by Stacy Reid
“You made me drop my light.” Her tone rang with accusation.
“I had not thought you would be so easily frightened.”
She snorted, and a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Had he ever heard a lady snort? Surely such a sound must be in his realm of experience. Yet the only ones he could remember were sweet giggles, simpers, and lustful moans.
“I thought you were…”
Her voice petered, and he frowned. Was she partaking in a tryst? As far as he knew no other guest resided in this section of the house.
His gut clenched in denial. “Who did you think I was?” His tone was too harsh. The quick emotions she roused were unsettling. He raked his fingers through his hair and inhaled. “Forgive my tone; I have no right to make demands.”
A light laugh came from her, and he thought he detected nervousness, or was it embarrassment? She muttered something too low for him to decipher.
“What?”
A heavy sigh. “I thought you could have been the ghost I was writing about earlier.”
A ghost? “I see.” Except he did not see. “Would you care to inform me why you were skulking around this side of the house?”
A low feminine growl of affront resounded. “Must I redirect the question so we can assess who was really skulking?”
He was beginning to realize she detested the word “skulk.” “My chamber is located at the fifth door on the landing.”
“Oh!”
Why had he given her the precise location?
“I thought this side of the manor was vacant.”
Her unique scent of berries wafted even closer, and he could just about make out the white of her robe. Her heat brushed against him, and he froze. Too close. Yet he did not step back.
“I am writing a story about a few children hunting a ghost in a place similar to Sherring Cross, so I waited until the house quieted before I decided to conduct some research in the wing I thought empty. I never expected to find you…skulking.”
There was no disguising the amusement in her tone, and he finally allowed himself a smile. “Research?” he prompted, beyond curious.
“Yes, I wanted a greater feel of the fright the children would experience. Seeing you standing on the stairs like Barnabas gave me a great appreciation.”
“Barnabas?”
“The ghost.” Laughter lurked in her tone.
Of course. He wanted to see her so badly it was an ache. Was her hair unbound? Pinned in a loose knot? Were her eyes glittering with awareness or apprehension? “Would you like to continue?”
“Touring the west wing?” Surprise tinged her voice.
“Yes.”
A sharp inhalation. “It would be shamelessly inappropriate for me to agree.”
He grunted.
Then silence.
Shuffling sounds crept into the still of the night. “What are you doing?”
“I am looking for the candelabrum. I would hate for you to trip over it and break your neck.”
He smiled. “Leave it; I will locate it in the morning. Do you wish to continue on the tour?”
Mikhail swore he could feel her thinking.
“It would take too much to return to my chamber for a wick,” she finally answered.
“I would be your guide. I am familiar with this wing…intimately.” What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he not pushing her away?
She sighed, and it caressed against his skin. Suddenly he wanted her to touch him, if only to see if he would feel revulsion. “Payton?”
“I…I am tempted, but I do not think it is wise.”
He was damn glad one of them was capable of sound reasoning.
“But I would appreciate your company on the return journey.”
Tension eased from his shoulders. “Then you shall have it.”
“Thank you.”
Then unexpectedly she reached out and grasped his arm. Dread rolled over him like a dark tide. The burn of it was so cold, his teeth almost chattered. Though he did not break out in a cold sweat, nor had nausea churned in his gut, Mikhail snatched his arm away, and she stumbled. He caught her at the hips, and her gasp traveled through him at their too-close embrace.
“Are you well?”
“Yes.”
He gently pressed his thumb along her side. She shivered, the softest of moans slipping from her.
“Do you suffer any ill effect from the fall?” he asked gruffly, pulling away.
She sighed. “There is only a slight bruise. The pain has already faded.”
“Good. You should still rub the area with a liniment.” He took her arm and placed it on the railing of the stairs. Then he nudged her.
They descended the steps carefully.
“Did you receive my note expressing my regret for missing our picnic?” she asked.
“I did.” He’d still not figured out if the rain had been a timely or untimely intervention. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to offer an invitation for another day, but he remained silent.
They reached the bottom of the stairs.
“A moment, Payton.”
She halted, and he felt along the wall for a switch. He located it, twisted the knob, and soft light illuminated the corridor.
“I would prefer for the light to be off. I know I am being frightfully improper, but I would like to continue my research. I think I will also insert in the story the children dropping their torches,” she said excitedly. “I want to see what their walk with darkness would be like. It is very convenient for me that you are here now. I would hate to encounter the real Barnabas alone.”
With a low chuckle he complied, and they kept walking, hugging close to the wall. “So tell me about Barnabas.”
She stopped so suddenly his chest pressed into her back, and the curve of her rump pressed delightfully against his thigh. He bit back a groan and gently eased away.
“You want to know about my writing?” Her voice was rife with surprise.
“I do.” He frowned, a peculiar ache working its way into his chest. Was his request so unusual?
“Oh!”
Pleasure coated her voice, and he wished to see her face. Was she smiling?
