“The day before that I found a book on a man named Buddha who often went about without a shirt, apparently. There were picture plates.” She stared at Wyn’s muscle-corded arms and thought perhaps Annie could not be blamed for having run off with the farmhand after all. Every time Wyn’s hand flexed, a muscle strained the cuff above his elbow. It made her agitated inside. “It seems that Buddha started an entire religion, quite an interesting one with some truly marvelous ideas.”
“You read this book?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
He smiled. It made her warm, rather low. She wanted him to touch her again. There. “I didn’t understand the half of it, really.” Her voice was foolishly breathy. The milk was making a light splashing sound now. “You are very good at that.”
“I have recently had practice. Will you come over here or shall I bring the cow to you?”
He gave up the stool to crouch in the straw beside her. The cow turned its head and stared at her with wide-set eyes.
“Is this any easier than smoking a cigar?”
“About the same level of difficulty, I should say. Like putting on one’s shoes or sweeping a stoop. I imagine you will be able to manage it.”
“Have you swept stoops?”
“In my day, I did it all. Are you actually interested in milking this cow? Because—”
“I am!” She grasped a teat. It was warm and soft. She tugged. “Nothing is happening.”
“It is not a bellpull, minx. You cannot summon a maid with it.”
“You are very droll, Mr. Yale.”
“That is what they say, Miss Lucas.”
Her delight deflated. “Who? All the ladies in London?”
“No.” He reached forward and surrounded her hand with his, and all the ladies in London simply vanished. His palm was large and wonderfully warm, and she wanted to sit here holding hands with him forever. He repositioned her fingers, but she could barely attend. He was so close now, at her shoulder, as close as he’d been when he assisted her down from the tree and she had almost planted her mouth on his.
“Then who?” she asked a little thinly.
His hand cupped hers. “All the gentlemen in London, of course. Apply pressure in this manner.” His voice sounded husky. It was not only her, then. He felt this too, this thing that made her heart thud and body weak with anticipation. He must.
If she did not divert her thoughts she would be begging him for kisses in moments. “Do you think it would be naive for a person to believe in Destiny and Reincarnation at once?” she uttered.
“I have never felt the need to insist upon a man confining his most cherished beliefs to the parameters of a system devised by others.”
Her hand, guided by his, caught the rhythm. Then she was sorry she’d learned so swiftly because he released her.
“But you do believe in God.” She felt light-headed. “Don’t you?”
“I admit that I am not entirely convinced.”
“Then what do you believe in?”
“Good manners, the faculty of human reason, and hell.” The words fell starkly into the straw-scented air.
Diantha’s fingers ceased moving of their own accord. The urge to weep beset her.
In a clear, quiet voice he added, “And, lately, hope.”
Her hand slipped away from the teat and she swiveled around to face him. There was no bleakness in his face. Desire lit his silvery eyes and something else she did not understand but it dashed away all thought of weeping. A muscle in his jaw flexed and she saw him take a breath, heard it in the stillness surrounded by the soft sounds of animals and the mad chatter of birds in the hedge without.
His gaze dipped to her mouth and there was nothing more she wanted than to be kissed by him. Nothing in the world.
She could not prevent herself; she leaned forward. He leaned forward. Their breaths mingled, an intimacy for which she was thoroughly unprepared.
He closed the space between them. It was a mere brushing of lips, the most innocent caress.
And then it was not. Then it became more.
His hand came around the back of her neck and secured her mouth against his and he kissed her like she’d dreamed every night for endless nights, like there was nothing more he wanted than to be kissing her, feeling her like she felt him in every part of her body. He tasted her, used the tip of his tongue to part her lips, and she succumbed. She allowed him into her mouth, to touch her like he had touched her before, but this was not the same. Now the caress of his mouth recalled her to his hands on her body, and to his body when she’d held him in the midst of fever, and she knew it was all different. She wanted even more than kisses. She wanted him. She ached with wanting him.
His thumb stroked her cheek, his fingertips slipping into her hair, and it was sublime, the most tender touch, reverent and delectable like the opening up within her that needed him. She lifted her hand and skimmed her fingers along the taut strength of his forearm. It made her hungry. It made her delirious with pleasure. A sound came from his chest and he sought her deeper, capturing her tongue and making her desperate for more, for his body against hers, for his hands all over her. She slid forward on the stool.
The cow lowed.
Wyn pulled back and his hand fell.
Diantha sucked in breath and opened her eyes. His looked unfocused. Then something else flickered within the gray, something unsettling that made her stomach plunge.
She leaped up. “D-Don’t say ‘God, no,’ ” she stuttered. “Please.”
“What?” He seemed confused. “I wasn’t going to say—”
“I did not ask for that.” She pressed her fingertips to her damp lips. “You cannot stuff me into my traveling trunk and take me home.”
He bent his head and ran his hand around the back of his neck. Each motion struck her with agonizing beauty. She couldn’t bear it. She wanted him so much. Not just in her feminine regions where she was becoming accustomed to feeling her response to his male angularity and elegance. This need spread in her chest and limbs. She felt moved and deep down inside her this all felt right, like she was meant to be kissing him and only him.
She backed away. “Don’t say something horrid or make threats.”
His gaze snapped up, a spark of anger in it. “I won’t. Damn it, Diantha—”
“And don’t swear at me. It is against the rules. Number Seven.” She darted forward and snatched up the bucket. “Thank you for teaching me how to milk a cow. I’m leaving now.” Dragging the bucket at her side, she hastened from the stable because she knew she must run away or throw herself at him, and the first seemed a better alternative for eventually reaching Calais.
But at present she did not wish to be in Calais. She wished to be in his arms.
Chapter 19
If Mrs. Polley noticed that her employers were not on speaking terms with each other at supper, she was remarkably discreet about it. Fortunately Owen prattled on—as always—and the meal was consumed until Wyn excused himself courteously—as always.
Mrs. Polley ushered Owen to his gatehouse. “That man will have us at an early start tomorrow and we’ll be in the rain and mud and Lord knows what other troubles again, so you’d best have yourself a good sleep, boy.”
He snatched up another biscuit, tipped his cap with an “Evening, miss,” and whistled for Ramses to follow.
