She looked so lost, so confused that Peter’s anger evaporated. He tugged her into his arms, resting his head on the top of hers for several minutes as the silence settled around them.
“I can understand; really I can,” he whispered, wishing there was some other way to get help to her friend.
Jemima tipped her head back to stare up at him. “Can you really?” She wasn’t sure, but was glad he didn’t seem so angry with her.
Silence settled between them, as they stood before the window wrapped in each other’s arms. A sense of inevitability swept through her when Peter slowly lowered his head.
Tendrils of frustration still clung deep, driving Peter to lay siege to her senses. If he couldn’t persuade her to at least take some time to make her decisions on her future, then she was damned well going to feel his mark on her when she left.
Sliding his lips firmly against hers, he was rewarded when after a few brief moments she moaned and opened her mouth to accept the invasion of his tongue. Their lips slipped and slid as tongues tangled in a silent duel. Peter drew her tighter against him until there wasn’t a breath of air between them, but it wasn’t close enough. Driven by the need to protect her, to claim her as his before anything else happened to tear her away from him, he slid a hand into her hair to hold her head still. His tongue probed possessively into the moist recesses of her mouth as he poured all his pain, grief and worry into his kiss.
Jemima felt as though her very soul had been branded. His hot, almost searing, lips against hers laid claim to her senses and rendered her helpless to anything other than accepting his sensual onslaught. She couldn’t have broken away if her life had depended on it.
A soft cough broke the silence, and shattered the sensual web that had woven around them. Peter groaned and reluctantly broke the kiss. Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he reluctantly turned toward the cause of their interruption, willing his wayward body not to embarrass him.
“Sorry to interrupt, but Sir Dunnicliffe needs to give instructions to his men. We need to know about Jemima’s friend,” Dominic explained, shooting his friend an apologetic look before he closed the door, leaving Jemima and Peter alone again.
Jemima eased away from his warm embrace, feeling slightly shaken by the intensity of what just happened.
“I’m not going to apologise for it,” Peter grumbled. “I want you, you know that.”
Jemima simply nodded, hoping her trembling knees would hold her upright long enough to get her out of the door.
“We had better go and give Hugo your friend’s name,” Peter said, making it clear he expected her to do nothing more.
Jemima shot him a quick look, wondering if she should object to his high-handedness, but wisely remained quiet. The journey to the room next door, and the waiting group, was made in a tense silence. Jemima was very aware of Peter dogging her every footstep and wondered if this was the way of the future.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jemima entered the study moments later, aware that conversation had stopped at her entrance. She glanced at Hugo briefly before resuming her seat before the fireplace. She waited until Peter had sat on the chaise beside her, and considered her words carefully for several moments. She knew that what she was about to say would upset someone; she just wasn’t sure who.
“My friend’s name is Harriett Ponsonby, but -” she held up a hand when Hugo shifted on his heels, clearly ready to spring into action. “There is something you need to know about her. Let me tell you before we decide what to do.” Her gaze met and held Hugo’s in silent warning for several moments. “If you ignore me, then you will not get Harriett to agree to anything you want. You can lock her up in the Tower, and won’t get the information she has been gathering.”
“I’ve been to Padstow and know most of the locals. She isn’t familiar,” Hugo replied, searching his memory for a strange old woman who had a yen for gossip.
“She won’t be,” Jemima replied, throwing Peter a careful look. Taking a deep breath, she dropped her bombshell. “Harriett is a witch.”
“Witch?” Hugo’s brows shot up. “Witch as in cauldrons, broomsticks, and things?” He stared warily at Jemima, racking his brain for any memory of a witch and finding nothing.
Jemima’s lips quirked. “As far as I am aware, she doesn’t fly. She is a witch but not a black witch in that she doesn’t put curses on people. She is a white witch, and believes that plants and herbs can cure people of various ailments. She is a sort of uncertified doctor.” Her eyes met Hugo’s. “Although most of the locals are respectfully wary of her, most of them go to her when they are ill and have no qualms about taking her tinctures. But a few people have not been pleasant, and have been quite vocal about her and her mother living in their village.”
Hugo slumped in his seat opposite her. “She has a mother?”
“Not any more; she died some time back. But her mother was ostracised and verbally attacked on more than one occasion by people who didn’t understand. As time has gone on, locals have kept an almost wary distance from Harriett
because of her association to her mother.”
“Until they need help,” Peter finished for her, unsurprised at the selfishness of humanity.
Jemima nodded. “As a result, Harriett is very reclusive, and extremely wary of everyone, including men, until they need help; then she will try to cure them with her potions. Usually she succeeds. In fact, in all the years I have known her, there has only been one occasion when she has failed, and the man was in his 90s anyway and suffering from a wasting illness.”
“I didn’t realise Padstow had a witch,” Hugo murmured, wondering how this could have escaped the attention of his men.
“She doesn’t live in Padstow village,” Jemima explained. “She lives in a house on the hills overlooking the harbour.”
Peter shook his head and sat back in his chair. “Close enough to see all the ships going in and out of the harbour.” He wasn’t surprised when Jemima nodded slowly and looked at him.
“Her house is the closest to ours. Old lady Ponsonby used to look after us when Father was away on business. As children of the magistrate, nobody criticised us for associating with known witches. Father used to say that it helped keep the criminals away from his door,” she added ruefully, a wry smile on her face.