Temptation and Surrender (9 page)

But they were inside Ballyclose Manor, and she was disinclined to let the opportunity slip. Who knew when another would eventuate?

There was no reason she couldn’t search for the cellar alone—not with the steady stream of footmen trooping through the drawing room, still circling with plates of cakes or balancing trays with teapots, to lead the way.

The cellar door was most likely close by the kitchen.

When a footman bearing an empty platter slipped out of a nearby door, she followed.

The door gave onto a minor corridor. Her footsteps muffled by a thick runner, she hurried to keep the swiftly moving footman in sight. He didn’t head back to the front hall and through the green baize door at its rear, but, via a series of ever-narrowing corridors, strode deeper into the house.

She walked openly in his wake, aware another footman or maid might come up behind her, or appear ahead, going in the opposite direction. If seen, she would say she’d gotten lost, then had spied the footman and was following him, assuming he’d lead her back to the drawing room.

As it happened, her skill at dissembling wasn’t put to the test. Juggling his empty platter, the footman took one last turn; she followed, and halted at the top of a flight of stone stairs leading sharply down to a landing, then turning to the left and disappearing out of sight.

A door on the landing, facing the stairs, lay open, revealing the butler’s pantry. From the cacophany rising up the stairs, they led directly into the kitchen.

“’Ere—don’t be a dolt! Wipe that platter prop’ly before you take it upstairs. Have my head, her ladyship will, if you take it up like that, smeared with cream.”

A rumbling grumble came in reply. Em didn’t wait to hear what followed. Slipping away from the stairhead, she headed further along the corridor; a narrow door stood at the end, with a courtyard beyond. She needed to place the kitchen within the overall layout of the house, and that would most easily be done by viewing this wing from outside.

Reaching the door, she looked out, but couldn’t see far; the courtyard was narrow, limiting her view. Grasping the doorknob, she turned it—and was rewarded with a click. Opening the door, she stepped outside. After a cursory glance confirming that the courtyard was deserted, she silently shut the door.

Flagged with gray stone, the rectangular courtyard was walled on three sides. Beds bordering the walls hosted a variety of climbers that reached long fingers up the stone walls. The open end of the courtyard lay to the left of the door. One swift glance at what lay beyond had her smiling and walking quickly in that direction.

At the edge of the paving, she paused in the shadow cast by the wall at the courtyard’s corner. The kitchen garden lay below her, spread out on a lower level, neat rows of vegetables marching down the plot, herbs straggling out of pots and over paths.

Stone steps led down; stepping onto the first, she peered around the building’s corner and saw what looked to be a washhouse built onto the back of the house. A larger door sheltered by a narrow porch—presumably the back door leading into the kitchen—was set into the wall close by. But what drew her gaze, transfixed it, was the pair of low doors built into the wall halfway between the courtyard and the back door.

They had to be doors to the cellar.

She studied them, then glanced along the rear façade, then turned to view the surrounding gardens, noting trees to help her fix her position.

Eventually she brought her gaze back to the cellar doors. They were sturdy and had a small pane of thick glass set in their center; given the angle from which she was viewing them, she couldn’t see through.

She was weighing going forward and peeking in—just enough to confirm the doors did indeed give access to the cellar—against the risk of someone coming out from the kitchen and seeing her, when a most peculiar panoply of sensations washed down her spine.

Abruptly swinging around, she stepped up, back into the courtyard—and nearly plowed into a wall.

A muscled male wall comprised of Jonas Tallent.

Her heart didn’t just leap, it turned cartwheels. She instinctively inhaled, only to have the breath get stuck in her chest, doing her no good at all.

Eyes wide, she took a hasty step sideways. “What are you doing here?” The words came out perilously close to a squeak.

She swallowed and tried to steady her pounding heart, tried not to notice the alluring warmth that seemed to reach for her.

How had he got so close? Without her knowing? She’d realized he was there, but far too late. Why hadn’t her witless senses noticed him and warned her, when they so consistently noticed him everywhere else? Why…?

