The Perfect Lover (12 page)

J
ames’s words proved prophetic; the priory was every bit as accommodating as he’d intimated. Located on an escarpment, the ruins were extensive; while the views were not as good as those from the lookout, they were nonetheless very pleasant.

The stretch of ancient, overgrown lawn where the picnic was set out afforded a pleasant vista over valley and fields merging into a blue-grey distance. The day was warm, but the sun remained hidden by light cloud; a wafting breeze stirred the leaves and set the wildflowers nodding.

Once the food and wine were consumed, the older members of the party were content to sit back and swap tales and opinions on society and the world. Everyone else dispersed to explore the ruins.

They were as romantic as any young lady might wish, the tumbled stones well settled, not dangerous, in parts overgrown with creepers. Here and there an arch remained, framing a view; in other places walls still stood. A portion of the cloisters provided a sunny nook in which to take one’s ease.

Since seeing her walking in the gardens that morning, Simon had been unable to shift his attention from Portia. Even when she was not directly in view, he was aware of her, like the caress of silk across naked skin—her presence now affected him in precisely the same way. He watched her, helpless not to, even though he knew she was aware of it. He wanted to know—
had
to know—couldn’t let go of the possibilities that unlooked-for kiss on the terrace had raised.

He hadn’t intended it; he knew she hadn’t either, yet it had happened. Why such an interaction, so minor in the scheme of such things, should so grip his interest was a riddle he wasn’t sure he needed solved.

Yet he couldn’t leave it, couldn’t shake aside the insane idea that had rushed into his mind on a torrent of conviction and taken up implacable, immovable residence. The idea that had kept him awake half the night.

Regardless of his impluses, he knew better than to crowd her or to make their awareness of each other public knowledge. When, with the others, she happily rose and set out to explore, he ambled along some distance behind, with Charlie and James supposedly keeping a general eye on proceedings.

The Hammond girls went quickly ahead, hallooing and giggling. Oswald and Swanston, clinging to spurious superiority, followed, but not too fast. Desmond walked beside Winifred; they parted from the other ladies, taking a different route into the ruins. Drusilla, Lucy, and Portia strolled on, Portia swinging her hat by its ribbons.

Henry and Kitty had remained with the elders—Mrs. Archer, Lady Glossup, and Lady O had all felt the need to engage Kitty in conversation. James, therefore, was relaxed and smiling as they walked through the arch into what had once been the church’s nave.

Simon, too, smiled.

It took him fifteen minutes to lose James to Drusilla Calvin. When she paused to rest on a fallen stone, urging Lucy and Portia to go on, Simon paused, too, frowning, communicating his thoughts to James without words; James felt obliged to remain with Drusilla, entertaining her as best he could.

Charlie was a more difficult proposition, not least because he, too, had his eye on Portia—quite why, and with what aim, Simon was certain Charlie himself didn’t know. Considering his tactics, with Charlie beside him he lengthened his stride, closing the distance to Lucy and Portia, eventually joining them.

Both turned and smiled.

He addressed himself to Lucy. “So are the ruins all you’d hoped for?”

“Indeed, yes!” Face alight, eyes shining, Lucy spread her arms wide. “It’s quite wonderfully atmospheric. Why, one could easily imagine a ghost or two, even a sepulchral company of monks slowly making their way up the nave, censers swinging. Or perhaps a chant, emanating through the mists when there’s no one there.”

Portia laughed. Simon looked at her, caught her eye; distracted, she didn’t utter the response she’d been about to make.

Leaving Charlie to say, “Oh, there’s many more possibilities than that.” He flashed Lucy his most engaging smile. “What about the crypt? Now
there’s
a place for imaginings. The tombs are still there, guaranteed to send a shiver down your spine.”

Lucy’s eyes had grown round. “Where?” She swiveled, looking around. “Is it near?”

Her gaze returned to Charlie, eager and appreciative; as usual, he responded in his customary way.

“It’s on the other side of the church.” With a flourish, he offered his arm, totally distracted from his earlier aim by the giddy enthusiasm in Lucy’s eyes. “Come—I’ll escort you there. If you’re a lover of atmosphere, you won’t want to miss it.”

Lucy happily slipped her hand in his arm. Over her head, Charlie arched a brow at Simon and Portia. “Coming?”

Simon waved him on. “We’ll stroll on a little way. We’ll meet you in the cloisters.”

Charlie blinked, hesitated, then inclined his head. “Right-ho.” He turned back to Lucy; they started on their way. “There’s a story about a sound heard on dark and moonless nights . . .”

Simon turned back to Portia in time to see her smile, then she caught his eye; her smile faded. Head rising, she studied his face, his eyes. He studied hers, and couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

He waved, directing her on along the old paved path that wound down and around to the priory’s kitchen gardens. She turned, stepped out.

“You knew about the crypt, didn’t you?”

He followed close behind her, coming alongside as the path evened out. “Charlie and I have visited often over the years.”

Portia smothered a grin and dutifully strolled on. He had a habit of not specifically answering questions he would rather not, questions whose answers revealed more of him than he wished to have known. Yet she was more than content to spend some time alone with him; she had no real interest in the ruins, but there were other matters she wished to explore.

They walked on in silence, oddly companionable. The sun briefly broke through, warm, but not too strong; she didn’t feel obliged to put on her hat—aside from anything else, it made conversing with tall gentlemen difficult.

She could feel his gaze as they walked, feel his presence, and something more, a facet of his behavior she’d noticed years before, but which had only become clear in recent days. The constant flirting—Kitty, James, Charlie, Lucy, even the Hammond girls—had sharpened the contrast; Simon never flirted, never extended himself to engage, unless he had a purpose—unless he acted with intent.

