The Perfect Lover (39 page)

The wind rose, bringing with it the scent of rain. She seemed content, as was he, simply to stand and let the peace of the night restore their own.

He’d followed her that morning, stepping off the terrace obediently twenty yards in her wake, wondering what she intended to think about. He’d thought himself—had wished for the ability, at any time, to stop her thinking about them at all.

When she did . . . it worried him, bothered him. The prospect that she would think too much about their relationship, and convince herself it was too dangerous, too threatening to pursue, frightened him.

A telling fear, a revealing vulnerability.

He knew that, too.

Finally, perhaps, was close to understanding it.

She’d always been “the one”—the only female who effortlessly impinged on his consciousness, and on his senses, simply by existing. He’d always known she was in some way special to him, but being acquainted from the first with her attitude to men, men like him in particular, he’d hidden the truth away, refused to acknowledge what it was. What it might grow—had grown—to be.

He no longer had the option of denying it. The past days had stripped away all the veils, all his careful screens. Leaving what he felt for her starkly revealed, at least to him.

She hadn’t seen it yet, but she would.

And what she would do then, what she would decide then . . .

He focused on her, standing slender and straight by the balustrade. Felt the welling urge to simply seize her and be damned, to give up all pretense of letting her come to her own decision, to come to him of her own accord, rise up and flow through him, fed and strengthened by the latest dangers . . . yet he knew the first step he took in that direction would be like a slap in the face to her.

She’d stop trusting him, step back.

And he’d lose her.

The rising wind set the ends of her hair dancing. It felt fresh, cooler; the rain was not far away.

He pushed away from the wall, stepped toward her—

Heard a grating sound high above. Looked up.

Saw a shadow detach from the roof high above.

He flung himself at Portia, caught her, threw them both along the terrace, cushioning her fall, shielding her.

An urn from the roof crashed to the flags precisely where she’d been. With a sound like a cannon shot, it shattered.

One flying fragment struck his arm, raised to shelter her; pain stabbed, then was gone.

Silence—absolute—descended, shocking in contrast.

He looked up, realized the danger, quickly urged Portia to her feet.

Inside, someone screamed. Pandemonium followed; Lord Glossup and Lord Netherfield appeared at the terrace doors.

One glance was enough to tell them what must have happened.

“Good Lord!” Lord Glossup strode out. “Are you all right, m’dear?”

Her fingers clenched tight in Simon’s coat, Portia managed a nod. Lord Glossup awkwardly patted her shoulder, then hurried on and down the steps. Striding onto the lawn, he turned and looked up at the roof.

“Can’t see anyone up there, but my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

From the drawing room door, Lord Netherfield beckoned. “Come inside.”

Simon glanced down at Portia, felt her straighten, stiffen her spine, then she stepped out of his arms and let him guide her to the door.

Inside, alarmed, her color high, Lady O scowled and thumped the rug with her cane. “What
is
the world coming to, I’d like to know?”

Blenkinsop opened the door and looked in. “Yes, my lord?”

Lord Netherfield waved. “Get Stokes. There’s been an attack on Miss Ashford.”

“Oh, dear.” Lady Calvin went deathly pale.

Mrs. Buckstead shifted to sit beside her and chafed her hands. “Now, now—Miss Ashford is here, and unharmed.”

Seated beside their mother on the chaise, the Hammond sisters burst into tears. Lady Hammond and Lucy Buckstead, both not much better, tried to comfort them. Mrs. Archer and Lady Glossup looked stunned and distressed.

Lord Netherfield looked at Blenkinsop as Lord Glossup returned. “On second thought, tell Stokes to come to the library. We’ll wait for him there.”

They did, but try though they might, there was nothing—no useful information—to be gained from the incident.

With Blenkinsop’s help, the staff pooled their knowledge and fixed the whereabouts of the four principal suspects. James and Desmond had left the drawing room, presumably for their rooms, Henry had been in the estate office, and Ambrose in the study writing letters. All had been alone; all could have done the deed.

