A Reckless Encounter

by Rosemary Rogers

  “If we’re being honest here, I think we both have to admit to ulterior motives,” she said bluntly. “You wanted to bed me, and I allowed it.”

  “And in return?” His eyes were slightly narrowed, and a mocking smile touched the corners of his mouth as he let his hand rest upon her belly.

  “And in return, I expect you to respect my wishes and keep this private between us. Can you do that?”

  In the close confines of the velvet bed hangings, his face was shadowed. Light from a lamp on a table across the chamber barely relieved the gloom, but she could see the disbelief in his eyes.

  “That is all you expect?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That is all I want or expect from you, my lord.”

  “Colter,” he reminded, and drew his hand up and over her rib cage. “You are ever a surprise, it seems. I never know what to expect from you.”

  Feeling bolder, and realizing she had caught him off guard, Celia reached up to pull his head down until her lips were only a fraction away from his mouth.

  “Expect the unexpected, Colter. Always.”

  She kissed him, and after a moment, he kissed her back again, fiercely and with rising passion. Her hands slid over his back; fingers grazed tensed muscles as he moved over her, then moved up again to curl around his neck and tangle in his dark hair as he slid inside her in a long, slow pressure.

  It wasn’t as abrasive this time but just as potent, and Celia gave herself up to the breathless anticipation he created with hot, turbulent friction, the thrust and drag of his body eliciting unexpected release. It was more violent this time, fierce as he pounded inside her, an unyielding force that took her to sweet oblivion.

  Afterward, she allowed him to take her back into the room with the tub of cooling water, his touch gentle and somehow comforting as he sponged her body with a cloth dipped in the scented water. His movements were impersonal and efficient, as if he’d done this very thing a hundred times before, and it was oddly comforting.

  When he walked her the few steps to her bedroom door, he paused and put her face up with his hand beneath her chin, then kissed her gently.

  He’d pulled her silk dressing gown around her body but he wore nothing, a powerful reminder of what they’d just shared. Celia looked away, suddenly and inexplicably shy.

  “I have a feeling,” he said softly in a teasing tone, “that there’s a lot more to tonight than I want to know. We’ll worry about that tomorrow. Now you need to rest.”

  Tomorrow would come too soon. How would she be able to face him again? With Jacqueline watching, and all that had gone between them still so fresh in her mind, she was liable to betray herself.

  Oh God, she hoped it would be worth it in the end, for she felt as if she’d just stepped off a ledge into empty air.

  17

  “Celia dear, you look so pale.” Jacqueline leaned forward with a slight frown. “Are you unwell?”

  “No—just a headache.”

  “Didn’t you sleep well?”

  Celia forced a smile. “Everything is fine, truly it is. It’s just this beastly headache—”

  “Shall I have Janey fetch one of my little powders for you?”

  They were seated on the terrace, where the morning sun had not yet burned off all the mist beyond the brick wheels of flowers; tables had been set with fine white linen and extravagant vases of late blooms, and sideboards groaned beneath silver platters. It was warmer in Kent than in London, the seasonable weather a welcome change. Celia squinted against the bright light as she shook her head. “Really, it will be fine. Too much wine last night is no doubt the cause. I’m not accustomed to it.”

  “Ah, but it was a lovely evening. And you danced so well! Quite surprisingly, you looked almost as one of the gypsies, and I thought it was most entertaining.”

  “Mrs. Pemberton didn’t approve,” Carolyn said, a faint smile on her lips as she sipped hot chocolate. “I heard her late into the night scolding poor Olivia. You’re fortunate that your room is some distance from ours Celia, or you would have been treated to her scold as well.”

  “Do you think so?” Celia lifted her cup to hide the sudden tremor of her hands. Any reminder of the previous night left her unnerved. What would she do—say—when she saw him again? Thank God he wasn’t here this morning, but was out somewhere on the estate, Renfroe had informed them when they came down for breakfast.

  “His lordship tenders his regrets, but will see you later in the day. Those of you who wish to ride, or take a trap into the village, are welcome to do so,” he’d added, and Mrs. Pemberton had immediately expressed a strong desire to go into Houghan with her niece.

