Leslie LaFoy (17 page)

He pushed open the kitchen door and felt the wave of warm air roll over him. On it was the delectable scent of freshly baked biscuits. He looked toward the central table, half expecting to see Hannah there. But it wasn't Hannah, it was Mary Margaret Malone. Standing beside her was Claire. She looked up and smiled at him. Tendrils of golden hair had escaped their pins to softly frame her face, and flour lightly dusted the end of her nose and both her cheeks. And while she'd donned an apron to protect what remained of her gown, she'd removed the buffon that had added extra inches to the bodice of it. He'd considered her attributes meager that afternoon. Like other assumptions he'd made, that one was wrong, too. A delightful bit of reality had been hidden by that strip of modest fabric.

Devon vaguely heard his stomach growl, but the sound was lost in a larger realization. Claire Curran was a beautiful woman—an intriguingly intelligent, kind, and strikingly beautiful woman. He'd married her, giving her a solemn vow that he'd never touch her. He was going to be sorry he'd spoken so impetuously. He knew it in his bones. Other parts of his person were just as certain and already making him pay the price.

“A good evenin' to ye, Mr. Rivard,” the Irish cook called out, holding up a basket and smiling broadly. “An' just in time ye are to sample one of me first biscuits still warm from the oven. A bit of butter an' some strawberry jam to go on it?”

He nodded, regretting that his breeches fit so closely and knowing that wisdom lay in focusing his attention on anything except his wife. “They smell wonderful,” he declared, advancing to the table while trying to nonchalantly blouse his shirttail.

“An' wonderful they taste, too, sir. We'll confess to havin' sampled one or two 'fore ye came through the door. The scent was more than we could resist. Be that right, Lady Claire?”

Claire's smile widened. Her eyes twinkled. “Temptation being the powerful force it is…”

God, he could testify to the truth of that. He sat down in one of the chairs, then half rose to pull his shirttail out a bit more.

Mary Margaret nodded. “Powerless we were in the face of it, sir. Powerless.”

He could tell them a thing or two about being unable to control temptation. He accepted the thick, light biscuit the cook offered him and took a huge bite. Butter and jam oozed out the back side of it, and he quickly shifted his hold to lick his fingers clean. At the edge of his vision, he saw Claire start, then snatch up the baking pan and attack its surface with a damp rag.

“They're very good,” he offered his cook while he watched Claire's intense effort at cleaning. The dusting of flour did nothing to disguise the color flooding her cheeks. “May I have another?” he asked absently.

“To be sure, sir.”

He managed to mumble his thanks, but the larger part of his awareness was fascinated by how easily Claire Curran's senses seemed to be stirred. Almost as easily as his own. Or at least so it appeared. Was it only wishful thinking on his part? While Mary Margaret slathered another biscuit with butter and jam for him, he took a chance. “So tell me, Claire… Did all the lessons go as well as the one on biscuits?”

She looked up to meet his gaze. With a tentative
smile she answered, “I do believe so. Meg had been misinformed on a crucial point. We got it sorted out,” and then quickly went back to scrubbing the pan.

Devon smiled, wondering just what thoughts were running through her pretty little head. Given how flushed her cheeks were, they had to border on being truly lascivious. Not as lascivious as his own were at the moment, but still…

“An' the fires are banked for the night, sir,” he heard the other woman assure him. “Don't know why it never occurred to me brain that they'd be tended the same as those in the upstairs. Here ye go, sir.”

Tearing his attention away from Claire, he took the second biscuit offered by the cook. Meg, was it? It was certainly quicker to say than Mary Margaret.

“Meg was a housemaid in London before becoming indentured and…” She stifled a yawn before she could finish, “… being brought to the colonies.”

Devon rose to his feet, the biscuit still in his hand. “Are you finally tired enough to truly retire?”

“Yes,” she admitted with a sigh, setting aside the pan and the rag. Untying her apron, she came around the end of the table, saying, “I'll be back out in the morning, Meg, to help you prepare the ham.”

“Thank ye, Lady Claire. But don't be hurryin' from yer bed too quick, though. There'll be nothin' here needin' tendin' more than yer handsome husband.”

The startled look on Claire's face… Devon was tempted to laugh until he saw the color flooding over the swells of her breasts and sweeping up the slender column of her throat. In a fraction of a heartbeat, his amusement was pounded into oblivion by another kind of temptation altogether. Sweet Jesus. No amount of bloused shirt would ever be sufficient to hide the fact that his breeches were becoming intolerably—and embarrassingly—tight. He glanced about, wondering what pretext he could use for yanking the tail out completely.
His gaze fell on the carving block and he instantly opted for a timely distraction.

“Hold this for me a moment, will you?” he said, thrusting his biscuit at a surprisingly compliant Claire. “Meg?” he went on, striding to the block and grabbing the handle of a hefty cleaver.

“Aye, sir?”

He carried it back to the central table and buried the tip of it in the wood. “If Wyndom should make an appearance in your kitchen again, you have my permission to use this on whatever part of his anatomy you think appropriate.”

Meg grinned and nodded slowly. “I'll be givin' it some thought, sir. Though seems to me that I'm likely to be takin' a swing at whatever comes up first.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he agreed, giving her a smile and a wink. “Good night, Meg.” He turned away and, being careful to keep himself out of Claire's line of sight, placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the door.

