by Sara Bennett
“I’m moving,” he gasped, and when she looked into his face she saw the strain, a mirror of her own, his lips drawn back into a snarl. His dark eyes glittered. “Pull harder!”
Francesca, who was sure she couldn’t pull any harder, pulled harder. She came up onto her knees, and then her feet.
His hips came free. He wriggled wildly, and now his thighs were free, and then his knees, and he was crawling toward her. Francesca gave a last tremendous heave and found herself stumbling backward, onto the area of solid ground that Wolf had found for her. The stranger was moving toward her, so quickly that there was no possibility of his sinking.
His body knocked hard against hers. As she fell, he fell on top of her. They landed together, and all the breath went out of her. He was heavy and warm, and he was covered in wet mud. She was aware of his chest heaving up and down, violently, pressing to hers. He’d dropped his face to her shoulder, and now he began to shake. In the back of her mind she could hear Wolf barking, crazy with excitement, but he seemed far away. Everything seemed so far away.
That was when Francesca realized she was going to faint—there were black dots forming in front of her eyes. Perhaps she said it aloud, because abruptly his weight was lifted from her. She drew in a great gulp of air. A large hand gripped her chin, holding her face up.
“Better?” he asked, examining her with an intensity that unnerved her.
Francesca looked up into his eyes. She still felt light-headed, and the question just popped into her head. “What did you mean?” she said. “When you said, ‘It’s you’?”
“When I said…?”
“The first time you saw me, you said, ‘It’s you.’”
He shook his head. “I don’t know why I said it. I was dreaming, I think. I’ve been imagining things alone here in the dark. I thought I’d imagined you.”
He was telling the truth. She read it in his eyes. Dark eyes, black as pitch, whereas her own were a warm brown. He lifted his face to the sky, and she realized it was raining lightly, washing the mud away. He helped it along by scrubbing his hands over his skin, and then shaking his hair like a dog, sending droplets of mud and water in all directions.
“That’s better,” he said at last, and looked down at her again.
His hair was longer than the fashion, and stuck out wildly from the shaking he’d just given it. He was so close that she could see every feature, every line, from the scratch on his unshaven jaw—the sort of strong, uncompromising jaw that a man who had kept himself alive all night in Emerald Mire would have—to his blunt nose, and the dark brows that slashed so boldly across his forehead. His mouth was thinned, tightly closed, as if he kept secrets, but there were faint lines at the edges, as if he had once smiled a great deal.
Energy and vitality seemed to spark from him. Francesca thought he was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen in her life, but he would not be to everyone’s taste. He was far too dark and dangerous. If he were a character in a novel, he wouldn’t be the hero, oh no.
This man would be the villain.
It occurred to her that neither of them had spoken a word for some time. Was he examining her as she was him? The idea made her squirm. Francesca valued personal privacy, and she had the sense that this man’s bold dark eyes could strip her bare.
Naked.
As if the word was a switch, she became aware of the heavy heat of him on her. Although he was using his forearms to take some his weight, there was barely any space between their upper bodies, and his legs lay half on hers and half on her skirts, pinning her beneath him. It was the closest she’d ever been to a man, and she should be protesting and demanding he remove himself at once. But the words wouldn’t form in her head; she couldn’t summon up the will to speak them. She felt languid, sensual, as if she might reach up and slip her arms around his neck, and pull his mouth down to hers.
A tingle of dismay made her catch her breath.
To kiss this dangerous stranger in the middle of a storm on the moors was surely the ultimate in shocking behavior? Worthy of Aphrodite herself! And that was why Francesca couldn’t let it happen…must not let it happen.
“We need to find shelter before the weather gets worse,” she blurted out, trying to wriggle out from under him. “You’ll catch your death.”
“After what I’ve been through, a little rain doesn’t seem worth worrying about,” he said, not moving an inch. There was a glint in his eyes, and she knew then that he was thinking of kissing, too. She licked her lips, and his gaze narrowed. His breath was warm and slightly ragged against her skin. “I’m alive, thanks to you.”
