Leslie LaFoy (20 page)

He eased back a bit, his brows furrowed as he considered her. “Are you afraid of horses?”

“Not at all,” she admitted before she could think better of the honesty.

He reached out again. “Then give me your hand so I can pull you up.”

“I'd prefer to walk, thank you.” She took a step away from him so that she was well beyond his immediate reach. “It would do me good. I need time to think and order my housekeeping plans.”

“Think while you ride,” he countered tightly. “A Tidewater lady is never seen walking about her estate.”

Him and his silly Tidewater rules and expectations. Claire gathered her skirts in hand and turned toward the road leading back to the house, retorting, “I would imagine that a Tidewater gentleman is never seen running his own seed-drilling machine, either. If the rules can be bent for you, they can be bent for me as well. I'll walk if it pleases me to do so.”

“You're a most stubborn woman, Claire Curran,” he called after her. “Has anyone ever mentioned that flaw?”

She didn't bother to look back. “More than once.”

Devon slipped his foot back into the stirrup and eased his horse forward, smiling as he watched her march up the road. So purposeful. So determined to do things her own way. Even when there wasn't any point to it beyond defying him for the sake of defiance alone. He had to give her full credit for pluck and a stiff backbone, though. Unfortunately for her, he had just as much as she did. And no patience with foolishness. Nudging his horse into a brisk trot, he leaned out and down, rode up beside her and, before she could react, neatly slipped his arm around her waist. She squeaked in surprise and clutched his arm tightly as he lifted her up and deposited her firmly on his lap.

“You've met your match for stubbornness,” he said quietly in her pretty little ear.

She started and then pried at his encircling arm. “Put me down!” She squirmed and twisted in his embrace.

It was a magnificent and inspiring friction. Devon sucked in a deep breath, trying to decide whether or not
he wanted her to realize what she was doing to him. “Oh, sit still and enjoy being a lady,” he growled, subtly trying to shift to a more comfortable position under her. “It won't kill you.”
And if you don't
, he silently added,
it's going to kill me
.

She didn't stop, of course, and he tightened his arm around her. “Stop struggling, Claire,” he growled in her ear. “You're going to fall off and break your neck.”

“And then your precious house wouldn't be clean for the Lee brothers.”

It rankled that she thought that was what he cared about. “Exactly,” he snapped, pulling her hard against his lap and kicking his horse into a canter. With every stride of the animal beneath them, he rose up against her, pressing hard into the folds of her skirt. She went still and everywhere their bodies touched he could feel the tremors that coursed through her. Color flooded the swells of her breasts and swept upward, darkening her cheeks. The scent of heated lavender washed over him, inviting him to lean close, to press his lips to the nape of her neck and fill his soul with the sweet, heady taste of her.

Devon clenched his teeth and deliberately leaned back, knowing that if he succumbed to just the tiniest temptation, he'd be powerless to resist the larger ones. And, at the moment, the most strident one of them all was suggesting that he find a secluded bit of dappled grass, lay Claire Curran down, and admit that having a wife wasn't the worst fate a man could endure.

Maybe it wasn't, but making a woman his wife just because he didn't have the strength of character to hold his needs in check would definitely be the greatest folly he'd ever commit. It was much wiser to suffer a few minutes of acute discomfort than spend all eternity paying for the pleasure to be found in release.

T
WAS DIFFICULT
to outwardly pretend that she was unaffected. She'd have had to have been dead not to notice the proof of Devon's physical stimulation. With every rolling step the horse took, it pressed hard against her thigh, stroking upward and then briefly falling away before returning to taunt and brand her anew. No skirt or petticoat on earth was sufficiently thick to pad her to the point of not knowing what it was. And, dear God in heaven, she knew precisely what it meant. Men, when in their own company, often became satyrs who felt compelled to share with every other man—or woman masquerading as a man—their graphic repertoires of tasteless sexual pantomime.

She'd seen much more than she'd ever wanted to; been declared an unnaturally priggish man more times than she could count. But despite all that she'd seen and heard, it had never occurred to her that sharing a cantering horse with a man could come so perilously close to
the act of lovemaking. It was frightening to know just how close.

And it was exhilarating, too. Wildly, breathlessly, deliciously exhilarating. There was no denying it. Every fiber of her being was alive in a delightfully new way. It was as though her senses had suddenly awakened from a lifelong slumber, emerging from hibernation starving and demanding that their hunger be sated. They reveled in the waves and layers of sensation there were in being held in Devon's embrace. The scents of sun and soil, of man and leather, wrapped around her, holding her captive more effectively than the steely strength of his arm. The easy sureness of his hand as it held the reins, the bronze of his skin in such dazzling contrast to the white of his linen shirt, the caress of his voice when he spoke against her ear, the solid warmth of his body, the vigor of his arousal… if only she could taste him, her senses would be full; she'd be complete.