She was mentally babbling. Dragging in a huge breath, she held it and with an effort summoned a frown.

Recalled too late how unwise it was to look into his eyes, into the fathomless, fascinating depths…she fell in, and they held her.

He quirked one lazy brow at her. “I’d intended to ask you the same question.”

She blinked. Question? He was standing half a foot away, towering over her—she could barely remember her name.

His lips curved. “What are you doing here?”

A hint of steel lay beneath the smooth words—enough to prod her instincts to action. She fought free of his spell, narrowed her eyes on his. “Did you follow me?”

Her tone made the question an accusation. Jonas raised both his brows in reply. “Yes.” He held her gaze, then reached out and, with one finger, flicked back a gleaming brown curl at her temple. Sensed rather than saw her battle her reaction, felt an answering response that went marrow-deep.

He kept his eyes on hers—jewel green lit with golden sparks. “Are you going to tell me what you’re searching for?”

Those lovely eyes flared. “No!” Her lips compressed to a thin, tight line, then, eyes locked with his, she muttered, “I’m not searching for anything.”

He inwardly sighed. He’d tried being subtle, but that hadn’t got him far. He’d tried being restrained; stepping back from her last night had taken more resolve than he’d known he possessed. Afterward, perhaps unsurprisingly, she’d inhabited his dreams, disturbing his rest.

Yet here she was, still holding firm against him.

Even if she was all but quivering with awareness.

An awareness that in turn affected him. Perhaps…

Heaving a melodramatic, put-upon sigh, he reached for her. Closed his hands about her upper arms and jerked her nearer. She uttered a strangled squeak as he released her—to slide his hands around her and link them, effectively caging her within his arms without having his hands on her.

Without crushing her to him, as every instinct he possessed was urging.

Instead of fighting or struggling, resisting in any way, she froze. Stopped breathing.

Linked hands resting at the back of her waist, he smiled intently into her wide, shocked eyes. “I’m not going to let you go until you tell me all. Until you confess what it is that brought you to Colyton—which I strongly suspect is the thing you’re searching for.” He raised his brows. “Am I right?”

Her eyes searched his. Her hands had instinctively risen, but she didn’t know what to do with them; they hovered in the air between them, level with his chest. As he watched, her gaze dropped to his lips.

He sucked in a slow, impossibly tight breath, conscious of the debilitating effect, not just her telltale fascination with his lips, but the combined impact of having her so close, all but against him, and the more subtle allure of the scent of her hair—of her—was having on his control.

Mentally gritting his teeth, he hung on. Waited.

Mentally pleaded that she answer, soon, and save them both.

Managed to say, low and deep, his voice a rough murmur, “Emily…tell me all and I’ll let you go.”

Em heard, but found it impossible to concentrate. To focus on his words rather than the fascinating movement of his lips as he said them.

She watched his lips tighten, then soften as he again said her name, his tone one step removed from a plea…and suddenly she knew.

Two could play at his game, the game he’d started, the game he’d been playing last night at the inn.

One part of her mind insisted that she should be struggling, that she should plant her hands firmly on his chest and shove.

Most of her mind was on a different track.

Lifting her hands, she placed them on his shoulders, used the contact to steady her as she stretched up—and pressed her lips to his.

Kissed him. Just a kiss, a light one—enough to shock him and stop him from pursuing the question of what she was doing.

Just a quick kiss—because she knew, now, that he was as affected by her as she was by him—and she’d never been so tempted in her life.

Never been interested, never wanted to know, to understand why a man wanted her. But Jonas Tallent was different; with him, she had to know.

Distracting him from her search was her excuse, but just like all Colytons, discovery and exploration—plunging into the unknown with reckless abandon—were her true motives.

Discovery and exploration were uppermost in her mind. His lips were cool, firm, less soft than her own. Sheer shock had frozen him, his lips immobile, unresisting as with her own, she tested them.

Briefly. She knew she had to draw back. Reluctantly she started to lower her heels.