He swooped, and she turned her face to one side. Francesca felt the scrape of his unshaven jaw against her cheek, the tickle of his unkempt hair. Shocked, she realized her hand was now resting on his shoulder. How did it get there? Had she done that? She must have, and yet she didn’t remember. She knew she couldn’t risk another second of his closeness.
“Please, let me up.”
The pause seemed to last forever, and it was only as he moved away, slowly, as if he was acting against his inclination, that Francesca knew she was safe. Not just from him, but also from the dangerous hunger he stirred within her.
He swayed as he stood up, before he found his footing.
Francesca’s gaze traveled over him—she couldn’t help it. He was still wearing his riding boots. Long, well-muscled legs in breeches caked with the muck of the mire, narrow hips, and a shirt that had once been white beneath a brown jacket. His chest and shoulders were wide and strong, his throat manly, his face wickedly handsome.
He’s a spinster’s dream, and I’m a spinster.
She felt dizzy, but she knew that must be from her exertions. It was no easy matter to pull such a big man from the mire—he must stand over six foot.
Wolf was whimpering. Francesca reached out and drew him against her, pressing her face against his warm, rough coat, murmuring praise. He licked her cheek.
“Damn and blast it, my legs feel boneless,” the stranger’s deep voice interrupted.
Francesca gave him a wary look.
“You didn’t see my horse about?” Although he spoke the words with his mouth, his eyes were saying, I want to kiss you and I know you want to kiss me.
“No.” Francesca stood up, shaking out her muddy skirts. “I didn’t.” The light was even gloomier than it had been a moment ago, and it was only a matter of time until the storm struck. She rested her hand on Wolf ’s head. “Take us out of here, boy. Show us the way.” A quick warning glance at the stranger. “Follow my footsteps exactly.”
With Wolf leading the way, they made the journey through the edge of the mire to safety. Wolf loped off excitedly, and Francesca took several long strides—putting a safe distance between them—before turning to face him. She needn’t have bothered. He’d found a good-sized rock to sit on.
“How far is it back to the village?” he said, with a hint of impatience.
“Three…nearly four miles.”
“Not so far.”
“You’d never get there in this weather. It’s far too dangerous, even for those who know their way.”
He didn’t argue, although she sensed he wanted to. “What do you suggest then?” He climbed stiffly to his feet.
“It depends if you’re able to walk,” she said cautiously. “It might be best if you wait here while I go and fetch help.”
But she already knew he was the sort of man who would refuse to wait for anything. “No, damn it, I won’t wait here!” He wrenched a handful of heather from a bush, using it to clean the mud off his clothing. He stamped his boots, wincing. “This manor house you mentioned, is it far? I need a horse. Can they supply one?”
“You are in no fit state to go riding!”
She sounded sharp, and when he turned to her, his dark brows were drawn down and his eyes were glittering. He was angry—no, he was furious—but not with her. “I have unfinished business in the village, and it can’t wait.”
The way he said it…For a moment Francesca felt as if she had been transported straight into a novel, and a thrill ran through her.
Dangerous.
She gave him the kind of look an adult gives an unruly child. “Isn’t the fact that you’re alive enough to be getting on with? You can finish whatever it is you have to finish tomorrow. Dastardly deeds can be committed in sunshine as well as rain, can they not?”
He laughed, and now his black eyes gleamed with admiration. “‘Dastardly deeds.’ I like that. I see you have my measure, my lady.”
Her skin prickled.
“I don’t find the situation funny.”
He looked contrite, but it was all an act. His eyes gave him away. They were speaking to her again, with words like seduction and temptation and indiscretion. He made her feel exposed, vulnerable and afraid.