Stokes and Lord Glossup went onto the roof; when they returned, Stokes confirmed that it was a simple enough matter to gain access, and any able-bodied man could have pushed the stone urn from its plinth.

“They’re heavy, but not fixed in place.” He looked at Simon; his frown grew blacker. “You’re bleeding.”

Simon glanced at his upper arm. The shard had torn his coat; the jagged edges were bloodstained. “Flesh wound. It’s stopped.”

Portia, in the chair beside him, leaned forward, grabbed his arm, and tugged him around so she could see. Stifling a sigh, he obliged, knowing if he didn’t she’d stand and come to look; she was so pale, he didn’t want her on her feet.

Sighting the wound, minor to his eyes, she paled even more. She looked at Stokes. “If there’s nothing more you need of us, I should like to retire.”

“Of course.” Stokes bowed. “If anything comes up, I can speak with you tomorrow.”

He caught Simon’s eye as both he and Portia stood.

Guessing Stokes was considering reiterating the obvious—that Portia should not be left alone at any time—Simon shook his head. She wasn’t going to be left alone; she didn’t need to be reminded why.

Cupping her elbow, he guided her out of the room, and on through the hall to the stairs. Drawing in a breath, she picked up her skirts and ascended without his assistance.

Reaching the top, she let her skirts fall. “We’ll need to tend that cut.” Turning, she headed for his room.

He frowned, and followed. “It’s nothing. I can’t even feel it.”

“Cuts people can’t feel have been known to turn gangrenous.” Reaching his room, she turned to look at him. “You can’t possibly be worried about washing and salving it. If you can’t feel it, it isn’t going to hurt.”

He halted before her, looked down into her face—determined, stubborn—and still ghostly pale. It was going to hurt, just not in the way she meant. Setting his jaw, he reached past her and pushed the door wide. “If you insist.”

She did, of course, and he had to surrender. Had to sit bare-chested on the end of the bed and let her fuss and fret.

From his earliest years, he’d hated having any female fuss over him—passionately hated having his hurts tended. He had more than his share of scars because of it, but the scars didn’t bother him—feminine fussing, especially the focused, tender care, always had.

Still did; he gritted his teeth, swallowed his pride, and let her get on with it.

He still felt like a conqueror reduced to a helpless six-year-old—helpless in the face of the feminine need to care. In some indefinable way trapped by it, held by it.

He focused on her face, watched, outwardly stoic as she gently bathed, anointed, and bound the cut—which was deeper than he’d supposed. She smoothed gauze about his arm; he looked down at her fingers, long, supple, slender, just like her.

Felt the emotions he had until then held at bay rush in. Fill him.

He lifted his head as those minutes on the terrace replayed in his mind; his muscles hardened in inevitable reaction.

She’d been within his sight, yet he’d come so very close to losing her.

The instant she straightened, he rose and walked to the window. Away from her. Away from the temptation to end the game and seize, claim, decree, and take her from here, out of all danger.

Fought to remember there was more than one way of losing her.

Portia watched him walk away, noticed the stiffness, the way his fists had clenched. Letting him go, she tidied away the basin and cloths. That done, she paused by the bed and studied him.

He stood by the window, looking out, so tensed for action yet so restrained, his will was like a living thing, binding him, constraining him. That suppressed inner tension—was it fear or the reaction to fear, to danger, to her being in danger?—was palpable, thrumming through him, emanating from him, affecting him, and her.

It was all the murderer’s fault. The urn had been the last straw. She’d been frightened, upset, more than she’d realized, but now she was getting angry.

Bad enough that the fiend had murdered, not once but twice, but what he was doing to her now—even worse, what the situation was doing to Simon, to what they were trying to come to grips with between them . . . she’d never been one to let anyone tamper with her life.

Irritation edging through annoyance into outright anger rode her; her temper had always outweighed her fear. She walked to lean against the other side of the window frame. Looked at him across it. “What is it?”

He glanced at her, considered, for once didn’t attempt to evade the question. “I want you safe.”

She considered what she could see in his face, in his eyes. Hear in the harsh tones of his voice. “Why is my safety so important? Why have you always needed to protect me?”

