by Violet
But it wouldn’t roll over this Penhallan, Tamsyn thought with a grim little smile as she set off across the lawn toward the beckoning sea, disdaining the neat gravel path, choosing instead to curl her toes in the still rain-wet grass. This Penhallan was going to bring down the kingmaker, hoist him with his own petard. Yet even as she thought this, the image of her uncle rose in her mind’s eye. The extraordinary force she’d felt emanating from him, a menacing avalanchine energy that would cut down all in its path. He’d seen her on the stairs. And what he’d seen had brought him up short. Astounded, disbelieving recognition had flashed across his eyes … recognition and for the briefest instant something she would have sworn was fear.
But he didn’t know who she was. And he wouldn’t know the truth until she chose to announce herself—a public announcement—Cecile’s ghost come for restitution and vengeance, her advent swift and sure as a dagger thrust. And until then he’d be tormented with a half-formed familiarity whenever he saw her, apparently no more than an innocent young visitor to a strange land.
But how much contact would she have with the Penhallans while she was under St. Simon’s roof? Tamsyn paused in her dancing progress across the rolling lawns. She’d sensed animosity between St. Simon and Cedric Penhallan. A deep animosity, if the ice in Julian’s voice had been any indication. And what had he meant with that warning about Cedric’s nephews? Keep your nephews off my land, Penhallan, or I’ll not answer for the consequences. And who were these nephews? Her cousins, presumably.
There were puzzles here, but they could be solved. Gabriel could do some investigating in the local taverns. He was always at home in such places and was a skilled spy, as skilled at planting information as he was at gleaning it. The important thing was: the game had begun.
With a little nod of satisfaction Tamsyn pranced lightly over the grass toward a low stone wall at the edge of the lawn. Then she stopped, her mouth opening on an O of delight. The ground fell away, a long, curving sweep cut into the cliffs rising on either side, dropping to a small sandy cove; but what stunned Tamsyn was the brilliant mass of color filling her eyes as she gazed down. She paused for a second, then with a little cry of pleasure plunged into the glorious swaying field.
From the sweeping windows of his own apartments Julian watched her dancing progress across the wet grass. He’d been in the process of dressing when he’d been drawn to the window by some unarticulated urge and now stood shirtless, thumbs hitched into the waistband of his britches, regarding the sprite below with a frown of annoyance. She’d broken the rules, going abroad in those clothes. It was one thing to discard female attire on the deck of a man-of-war in the midst of battle, but in the peaceful and conventional Cornish countryside it was quite different.
There was going to be enough gossip about her presence as it was, without giving the servants fuel for the bonfires. She certainly wouldn’t achieve acceptance in local society, let alone in the upper echelons of the ton, if she made herself notorious in such a shameless costume.
But, then, if she didn’t choose to cooperate, he was well within his rights to call a halt to the exercise.
He strode from the room, passing a sleepy-eyed maidservant hurrying from her attic bed to rake the kitchen fires before cook and the upper servants appeared. She bobbed a curtsy, blushing at his lordship’s bare chest. Julian accorded her a brief nod. She was unknown to him, and he made a mental note to discuss with the housekeeper the servants who’d been taken on in his absence.
He let himself out of a side door and made his way across the lawns, following in Tamsyn’s footprints, still visible in the wet grass. His irritation lifted somewhat in the soft air of the new morning, the carpet of raindrops glittering in the sun, the fresh-washed fragrances rising from the parterres as he stepped down toward the stone wall.
Reaching it, he stopped, gazing down toward the cove. For the moment he couldn’t see Tamsyn anywhere, and yet she had to be there, unless she’d climbed one of the steep cliffs on either side of the narrow valley. Then he caught a glimpse of silvery hair halfway down the slope, the rest of her lost in a rioting mass of purple-red foxgloves and lilac rhododendron.
He jumped lightly over the wall and made his way down toward the bobbing head. “Tamsyn!”
She turned and waved, her face alight with pleasure, her violet eyes blending with the armful of blooms she held.