At her back, his hands moved. And then he was holding her, strong fingers spreading over her back, palms gripping her sides as he kept her where she was.

And took over the kiss.

Bent his head and pressed his lips to hers. Tested her lips as she had his.

But the result was quite different. Sensations washed through her, warm and enticing. A thrill, quite novel, played along her nerves. Seeped into her brain and seeded a suggestion, a thought, a want.

A desire.

To know more—to discover more.

The pressure of his lips on hers increased, subtly tempting. They shifted on hers, openly luring…

He drew back a fraction, then with the tip of his tongue swept her lower lip, gently coaxing, beckoning…

And she followed. For the first time in her life she wanted to know, to feel, to experience a kiss, all a kiss could be.

She parted her lips, and let him in.

Jonas all but shuddered. Felt ridiculously giddy as he accepted her invitation, felt immeasurably honored to have gained it. Her mouth was all sweetness, lusciously tempting; he took, pressed further, carefully claimed.

Carefully learned. Her innocence was transparent, at least to him; fresh and alluring—not the innocence of ignorance, not passive or shy, but alive and eager and elementally untouched.

She’d been kissed before, but not willingly. He was the first man she’d ever welcomed; that knowledge was certain, undisputed in his mind, and brought with it a responsibility, of which, as he found her tongue with his and gently stroked, he was acutely aware.

He hadn’t expected her to kiss him, hadn’t imagined she would—hadn’t thought of it, hadn’t been prepared—had no plan in place—to deal with the eventuality. He’d wanted to kiss her—had since he’d first laid eyes on her—but he hadn’t seen it happening that day. Now it was…

Now she’d kissed him, then gifted him with her mouth, now she was standing before him, his hands holding her as they communed…now the moment was upon him, he couldn’t think beyond the sweetness.

The simple, heady sweetness of her.

He couldn’t get enough of it.

Had to have more.

Enthralled, Em let him explore as he wished—somewhat stunned, shaken off balance to find herself the object of exploration, instead of the explorer. The concept expanded in her mind, and made her shiver.

He sensed it, felt it; he angled his head and deepened the kiss. His tongue filled her mouth—fascinated, she permitted it.

Reveled in the heat, in the subtle tensing of his body, in the sensation of being soft and vulnerable in his hands.

She tensed at the thought. Realized on a rush of near panic that she was indeed helpless—a willing wanton, or at least had been.

But she didn’t have to fight to free herself—didn’t even have to whip up her vanished strength to struggle. He knew, read her reaction, and slowly but definitely brought the kiss to an albeit reluctant end.

She didn’t need to think to know he was reluctant; the fact screamed in every slow, deliberate movement, in the reined grip of his hands at her sides. Yet that very control, the fact he’d stopped immediately she’d wanted to, left her immeasurably reassured.

Reconfirmed that, as she’d thought, he was, indeed, an honorable man.

That she was, indeed, safe with him. Or at least, from him.

Where he was concerned, the danger lay in her.

Their lips parted—slowly. He lifted his head, set her back on her feet, only then raised his thickly lashed lids and met her eyes.

The heat in his was impossible to mistake.

It stole her breath, made her inwardly quake.

His eyes searched hers; at such close quarters his gaze was hotly piercing.

She tried to ease back. Again he had to tell his hands to let her go, but he did.

He straightened, his gaze still locked with hers. His face seemed harder, all sharp angles and rugged planes. “If that was meant to make me lose interest in you and your doings…permit me to inform you you’ve sadly miscalculated.”

The gravelly tenor of the words—pure masculine possessiveness—made narrowing her eyes easy. “Me and my doings,” she tartly informed him, “are no concern of yours.”

Unrelentingly he held her gaze. “Before, possibly. Now?” His lips curved with pure predatory intent. “Not a chance.”

She narrowed her eyes as far as they would go, pinned him with a fulminating glare, then swung around and stalked back to the door.

