And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (26 page)

Larger than all the other bedrooms, the room was L-shaped. Directly before the door lay a wide sitting area with comfortable armchairs covered in tan leather angled before a hearth. A large autumnal landscape in a heavy gilt frame filled the wall above the carved oak mantelpiece, and the walls and furnishings were decorated in muted shades of gold and warm browns.

The sitting area ran the length of the longer arm of the L; windows flanked the fireplace, and when Henrietta turned toward the base of the L, she found herself facing another wide window overlooking the rear gardens. This room, she realized, ran above part of the library and all of the adjoining parlor.

She walked on to where she could better view the massive, carved oak, four-poster bed that dominated the shorter arm of the room, its ornate head against the end wall. The warm, autumnal decor continued, with cream sheets, gold satin bedspread, and russet-and-gold brocade canopy and curtains tied up with tasseled gold cords.

The tallboys and dressers were all oak, all substantial; with the heaviness of the furniture offset by the soft tones of the decor and the rich detail of the landscapes again decorating the walls, the room was a curious blend of male and female.

James was studying her face as if trying to gauge her reaction. “Grandaunt Emily wasn’t overly fond of frills and lace.”

Henrietta met his eyes and smiled. “That’s probably why her style so appeals to me—I’m not overly fond of frills and lace either.”

He breathed out, and she allowed her smile to deepen. “What’s through there?” She pointed to two doors spaced along the inner wall. There were clear pathways along both sides of the bed, the one further from the windows, giving access to those two doors, ending at another, third, closed door.

James strolled across, opened the nearer door and set it swinging. “My dressing room.”

Following him, Henrietta peeked in, glimpsing more tallboys and chests, with the usual paraphernalia of brushes and grooming implements laid out neatly on top.

Then James walked on to the next door, opened it, and waved her in. “This will be yours.”

She walked on and entered a lady’s closet with extensive wardrobes and cupboards, and a dressing table with adjustable mirrors. “Are these from your grandaunt’s day?”

James nodded. “Despite her age, she liked to keep up with the latest improvements.” He caught her eye and tipped his head toward a door at the far end of the narrow room, opposite the door through which they’d entered. “Speaking of which, take a look through there.”

She cast him a curious glance, then walked on, opened the door, looked in—and laughed. “It’s our bathroom.”

The long narrow room had a large skylight. She spent several minutes examining the amenities and appurtenances, noting that James’s dressing room also had a door to the bathroom, while a third door gave onto the main corridor, then James waved her back into the bedroom. “We have one more room to inspect.”

Back in the bedroom, he opened the last door, the one alongside the head of the bed, and ushered her through—into the most beautiful lady’s sitting-room-cum-boudoir she’d ever seen.

“Oh, my!” Eyes round, she drank in the wide windows, the Hepplewhite chairs, the well-stuffed armchairs and chaise. Care had been taken, to an even greater extent than elsewhere, to ensure that every last little detail matched and contributed to the ambience of the room; not a single touch marred the overall impression of being surrounded by a warm, autumn wood. Trailing her fingers along the butter-soft tan leather of the chaise’s raised back, Henrietta murmured, “Your grandaunt loved these colors, didn’t she?”

Sliding his hands into his pockets, James leaned against the mantelpiece. “Yes, she did.” After a moment, he went on, “These are the colors she chose for her rooms up here. Downstairs is mostly woodland greens and browns, and the other bedrooms, you’ll have noticed, are in brighter shades—more yellows and light greens, more summery.”

He paused, but when Henrietta turned and looked at him—as if sensing there was more to it than that—he went on, “She was an artist, old Emily.” He tipped his head toward the painting above the mantelpiece, a rich tapestry of greens and golds and subtle browns depicting a scene of a path through a wood. “I told you she spent half the year in town, but her heart remained in the country, in Wiltshire, at her estate there. She loved the walks, the woods, so she painted them and brought them with her here.”

Henrietta searched his eyes, then looked at the painting. Drawing—drawn—nearer, she asked, “So when we’re there, I’ll be able to see this—the real this?”