“Aren’t they so beautiful? I’ve never seen such an incredible sight,” she called, beginning to wade through the waist-high field of color toward him.
“Judging by your clothes, I assume you’re no longer interested in this contract you insisted upon,” he declared, his mouth close-gripped, as she reached him.
If Tamsyn heard, she chose to ignore it. She buried her nose in the flowers she held. “What are they called? I’ve never seen anything like them, just growing wild like this.”
“Foxgloves,” Julian said.
“And the sun’s shining, and the sea’s sparkling. It’s all so lovely, I would never have believed England could look like this,” Tamsyn continued, her head thrown back to catch the sunlight, her neck curving gracefully from the open collar of her shirt, her eyelashes thick half-moons on her sun-tipped cheekbones. “Cecile used to describe Cornish summers, but after the last few days, I’d decided absence must have distorted her memory.” She laughed, a happy, chiming chuckle.
She was radiating a deep, sensual delight and Julian was moved despite every effort he made to resist—a buttercup lifting its golden head to the sun. Vigorously, he dismissed such whimsy and said sharply, “Have you any idea the talk you’re going to cause in those clothes? Give me one good reason why I should persist with my side of this ridiculous scheme of yours when you won’t even follow the most elementary rules.”
“Oh.” Her eyelashes swept up, and her almond-shaped eyes gazed at him with their habitually quizzical air. “I don’t mind not wearing them in the least, milord colonel.”
Before he could react, she flung her arms wide, tossing the red and purple armful over him so he dripped foxgloves, and with a deft movement stripped away her shirt, kicked off her britches, and stood naked in the purple sea, grinning wickedly at him. “This better, sir?”
“Sweet heaven,” he murmured, his disordered senses tumbling in a maelstrom, all reason and resistance slipping from him like a boat loosed from its mooring at high tide.
She was a creature of the sun and the sea breeze and the rich wildflower fragrances, and her hands were on his waist, nimble with the buttons, her tongue peeping from between her lips, her eyes intent as she bared his belly, traced the thin dark line of hair running from his navel, down over the muscled concavity to disappear into the shadows of his body. Slowly she pushed his britches down over his hips, releasing the erect shaft of flesh. She stepped closer, pressing her belly against the hard, pulsing warmth, sliding a hand between his thighs; then she raised her eyes and laughed up at him, reaching up to brush a broken velvety purple glove from his chest.
“Better, milord colonel?”
He didn’t understand why he couldn’t stop this. Why he couldn’t put her away from him, drag his britches up again, subdue his errant flesh, and walk away from her, back to the house. She’d broken the rules, he could legitimately refuse to be manipulated for another moment.
Instead, he stood looking down at her, lost in her eyes, his loins heavy with longing at the press of her smooth, bare belly against him. His hands moved to span her waist and her breasts trembled, her nipples rising hard against his chest.
Slowly, she sank down into the purple mattress, her hands sliding over his hips, down his thighs, as she slipped to her knees. She bent her head to take his aching stem into her mouth, teeth grazing lightly, tongue caressing in long, sweeping movements that brought a groan of joy to his lips. His fingers twisted in the silky cap of her hair; he gazed down at her bent head, the exposed nape of her neck, the sharp shoulder blades, the curve of her spine, the flare of her backside, the grass-stained s
oles of her feet, as she knelt to pleasure him.
He hauled himself back from the brink with a shuddering breath and came down on his knees beside her, cupping her face, taking her warm, busy mouth with his; the salty taste of his flesh was on her tongue, her skin was infused with the scents of her own arousal.
He pressed her back into the purple waves around her, and her body was pink and cream against the flower mattress. Her thighs parted for his own grazing exploration, and little murmuring cries of pleasure bubbled from her, her fingers tangling in his hair, her hips lifting in ecstasy as his breath was hot and then cool on her petaled flesh and his tongue burned within her.
