A Lady of His Own

uncertainty felt very strange, but it was real. Worse, not knowing-not knowing what gave rise to his emotional need of her-left her trapped, unable to accept him yet equally unable to refuse him, not until she learned the truth-was love one of the mature emotions he kept hidden behind his mask?

Not for anything this side of hell could she let that question lie unanswered. She’d put away her dream of loving him and having him love her, and all the rest her youthful heart had assumed would follow, thirteen long years ago. She’d never found another dream with which to replace it. Until now, she hadn’t had to face what that meant, that being his wife, lover, and friend was still the only future she truly wanted.

Now…eyes fixed unseeing on the distant sea, she felt that reality to her bones.

Eventually, he stirred; the hand lax about her hip tensed, gripped. Turning to him, she put her thoughts away. She had a week or more, until they caught the murderer, before he would ask, and she would have to answer.

His eyes opened; deepest sapphire blue in the afternoon sunlight, they looked into hers, then he smiled. He reached for her and drew her back down, into his arms, into a succession of increasingly intimate kisses-until she drew him over her, parted her thighs, and wordlessly welcomed him into her body.

Into a slow, heated dance, with his weight moving over her, against her, into her, with her clasping him and holding him close, of her fractured cries as she climaxed, of his low groans as he sought his pleasure in her, of the warmth that flooded her when he found it, of the shattering sensations that sped down her veins, then dissipated in pulsing glory.

The glory slowly faded, leaving, as she was learning it was wont to do, her emotions exposed, at least to herself. She’d never had any choice but to accept them; they were immutable, unswerving. Holding him close, idly stroking his hair, she reminded herself she had time to learn his secrets, to find some way of reading, not just his mind, but his heart-before he demanded hers.

CHAPTER 18

THEY REACHED THE ABBEY IN MIDAFTERNOON. FILCHETT met them in the front hall and informed them nothing had arrived from London, but that Fothergill had called that morning.

“Very interested in architecture. I took him on the usual tour.”

“Did he ask many questions?” Charles asked.

“Indeed. Quite a knowledgable young man.”

Charles pulled a face at Penny. “Tea in the study?”

Penny nodded.

Charles glanced at Filchett. “Some cakes wouldn’t go amiss.” He returned his dark gaze to her. “We’ve been riding in the fresh air-it’s left me with an appetite.”

Her expression limpidly innocent, she absolutely refused to react.

Cassius and Brutus had come to greet them; they danced around, then circled them, herding them into the study, Charles’s lair. Charles spent five minutes petting the dogs, running his fingers through their shaggy coats and reducing them to ecstasy. When Filchett arrived with the tray, Charles left the hounds stretched at her feet and headed for his desk to sort through the letters and notes piled there while she poured.

Returning to fetch his cup, he filched the plate of cakes. Nibbling the one she’d already selected, she watched as he went back to the desk and settled to deal with all he’d left to pile up while he’d been guarding her.

He steadily demolished the cakes.

Eventually he glanced up, and noticed her smile. “What?”

“It wasn’t that appetite I thought I evoked.”

He held her gaze, took another bite of cake. Swallowed, then said, “It isn’t. This appetite is the consequence of adequately slaking the other.”

“Adequately?”

Looking back at his accounts, he shrugged. “Thoroughly might be more accurate.”

She grinned and left him to his work, content to relax in the chair and let the peace envelop her. The Abbey had always been a contentment-filled house; even his brothers’ unexpected deaths hadn’t changed that. Closing her eyes, she let the quiet claim her; idly stroking the hounds with her boot, she turned her mind to devising some way of learning what the emotion driving Charles to want her was…and found herself dozing.

Sometime later, the hounds got quickly to their feet and shook themselves; she opened her eyes to see Charles push away from the desk. “Done?” she asked.

He nodded. Rounding the desk, he looked at the dogs, amber eyes shining as they patently willed him to take them for a run. He raised his brows at them, hesitated, then looked at her. “Shall we? We’ve time enough for a walk on the ramparts before we ride back.”

She acquiesced with a smile, held out her hands, and let him pull her to her feet. Into his arms. He bent his head and stole a swift kiss, then, closing his hand about one of hers, headed for the door.

The hounds followed, eager and excited. They bolted the instant Charles opened the side door, but returned within a minute to gambol about them before rushing off to follow some scent.

Hand in hand, they walked down the lawns and climbed the steps up to the broad curve of the ramparts. The breeze had turned brisk, plucking at her hair, sending errant wisps curling about her face. Catching them, vainly trying to tuck them back, she glanced at Charles; no matter how strong the wind, his curls merely ruffled, then fell back into place.

She stifled a humph; they strolled on.

They’d reached the middle of the long curve when Charles stopped. He turned to her, looked into her eyes, his face set, his expression serious.

She looked back at him, was about to raise her brows in query when his grip on her hand tightened.

“Marry me.”

Her eyes flew wide; her jaw dropped. “W-what?”

His gaze hardened, the line of his lips thinned; the dominant and domineering Norman lord looked down at her. “You heard me.”

She managed to catch her breath. “That’s not the point!” She tugged and he released her; she put both hands to her head, as if she could hold her whirling wits down.

He was the only person who could throw her so off-balance; it took her a moment to steady her thoughts. She stared at him. “I only realized this afternoon what you were about, what you’ve been leading up to-that you were going to ask-but I thought you’d wait at least until after your investigation is ended and this horrible murderer was caught!”

“So I thought, so I intended, until you favored me with your recent revelations.”

His accents were clipped, his words uninflected. She eyed him, increasingly wary. “What have my recent revelations to say to anything?”

Dark blue eyes bored into hers; he wasn’t amused. “You cannot expect to tell me you’ve fantasized for years about being my lady-and in such an explicit way-and not expect me to suggest that, in the circumstances, marrying me would be a good idea.”

In this mood, focused and intent on gaining victory, he could be quite devastating; the scent of leashed aggression-leashed at his whim-was strong. Feeling very like his prey, she blinked at him. “I haven’t had time to think-”

“You don’t need to think, just answer.” He stepped toward her.

“No!” She held up a hand, pressed her palm to his chest. “Wait, just wait!” He stopped; she caught a quick breath and stepped back-put enough distance between them so her wits could function-and shifted her gaze from his face. “I have to think.”

His response to that, muttered beneath his breath, wasn’t complimentary. She ignored it, but had to fight to ignore him, to dim the effect of him at close quarters in his present mood. Her senses flickered, acutely alert; she was supremely conscious of the steely purpose in him, and that it was directed, fully, at her.

He was much more forceful, more potent, than he’d been years ago, battle-hardened, but also battle-scarred; to her, the latter only made him more interesting, more compelling, not less. Their attraction now operated on multiple levels, direct and indirect, physical and emotional; refusing to meet his eyes, she drew in a deeper breath