He prowled beside her now, long strides lazy, the disguised power that invested every movement never more apparent. They were in an ancient place, alone. Whatever they said, whatever happened between them here would not need to conform to any social requirements. Only their own.

Whatever they wished, whatever they wanted.

She drew a deep breath, aware of her bodice tightening, aware that he noticed. A tingle of anticipation tickled her spine. They’d reached the kitchen gardens, originally walled, but now the walls were crumbling. The ruined kitchens lay to one side, the remains of the prior’s house beyond them. She stopped, glanced around. They were out of sight of everyone, essentially private. She turned to face Simon.

A scant foot lay between them. He’d halted and was waiting, watching—waiting to see what tack she’d take. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist taking—doing—something.

She lifted her chin. Fixed her eyes on his.

Couldn’t find the words.

His eyes narrowed, searched hers, then he raised a hand, slowly, placed the tip of one finger beneath the angle of her jaw, just beneath her ear, and traced forward, tipping her face up. The simple touch sent sensation skittering through her, left her skin tingling.

She was tall, but he was a good half head taller; his fingertip beneath the point of her chin brought their faces closer.

“I assume you’re intent on learning more?”

His voice was deep, hypnotic. She kept her gaze locked with his. “Naturally.”

She could read absolutely nothing in his face, yet the sense of being considered, like prey, grew.

“What did you have in mind?”

The invitation was blatant—and exactly what she wanted.

She raised her brows, faintly haughty, knowing the challenge would not escape him—and he would not escape it. “I’d imagined the next step.”

His lips curved, just a little; now that she knew what they felt like, she found them fascinating, both visually and in the expectation of how they would feel . . .

“And just what had you imagined that to be?”

She watched the words form on his lips; they took a moment to penetrate her brain. Then she hauled her gaze up to his eyes, blinked. “I’d imagined . . . another kiss.”

Calculation flashed through his eyes, enough to tell her she might have answered differently, that there was more yet she could have learned . . . if she’d known to ask for it.

“Another kiss? So be it”—his head lowered, her lids followed—“if that’s all you really want.”

The last words drifted into her mind, pure temptation, as his lips settled on hers, warm, firm, more definite this time, more sure, more commanding. She knew how to respond now and did, parting her lips, inviting him in. His hand shifted, long fingers sliding to cup her nape, his thumb remaining beneath her chin, holding her steady as he angled his head and—as she’d demanded—took the kiss further.

Deeper, into some realm that was hotter, more exciting. More intimate.

She felt it in her bones, felt her senses unfurl like petals under a sensual sun. And went forward with eagerness and delight.

Lifting one hand, she lightly touched, lingeringly traced his cheek. Drew breath from him and kissed him back—shyly testing, trying, mimicking—growing more assured when she sensed, not only his acceptance, but beneath his expertise and his strength, an elusive, beguiling need.

Caught in the deepening intimacy of the kiss, in the slow tangle of their tongues, the long moments of disguised but insistent plunder, she was nevertheless aware of his arm closing around her, of his other hand spreading over her back, supporting her, trapping her, easing her nearer, tempting her closer yet.

His strength was a palpable force surrounding her; she was tall and slender while he was taller, broader, infinitely stronger. She felt like a reed to his oak, not that he would snap her, but that he could, and would, bend her to his will . . .

A shiver raced through her, an echo of what must have gone through some other woman, centuries before, when she’d stood, caught, in some long-ago Cynster’s embrace. Just because time had passed didn’t mean anything had changed; he was very much that earlier conqueror, disguised only by a veneer of sophistication. Scratch him, and the roar would be the same.

She knew it, yet the knowledge didn’t stop her from inviting more. Indeed, the implicit challenge only made her bolder. Bold enough to close the distance between them until her bodice brushed his coat, until her skirts tangled with his legs and covered his boots, to rest her forearm on his shoulder and spear her fingers, slowly, experimentally, through his soft hair.

Simon felt his control quake; he locked every muscle against the rampant urge to draw her fully against him. To give his clamoring senses that much ease at least, to feel her lithe body molded to his. Cleaving to his as she would, sometime . . .

But not yet.

He could feel the compulsion rising within him and fought to suppress it, let it find expression only in his increasingly ravenous plundering of her mouth.

Soft, warm, she offered and he took, flagrantly claiming, guiding her deeper into the intimacy, until her lips, tongue, the succulent recesses of her mouth were his to savor as he wished.

He wanted much more. Wanted the promise of the body in his arms—wanted to claim it, to dictate her surrender, to have her soft body offered up as appeasement to the hardness of his.

A second kiss—that was all she’d asked for. Even though he knew in his conqueror’s soul that she wouldn’t complain if he took their interaction further, he knew her. Far too well to make the mistake of giving her more than she’d haughtily requested. She was foolish to trust him, him or any man, as she was, yet he was too wise in her ways not to abide by the letter and intent of her trust.

He intended to build on it, and so gain a great deal more.

Drawing back to safe ground was an effort, accomplished step by step, degree by reluctant degree. When their lips finally parted, they remained for an instant, heads close, breaths mingling. Then he lifted his head, and she did the same, blinking up at him. Realizing, as did he, as her eyes searched his, that the landscape between them had altered. New vistas had opened up, ones neither had previously imagined might be. She was enthralled . . . as was he.

She realized his hands were about her waist; dragging in a breath she stepped back. He let her, his fingers releasing, reluctantly sliding from her.

Her eyes were still locked on his, but her mind was racing. She was still short of breath, suddenly uncertain. She looked lost.

He smiled—charmingly. Reaching out, he tucked a stray curl back behind her ear. Raised a brow, faintly teasing. “Satisfied?”