Francesca put a hand to her hair, which she knew was wild and unkempt from the wind and rain. Her gown was old and unfashionable, with a darn in the skirt and a lighter inch of cloth at the hem, where it had been let down. She wasn’t wearing a corset, and her stockings were coarse, her boots muddy and, though comfortable, very worn.
She was herself, and it had never bothered her before, but now she found herself wishing she was wearing the magenta taffeta she’d seen in York last month, with the matching parasol and slippers. The preposterous image of herself dressed in such an outfit, walking in the rain on the moors, made her smile.
His gaze was roaming her face. “Last night, when I was trapped in the mire, I was dreaming of a beautiful woman. I thought I was dreaming of you, but I see now it wasn’t you.”
Francesca stiffened. “I’m so sorry I don’t measure up to your feverish imaginings!”
He realized he’d insulted her, and shook his head impatiently. “But you do. That is my point.”
“I do?”
“My ‘feverish imaginings’—I do like your turn of phrase—didn’t do you justice. I can see that now. Who needs blue eyes and a perfect nose and—” He stopped hastily. “You are my dream.”
“I think you must be delirious, Mr….” She laughed angrily. “I don’t even know your name!”
“Sebastian Thorne.” He bowed like a gentleman. “From London.”
“Then, Mr. Thorne, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” Her voice was chilly and formal, her “proper” voice. “I am Miss Francesca Greentree, of Greentree Manor. And I do not make appearances in men’s dreams, especially not yours!”
He was staring at her blankly. And then, slowly, his dark eyes lit up with an unholy amusement, and his mobile mouth was smiling again.
“Miss Greentree,” he repeated. “Miss Francesca Greentree. I feel as if I know you already.”
Chapter 3
The woman of his dreams was watching him as if she wasn’t at all certain of his sanity. She was right. He was wondering about it himself. She was Aphrodite’s daughter—his client’s daughter—and although he hadn’t known that at first, he did now. It made no difference. Just as it made no difference that she wasn’t strictly the woman of his dreams. Her hair was too curly and unrestrained, her eyes were brown and not blue, her nose was tip-tilted, and her mouth was lush and too wide, although the color was right. But none of that mattered.
He wanted her.
Wanted her with a feverish single-mindedness he usually reserved only for his prey. Perhaps he had lost his mind as well as his scruples during the night in the mire? Death had breathed upon him and left him with an unquenchable thirst for life. And Miss Francesca Greentree was life.
He took off his jacket, every muscle and sinew tired and aching, and shook it hard. Clumps of mud rattled to the ground. He reminded himself that he was a sensible man, most of the time anyway. A practical and hardheaded man, with no time for romantic fairy tales. With gritted teeth he put his jacket on again, straightening the cuffs and the lapels with determined tugs.
And all the time he was aware of her, like the sun at his back. The softness of her flesh beneath him, cradling him, was burned into his brain. No corset. He couldn’t remember a woman of her class not being properly tucked in and turned out, but he wasn’t shocked, far from it. He wanted to lie down upon her again and feel every inch of her responding to him, while he kissed those luscious lips. How was it that such a proper woman had such an improper mouth…
His practical voice said, This is lust, Sebastian. The sort of lust that makes fools of the rich and powerful, the sort of lust that topples governments. The sort of lust that can cause Mr. Thorne to lose his focus. Hal and his cohorts are out there somewhere and they must be found.
“What is it that brings you onto the moors, Mr. Thorne?” Miss Francesca Greentree questioned him in her melodious voice. Ah, that voice. It sent a tingle all the way down to his groin.
Sebastian turned to look at her. She had the same unruly dark hair as Aphrodite, and the same wide, dark gaze that seemed to pierce him as if he were an insect on a pin, but she was also different in ways that were entirely her own.
“Mr. Thorne? I asked you what you were doing out on the moors? How did you come to be here in the first place?”
Sebastian ran an impatient hand through his matted hair. “I was lost. I thought I’d take a shortcut, and the next thing I knew I’d fallen off my horse. If not for that branch I would be dead now, with no one the wiser.”
