by Jane Feather
Theo heard the horse behind her and began to feel as if she were truly hunted quarry. It was time that odious Gilbraith tasted her mettle. It was time to stand and fight.
The mare reached the smooth, flat sand of the beach, and Theo dismounted, knotting the reins on the horse's neck, waiting until the black had touched solid ground.
She tossed her hat aside and unbuttoned her jacket with slow deliberation. "Very well, my lord. Since you won't leave me alone for the asking, then I challenge you to combat. The best of three falls." She slipped out of her jacket and regarded him steadily.
Sylvester's eyes were unreadable as he met her gaze for a long minute. Then in silence he swung off his mount.
Theo placed her jacket on the sand and stood facing him, a lithe, slender figure in her white shirt, her feet braced, her legs unhampered by the divided skirt. She raised her arms and tightened the pins that held her plaits in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her breasts lifted with the movement, their crowns dark for an instant against the fine cambric shirt.
"The best of three falls, my lord. And if I win, you keep your distance from now on. Is it agreed?"
Sylvester shrugged out of his own coat and rolled up his sleeves. "Certainly," he said calmly. "And if / win, gypsy, I'll have some courtesies from you that might make you redefine the meaning of the word."
He could mean only one thing. Theo stared at him; her lips tingled abruptly with the memory of his kisses, and there were strange vibrations deep in her belly as her body of its own accord responded to the memory of his hardness pressed against her.
She swallowed, unconsciously absorbing his physique properly for the first time – the wide belt outlining the slender waist, slim hips, powerful thighs straining against the soft buckskin of his riding britches. He was so large! The power in those broad shoulders, the muscles rippling in his bared arms, were downright intimidating. Only a fool would be convinced she could win a combat with such a figure… She might… but it was no certainty.
And if she lost…? If she lost, he'd put his hands on her again in the way that set her body on fire; he'd put his mouth to hers… Dear God, how could her body not know what her mind knew – that she loathed the man and everything he represented?
"Damn you to hell, Stoneridge!" She turned and leaped into the mare's saddle.
Sylvester watched as she rode the animal straight into the waves lapping the curving shoreline. He shook his head, half in amusement, half in annoyance. What kind of marriage was he letting himself in for, with a wife who chose unarmed combat to settle a disagreement?
He bent to pick up her jacket and his own coat, shaking the sand off them and laying them on a flat rock. Then he sat down on another rocky outcrop, stretching his legs along the sand, squinting into the sun as he watched his combative young cousin ride her mare in a mad gallop through the waves breaking gently on the shoreline.
When she turned the horse out toward the curious horseshoe-shaped rock formation at the entrance to the cove, he drew breath sharply. Surely she wasn't going to swim the animal out to sea. He half rose from his rock about to yell at her and then saw that she'd reached a sandbar about twenty feet from the shore and was cantering along it in a fine mist of spray from Dulcie's hooves.
Hotheaded gypsy! He sat back on his rock, lifting his face to the sun, closing his eyes, waiting for her to return.
Theo rode until some of her frustration had dissipated, become a part of the sea air and the salt spray. Dulcie moved beneath her with obvious enjoyment, kicking up her heels as the little waves slurped over the hard-packed ridged sand. Waves crashed with monotonous rhythm against the rocks protecting the entrance to the cove, but within their shelter the water was smooth as glass, and the sun was hot on her head and the back of her neck.
She glanced toward the beach. Sylvester Gilbraith was still there, and there was something about his posture that told her he wasn't going anywhere in a hurry. She couldn't stay in the middle of the cove indefinitely.
Turning Dulcie, she rode back to shore. Her habit was soaked to her knees, her boots sodden, her shirt sticking sweatily to her back. Her hairpins had loosened, and the two thick braids now looped on her shoulders.
She rode up the beach to where the Earl of Stoneridge in his shirtsleeves leaned back on his rock, hands linked behind his head.
"You are detestable," she stated. "I loathe you."