Turning his head, Jonas watched her go, then quietly reiterated, “Not a chance, Emily Beauregard. No chance at all.”

Turning, he followed her back into the house.

I
f Emily Beauregard thought she could kiss him like that—and then look at him with stars in her eyes even though it had been broad daylight—and
then
expect him to let her be, she was not just sadly mistaken, she was…

“Daft!”
Striding along the path through the wood on his way to the manor, Jonas kicked a fallen branch from his path. “Utterly, incomprehensibly daft.”

Regardless, knowing the odd notions females were wont to take into their brains, he fully expected her to continue to try to dismiss him.

Much good would it do her.

After that kiss, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else—other than kissing her again.

Other than what might follow—if he had any say in things, that
would
follow—beyond that next kiss.

In the meantime, he intended to get to the bottom of what had brought her and her family to Colyton. He was determined to learn what it was she was searching for. Clearly she imagined it might be at Ballyclose, although exactly where eluded him; the kitchen garden seemed an odd place to look. If she told him what she sought, he could ask Cedric, and then they would know.

Why she needed to keep her search, and presumably its object, a secret, he had no clue, but he’d already considered—and discarded—the notion that it might be in any way illegal.

The idea of Miss Emily Beauregard involved in something untoward, let alone nefarious, was simply untenable. Indeed, laughable. How he could be so sure of that he didn’t know, but he was. She was the sort who, on finding a shilling in the road, would insist on asking through the entire village
and
all the outlying farms to find the owner.

No. The reason Emily was keeping her real business in Colyton a secret was a matter of trust.

Once she trusted him, she would tell him all.

Until then…he would keep an eagle eye on her to make sure she didn’t get into any difficulties while engaged in her secret search.

Why he felt responsible for her safety—especially considering her “me and my doings are no concern of yours” declaration—was a matter he didn’t, at that point, deem it necessary to define. Regardless of all and any logic, he felt compelled to watch over her—and that was that.

Regardless of all else, it felt right.

The manor appeared ahead of him, its slate roof a gray glimmer through the trees. He’d already passed the side path leading to the back of the inn—had slowed, wondered…but then he’d lengthened his stride and continued on. Emily—Em—would be safe enough for the moment; there was someone else he needed to see.

Needed to recruit, to get on his side.

The path led to the manor’s stables, and thence to the back door. Cutting through the wood, the path was the shortest route between the Grange and the manor; everyone from both houses used it frequently, especially since Phyllida had left the Grange and taken up residence with Lucifer at the manor. Jonas’s appearance in the manor’s kitchen therefore caused no great surprise. He saluted Mrs. Hemmings, Phyllida’s housekeeper and cook; hands in a bowl of dough, she called a cheery greeting as he moved on to the butler’s pantry.

There he found that worthy polishing silverware.

“Good morning, Bristleford. Any idea where m’sister is?”

“Good morning, sir. I believe you’ll find the mistress in the drawing room.”

Jonas frowned. “The drawing room?” Phyllida rarely sat in the more formal room, preferring the family parlor.

“Indeed, sir—she has the lady from the inn with her. Miss Beauregard.”

“Ah.” Brows rising, he nodded his thanks, noting Bristleford’s description of Emily. Like Mortimer, Bristleford rarely mistook anyone’s status.

Heading into the house, Jonas pushed through the door that gave onto the back of the entrance hall, then strode to the front room on the right.

He paused in the doorway, meeting both pairs of eyes that, alerted by his footsteps, had turned his way.

One pair, the same dark brown as his own, was filled with mild interest. The other pair, bright hazel, widened, but surprise was quickly superseded by wariness.

He smiled. “Good morning, ladies.” Strolling to where they sat side by side on the chaise, he bent and bussed the cheek Phyllida offered, then nodded to Emily. “Miss Beauregard.” He looked at the three books she had in her lap. “I take it you’re a keen reader?”