“I am not certain if he is a mean or a kind ghost as yet. But it is wartime, and four sibling children are sent away to live with their grandparents and discover the castle they are living in is haunted.”
He smiled, wondering if she realized her voice had lowered to a dramatic hush.
“Tell me from the beginning,” he commanded as they continued strolling in the dark.
A little squeak of excitement slipped from her, and then she launched into the story she was writing and apparently illustrating—a ghost, a mystical portal, an enchanted realm with dragons, witches, trolls, a red queen, a blue queen, and intrepid children, all woven together seamlessly into a wonderful story. Her voice was refined and sensual, soothing and arousing, and she entranced him with the passion vibrating from her as she regaled him until the tale ended.
He was silent for a few seconds. “Your story is riveting.”
“Thank you for listening,” she said softly.
Much too soon, they reached the foyer leading to the other wing of the manor. The light from the wall sconces lighting the east wing bared her to his gaze. She was dressed in a voluminous nightgown that hid her wonderful figure, and her hair was pinned in a topknot. Loose tendrils danced around her flushed cheeks, her eyes glittered with apparent delight, and Mikhail desperately wanted to taste her lips.
He cleared his throat. “This is where we part.”
She lowered her lashes, but not before he saw the sparks of desire in her eyes. She pinned a polite smile on her face, and then lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you for being so kind as to escort me and listen to me ramble.”
“I was delighted.”
Her flush became even more pronounced. She reached out and briefly touched his knuckle. Her caress was light as butterfly wings and almost pleasant. Then she turned and ran lightly
up the winding staircase.
Mikhail watched until she vanished from sight. She was a powerful temptation he would have to do all in his power to resist. Then the visceral need of how he’d wanted her lips against his, the way she’d made his cock twitch, the way she made him smile so effortlessly, scythed through his heart.
And her touch…it had not made his gut roil with the urge to vomit. A part of him that had been dead and buried whispered through his soul. Maybe this time, he could take a step off the cliff of insanity and triumph.
Chapter Seven
The next morning Payton entered the stables with eager steps. It was very early, but she’d wanted to escape the after breakfast call to play croquet. Her damnable need to see Mikhail had made her restless. Last night had been thrilling. Nothing had happened except a long walk along a darkened corridor, but she’d had more enjoyment than at the dinner and the dance earlier. She liked him, and she could not deny the need to be in his presence despite the caution that flared in her heart. The last thing she wanted was to endure hurt and disappointment again.
A cursory glance showed the stables to be empty, and disappointment stabbed through her. It was a bit ridiculous and improper of her, but she had wanted to see Mikhail without the prying eyes of the other guests upon them. What she would say when she actually saw the man, she had not thought of as yet.
She directed her thoughts to the stallion she’d ridden yesterday, moving with rapidity to his stall.
Payton faltered. Mikhail. He wore a gentleman’s white shirt tucked into perfectly fitted black trousers; his black hair was mussed and in need of a trim. Though he groomed the horse, he had an imperious bearing about him, and it filled her with curiosity.
“Hello,” she greeted.
He stiffened imperceptibly and then shifted in her direction. His gaze ran over her in a quick perusal, and Payton realized she had carefully dressed in the event they had a chance encounter. Clad in her finest green riding habit, with matching gloves and hat, she warmed at the appreciation glowing in his eyes.
“Good day, Payton.” His accent was so appealing.
“Did you return safely to the west wing without mishap?”
“I did.”
She moved closer to the stall. “I am glad to see Sage returned safely.”
“He did.”
She waited for him to say something more, anything really to prolong their conversing. A blush climbed her neck when he only stared in that piercing way of his.
“It is a glorious day for riding.”
He glanced through the open windows into the sky. “It is.”
“The duchess’s sister, Lady Victoria, has organized a game of croquet to be played on the front lawn,” Payton said, strolling closer. “Then later a game of charades in the parlor. I am stealing away to ride across the countryside.”
He arched a brow.
“Will you be joining the games?” she asked. However, when she thought of it, she realized he might not have been invited.
“No.”
God, she hoped she didn’t make him feel inferior with her question. It could not be pleasant to realize all other guests had been encouraged to play. Payton had felt the sting of rejection many times since the Viscountess of Kenilworth organized social events and made it her duty to not invite Payton, taking pleasure in reminding her of her inferior rank. “I am sorry you did not receive an invitation.”
“I was invited.”
“Oh! I feel foolish for making such an assumption.” She laughed lightly, more from the discomfort curling through her than anything else.
He grunted.
That is it?
She waited for him to say more, but he remained maddeningly silent. She glanced around the stables, admiring the elegant lines and beauty of the other horses. She walked away from him, toward a horse with the blackest coat she had ever beheld. Another stallion. “Oh, you beauty,” she crooned gently, reaching out to glide her fingertip over his muscles. “Will you allow me to ride you today?”
