It’s only right I do all I can…” She gestured and let her words trail away.
“Uncovering the truth is my mission, my job, not yours.” He kept his tone even, all aggressive instinct harnessed.
“Indeed, but I consider it obligatory that I do all I can to assist, and that means returning to Wallingham and watching Nicholas.”
He wasn’t going to sway her; he hadn’t thought he would, but had felt compelled to try. If anything, the night seemed to have hardened her resolve.
So be it.
“Very well. I’ll ride over with you. But before we go, tell me more of Nicholas. Does he have servants with him? Anyone who might be an accomplice?”
“No, he brought no one. He drove himself down.”
“Do you know anything about his life over the last decade? How long has he been at the Foreign Office?”
“I got the impression he’d started there quite young-he’s thirty-one now. Elaine spoke of him as following in his father’s footsteps-she made it sound like that had always been the case.”
He nodded. He’d asked Dalziel for a complete report on Nicholas, but hadn’t yet received it. After seeing the marks on Gimby’s body, he was looking for some indication that Nicholas had the necessary qualifications to inflict such finely honed damage. It wasn’t a skill acquired at Oxford, nor yet at the Foreign Office. So where, and when, had Nicholas, if it was he, learned the finer points of brutal interrogation?