He nodded. “All the paintings in the house are hers, and you can see all of the views, all of the scenes, in real life, at Whitestone Hall.”

Henrietta studied the painting, then looked at him. “You’ll have to take me to see each of the places depicted in her paintings.”

He held her gaze. “If you’d like that.”

She smiled and nodded decisively. “I would.” Returning to his side, she cast the painting one last glance. “It’ll be like making contact with your grandaunt, and I rather think, had I ever met her, I would have liked her.”

“She would have liked you.” He caught her gaze as she turned to him, then smiled. “More to the point, she would have approved of you.”

Henrietta opened her eyes wide and stepped closer. “Do you think so?”

Drawing his hands from his pockets, he nodded. “Definitely.”

“Why?” She tipped up her face as he grasped her waist and drew her nearer still.

Bending his head, he murmured, “Because you’re mine—but even more because you’ve made me yours.”

Their lips met.

Later, he would wonder whether it was he, or she, either by conscious act or through unconscious need, who initiated the next step—or whether they were both driven, captive to some elemental, intrinsic command, mere actors engaging under the direction of a power greater than them both.

Or whether, given the situation, the threat hovering over her and therefore over the shared future that was hourly taking more definite shape, it was inevitable that they would end in his bed, and that the afternoon—that particular afternoon—would be filled with the heated tangle of limbs, with provocative caresses, evocative groans, and the sibilant sounds of smothered gasps as together they reexplored, reclaimed, and reaffirmed all they’d previously discovered.

All they’d previously uncovered. Reassuring, restating, revisiting, and reiterating, they dived in again, plunged in again, seized and surrendered and shared the scintillating delights once again.

He couldn’t remember quite how they’d returned to the bed; he vaguely recalled the heated duel of their tongues, the frantic melding of their mouths, followed by an even more driven rush to rid themselves of all physical barriers between them. Clothes shed, fell away, vanished—banished. And then they were naked, hot skin to hot skin, and they both paused, eyes closed, senses stretching wide to absorb the delirious pleasure of that sharply intense moment. To savor it.

Then the flames rose, hungry and greedy, and wouldn’t be denied, and they gave themselves up to the fire, to the conflagration of their senses. Falling across the bed, in the warm afternoon light they reveled and rejoiced.

And it grew stronger. More assured, more powerful.

The force that rose up and claimed them both, that flashed through them and possessed them as, joined and together in body and in mind, they raced up the peak, then soared high.

And fractured.

They clung and slowly fell, spiraling back to the real world, to the heavy thud of each other’s hearts, to the soft, ragged rush of each other’s breaths.

To the joy and comfort of each other’s bodies embracing, holding, accepting, and enveloping.

Protecting. Holding on.

In the soft golden light, in the warmth of his bed, one fact rang crystal clear. Neither had any intention of retreating.

Of backing away, no matter the challenge.

They wanted this, both of them, this and all it could lead to.

Slumping back onto the pillows, as she crawled into his arms, their gazes met and held . . . and he read in her eyes the same resolution that resonated inside him.

Without words, without further thought, in that moment they made a binding commitment.

To each other, to themselves, to their future lives.

To this.

For this they would battle any foe.

Because
this
was worth any price.

It was that simple. That fundamental.

She lowered her head to his shoulder, let her body, her limbs, relax against his.

Eyes closing, he cradled her close.

As all tension fell away, he inwardly smiled, and sent a prayer winging heavenward—to his grandaunt Emily.

He was entirely reconciled to her manipulation.

Chapter Twelve

A
top Marie, Henrietta trotted into the park early the next morning. Two grooms rode at her back, both alert and watchful, there to ensure no one attempted to accost or otherwise threaten her.

The morning was cool and damp, light wisps of fog clinging to the trees and wreathing the bushes deeper in the park. No sun had yet struck through the pale gray clouds, and the birdcalls were muted.

“At least there’s no wind,” Henrietta murmured. For her and Marie, this was a regular outing, one of their customary biweekly morning rides; while she’d readily agreed to the extra guards, she hadn’t felt inclined to allow her villainous would-be murderer to dictate how she lived her life.