Phyllida sat back, her eyes scanning his face. “Miss Beauregard inquired about the village’s history. Naturally, Edgar sent her here.” She glanced at Emily. “Lucifer’s gone into Axminster, so I’m helping Miss Beauregard as best I can…” Phyllida returned her gaze to his face. “But I’m not sure where all the books on village history are. Do you know?”

He’d been watching Emily’s face throughout, could clearly see chagrin behind her polite expression. Smiling easily, he held out a hand. “Let me see what you’ve discovered.”

She handed him the books. He checked their spines, ignoring the speculation in Phyllida’s eyes.

Being his sister—more, his twin—she was acutely sensitive to his moods, could all too often read his thoughts—often too well for his comfort. Despite neither he nor Emily having done or said anything in any way indicative, Phyllida had already noted the undercurrents between them—and was now alert and watching avidly.

“There are more books on the village than these.” He handed the volumes back to Emily, caught her eye. “Were you interested in any aspect in particular?”

Em shook her head. “No—just the history in general.” She glanced at Phyllida. “As I mentioned to Mrs. Cynster, as I hope to reinstate the inn as the center of village life, I thought to learn what, if any, traditions might apply.” She turned her smile upward, to Jonas Tallent’s face. “Beyond that, I am, of course, interested in the village I now call home.”

He knew she wasn’t telling him the whole truth; she could see his cynicism in his eyes. Sensed him hesitating, searching for some way to press her, she steeled herself to avoid revealing more.

A clatter of footsteps coming down the stairs, then rapidly pattering around the front hall, drew their gazes to the open doorway.

Abruptly Miss Sweet appeared, hands waving wildly. “Oh! There you are, Phyllida dear.” Miss Sweet looked faintly stricken. “I’m afraid they’ve escaped and are on the loose.”

Phyllida’s eyes widened. She rose—just as an earsplitting shriek sounded from overhead.

They all looked up, then Phyllida sighed and shook her head. A smile tugged at her lips. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Beauregard, I fear I must attend to the causes of that disturbance.” Her gaze shifted to Jonas. “But my brother will no doubt be able to help you further.”

Em rose, gripping the three books. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your time.” She held up the books. “If you’re sure I might borrow these?”

“Of course.” Phyllida was already heading briskly to the door. “Books exist to be read—history books especially.” Pausing in the doorway, she looked back at Jonas.

Who smiled. “I’ll find some of the other books for Miss Beauregard, then come up and rescue you.”

Phyllida laughed, inclined her head to them both, and left. Miss Sweet had already fluttered ahead.

As their footsteps faded, Em glanced at Jonas—Mr. Tallent—only to discover he was looking at her. Steadily. This was the first time they’d been together and alone since that unwise kiss the previous afternoon; she’d expected to feel awkward, even embarassed—she had kissed him first after all, and then invited more—but his focus on learning her goal left her no time to indulge in missish sensibilities. She hefted the three books. “These will very likely be enough—at least to begin with.” She started for the door.

He raised his brows, and followed. “There are more books here—the ones you have are relatively general.”

When she merely inclined her head and kept walking, Jonas added, “I thought your true interest lay in specifics—like houses.” She glanced at him. He caught her eye. “Ballyclose Manor, for instance.”

She halted, plainly torn. “Anyone who comes to the village would be interested in the background of a house like Ballyclose.” Eyes on his, she said, “As your innkeeper, knowing more about the houses round about, those with staff who consider the village their home territory, is essential.”

“So your interest in the surrounding houses is driven purely by your innkeeper’s duty?”

She hesitated before nodding—then tried to make the action decisive. Convincing. “Just so.”

He sighed. And stepped toward her.

Eyes flaring, she stepped back.

He repeated the exercise, once, twice, and had her neatly backed into a corner with bookshelves stretching to either side. She realized, halted, then stiffened, tilted her chin, and glared at him. “Mr. Tallent.”

He shifted a half step nearer, raised a hand to brush an errant curl from her cheek. Met her eyes. “Jonas.”