Smiling, his eyes hooded, molten with passion, he came up her body, drawing his tongue upward between her breasts, darting into the hollow of her throat, licking a little bead of sweat from her skin, his mouth once more fastening upon her lips as his hands moved beneath her to cup her buttocks, lifting her now to meet his surging entry into the silken sheath that tightened and closed around him, sending ripples of delight along his flesh so that he was moving in an exquisite world of sensation, bounded by the sweet flesh beneath him and around him.
He heard as if from a great distance her softly jubilant cries as she neared the pool of glorious extinction where she would lose herself, the shape of herself dissolved into the cool void of pure sensation. And with a supreme effort he clung to reality just long enough to withdraw from her body the instant he joined her, sinking into the ever-expanding space of eternal pleasure.
He came to himself with the sensation of the sun hot on his back. He was still clasping the small body tightly against him, and with a groan he rolled over, bringing her with him, so she lay beached on his length, her head drooping into the curve of his shoulder. She felt formless and weightless, her skin damply melding with his, and he was filled with a euphoria he’d never known before. None of his sexual adventuring had brought him this glorious satiation, this sense of fusion and peace.
Gently he patted her bottom, and Tamsyn raised her head with visible effort. “How did that happen … whatever it was?” She smiled dreamily, kissing the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t know,” he said, kneading the curve of her backside. “You aren’t real.”
Tamsyn chuckled weakly. “Oh, yes, I am, milord colonel. I’m flesh and blood to the very tips of my toes.” She pushed upward on his chest and sat astride his thighs. “And just to show you how real I am, I’m going to swim.”
“It’s freezing,” he protested. “But, then, it’s probably not as cold as the Guadiana in March.”
“Precisely.” She swung off him with an agility that belied her earlier dissolution. “Are you coming?”
“Maybe … in a minute.”
Tamsyn ran off and Julian remained on his back, one arm over his forehead shielding his eyes from the sun, facing facts. He’d succumbed again. And for as long as this brigand sprite was in his vicinity, he was going to continue to succumb—particularly if she continued this habit of stripping naked in the most unlikely places and without so much as a word of warning. Maybe he should simply accept the pleasures of her body as just and well-deserved recompense. She was using him, so he might as well exact a price. It was one she was more than willing to pay.
He stood up, watching as Tamsyn ran into the gently lapping surf on the small sandy beach. She didn’t pause, simply plunged headlong into the waves that he knew must be frigid, coming up for air, then striking out with a strong overarm stroke across the cove, presumably testing the strength of the undercurrent.
She seemed as at home in the water as she was on horseback, but that was hardly surprising, given her rugged upbringing. He strode down to the cove and walked into the water, shivering as the cold water crept up his thighs. A wave curled toward him and he dived into it, the icy cold a cleansing knife along his sweat-slick skin. When he broke the surface, he saw Tamsyn’s sleek head to his right. She raised a hand and waved, then rolled onto her back, floating on the waves as they swelled beneath her.
The sun warmed the surface of her body, and the gentle rocking motion insinuated itself into her bodily currents, reminding her of the earlier moments of ecstasy. She barely noticed the cold water now; her eyes were closed and the sun was hot and growing hotter by the minute, creating a warm red glow behind her eyelids.
Julian swam strongly toward her, then trod water beside her. “Come in now, Tamsyn, it’s colder than you think.”
She murmured assent but didn’t immediately move. He turned and swam in, running up the beach, shaking water off his skin, clapping his arms around his chest as he jumped on the sand, watching her. She had rolled over now and was stroking inward, using the waves to carry her to shore.
Yes, love play was certainly some compensation for the months of inaction lying ahead, Julian reflected, finding his britches and stepping into them. Not that inaction was precisely the right word for the task that lay ahead of him. He couldn’t begin to imagine how local society was going to react to this extraordinary newcomer. She was bound to have to make some social forays before he’d managed to smooth her rough edges, and the prospect of Tamsyn drinking tea at the vicarage under the eagle eye of Mrs. Thornton made him shudder. Unfortunately, it also made him laugh. Of course, the sooner they could discover her Cornish antecedents, the clearer his path would be, but the fact remained that she couldn’t be presented to her long-lost family until she was presentable.