He nickered, and she laughed softly, moving close until she could press against his side, running her hand along his neck. Her heart quickened. She could feel Mikhail’s eyes upon her. The intensity of his gaze kissed over her in a heated caress, an invitation to shift and admire him in a similar manner. But that would be too bold, too blatantly outrageous, even for her. Payton swallowed and battled the urge. Seconds passed in silence while she allowed the horse to become familiar with her touch. She swore the blasted man stared at her the entire time. Unable to resist, she turned to Mikhail.
His regard was…provocative. His eyes lowered to her lips and stayed there. Was it that she had something on her mouth? Good Lord, what if crumbles from the sweet cake she had stolen on her way out were still on her lips. A quick dart of her tongue along her lips did not result in anything. He frowned darkly, and awareness simmered through Payton.
“You are not much of a conversationalist today,” she said in desperation, wanting to break the intensity of the moment.
“I was uncommonly talkative in the cottage.”
She frowned. “You were?” He had been reserved last night as well. She’d done most of the talking.
Silence.
“You are staring, Mikhail.”
“I already informed you why I stare.”
“It is ungentlemanly and outrageous.”
“You enjoy the knowledge that I find you irresistibly beautiful. Do not pretend otherwise.”
Irresistibly beautiful? She ignored the rush of pleasure and glared at him. “Are you trying to provoke me?”
Finally a gorgeous smile curved his lips. “No, but it was worth your pique to see your face flushed with passion. You are becoming.”
Her aunt would encourage her to upbraid his boldness, but Payton could not bring herself to act so pompously. She would simply refuse to acknowledge his audacious compliment and his ridiculous assertions, which, if she were honest, held a miniscule amount of truth. It was indeed thrilling he found her becoming.
She turned to the horse she’d been admiring. “This is a beautiful horse.”
“He is.”
She allowed an exaggerated sigh to escape her. “I can see you are not fit for company today.”
He grunted and then asked, “Would you like to ride him?”
A smile split her face. “Indeed I would.”
He walked over and with quick movements fitted the stallion with saddle and harness. “This is Aeton. He is well trained and responds without the urging of a riding crop.”
“I would never use a crop!”
Mikhail flashed a smile of approval. “Good. He can be a bit temperamental, but once you let him know you are in charge, he will respond to your guidance.”
“And you trust me with him?”
“From what I saw yesterday your skill is beyond reproach.”
Warmth filled her chest. “Thank you,” she said softly. Not many men would offer such a compliment, and she knew none who would encourage a young lady to mount a stallion. Even Calydon encouraged his unconventional duchess to ride mares, never a powerful beast like Aeton. “Did you train him?”
“I did.”
“You are a horse breeder and a man of affairs. A very curious combination.”
He stiffened, then relaxed his shoulders. “I breed horses as a hobby. At rare times I gift them to friends.”
“And Aeton is a gift to Calydon?”
“He is.”
“And what other hobbies do you pursue?”
He stepped from the horse and directed his undivided attention to her. “You are curious about me.” More of an observation than a question.
Though his face was shuttered, pleasure darkened his tone. She hesitated. Never be obvious in your tendre for a gentleman. With an inner snort, she dismissed her aunt’s instructions. “I am,” she said truthfully. His silent regard became unsettling as a disconcerting awareness of him rippled over her skin. “If you are uncomfortable speaking—”
“Would you allow me to accompany you on your ride?”
He was bolder than any other suitor she had ever encountered. She barely contained a wince at her thoughts; a simple ride was not an invitation to courting. Or was it? She tried to remember all the infernal rules to courtship her aunt repeated so often. Payton was not sure if her curiosity should extend to being alone with him again. Not that a ride in the open should be a breach in propriety.
“We did not indulge in our picnic yesterday,” he offered by way of explanation.
He strolled to Sage and started fitting his saddle, seemingly unconcerned with her answer, but Payton swore she could feel the tension rolling off Mikhail as he awaited her reply.
“I would love your company.” Her heart thudded at his slow pleased smile. “I would also like to race against you with Sage.”
Mikhail stared at her for so long, she almost fidgeted. Was she being too impertinent?
“I accept.”
The breath she had not realized she held whooshed from her audibly. “You do?” Never had she really expected him to acquiesce. The one time she had been so daring with Lord Jensen in Hyde Park, he had been incensed that as a “lady” she would suggest racing against a gentleman.
“I do…though I must warn you, you will not win.”
She narrowed her eyes, and he chuckled.
“So if you are so certain, why accept? I clearly present no challenge.”
Something wicked flared in the depth of his eyes. “Oh, you challenge me,” he drawled softly. “I will savor the thrill of my conquest.”
Conquest? “Are we still talking about racing?”
He gave her an almost baffled look before responding. “Of course.”
“I see.” But she did not see, and she was almost certain he referred to something else. It was as if she should have understood a hidden meaning in his words, and he had an expectation of her to be more elegant and possibly adept at flirtation. Or maybe she was being silly. “I am an expert horsewoman even riding sidesaddle, so prepare to be trounced.”
A boot crunched behind her and she spun to see a large and very handsome man walking toward them.