She tried to draw in a huge breath, but her lungs had constricted. Just a touch, the lightest caress, and he’d distracted her. The knowledge sent a surge of unexpected lust through him—effectively distracting him.

Her lids had lowered, but beneath the screen of her lashes her gaze fastened on his lips.

He stopped thinking. Acted instead.

Raising one hand—slowly—he framed her delicate jaw, tipped up her face, and brought his lips down to hers.

Covered them gently, slowly, giving her plenty of time to resist.

She didn’t—just sighed softly when his lips cruised hers.

He shifted still closer, and gave her what she wished—took what he wanted. Another kiss.

Different from the first. It was as if their lips, their mouths, knew the other’s, recognized the touch, the taste, the texture. And hungered for more.

She had the three books locked against her chest, a barrier keeping their bodies apart. Leaving both of them focused solely on the kiss, on the melding of mouths, the rising heat of lips and tongues, the tactile communion.

He felt greedy, hungry, urgently so.

She seemed to be the same, if not quite so certain. She followed rather than led, but as the kiss grew hotter, deeper, she was with him every inch of the way.

Then she moved into him, and he felt his control quake.

An unprecedented happening sufficiently unusual to shake some of his wits back into place.

Blindly reaching to either side, he locked his hands on the bookshelves, once more caging her. Far safer than sweeping her into his arms, which was what his more primitive self was demanding.

He broke the kiss just enough to say, “What are you searching for?”

One small hand rose to his cheek to guide his lips back to hers. “Nothing.” Her lips found his as she breathed, “Nothing.”

He kissed her again, and she kissed him, and for a moment more nothing else mattered.

But he knew it couldn’t go on. Not the kiss, nor his not knowing.

He drew back, broke the contact. Arms braced on either side of her, he waited until she drew breath and lifted her gaze to his eyes. “Tell me what you’re searching for.”

She held his gaze. The moment stretched. “No. As I told you before, it’s none of your concern.”

“You’re wrong. It is.”

She tilted her chin, between them gripped the books more tightly. “Mr. Tallent.”

“Jonas.” He looked at her lips, willed her to say his name.

Instead, the tempting curves compressed into a grim line. Using the books like a shield, she pushed against his chest. “If you please…?”

He brought his gaze back to her eyes. Then, slowly, he released his hold on the shelves, straightened, and stepped back. “I can probably locate more books on the village.”

She brushed past him. “Thank you, but no.” She bustled toward the door. “These will be enough to begin with.”

He followed her through the doorway and across the front hall. She stopped before the front door. Reaching past her, he gripped the knob, turned, then stopped. Caught her eyes. “For the moment.”

Her eyes glittered with both temper and understanding, the comprehension that he wasn’t talking about the books.

He opened the door and she swept past him. “Good day, Mr. Tallent.”

Propping one shoulder against the door frame, he watched her march down the path to the gate. Opening it, she went through. She didn’t glance at him when she turned back to latch it, but she knew he was there, watching.

He didn’t hear her sniff, but he suspected she did before turning and marching off down the road.

Every instinct he possessed urged him to follow—to continue the discussion they’d started in the corner of the drawing room.

That discussion was far from over, but…straightening, he stepped back and shut the door.

Emily Beauregard was going to the inn, which he owned. Letting her escape—letting her imagine she had—wasn’t a bad move; all the better to surprise her later.

Meanwhile…turning, he headed for the stairs. His purpose in coming to the Grange remained unfulfilled. Reaching the first floor, he set out to hunt down Phyllida.

Securing his twin’s support was worth letting Emily Beauregard escape…for half an hour or so.

E
m marched into the Red Bells in an uncharacteristic fluster—which, of course, she couldn’t allow to show. She forced herself to slow, to smile easily at the customers already gathering in anticipation of the pies from which mouthwatering smells were wafting through the inn and out along the road.

The pies, clearly, would be a success. One thing she didn’t need to worry her head about.

Indeed, bit by bit, element by element, under her guidance the inn was progressively transforming. She was now confident she could turn the Red Bells into the establishment she’d envisioned, the institution she thought it should be.

