And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

She cast him a curious glance, then walked on, opened the door, looked in—and laughed. “It’s our bathroom.”

The long narrow room had a large skylight. She spent several minutes examining the amenities and appurtenances, noting that James’s dressing room also had a door to the bathroom, while a third door gave onto the main corridor, then James waved her back into the bedroom. “We have one more room to inspect.”

Back in the bedroom, he opened the last door, the one alongside the head of the bed, and ushered her through—into the most beautiful lady’s sitting-room-cum-boudoir she’d ever seen.

“Oh, my!” Eyes round, she drank in the wide windows, the Hepplewhite chairs, the well-stuffed armchairs and chaise. Care had been taken, to an even greater extent than elsewhere, to ensure that every last little detail matched and contributed to the ambience of the room; not a single touch marred the overall impression of being surrounded by a warm, autumn wood. Trailing her fingers along the butter-soft tan leather of the chaise’s raised back, Henrietta murmured, “Your grandaunt loved these colors, didn’t she?”

Sliding his hands into his pockets, James leaned against the mantelpiece. “Yes, she did.” After a moment, he went on, “These are the colors she chose for her rooms up here. Downstairs is mostly woodland greens and browns, and the other bedrooms, you’ll have noticed, are in brighter shades—more yellows and light greens, more summery.”

He paused, but when Henrietta turned and looked at him—as if sensing there was more to it than that—he went on, “She was an artist, old Emily.” He tipped his head toward the painting above the mantelpiece, a rich tapestr

y of greens and golds and subtle browns depicting a scene of a path through a wood. “I told you she spent half the year in town, but her heart remained in the country, in Wiltshire, at her estate there. She loved the walks, the woods, so she painted them and brought them with her here.”

Henrietta searched his eyes, then looked at the painting. Drawing—drawn—nearer, she asked, “So when we’re there, I’ll be able to see this—the real this?”

He nodded. “All the paintings in the house are hers, and you can see all of the views, all of the scenes, in real life, at Whitestone Hall.”

Henrietta studied the painting, then looked at him. “You’ll have to take me to see each of the places depicted in her paintings.”

He held her gaze. “If you’d like that.”

She smiled and nodded decisively. “I would.” Returning to his side, she cast the painting one last glance. “It’ll be like making contact with your grandaunt, and I rather think, had I ever met her, I would have liked her.”

“She would have liked you.” He caught her gaze as she turned to him, then smiled. “More to the point, she would have approved of you.”

Henrietta opened her eyes wide and stepped closer. “Do you think so?”

Drawing his hands from his pockets, he nodded. “Definitely.”

“Why?” She tipped up her face as he grasped her waist and drew her nearer still.

Bending his head, he murmured, “Because you’re mine—but even more because you’ve made me yours.”

Their lips met.

Later, he would wonder whether it was he, or she, either by conscious act or through unconscious need, who initiated the next step—or whether they were both driven, captive to some elemental, intrinsic command, mere actors engaging under the direction of a power greater than them both.

Or whether, given the situation, the threat hovering over her and therefore over the shared future that was hourly taking more definite shape, it was inevitable that they would end in his bed, and that the afternoon—that particular afternoon—would be filled with the heated tangle of limbs, with provocative caresses, evocative groans, and the sibilant sounds of smothered gasps as together they reexplored, reclaimed, and reaffirmed all they’d previously discovered.

All they’d previously uncovered. Reassuring, restating, revisiting, and reiterating, they dived in again, plunged in again, seized and surrendered and shared the scintillating delights once again.

He couldn’t remember quite how they’d returned to the bed; he vaguely recalled the heated duel of their tongues, the frantic melding of their mouths, followed by an even more driven rush to rid themselves of all physical barriers between them. Clothes shed, fell away, vanished—banished. And then they were naked, hot skin to hot skin, and they both paused, eyes closed, senses stretching wide to absorb the delirious pleasure of that sharply intense moment. To savor it.

Then the flames rose, hungry and greedy, and wouldn’t be denied, and they gave themselves up to the fire, to the conflagration of their senses. Falling across the bed, in the warm afternoon light they reveled and rejoiced.

And it grew stronger. More assured, more powerful.

The force that rose up and claimed them both, that flashed through them and possessed them as, joined and together in body and in mind, they raced up the peak, then soared high.

And fractured.

They clung and slowly fell, spiraling back to the real world, to the heavy thud of each other’s hearts, to the soft, ragged rush of each other’s breaths.

To the joy and comfort of each other’s bodies embracing, holding, accepting, and enveloping.

Protecting. Holding on.

In the soft golden light, in the warmth of his bed, one fact rang crystal clear. Neither had any intention of retreating.