They were outside before he realized that they'd left the candle lamp behind. He thought about going back to get it, but quickly saw the advantage in the relative darkness. What Claire couldn't clearly see wouldn't concern her. Unfortunately, the lack of light didn't give him any respite from temptation. Being considerably taller than she was, all he had to do was look down to feast his eyes on the full swells of her breasts. The biscuit she was carrying for him didn't look nearly as delicious as she did. The biscuit…

Devon smiled as a lecherous possibility occurred to him. Did he dare act on it? As he escorted her up the back steps and into the butler's pantry, he realized that it all depended on how Claire would respond. If he frightened her, she'd scurry away and he'd be hard pressed to get within a mile of her for the next fortnight. If she met
him halfway, though… sweet Jesus. If she didn't run away, he was going to either be in acute pain or scrambling for a way to renegotiate their conjugal agreement. Or, he reminded himself sternly as they climbed the stairs, he could exercise some self-discipline and behave himself. It would be the intelligent, rational thing to do. His life was complicated enough already.

“You didn't hurt Wyndom too badly, did you?” she asked softly when they reached the upstairs hallway.

“Not as badly as I wanted to.”

“It would appear that he doesn't think matters through very carefully.”

Devon snorted. “Whether he thinks at all is open to debate.”

“Of course he thinks,” she countered as they came to stop at her bedroom door. Turning to face him, she added, “Just in a manner very different from you. It has to be difficult for him to exist in your shadow and never measure up to the standards you set. Perhaps you—”

“Perhaps you shouldn't meddle,” he suggested. “How I deal with Wyndom is none of your concern. I'll leave Meg to you, you leave everyone else to me, and we'll do fine.”

“There are times,” she said with quiet defiance, her face tilted up so that she could meet his gaze, “when I honestly think that you see yourself as sitting at the right hand of God.”

“Actually,” he countered, grinning, “I stand in for him on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and every other Sunday.” She didn't want to smile; he could see the corners of her mouth twitching as she fought the impulse. And watching her struggle, he lost his own battle and his mind arrowed back to his carnal fantasy.

“I'll have my biscuit back, if you don't mind.”

She blinked, looked disconcerted for a second, and then glanced down at her hand as though she'd
forgotten that she was holding it. Shaking her head, she sighed in amused aggravation and handed it to him with a smile.

He took the biscuit with one hand and with his other gently caught hers before she could draw it back. “Wait,” he murmured, watching her eyes as he lifted her fingertips to his lips. “You've gotten sticky.”

“Devon,” she whispered, her voice edged with wariness. “I'd rather that you—”

Whatever it was that she'd intended to say was lost as he kissed the end of her first finger. He saw fear flicker for a second in the dark depths of her eyes and then it was gone, replaced by the bright light of exhilaration. Emboldened, his heart racing, he slowly trailed the tip of his tongue down the length of her slender finger, drew the whole of it into his mouth, and gently suckled it.

Knowing well the skills of seduction, he also recognized the certain signs of surrender. Her lips were parted, her breathing shallow and so very slow. Her eyes drifted closed and she leaned gently toward him, wordlessly inviting him to deeper intimacies. It would be so easy; she wouldn't resist. There was no denying that he wanted to take her to his bed.

And if he did, he'd spend the rest of his life bound to her. And she to him and his fate. Honor demanded that he find the strength to walk away from all that she offered. He had nothing of equal value to give her in return.

Slowly, he released his claim to her finger. “You are dangerously delicious, madam,” he said softly while regretfully surrendering possession of her hand.

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath before she forced a smile on her face and managed to whisper, “And you, sir, are positively wicked.”

“I won't argue.” It wasn't too late. If he reached for her now, she'd come to him. The spell wasn't yet broken. And God help him, he wanted her. “I think we'd do
well to keep our distance from one another,” he said, desperately hoping she'd either disagree or simply step into his arms.

“A most wise idea.” She exhaled with a slight shudder, then turned and opened her door, hurriedly adding, “I'll wish you a good night now, sir.”

“Good night, madam,” he answered, watching her leave him. “Sleep well.”

He stood there for a long while, staring at the door, his pulse thrumming wildly through his veins, his loins aching. And to think that he'd accused Wyndom of being a mindless rutter. If not for Claire Curran's common sense and self-control, he'd be—at this very moment—proving beyond all doubt that he wasn't one bit more disciplined and intelligent than all the Rivard males that had gone before him. He'd been a damn fool to dance with temptation. But, he consoled himself as he headed toward his own room and his solitary bed, he'd learned a valuable, necessary lesson in his rashness: Claire was more intoxicating than the finest brandy, and he had to stay the hell away from her. If he didn't, he'd be the ruin of them both.

C
LAIRE LAY IN HER BED
, staring up at the canopy over her head, unable to silence the chatter of her thoughts. How was it possible to resent a man's arrogance at the same time that you were irresistibly, physically drawn to him? Heaven help her. If she didn't keep a good distance from him, she'd make a complete fool of herself. One mistake, one witness to it, would be all that it would take to bind them together forever. And bound to Devon Rivard, she would never see Crossbridge Manor again. She would never again have the hope of being free.

LAIRE QUICKLY LOOKED
over her shoulder at the rear face of Rosewind. Somewhere inside, another door slammed. And then another. She pursed her lips. Had Wyndom finally returned from wherever it was that he'd gone? Was Devon making a rare daylight appearance in the house? Was he looking for her?