"Do you?" He opened his eyes and squinted indolently up at her through narrowed lids.
"Perhaps you'd be good enough to pass me my jacket," she said with icy restraint.
He shook his head. "Come and get it, gypsy."
"Damn you!" she threw at him, swung Dulcie round, and cantered off along the beach.
"This damning is becoming repetitious," Sylvester murmured, mounting his horse and setting off after her. The black ate up the distance between them, even when Theo leaned low over Dulcie's neck, urging her to increase her pace. The dapple stretched her neck in a gallant effort, but she hadn't the chest of her pursuer, and Theo drew back on the reins, allowing her to find her own pace.
The black drew up alongside. Theo cast a sidelong glance at the earl. To her infuriated astonishment she saw that he was laughing. And then she saw the gleam in his eye, the purposeful set of his mouth, and with a desperate kick at her flanks, urged Dulcie to renewed effort.
Sylvester caught his own reins between his teeth, leaned over, and lifted Theo bodily off the mare. Interestingly, it was much easier to do with someone riding astride than sidesaddle, he thought with a flicker of amusement, snatching the mare's reins and hauling her to a halt as he adjusted the rigid figure of his captive on the saddle in front of him.
"Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best,"
he quoted, eyes alight with laughter at her stunned expression. "And don't damn me again, cousin, or I'll be obliged to take reprisals."
Shifting his hold, he drew her tight against his chest, the black coming to a panting halt beneath them as the riderless mare snorted and kicked up sand.
Theo was still so astonished that for the moment she was dumbstruck. His fingers were on her face, tracing the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the shape of her mouth.
"You have such an appealing countenance, gypsy. But I can't appreciate it when you're forever hissing and spitting at me and wanting to throw me all over the beach." Smiling, he cupped her chin and slowly lowered his head.
She tried to resist, to fight off this insidiously sweet assault, but it was a lost cause. Her body was no longer under the sway of her mind. She lay against him, feeling his supporting hand flattened and warm, pressing her damp shirt to her back, his breath on her face, the honeyed mingling of tongues. Her blood flew through her veins, her pulse beating fast in her throat, and the sun was hot and red against her closed eyelids.
His hand slid round her body, feeling for the swell of her breasts beneath the thin shirt. She was wearing nothing beneath the cambric, and her nipples pressed small and hard into his palm. His fingers slid between the buttons, tracing the satin curve, and she shuddered against him with a soft moan, one arm lifting to come round his neck, pulling him closer to her, her mouth opening hungrily beneath his, her tongue now urgently pursuing its own exploration.
He raised his head, leaving her mouth slowly, reluctantly, and looked down into her face, lying against his chest. His hand was still against her right breast, and the sweat-dampened material of her shirt clung translucently to the other, outlining the swelling curve as clearly as if it were uncovered.
Her eyes opened and passion swirled in the midnight depths… passion and confusion.
"You really should wear a chemise," he observed, still smiling. "You invite the most scandalous attentions, gypsy." He cupped her breast beneath the shirt, flicking at the nipple with his forefinger in example.
Theo drew a deep breath and struggled to sit up. His hold tightened while the caress continued, and she yielded with a
tiny sigh of defeat.
"Now, isn't this pleasanter than threatening me with combat?" he murmured, his voice lightly teasing.
"It was a challenge, not a threat," Theo said, finally roused from her sensual trance by his tone and the frustrating reflection that the damnable Gilbraith had simply taken his so-called courtesies anyway.
It had happened again, and she'd had no more strength to resist it than a baby. She thrust his hand aside and pushed herself up against his chest, blinking in the dazzling sunlight. She felt most peculiar. The black shifted restlessly at the sudden change of weight on his back, and she would have slipped to the ground if Sylvester hadn't grabbed her waist.
He chuckled but said seriously, "I might be willing to accept a friendly challenge, but I'll not settle real problems in that way. Best you remember that, little cousin… particularly as we're going to be under the same roof for a time."