  “I admit I’m glad they’ve gone for a while. I shall go up to my room and write some letters,” Jacqueline said when they had finished a lavish breakfast. “You two are free to do as you wish, of course.”

  “What do you intend to do, Celia?” Carolyn regarded her with a rather wistful expression. “Do you ride?”

  Celia recognized the appeal in her cousin’s eyes. “I suppose I could try, though it’s too bad Mrs. Pemberton already took the pony trap.”

  “Oh, I’ll be glad to show you, and I’m sure there is a suitable mare that will be quite tame enough for you to ride, Celia. How lovely!”

  “Perhaps a turn in the fresh air will clear out any cobwebs from my brain,” Celia sighed as she rose.

  Eagerly, Carolyn joined her, and they strolled slowly along a path of crushed stone to the stables. It was a crisp, cool morning with promising sunlight seeping through tree branches to banish any lingering shrouds of mist, and as she tied the pink strings of her bonnet beneath her chin, Celia was suddenly glad Carolyn had suggested the ride. It would be a relief to think of something other than last night. She’d lain awake until almost dawn, then slept only fitfully until Janey had come in to awaken her.

  Strange, she should feel so different, when she had noticed nothing unusual in her appearance that morning, though she’d stared into the mirror for what seemed ages trying to see if she had changed. She should have. There should be some sign, a mark, perhaps, of a fallen woman. Only her normal face had stared back at her, eyes wide and dark with tension in a face that looked paler than usual but without a betraying stamp of guilt.

  “Oh look, Celia!” Carolyn moved eagerly forward as they neared the paddock where horses milled about. “What absolutely lovely animals!”

  Celia eyed them less appreciatively. It was easy to admire their beauty, but she’d never ridden one, despite her claims to Northington. Papa had owned a horse, but it had been sold along with everything else when he died. Her recent experience with horses was limited to carriage rides.

  “Isn’t that Santiago, the gypsy from last night?” Caro whispered, nudging Celia. “Oh it is…Why is he still here, I wonder.”

  “He trains the horses.”

  Santiago was in the paddock with several sleek-coated animals, talking in soft low tones in his lyrical language and didn’t even glance up when Carolyn and Celia leaned on the fence to watch. He was gentle with them, and oblivious to those watching. There was a grace in his movements that reminded Celia of the music he’d played the night before, a kind of rhythm that seemed to transfer to the horses.

  One of the other gypsies, Mario she thought, leaned against a far post, and beside him stood Marita. She saw them, and after a moment, Marita came around the paddock to speak to them.

  “You admire Santiago’s gift with the horses, I see.” Red lips curved in a smile that seemed more mocking than friendly, and though she spoke to both of them, her gaze remained more on Celia. “We all learn to ride when we are still children. Not many have the same way with horses as Santiago. It is a talent.”

  “Yes,” Carolyn said admiringly, “it certainly is.”

  “Do you ride?” Marita addressed the question to Carolyn but still studied Celia with a dark-eyed gaze that held taunting lights.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Carolyn replied at once. “I’ve always ri
dden, but Celia—”

  “I choose my own mounts,” Celia interrupted coolly, loathe to give Marita even the smallest satisfaction of besting her. Marita’s brow lifted.

  “So, you do ride, heh? Then you must admire these horses tremendously, for they are very spirited beasts and not for inexperienced riders.” Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “I ride them, but I am much more used to it than you would be.” Her eyes narrowed slyly. “Sometimes I ride with his lordship. He is very complimentary of my—skills.”

  “Yes, I’m certain he is,” Celia replied casually, though a little twinge made her add, “It must impress him that you’re able to ride like a lady.”

  “Like a lady?” She laughed, anger sparking in her eyes. “No, no, not so tame as that! He is not so impressed with ladies, I think, but admires how I ride like a man. Yes, and he said I make him think of a centaur, for I ride so well.”

  “Indeed.” Celia was aware of Carolyn’s curious gaze, but managed an indifferent shrug. “I prefer not to be so manly, but perhaps you do not mind.”