“Because I do.” He looked away, out over the garden. “I always have.”

“I know. But why?”

His jaw set; for one long moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he said, his voice low, “Because you’re important to me. Because . . . in protecting you, I’m protecting myself. Some part of me.” The words, ones of discovery, hadn’t come easily. He turned his head, met her gaze, considered, but left the admission unchanged, unmodified.

She crossed her arms, looked into his eyes. “So what’s really worrying you? You know I’ll let you hover, that I’ll let you protect me, that I’m unlikely to do anything rash, so it’s not that.”

His resistance was a tangible thing, a shimmering wall he slowly, gradually, deliberately, let fall. “I want you
mine
.” His jaw clenched. “And I don’t want this getting in the way.” He drew a deep breath, looked out again. “I want you to promise you won’t hold whatever happens here—whatever happens between us because of this—against me.” Again he met her gaze. “That you won’t put it in your scales. Let it affect your decision.”

She read his eyes, saw both the turmoil, and the lurking predator. The power, the raw force, the primitive need he held back. The masculine need to dominate, reined in only by his iron will; it took courage to see it, recognize it, know she was its object, and not flee.

Equally, its very strength bore witness to his commitment to adjusting as much as he was able, to be her champion against his own instincts.

She held his gaze. “I can’t promise that. I’ll never close my eyes and not see you for what you are, or myself for what I am.”

A tense moment passed, then he said, voice sinking low, “Trust me. That’s all I ask. Just trust me.”

She didn’t answer; it was still too soon. And his “all” encompassed a lifetime.

When she remained mute, he reached for her, turned and drew her fully to him. Bent his head. “When you make your decision, remember this.”

She lifted her arms, wound them about his neck, offered her lips, and her mouth—his, as he wished. In this arena, she was already that, every bit as much as his conqueror’s soul might crave.

He took, accepted, wrapped his arms around her and sank into her mouth, then flagrantly molded her body to his, explicitly foreshadowing all that was to come.

She didn’t draw back, held nothing back—in this sphere, between them, all the barriers had come down.

At least, all hers.

Even as she let him sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed, let him strip away her gown and chemise, stockings and slippers, and lay her naked on his sheets, even as she watched him strip and, naked, join her, set his hands and his lips, his mouth and his tongue to her skin, her body, pressing pleasure and delight on her, even as he parted her thighs and she cradled him as he joined with her, as they rode through the now familiar landscape of passion, through the valley of sensual desire and on, deeper into intimacy, until their skins were slick and heated, their breaths were ragged gasps and their bodies plunged desperately toward ultimate bliss, even then she knew, with an intuition she didn’t question, that he yet held something back, kept some small part of him, some deeper need, screened from her.

He’d asked her to trust him; in this sphere she did. But he didn’t yet fully trust her—not enough to reveal that last little part of him.

Someday, he would.

In the moment that, locked together, they reached the bright peak and tumbled headlong into the void, she realized she’d reached her decision, already committed herself to learning that last fact, gaining that last piece of the jigsaw that was him.

To do it, she would have to become his in all the ways he wished, in all the ways he wanted, and, perhaps, needed.

That was the price of knowing, of being made privy to every last corner of his soul.

As she eased beneath him and they slumped together in the bed, she spread her hands on his back and held him to her, marveling at his weight, at the solid muscle and bone that pressed her into the mattress, yet at the same time protected her, left her feeling safe, cherished, guarded like some treasure.

Running her hands upward, she slid them into his hair, ruffling the silky locks, then smoothing them. She glanced at his face, shadowed in the gloom. Wished he’d lit the candles again, for she loved to see him like this, sated, deeply satisfied, having found his release in her.

There was power, a delicious power, in knowing she had brought him to this.

Shifting her head, she brushed her lips to his temple. “I haven’t thanked you for saving me.”

He humphed. After a moment added, “Later.”

She smiled, lay back, knew that while they lay there together, neither fear nor the murderer could impinge on her world. That the only currency there was what lay between them.