"I wouldn't count on that," Theo said, as much for something to say as anything else. With a neat wriggle she slid out of his hold and onto the sand.
"Oh, and why shouldn't I?" One eyebrow lifted in quizzical inquiry as he looked down at her.
Why shouldn't he? Not a reason in the world! Her mother seemed to have fallen for his charm without so much as a whimper.
Why couldn't she learn to keep her mouth shut? Or keep her unruly body under control? She was tingling from top to toe, every inch of her skin sensitized. As if aware of this, the detestable Gilbraith was gazing at her chest with fixed attention, and she could feel her nipples lifting under his eyes.
"A word of advice: Wear a chemise in future," he said coolly. "Or don't take your jacket off… unless you're prepared to follow through on the invitation you're issuing."
"You behaved like a cur the first time we met," she said, trembling now with renewed outrage. "Maybe there was the smidgeon of an excuse then… you didn't know who I was. But I tell you Stoneridge, you are an unmitigated cad and a coxcomb!"
She sprang onto Dulcie's back and rode off along the beach to the broad path at the far end that led up to the cliff.
Sylvester grimaced ruefully. One step forward, two steps back. There was something about the wretched girl that brought out the worst in him. She was so damned combative, she made him want to shake her into submission half the time, but despite the occasional brattishness, there was something about her spirit that sparked an answer in his own, and he'd lay any odds that she'd prove to be a wonderfully tempestuous partner in lust – with the right education.
He watched her disappearing up the path, and his loins stirred at the memory of her breasts against his hands and the eagerness of her mouth beneath his. Come hell or high water, he intended to have the schooling of his recalcitrant cousin.
He rode back along the beach to where their coats still lay over the rock. It occurred to him that her feelings were as confused as his own. Her responses were always passionate – even when she was damning him up hill and down dale. Indifference would be much harder to overcome, so perhaps the key to victory lay in keeping up the pressure and confusion.
He dismounted and collected their coats. Theo's had something in the pocket – a packet of succulent apple tartlets. Well, she'd abandoned them, he reflected, consuming them with leisurely pleasure before remounting.
As he rode up the manor's driveway, Elinor appeared from the rose garden, a pair of pruning shears in her hand, a basket of yellow and white roses over her arm.
"Lord Stoneridge." She greeted him pleasantly. "How good of you to call."
He doffed his hat and dismounted to walk beside her. "I have Lady Theo's coat and hat to return, ma'am."
Elinor's eyebrows disappeared into her scalp. "I think you'd better explain, sir."
He gave her a disarming smile. "I'm afraid we had a slight… a slight altercation on the beach. My cousin rode off in some haste."
"And what was she doing without her coat and hat in the first place?" Lady Belmont's eyes were sharp, although her tone seemed only mildly curious.
"My cousin challenged me to a bout of unarmed combat, ma'am," he said. This time his smile was rueful.
Elinor sighed. "A challenge you refrained from accepting, I trust."
"In a manner of speaking, ma'am," he said. "My cousin was induced to withdraw the challenge. She's not in charity with me, as a result."
"Oh, it's Edward's fault," Elinor said, shaking her head. "He taught Theo all that nonsense when they were little more than children, and whenever he's here, they practice throwing each other all over the long gallery."
"Edward?"
"Emily's betrothed, Edward Fairfax. His family are neighbors, and the children have known each other from the nursery. For a long time I believed he and Theo would make a match of it, but for some reason they all put their heads together, and the next thing I knew, Edward and Emily were betrothed." She smiled slightly. "I'm convinced it's the right match, but I still don't know what led the three of them to come to that conclusion with such amicable suddenness."
"And where is Mr. Fairfax?"
"Lieutenant Fairfax. He's with Wellington in the Peninsula," she said, casting him a sideways glance. "You were also in the war, sir?"
"Yes… and a prisoner of the French for a twelve-month," he replied shortly.
She merely nodded. "So you dissuaded Theo from this combat, and she's annoyed with you as a result."