  “No, and neither does the señor!” Marita’s gaze was openly hostile now, dark eyes thinned to angry slits as she glared at Celia. “But what would you know, a pale copy of a woman that you are, like ice!”

  “Really,” Carolyn began faintly, sounding aghast at Marita’s vehemence. “I hardly think it your place to be saying these things to a guest of Northington’s. He’ll be very displeased.”

  Marita tossed her head. “No, he will not. I know him much better than you—either of you! He admires spirit and fire, not some…some—”

  “Marita!” Santiago loomed over them suddenly, coming up without any of them realizing it, his face dark with anger as he spoke sharply to the gypsy girl in their own language. An argument raged briefly, ending with Marita flouncing away with a resentful glance at Celia.

  “Forgive my daughter,” Santiago turned to say, “for she is very impetuous and speaks rashly. You have come to ride, yes?”

  “Yes,” Carolyn said when Celia didn’t reply. “We were told there are suitable mounts for us to ride.”

  Santiago took them to the stables, clapped his hands sharply together, and after a moment, Mario appeared with two horses saddled and ready.

  “Oh,” Carolyn said, “I prefer sidesaddle, please.”

  Santiago looked nonplussed. “There is only one here, I’m afraid. The other saddle needs repair.”

  “I’ll ride with this saddle,” Celia said quickly, and stepped forward to stroke the muzzle of the small gray that stood docilely by the gate. Riding astride would be much easier than managing a sidesaddle, and besides, now there was no risk of damaging herself, was there? No, not since last night.…

  “Celia!” Carolyn looked worried. “Are you certain? I don’t know if it’s safe.…”

  “It’s much safer than trying to balance sidesaddle,” she replied, “and I’ve ridden this way before.”

  That was true enough, though it had been when she was only a little girl and Papa had put her atop his own horse to ride while he walked her about.

  Mario brought forward the platform used for ladies to mount their horses, and Celia took his hand as she stepped atop the gray mare. It was a beautiful animal with dark liquid eyes that were half-closed, the sleek charcoal coat well brushed and gleaming. Gingerly she settled into the saddle, legs straddling the horse and her skirts hiked up a bit, showing her ankles. While Mario held the bridle, she managed to cover her legs, then sat up and took the reins in both hands. When she glanced up, she happened to meet Marita’s sullen gaze, but looked away.

  Carolyn’s mount was brought out after a few minutes, and she settled into the sidesaddle with obvious ease, hooking her leg over the horn and arranging her skirts in a graceful drape.

  “I’m ready,” she announced gaily, and Celia mimicked her actions, touching her heels lightly to the gray’s sides like Carolyn did as they took off at a sedate walk.

  It wasn’t so difficult, she thought as they rode down the curved drive toward the gatehouse, though a bit more bumpy than she’d thought it would be. She watched Carolyn closely, and kept the same firm grip on the reins, elbows held close to her body, spine erect. When she felt more comfortable, she actually began to enjoy the ride, the freedom of being independent, with the wind in her face and the sunlight warm on her head. Slowly the tension in her stomach eased.

  The little mare seemed quite docile, and willing to follow Carolyn’s horse as they rode along the dusty track that wound in front of the estate. Brisk air smelled of the sea, that inimitable scent of salt and wind and faraway places. An occasional house crouched beside the road, stone or half-timbered, but always shielded by fence and hedge. Trees twisted by constant sea winds thrust huge gnarled branches into the air, bright red autumn leaves whirling as gaily as gypsy skirts, Celia thought.

  Half-formed thoughts tumbled in her mind, images of Marita dancing with Northington, of their easy familiarity with one another, and then later—

  God, she just couldn’t keep from thinking about it!

  Hadn’t she lain awake all night remembering his hands on her, his mouth, and her own response to him? Yes, and it was with her still, those searing memories that had the power to make her ache. There was no retreat now; she’d gone too far, let him take her too far. And she could blame only herself for it. How weak I am…

  Just ahead of her, Carolyn pulled her horse to the side, turning with a smile to wait for Celia to catch up. Her bonnet was awry, ribbons half-undone, and her eyes were alight with excitement.