Yet in deference to the threat, James had insisted on joining her, and with that she was perfectly content; they’d arranged to meet by the start of the tan track along Rotten Row. Conscious of the warming spark of anticipation the prospect of seeing James provoked, she clung to it and rode at a quick clip down toward the track.

Beneath her outward calm, she felt restless, discomfited. She felt almost itchy, her nerves abraded by the constant scrutiny that had surprisingly quickly escalated once the rest of the family had been informed of the threat against her life.

She hadn’t expected to feel quite so “under observation,” to the extent that the three hours she’d spent at a ball last night had ended feeling like time to be endured, rather than enjoyed. Even having James constantly by her side hadn’t alleviated the oppressive feeling.

“But until this damned villain is caught and hung by the heels,” she muttered, “it appears I’m going to have to put up with it.”

She reached the start of the tan track and wasn’t all that surprised to find no James waiting. Drawing rein, she leaned forward and patted Marie’s glossy neck. “We’re a trifle early, I fear.”

She and James had agreed to ride extra early, but, restless, she’d left home as soon as she’d been ready, and as yet there were few others abroad. She could see only two groups of riders, one threesome of rakish gentlemen, and two older gentlemen out for their morning constitutional. Both groups were already using the track; their members noted her escort and gave her a wide berth.

She shifted in her saddle; Marie pranced as the three rakish gentlemen set their mounts facing down the tan track, then swept past and on in a thunder of hooves. The mare loved to run and didn’t at all appreciate Henrietta holding her back.

“James will be here soon.” Henrietta gentled the mare, settling her. Along with Marie, she looked longingly down the track. “We’ll be able to run when he comes.”

Then again, she had two guards, and the track wasn’t that long . . . and other than the five riders, all of whom she recognized, there was no one else around.

The mare danced, jiggling her.

“Oh, all right.” Easing the reins, she swung Marie toward the start of the track and called over her shoulder, “I’m going down for one pass.”

Her guards quickly brought their horses up; when she sent Marie at an easy gallop down the tan, the grooms kept station just behind her.

They were galloping fluidly by the time they reached the end of the track. Laughing—feeling considerably better, freer, lighter of heart—Henrietta reined in and turned, bringing Marie around in a wide arc preparatory to riding back to the start of the track.

Looking up and ahead, she saw James emerging from the misty distance. She waved and called a halloo.

He spotted her, smiled, and raised a hand in salute.

Grinning, she leaned forward—

Crack!

James saw Henrietta jerk, then start to crumple a fraction before the sharp report of a pistol reached him. Shock hit him like a fist to the chest.

Digging in his heels, he sent his mount racing over the sward.

Fear sank icy talons around his heart and squeezed. . . .

Then he was hauling his gray in alongside the confused and skittish black mare. He was vaguely aware of the two grooms milling close, putting themselves, horses and bodies, between Henrietta and the thick bushes from where the shot must have come. But his focus, all his awareness, all his senses, were locked on Henrietta. She lay slumped forward, arms limply embracing the mare’s glossy neck. Blood was trickling down the side of her face, disappearing into the black hide.

She looked pale as death, but her back rose slightly and fell.

Throttling his panic, dropping his reins, he reached for her. It took a moment of juggling to free her from her sidesaddle, then he lifted her across and into his arms, settling her before him.

Cradling her close, he felt her chest expand and contract. Rhythmically and repeatedly. Carefully moving her head, he gently examined her wound, an ugly furrow above one ear, then he blew out a breath. Sucked in another as his reeling wits steadied. “She’s alive.” He glanced at the anxious grooms. “She’ll live. It’s only a bad graze.”

He looked down at her face. Pain and shock had knocked her unconscious, and she was losing copious amounts of blood, but she wasn’t going to die.

Relief swamped him; if he’d been standing, it would have brought him to his knees.

Awkwardly searching for, then folding, his handkerchief, he pressed it firmly to the angry wound, then glanced at the grooms. Meeting their worried gazes, he realized they were torn—should they try to catch the villain or stay and help with their mistress?