Finlay peered around the tree trunk just as the gentleman whirled around to face the woods. Had he heard their urgent whispers? Was this the stranger bearing gifts? Had he lured Jessica from the house, ready to bundle her into his carriage?
The gentleman moved behind his vehicle and strode towards the stile.
Finlay shot back behind the tree, his breathing ragged. His rising panic had nothing to do with fear—he welcomed death, for it would bring lasting peace. No. The need to protect Sophia and Jessica caused his trepidation.
Unaware of the danger, Sophia opened her mouth to speak. He could have used his finger to silence her, but in a rare moment of weakness, he pressed his lips to hers in an unexpected kiss.
Chapter 7
Shock rendered her frozen.
Sophia might have believed she was dreaming. Many nights, she had woken in a sweat, panting Finlay’s name while desire pulsed in her core. Many nights, she had quickly closed her eyes, desperate to return to the moment of bliss. Disappointment always followed.
“Hush,” he whispered against her mouth. “Don’t move.”
Don’t move?
Instinct urged her to slip her tongue between the seam of his lips. A deep exploration would reap treasures untold. And yet just the warmth of his lips, the tenderness in his touch, nourished her soul.
Muscular thighs held her pinned to the tree. There wasn’t the width of a silk thread between them. Finlay’s broad chest swamped her slight frame. Mother Mary! How she loved this man. How she longed to take him into her body, to ride him hard until he cried her
name.
If only he could forgive himself for not escaping his hellhole sooner. If only he could forgive himself for Hannah’s untimely death. Forgive her for not waiting.
Was that why he had no desire to rekindle their relationship? And yet his lips were touching hers now. A week ago, she would never have thought it possible.
Kiss me, Finlay.
Kiss me like you used to—hot and wicked.
But again, fate robbed her of happiness.
Finlay drew back. He peered around the tree trunk while keeping her locked in his masculine prison. A frown marred his brow as he narrowed his gaze. “Wait. He’s leaving.”
With love and lust burning in her veins, she had almost forgotten about the mysterious stranger, almost forgotten about Jessica. It wasn’t like her to be so thoughtless, not where her sister was concerned.
“Do you know who he is?” she managed to say, dreading the moment Finlay pulled away from her completely, for it would feel as if she were losing him all over again.
“It’s impossible to identify him properly in the dark. He’s tall and blonde with side whiskers trimmed to a point below the hollow of his cheeks. Young, judging by the fashionable cut of his coat.”
“Good Lord. You’re describing Fitzroy Adair.”
Blind panic seized her throat. What was Fitzroy doing at Blackborne? It couldn’t be a coincidence. The road led to Cornwall, not Brighton or Bath. Once the fop discovered her secret, he would use the information to drive her out of Portland Street. Not that she’d spent much time at her London home of late.
“He must have followed you from town.” Her voice quavered. “He must—”
“No one followed me here. I took every precaution.”
“Then how has he found me now?”
“Wait.” Finlay cocked an ear.
The creak of carriage wheels became a violent rattle as the vehicle gathered momentum. A whip-crack rent the air, as did the coachman’s muffled commands.
Finlay faced her, his mouth so close temptation writhed in her belly. “The devil’s gone, but we shouldn’t linger.”
Not linger? Then why did he still hold her captive? Why did he stare at her lips as if starved to the point of madness?