Its owner was the only fly in her ointment.

Her attraction to him was bad enough, difficult enough, but his attraction to her was even worse. The former she could control; the latter appeared to be entirely beyond her influence.

Making her way to her office, she set the three books on the desk—then stood staring down at them, not truly seeing the spines and covers.

There could no longer be any doubt that her employer…had a certain interest in her. That he returned her interest in him in equal measure. What worried her was what he imagined that combination would lead to. She was his innkeeper, gentry or not; a liaison was the most that could exist between them—more likely an affair of relatively limited duration from what little she knew of gentlemen of his class.

Her class.

Which was the sticking point. Ladies of her ilk, innkeepers or not, didn’t indulge in liaisons, let alone affairs, at least not before they were married and established and had given their husbands heirs.

She could pretend to be an innkeeper, but she couldn’t stop being herself.

As Jonas—Mr. Tallent—could have nothing more than a liaison in mind, her way forward with respect to him was unquestionably clear. Wherever possible, she should avoid him at all costs, and when she failed in that, she would steadfastly keep pretending that he didn’t affect her.

Didn’t make her yearn for anything at all.

“There!” Lips tight, she stacked the books determinedly. “Decision made.” Rounding the desk, she dropped her reticule into the bottom drawer, shut it, straightened and smoothed down her skirts.

Drew breath, lifted her head, plastered on an easy smile, and swept out to the kitchen.

She spent the next half hour with Hilda, working out the necessary ingredients for a week of various sorts of pies. Then Issy came in with the twins in tow. Seeing Em, the terrible two immediately started complaining about having to practice every morning on the old piano in the common room.

“And
then
,” Bea stated, “Issy dragged us out and up that huge great hill.”

Issy rolled her eyes. “Just up the hill to the church.”

“It was windy!” Gert settled at the table. “But Issy said we had to go up there for inspration.”

“Inspiration,” Issy patiently corrected. She met Em’s eyes. “Drawing lessons this afternoon.”

Em nodded. She looked at the twins. “I hope you’ve both got a view in mind. I’ll come up and see your drawings when you’re finished.”

They would have grumbled, but Hilda chose that moment to place pies fresh from the oven before them, and assuaging their appetites took precedence over all else.

Em exchanged a fond glance with Issy.

Hilda offered Issy a pie, but Issy waved it aside. “I’ll eat later with the rest of you. I want to see how the pies do.”

As it was Issy who, together with Hilda, had designed the various fillings, Em acquiesced. As long as Issy’s culinary contributions were limited to designing recipes, she was content.

She, too, circulated through the common room as the pies were ferried out and placed before eager customers. Em watched the faces, saw eyes close as mouths chewed, before, with every evidence of gustatory delight, her patrons gave their full and undivided attention to devouring the pastries.

Across the room, she met Issy’s eyes and smiled—content indeed. They’d be sold out within the hour.

Circling back to the kitchen door, she paused beside Issy and Hilda, who’d come to look. “Double the quantity tomorrow, I’d say.”

“Aye.” Hilda nodded, a beaming grin splitting her lined face. “Double tomorrow, and after that we’ll see.”

Em swanned back through the common room, intending to head through the tap to her office. Old Mrs. Smollet, seated near the door, waved her over to compliment her on the mutton pie.

“Thank you—I’ll be sure to pass on your kind words.” Turning away, Em paused in the shaft of sunlight streaming through the inn’s open door. Taking a step back the better to survey her domain, she couldn’t have been more gratified; their lunchtime crowd already exceeded the evening crowd prior to her appointment.

She was just thinking that her employer should be pleased when the light about her faded.

Even without turning, she knew he’d arrived—as if conjured by her thoughts—and was literally darkening her door.

Her first impulse was to rush—not walk—to the sanctuary of her office, but there was no safe haven there, not from him. She was about to move when it struck her that she was safer—as safe as she could be—where she was, in full view of a goodly portion of the village.