He sighed. He had his work cut out for him, and his charge was going to have to cooperate. He didn’t think she understood quite what a large mouthful she’d bitten off, but she was going to have to swallow it.
Tamsyn ran up the beach toward him, shivering but laughing. “Wonderful. I love swimming in salt water.” She grabbed up her shirt and used it to dry herself, rubbing herself vigorously, her teeth chattering, her lips blue, but her eyes shining.
Julian watched her, hands resting lightly on his hips. His voice was deliberately cool and clipped, disguising the pleasure he was taking in the sight of her body and her uninhibited movements as she dried between her legs. “One thing you need to understand. If you wish to continue with this charade, this is the last time you’ll behave in this fashion while you’re under my roof. Do I make myself clear?”
“I’m not sure,” Tamsyn said thoughtfully, pulling on her britches. “What behavior are you talking about, exactly, milord colonel?” She shrugged into her now soaked shirt, shivering as the material clung to her skin. “Wearing these clothes; swimming; or what we’ve just been doing amid the flowers?”
She buttoned the shirt, regarding him with her head to one side, a slightly sardonic gleam in her eye as she posed the question that would force him to admit that he wanted their love play to continue.
“Public indiscretion, buttercup,” he said deliberately. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He turned and walked back up the slope toward the garden, whistling carelessly, hands thrust into his pockets.
Tamsyn grinned appreciatively. He’d managed to wriggle out of that one without admitting anything, while leaving private indiscretion wide-open for further interpretation. She scrambled up the valley after him.
Julian paused as he reached the wall, waiting for her to catch up with him. The small, firm swell of her breasts was clearly outlined beneath the wet shirt, the nipples dark points.
“You’d better stay here while I fetch you a cloak,” he said. “You can’t enter the house looking like that, it’ll be all over the countryside within the hour. But be warned, this is the last time I shall cover up your … your …” His eyes rested in leisurely fashion on her breasts; then he put a hand on the top of her head and turned her like a spinning top. His free hand moved in a pointed caress over the indentation of her waist and the curve of her backside. “You understand me, I’m sure.”
“It would be hard to misunderstand you, sir.” There had been something faintly insulting about the strokes, something a little vengeful. Tamsyn twitched away from him, cross
ed her arms over her chest, and sat on the wall. “I will await you here.”
She sat facing the sea, kicking her feet against the stone. She may have overcome his resistance to love-making this morning, but she hadn’t won over his attitude.
She shrugged, trying to convince herself that his attitude didn’t matter so long as she had his cooperation. But she didn’t want to be at odds with him. They were too alike; they had shared so many experiences, the brutality and the triumphs of war; they enjoyed each other too much, and not just in love play. Tamsyn had the sense of a whole country of pleasure, of talk and laughter and shared opinions, just around the corner, but the border was patrolled by his resentment and her own purpose.
She glanced idly up at the cliff top toward Fowey and frowned, squinting against the sun. Two figures on horseback were outlined against the cloudless blue sky. They were too far away to see anything clearly, except that they were men, their horses had the elegant lines of good pedigree, and she thought she could see shotguns across their saddles. Tamsyn wondered without much concern how long they’d been there and how much they could have seen of the goings-on in the cove. They wouldn’t have witnessed that lusty tumble in the foxgloves—the flowers had formed a perfect privacy screen—but two naked figures running into and out of the sea would have been hard to miss.
As she watched, they turned their horses and galloped out of sight over the cliff, and when Julian returned with her cloak, she didn’t mention their possible audience, reasoning that it would only add fuel to his annoyance.
“Wrap this around you and don’t talk to anyone as you go to your room,” Julian directed crisply. He was wearing shirt and boots now and looked perfectly respectable. “The household is barely awake, so with luck you won’t meet anyone anyway. After breakfast come to the library, and we’ll get started. Wear one of the morning gowns you bought in London—I want to work on your posture.”