And she'd be risking the loss of herself. For the second time that day, tears threatened to close her throat. Why was she drawn to this man? Why did he have the power to stir her senses so deeply, so profoundly? How could he so effortlessly scatter her resolve and make beguiling what had always been an unthinkable surrender? Out of all the men in the world, why had her uncle chosen Devon Rivard? Why an impoverished, autocratic colonial man who had sworn to be rid of her as soon as he could?

She was clearly a fool. Worse yet, apparently she was also, deep down inside, a shameless wanton without regard for pride or consequence. A week had passed by the calendar, and yet time and distance from Devon had changed absolutely nothing. She was just as brazenly enraptured now as in the moment when he'd so seductively suckled her finger. If he pressed, she'd likely surrender. What resistance she offered—if she could
muster any at all—would be brief at best and halfhearted. Yes, she was shameless. And shortsighted, too.

There was nothing at Rosewind for her but servitude and poverty. While life at Crossbridge had never been anything beyond a marginal existence, at least she had been her own master, free to do as she thought best, to act in her own self-interest. She'd been forced to surrender that freedom to George Seaton-Smythe, and the yoke of submission had chafed every day for four long years. To spend eternity wearing it was a frightening prospect. And to deliberately choose to accept it was impossible. She couldn't allow herself to be weak, to be tempted by Devon Rivard's handsome face and seductive ways. She simply couldn't. She'd have to be strong—stronger than she'd ever been. The course of her life from this point forward depended on it.

They rounded a bend in the road, and suddenly the rear face of Rosewind came into sight. Claire breathed a small sigh of relief. Once they reached it, her present ordeal would be over. They would dismount and stand apart and the temptation would come to an end. She'd pretend that it had never happened. She'd thank him politely for bringing her back to the house and then throw herself into the work needing to be done. She wouldn't have to be anywhere near him for the next two days. And then the house would have guests within its walls, and the requirements of genteel hospitality would keep a dignified distance between them.

After that… Claire pursed her lips. After that, she'd have to find some other task that required her concerted attention and offered little chance of encountering Devon. It was the only rational strategy to pursue. She might well be a fool where he was concerned, but only a complete fool would refuse to back away from the edge of the abyss when she had the chance to do so. She wasn't so fascinated with him that she'd lost her
common sense. With self-discipline, she could avoid making a horrible mistake.

“Do
not
attempt to jump off this horse, madam.”

She felt every softly spoken word resonate through the whole of her body, from her earlobe to where his chest brushed against her shoulders, to her thighs and then to the very tips of her toes. It was a decidedly pleasant, warming sensation. Claire clenched her teeth and summoned some indignation over his presumption to issue a command. Did he think that she didn't have enough common sense to know the risks in throwing herself off the animal?

He reined the horse to a gradual halt at the rear of the house, then worked his body back, drawing her fully into the curve of the saddle as he moved himself out of it and onto the rump.

“Hold your balance,” he said, easing his arm from around her. “I'm going to release you.”

There was utter relief wrapped around his each and every word. She could certainly understand how he felt; now that he'd put a bit of distance between them, she could actually take a full breath. He dropped to the ground behind his mount and then quickly stepped to the side, lifted his arms, and slipped his hands about her waist. She looked down at him, noting his tension in the granite hardness of his jaw and the tightness of his lips. She could understand that as well; she felt as though someone had found a spring inside her and tightened it to the point of breaking.

Placing her hands lightly on his shoulders, she allowed him to lift her from the saddle. The instant her feet were firmly planted under her, she stepped to the side, pulling her arms quickly to her sides. He took a step back, withdrawing his own hands as well.

Before the silence could become awkward, she managed a smile and said, “Thank you for seeing me back to the house. As I'm sure you want to be off to
Williamsburg as soon as you can, I won't delay you.” With the requirements of politeness met, she turned, gathered her skirts in hand, and started toward the steps. The tension inside her eased as she moved away from him, and she couldn't suppress the feeling of having gained a reprieve as she passed into the cool shadows of the butler's pantry.

Devon considered her and weighed the merits of his choices. On the one hand, he wanted to put as much distance between himself and skirted temptation as possible. On the other hand, he knew what she intended to do once she went inside, and he couldn't help but cringe at the certain outcome. With a sigh, he quickly pulled the reins over his horse's head and, leaving the animal, went after Claire.

Catching up with her in the foyer, he fell in beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. “If you're off to enlist the assistance of Mother and Aunt Elsbeth, I'd better go with you,” he said when she darted a look at him. “Not,” he hurried to add as they climbed the stairs together, “that I think you're incapable of stating your needs and requests. It's more a matter of me being willing to bully them into compliance. You're a nicer person than I am.”