  How innocent Caro was, and how carefree, riding her borrowed mount with no thoughts other than the lovely day and the serenity of her life. It had been amusing to hear her speak of her tedious existence—amusing and maddening.

  But it was understandable. What else had she known?

  “Isn’t this glorious, Celia?” Carolyn enthused when she reached her. “A most magnificent day! The sea makes me want to run out into it.”

  Celia pulled back on the leather reins, and the gray mare halted beside Carolyn’s horse. Perched daintily atop the horse, Carolyn’s gaze shifted to a thin path that ran parallel to a line of chalky ridges.

  “There’s a path, and I think it leads down to the water, Celia. Shall we try it?”

  Uncertain of her riding ability, Celia hesitated. It had been easy enough on a relatively flat plain, but how would she do on a steep decline?

  “Carolyn, really, I’m not at all sure if I want to go that far,” she began, but her cousin had already turned her mount toward the trail threading between a line of trees. After a moment’s hesitation, Celia muttered, “Damn!” and followed Carolyn.

  It wasn’t steep at first; stunted bushes grew in haphazard clumps along the pocked slopes. Seagulls wheeled overhead, drifting on air currents, their cries seeping down through the noise of the wind in her ears. The ribbons of her hat fluttered, pink tongues licking at the air. Ahead of her, Carolyn maneuvered her mount down the descent.

  Beyond the trail, the gleaming expanse of blue-gray water stretched, blurring to an indistinct haze on the horizon. A salty tang filled the air. Sunlight gleamed on stark white cliffs, porous surfaces absorbing slanted heat and giving it back. The sea was a steady rush of sound.

  Celia’s mount snorted, tossed its head in a jangle of bridle chains, and she tightened her grip on the reins. It wasn’t much farther now to the bottom; Carolyn was well ahead of her, the blue of her skirts flapping as the wind caught them.

  The day was truly beautiful. The sky was a polished blue, so bright it hurt the eyes, and lazy clouds puffed overhead. Carolyn had reached the beach.

  Just as Celia hit a level stretch of dirt and rock, a sudden loud popping exploded in the air. The mare leaped forward, almost unseating her, and she just barely managed to cling to the neck, the coarse mane whipping against her face as the horse bolted down the narrow stretch of beach.

  She was only vaguely aware of Carolyn’s open mouth and shocked fa
ce as she swept past her, the words obliterated by the rushing wind in her ears. A sense of panic kept her clutching the damp neck, her fingers tangled in reins and the mane.

  How had this happened? God, everything was going so fast and she couldn’t stop the horse. Nothing was working as it should, not pulling on the reins or shouting—she was sure she was shouting, but heard only wind and the pounding rush of white-laced waves against the shore. Hot tears stung her eyes from the wind, the white cliffs at her side were a blur and the smell of sea and dirt rose around her as she sawed at the reins.

  The pounding beat of the horse didn’t slow, and she felt her grip loosening. A terrified scream locked in her throat as a solid white wall loomed just ahead. Oh God, she would never be able to turn the horse.…

  Everything was such a blur as terror and desperation prodded her into dangerous choices—leap, or risk being thrown against that wall? The stark chalk was broken up slightly by something dark against it, a movement like a shadow over the pale surface. Recognition struck, giving her sudden courage.

  Afterward, she could never quite recall just how it had happened, but suddenly she was free of the horse, abruptly and gratefully on solid ground again, her brutally rough fall cushioned by unyielding arms and a gruff voice in her ear.

  “Christ, do you want to get killed!”

  Northington.

  The impact of her body against his took him to his knees, slamming them both against the ground. He grunted harshly.

  “Stay down!” His sharp order was accompanied by his hand spread against the back of her head, crushing the ridiculous looking bonnet she wore. When she gave an angry gasp, he clamped an arm around her waist to hold her, his mouth against her ear as he grated out an order.

  “I said stay down! Do you want to get us both killed? Don’t you hear that?” He held her next to him and behind the shelter of a knobby rock.

  “Hear…hear what! I don’t hear anything but you—oh!”

  Another shot rang out, this time the bullet smacking into the wall behind them, spraying chalky splinters through the air like snowfall. She threw herself to the ground immediately.