A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (14 page)

Rafe covered her with his jacket. “I’ll catch a few winks nearby.”

Fanny nodded absently. “Odd, isn’t it? This place.”

“The resident is odd. The farm appears normal enough.” Rafe picked at the splinter in the palm of his hand.

“That’s just it.” Fanny scraped pearly teeth over her bottom lip. “Do you remember old Wordsworth? For a time, he lived in the grotto drawbridge housing at Craigiehall?”

Rafe settled down beside her on one elbow. “Of course I remember the small fellow. The name was self-styled, always had a word or quote for the day.”

Fanny sifted through a bit of loose straw beside her. “Then you will also remember he had refitted the bridge
house to suit his size. The doors were altered, the knobs lowered, the seating child-sized—”

“You noticed.” A lock of hair fell forward, blocking his view and he swept it back. Better to watch those large eyes, the color of Belgian chocolate, grow wider.

She lowered her voice. “What do you make of it?”

“Iona Tuttle is the only person of short stature who lives in the cottage, or this farm is not her residence.”

She squinted at his hand. “Let me see the sticker.”

“It will work its way out. Eventually.”

She shot him a perturbed look. “After it reddens and festers and gives you blood poisoning.”

He held out his hand, palm side up. “You just want to torture me.”

Fanny turned his hand to the pale light and examined the splinter. “If the Tuttle woman is not a resident, then where are the owners?” She reached into the swirl of hair on the back of her head and pulled out a hairpin.

Rafe shrugged. “They might be away. She could be a relative or friend of the family, for all we know.”

“Hold your palm very flat.” She pressed on his fingers and slid the hairpin behind the embedded splinter. Her brows knitted, and her mouth tensed into a wonderful lopsided bow. She slid the pin along the skin and nudged the wooden shard out. “Hold still. Don’t you dare breathe.” She grasped the tiny stub with her fingernails and pulled.

“Aha!” She released his hand and held up the fragment of wood.

He examined his palm. “Dandy work. Thank you.”

“Rafe, what if she’s in with them—the natty horrible men? And what if the family who lives here is being held hostage or worse?” She sucked in a shallow breath. “And what if there are children involved, who could be injured or—?”

“Don’t, Fanny.” Rafe shook his head. “You must not think the worst.”

He reclined onto his makeshift bed of straw and, quite surprisingly, she leaned back in his arms. “We need to find out what is going on inside the farmhouse.”

Chapter Eleven

S
he lifted her head off his shoulder. “Have you thought about how we are going to get down from here?”

“Yes, darling.”

“‘Yes’ doesn’t adequately answer the question.” Fanny sighed. “And please refrain from using words like
darling
and
kitten
.”

Rafe raised a brow and opened one eye. “I promise never to use another term of affection, if you sidle up close and use me as a pillow.”

“I’m not tired.” She ended a gaping yawn with a growl. “Of course this means you have no plan whatsoever.” She closed her eyes and imagined his grin. Horrid man!

Their shocking behavior at the loch stirred feelings she did not wish to think about. Nonetheless, she snuggled into the crook of his arm knowing full well this closeness was completely ill-advised. Out of the dark void of near sleep an image materialized into her consciousness—Rafe Lewis rising from the loch like a Scottish demigod.

The vision taunted her, setting her belly aquiver and her heart to skipping erratically. How extraordinarily beautiful he was physically. She thought of the
Reclining Apollo,
a life-sized statue she often admired in Dunrobin Hall. One muscular leg raised at the knee, the other stretched out from a rippled torso. The pose was angled so one could admire the Greek god’s bottom. Frontally, one was afforded the most startling view of the warrior’s sword, to put it in polite terms.

With her cheek on Rafe’s shoulder, she rode the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. He felt comfortable, familiar, and completely trustworthy. Frankly, it was hard to believe they had ever been estranged. After their failed engagement, she had quite deliberately shoved their friendship into a dusty, cobwebbed corner of memory.