She settled back on her heels, every nerve aware that he was standing less than a foot behind her.

“You’re to be congratulated, Miss Beauregard. The inn is prospering under your care.”

The words rumbled past her ear, his deep voice converting the polite phrases into something close to a caress.

Without turning around, she somewhat stiffly inclined her head. “Thank you. I’ll convey your approval to the staff.”

“Do.”

She heard the amusement in his voice, knew he’d goad her into some response if she didn’t get away from him soon.

Even as she looked for it, salvation appeared. She waved to the plates one of Hilda’s nieces was ferrying to a table. “Have you had luncheon? The mutton pies are already gone, but I can recommend the game pie.”

She waited—sensed a certain hiatus behind her—then his voice reached her, pitched lower than before.

“Would that my hunger could be so easily assuaged.”

She couldn’t stop herself from turning around, could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

The sight of him lounging in the doorway, one shoulder propped negligently against the frame—all that delectable maleness a bare foot away—didn’t help. She had to force her gaze up to his face.

He met her eyes, arched a brow.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “If we can’t tempt you with a game pie, then sadly we have nothing else to offer.”

His lips curved. “Not on offer, perhaps, not yet, but who can tell what you might put on your menu one day soon?”

She understood perfectly—more heat flooded her cheeks—but she determinedly feigned innocence. “As a matter of fact, we were discussing chicken and leek pies only an hour ago.”

“Is that so?” His dark eyes held hers. “Regardless, I believe I’ll wait for something a little more…satisfying.”

The deep brown of his eyes glinted, sinfully wicked. His lips held a suggestive curve. Far too clearly she could remember them on hers…

She cleared her throat. “I can’t imagine what you might consider more satisfying than a game pie.”

His smile deepened. “It’s a secret.”

Her secret. “I doubt any secrets will appear on the menu.”

“We’ll see. And then, of course”—his gaze lowered to her lips—“there’s a certain sweetness to which I’ve discovered I’m decidedly partial.”

She sucked in a breath, tried her best to summon a glare—difficult with her head spinning. “Sweet things are
definitely
not on our menu.”

“Not yet, perhaps, but…we’ll see.”

He shifted, straightened, reached out, took her elbow, and moved her to the side, so the Thompson brothers could brush past and leave.

Both brothers, large and hulking, exchanged familiar nods with Jonas—Mr. Tallent!—to which he responded with graceful ease.

His attention returned to her, but she’d finally found her wits. Drawing herself up, she inclined her head. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get back to running your inn.”

He considered her for a moment, then nodded. “As you wish. But I’ll be back, Miss Beauregard, however many times it takes, until I’m satisfied.”

She couldn’t bear to let him have the last word—especially not a word like that, loaded, positively burdened, with innuendo. “I believe you’ll discover, sir, that your endeavor will be in vain.”

She’d intended to move away, but his fingers tightened warningly about her elbow.

Then he bent his head.

She froze, thoughts scattering in panic. Surely he wouldn’t kiss her in the common room before a dozen interested customers?

The answer was no. To her immense relief, all he did was lean close so no one could possibly hear him but her.

He lowered his voice, too, until his tone reverberated, resonated, through her. His eyes trapped hers; at such close quarters, his were mesmerizing.

“There’s something you ought to know, Emily Beauregard.” He spoke quietly, evenly, but there was weight behind every word. “I intend to learn all your secrets, and I intend to have you, and I’m a very determined and patient man.”

Involuntarily, her eyes searched his, confirmed he meant each and every word. Her head swam; she struggled to draw breath. What could she say to cap such a bald-faced declaration?

Finally succeeding in dragging in a breath, she decided discretion was the better part of valor. Twisting her elbow free of his light grip, she swung around and set off for her office.

Then she halted, head rising, and swung back to face him. Eyes blazing, she met his. “We’ll see about that!”

No one but he could interpret the phrase.

With a terse nod, she swung around and reset her course for the safety of the kitchen.