"Actually, ma'am, she holds me in acute dislike." He kicked a loose stone out of Lady Belmont's path. "I'm at a loss to understand exactly what I could have done to cause it."
"Evidently you and Theo had met before you called yesterday."
"Yes… an unfortunate encounter," he admitted. A deep frown corrugated his brow.
Elinor glanced up at him as he walked beside her, adapting his natural impatient stride to her own strolling pace. It wasn't easy for him, she reflected, sensing again that pent-up tension in the lean, powerful frame, the depths of pain within him. She couldn't decide whether she liked him or not, but thought that she probably did… or at least would, on further acquaintance. She was very aware of his attraction, however, and wondered how Theo was managing to ignore it.
"You should understand something about Theo," she said matter-of-factly. "This house, the estate, the people are a part of her. It was the same for her father, and her grandfather. They mean everything to her, in a way that her sisters… and indeed, myself… can't begin to identify with. She was her grandfather's favorite. And she feels betrayed by him. You, sir, are an interloper. You're taking from her something as important as the blood that flows in her veins."
Sylvester was silent, listening to the voice of conscience. Supposing he told this woman the truth… that none of them had been betrayed by the old earl – at least, not in the way they thought. But why should he, at the expense of his own future, put right the old man's memory? He owed him nothing. The devious old man had created this mess… he'd set them all up.
"But I'm willing to change that, Lady Belmont," he said after a minute. "I'm offering your daughter the chance to stay here, to see this inheritance pass down to her own children."
"Yes, and it seems the perfect answer," Elinor said, pausing to clip an unruly twig of box hedge with her secateurs. "But Theo may not see that just yet."
And I don't have all the time in the world to persuade her. He suppressed the irritable reflection and adjusted his stock, his long fingers restless in the linen folds as he asked abruptly, "Will you speak for me, ma'am?"
Elinor paused on the path, regarding him steadily from beneath the wide brim of her straw gardening hat. Her voice was level but very definite. "No, Stoneridge. You must speak for yourself."
He made haste to retrieve his error. "I understand. Forgive the impertinence." He bowed, touching his hat, his eyes rueful.
She did like him, Elinor decided. And those crinkly lines around his eyes were most attractive. She smiled and patted his arm. "I don't blame you in the least, sir. When it comes to Theo, a wise man marshals all th
e battalions he can."
"Then perhaps I should start marshaling," he commented dryly.
Elinor followed his eyes. Theo and Rosie were coming down the path toward them, their eyes on the ground. The child suddenly darted forward, falling to her knees in the flower bed beneath the box hedge. Theo squatted beside her.
"Not more worms," Elinor sighed. "Or is it snails now? I can never keep up with Rosie's obsessions."
Theo stood up, glancing down the path, seeming to see them for the first time. Sylvester wondered if she'd give him the cut direct and walk away, but, perhaps in deference to her mother's presence, she walked toward them.
She'd changed out of her habit into a simple linen gown, less rustic than the unbleached holland smock she'd been wearing for trout tickling, but still very countrified with its plain scoop neck and elbow-length sleeves. She was hatless, and her hair hung in one thick blue-black rope down her back. He watched her approach, the way the gown moved over her hips with the easy swing of her stride.
"Dear me, Lord Stoneridge, this is an unexpected pleasure," she said, reaching them, her eyes the deep velvet blue of pansies in her sun-browned face. "I confess I wasn't expecting to see you again today."
"You left your coat and hat on the beach," he said, handing her the garments. "I thought you might have need of them… or at least your coat," he added pointedly. "But I see you've rectified the situation."
He had intended conciliation, but her greeting had been so derisory that he responded with immediate punishment, reminding her of those moments on the back of his horse… of her passionate response to the most improper attentions. His eyes skimmed pointedly over her breast, and the slight flush that warmed her cheeks was satisfaction enough. But her recovery was swift.
"I have no particular need of the coat, my lord. But I'm grateful for what's in the pocket." She held up the garment. "Rosie, I have some of Mrs. Woods's apple tartlets for you."