A Hogmanay celebration came to mind. An icy cold evening, the last of the year. Rafe was home from university. The Queen’s own Pipes and Drums Regiment hammered a tattoo heralding the pyrotechnics display soon to begin. She and Rafe were out with a number of school chums making merry, reveling in the streets of Edinburgh. The festivities would last well into the early hours of New Year’s Day. Rafe had materialized beside her and removed one of her mittens. Clasping her naked hand in his, he plunged both into his coat pocket.

Her cheeks burned remembering the play of his fingers along the inside of her palm. Her heightened senses thrilled to the lightness of his caress, and she had dared to answer in kind, hoping her touch had a similar effect
upon him. He turned to her, eyes dark and primal. And there was something else in those lovely green eyes flecked with copper, something more vulnerable. At the time, she read the look as adoring, perhaps even loving. It hadn’t taken much, in those days, for her naive little heart to take flight and frolic among the dazzling rockets bursting above Castle Hill.

Rafe tempted her away from the crowd and pulled her into the niche of a building. He lifted her face in his hands and studied every feature, as if to memorize small details. A stray mole? Or perhaps the tip of her nose, reddened from the crisp cold air?

A shower of falling sparks haloed his face. She smiled. “You look like an angel.”

“Hard to live up to—being named after an angel. And I certainly don’t feel angelic—not around you.” He exhaled white puffs of breath and dipped his head. He hesitated, his mouth hovering just above her lips.

“A fire-breathing dragon, then?” She smiled.

He pulled her close and covered her mouth with his. The pounding of her heart drummed a frenetic beat among the bangs and whistles of the pyrotechnics surrounding them.

They huddled in the alcove, wrapped in each other’s arms, experimenting with kisses. The image of a fogged shop window flashed through her head. Rafe drew a symbol in the steamed glazing. Two hearts entwined, surrounded by wiggled lines and dots. “Fireworks.” He whispered. His eyes shimmered with mischief and desire. He yanked her close and kissed her hard. His mouth, hot
to the touch, nipped at her throat and lips. “Open your mouth—just a little.” When she complied, he used his tongue.

Shocked, she pulled back and frowned.

He chuckled softly and tried again. This time he licked at the underside of her upper lip, coaxing her to meet him halfway. Their tongues swirled a spellbinding dance, then plunged deep into some sort of wonderful, arousing madness.

“Rafe! Fanny!” The call from the past snatched her from the edge of sleep. Fanny jerked awake and shook off the strange feelings that ran through every part of her body. A sultry warmth radiated through the hay loft. Although rivulets of perspiration ran down her temple, she shivered. Not because she was cold, but because Rafe was gone. She stood up and peered into the deep shadows of the barn.

Odd bits of discarded and broken furniture had been stacked in a corner of the loft. She could see Rafe appraising his reflection in a tall looking glass. He was bare chested. Hints of moonlight haloed glistening skin.

He turned to her. “What’s wrong, Fanny?”

“I can’t sleep.” She swept a few damp wisps of hair of her temple. “Woke up terribly out of sorts and overheated—this dress is worse than a corset.”

His stare made her tingle all over, as if he wanted something very badly.

“You’re sweltering. Come here,” he turned her around and began to unbutton the dress. “You’ll rest more comfortably in camisole and pantalets.”

The dress slipped off her torso and rested on her hips. “Hold on to me.” She gripped his shoulders and stepped out of the skirt. Strong back muscles moved under her fingers. His skin was warm, like hers—moist. He straightened slowly and both her hands slid down the hard muscles of his chest. Her fingertips slipped through a light mat of chest hair. She had never touched a man so intimately—softness, yet solid underneath. His flesh quivered beneath her touch and there was a sharp intake of air. “Fanny.” Gently, he removed her hands and stepped away.

She followed him with her gaze. “Why let London girls have all the fun?” She raised her chin. “Frankly, I don’t much care for my virginity anymore. And . . . I was rather hoping you might be the one to . . .”

She caught her breath. Rafe stretched his lean, naked torso against a broken-down highboy and stared. A tingle of wicked arousal surged through her. Had he any idea how thoroughly—Fanny swallowed—masculine he was?

