Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

‘Hah! Never thought Ross’d be such a gommuck. Good day to you, maid.’

‘G-good day,’ Meg stammered. The old man picked up his stick and walked away up the beach to where the scrubby woodland ended. He whistled, sharply. The dog sprang up, swiped a hot tongue over Meg’s bare feet and when she looked back to the wood both man and dog had vanished as mysteriously as they had appeared.

She brushed the sand off her feet, put on her stockings, laced her shoes and made her way back up the lane, uncertain whether she was amused or alarmed by that encounter. Would he take Ross to task and lecture him on marriage? What if Ross thought she had put the idea into Billy’s head and not the other way around?

The thought of marrying Ross had never entered her mind—her conscience was quite clear about that. She had married once, thinking herself in love, and that had not been what her romantic soul had thought it might be. She was older and wiser now, knew that no man was all hero, all saint, however handsome his face and sunny his smiles. And Ross was not handsome and he rationed his smiles like a miser. Was she—could she be?—in love with him?

‘Have you been out a-gypsying?’

Meg stopped short. Without realising it she had reached the edge of the terrace and there was Ross, his shoulder propped against one of the lichen-encrusted urns that edged it, towering over her as she stood on the grass below him. Her insides did the complicated flip-flop that the unexpected sight of him always produced.

‘I have been down to the beach.’

‘And returned without your bonnet, with flowers in your hair and, I will bet a guinea, you have sand between your toes.’

‘I am afraid I have.’ He straightened up and kept pace with her as she walked along to the shallow flight of steps in the centre of the terrace. ‘But I have never been beside the sea before, so I could not resist paddling.’ She put up a hand to remove the cherry blossom before she utterly undermined what authority she had with the staff by walking in with it in her wind-blown hair.

Ross leaned down and plucked it out before she could reach it, his fingertips ruffling into the fine hairs at her temple and sending a shiver down her spine. ‘Did you meet any smugglers?’ He stuck the stem into his buttonhole and waited for her to climb the three steps to his side.

‘Why, are there any? I saw a fishing boat, that was all.’

‘My head keeper tells me we have smugglers in the bay. There are caves if you know where to look and the tide is right—not big ones, but enough to stow a few barrels of brandy in.’

‘Oh.’ Smugglers had a romantic reputation, but no doubt in reality they were just as unglamorous and unpleasant as highwaymen. ‘Did your father turn a blind eye to it?’

‘He must have done.’ Ross set his shoulder against another urn and looked out towards the sea. ‘The brandy I’ve been drinking is the good French stuff, and the barrels it is coming out of have no marks on them.’

‘And do you condone it too?’

‘They did a lot of damage when we were at war. It was a prime route for intelligence to reach the French. That danger has gone now, but I must take a stand before they start intimidating people on the estate. And when I’m sworn as a magistrate I will have to take an active interest, and not just on my own land.’

My own land. An admission at last that it was his. The relief at hearing the unconscious note of possession in his voice made her suddenly light-hearted. ‘Ross, what is a gommuck?’

‘A fool, a clumsy fellow. A clodpole. Why, where did you hear that?’

‘Oh, just a country person I passed.’ Would Billy tell Ross he had spoken to her? Was it best to admit she had seen him, or not? Then the moment to mention it was passed. Ross laid a hand on her forearm as she turned to go in and her breath caught.

‘I have heard from Kimber, my solicitor. He has a young man he recommends as a confidential enquiry agent and he is sending him up to speak with you on Monday. His name is Patrick Jago, the second son of the squire of a parish a few miles north of here. He has carried out some commissions for Kimber and he speaks well of him.’

‘Thank you, it was thoughtful of you to arrange it. It is such a relief to be taking action at last.’ His hand was warm on her arm and she did not want to move. Or think. But she must. ‘You will make an accounting of Mr Kimber’s time and deduct it from my wages, of course.’

‘Why? In case I should extract payment for it in some other way later?’ His brow lifted in that devilish way he had when he was on his dignity.

‘No.’ Meg moved away so his hand fell from her arm. ‘In case you should suppose that I presume upon my position.’

‘That, Meg, is nonsense. But I am sorry, I touched you, forgive me.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Meg snapped, suddenly losing her temper with the slow dance they were performing around each other. ‘This is ridiculous. I do not suppose for a moment that because you put a hand on my arm to detain me that it is some kind of demand. I am perfectly capable of telling you if you do something that upsets or offends me.’

‘So, you give me back my promise not to touch you?’

His mouth, that sensual, sinful mouth that so shook her will-power when it curved into a smile, was not curving now. ‘Yes, I do.’

&nbs

p; Then she lifted her gaze and met his eyes and caught her breath, for they were smiling, and something hot and wicked and mischievous was dancing in the black depths. Without speaking he put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him as he stepped back under the shelter of the first-floor balcony and she went, without a murmur, her feet stumbling a little on the uneven flags. Ross leaned back against the wall and gathered her into his arms and she found herself held against his chest with no strength in her, either of will or body, to push him away.

His mouth found hers, hot and demanding, yet without force. Her lips moulded to his, opened to the pressure of his tongue, softened as he licked inside, finding the intimate, sensitive places, the places that made her melt into longing. Her hands slid up his chest, coming to rest over the beat of his heart, reading his arousal and his gentleness with her fingertips, sensing the tightly reined passion beneath.