He was watching her carefully to see if she believed him.
She didn’t, but she was clever enough not to say it aloud. Apart from a quick upward flicker from the corners of her eyes, she did not give herself away. If he hadn’t been adept at reading faces he wouldn’t even have noticed.
“Emerald Mire has a reputation for swallowing up everything and everyone who wanders into it,” she said, staring ahead now. “Sometimes they come up again—days, even months later—sometimes they don’t.”
“You paint a grim picture,” he replied.
She gave him a frowning look, making him wonder what he’d said wrong. But all she said was, “We must hurry,” and looked up at the sky.
He, too, stared up at the darkening heavens. The energy he had used to escape from his muddy prison had taken its toll, and he only hoped he could persuade his aching body to carry him to shelter before the storm broke. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to sit in a comfortable chair in front of a roaring fire, with a glass of brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other. His rooms in Half Moon Street, and his manservant Martin, were his one indulgence, his one concession to the past.
But he couldn’t go home, and he couldn’t collapse in his bed at the inn. There was Hal to deal with. He and his conspirators would be imagining him dead and themselves safe, and Sebastian must strike while they were still laboring under that delusion. There was no time to be lost.
As if on cue, lightning streaked from the glowering clouds, turning the moors a sickly yellow. It was frightening and elemental, and wonderfully invigorating.
“Greentree Manor isn’t far.” Francesca was eyeing him as if she was afraid he might fall over at any moment. Thunder rumbled threateningly. “Are you certain you can walk, Mr. Thorne?”
“Of course I can walk!”
She lifted an eyebrow in disbelief.
In reply, he strode off up the hill, just to show her. She followed, and for a time they carried on in silence. When his steps began to lag, she slipped his arm over her shoulders to support him.
He sighed. “I can manage, blast you.”
“No, blast you, you can’t manage,” she retorted. “I have better things to do than rescue you from the mire again, Mr. Thorne.”
She was tall for a woman, but he was taller. He must be a burden to her, although she did not say so. Sebastian thought about protesting and pulling away, but frustrating as it was, he knew she was right. He needed her help.
Several times he had to pause, and once he found himself leaning on her shoulder, his head bowed, breathing hard. But when she asked him again, her own voice breathless
, whether he would prefer to wait while she fetched help, he gruffly refused her and began to walk, muttering curses under his breath to disguise his discomfort.
“You really do swear a great deal,” she said, not in the least shocked.
“It helps.”
“How?” she asked curiously.
“It makes me feel better.”
“How can behaving in such a childish manner make you feel better?”
Sebastian took the opportunity to stop for another rest. He looked down at her, tucked beneath his arm, wiping the dripping rain from his eyes so he could see her better. The rain was causing her hair to curl even more wildly and the cold had turned her skin white, apart from two red circles on her cheeks.
She blinked, and he saw that her lashes were clubbed together. He had the urgent desire to reach out and touch them with his fingertip.
“This is ridiculous.” Francesca tugged him forward, her wet cloak flapping around them, her boots slipping on the sodden ground.
He leaned down so that he could whisper in her ear. “You feel it, too, don’t you?”
She gave him a suspicious glance and leaned away as far as she was able. “Feel what?” she said.
“Francesca,” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It makes me think of the sun and hot days and nights, and passion. Oh yes, definitely passion.”
She blinked. “Stop it.”
“Desire, Francesca. Lust…”
“Mr. Thorne!”
“What do you want me to say? Do you want me to lie to you and pretend we are two halves of a whole? Two sides of the same coin? Two souls amid a sea of—of…?”
“Run out of metaphors, Mr. Thorne?” she mocked. “No, I don’t want you to lie to me. I know we are nothing of the sort. Let us just say we are strangers in a storm, and our acquaintance, I hope, will be mercifully brief.”
He laughed. “Then we agree on something, Miss Greentree. Neither of us believes in destiny. But desire…now that’s another matter.”