“I am deeply honored, Miss Greyville-Nugent, but alas, I must decline.”

She felt a pout coming on. “Why ever not? You seem to have no trouble rallying the little soldier for complete strangers.” A sudden, horribly awkward, and terrifying thought caused her to stutter, “Y-y-you don’t like me, in that way.”

His laugh was more of a scoff.

She flapped her hands. “Oh, you think I’m adorable enough, but you don’t see me as naughty—in that way. Someone you would, you know—”

“Fanny, I’ve been panting after you since you kissed me that day in the boathouse.”

She tossed her head and blew back a few errant wisps of hair. “
I
kissed
you
?”

RAFE GRINNED. SHE
was
adorable in those pale silk underthings. And there was something else about Fanny. The promise of a wild, brazen, and perfectly intoxicating creature. A bit of lace rode above a bouncing bosom and that sweet little derriere filled out her pantalets in the most alluring manner. If she only knew the kind of raw need that filled his gut as he watched her. Much too primitive for the word
adorable
, even though she was. “It was your eleventh birthday . . . or was it your twelfth?” He shrugged. “You planted one right here.” He pressed a finger to his lips.

“I did no such thing.”

“‘Rafe Lewis, I shan’t be the last girl in my circle to be kissed.’” He arched a brow. “You were quite insistent.”

Fanny stared, then blinked. “You kissed me back.”

Rafe smiled. “Of course.”

Fists landed on hips. Brows crashed together. Lips pouted. “I could make this a trial.”

“Trials are supposed to be difficult, punishing tests of a gentleman’s character.” He pushed off the dresser. “I’d like nothing more than to roger you royally.” He scooped her up in his arms and carried her back to the soft bed of straw. “In more polite terms, I’d love to show you a bit o’ pleasure, lass.” He flopped down pleasantly beside her.

“Then why don’t you?”

He smiled apologetically. “No condom.”

Fanny propped herself up on elbows. “Don’t you randy blokes carry them around on you?”

Quite a cross look, and the pout was back. He laughed out loud and pulled her close. “What put you in such a mood, Fanny?”

She looked as though she might shove him away, but didn’t. “I was remembering a winter night in Edinburgh.”

He angled his head over hers. “Which night in Edinburgh?”

“Hogmanay.” She swallowed and opened her eyes. Moonlight edged a mass of unkempt curls.

“Ah, Fanny. I remember it well.” His lips brushed hers, softly. She opened to him and danced a tantalizing, sensual waltz with his tongue. Primed by sensuous memories, his body hummed with desire. No woman had ever made him feel this way. Perhaps no one else ever would.

“I might be persuaded to give you a lesson, of sorts, but it requires a great deal more intimacy between us.” He nuzzled her cheek, then moved to her neck and earlobe, which he nibbled gently.

She took his hand in hers and brought it to her breast. “Then, I would have a lesson.”

“I will need to touch you in very private places.” He cupped a firm breast and brushed his thumb lightly over a nipple. “Here.” His fingers trailed down her midriff and belly. “And here.” His fingers landed lightly between her legs. “Preferably without these undergarments.”

Fanny answered him with numerous soft kisses. “What will it feel like?”

His eyelids lowered, shading none of his desire. “Ecstasy.” A husky, whispered promise. With a sudden fierceness, he pulled her onto his lap and sat her astride his torso. The open slit in her drawers widened and there was a glimpse of mysterious curls. Rafe steeled himself and forced his gaze upward. A pretty maiden sat upright, shoulders back, arms crossed over the thin fabric of her camisole. “Must I remove everything?”

Gently, he pried her arms away and pulled on the ribbon. She let go of the delicate silk and the camisole fell around her waist. Her nipples instantly hardened, but not from the warm, humid air. He suspected those pretty peaked tips were not used to being admired.

Fanny tilted her head. “Rafe?”

Rafe leaned back, his gaze locked on the breasts laid bare before him. A slow grin widened. “I am savoring the moment.”