Then he did the one thing she’d prayed he wouldn’t. He switched to French, the language of his heritage, the language of love, the language he’d used in such interludes years ago—God help her, it was a language she understood very well.
He’d taught her.
“Mon ange… ”
He’d called her that once, his angel. She hadn’t heard the words that followed for thirteen years, yet they still had the same effect; uttered in his deep, purring voice, they slid over her like a tangible caress, then sank deeper, warming her to her bones. Unraveling her resistance.
His hands moved on her back, easing her closer, settling her against him. She caught her breath, sharp and shallow, realizing just how close they were, how truly he’d spoken when he’d warned her how little stood between them physically; when it came to him, she had no defenses to speak of.
Lifting her head only a little, she glanced sideways and met his eyes. A clear dark blue in the daylight, they held no hint of wicked triumph, but an intentness she didn’t understand.
The altered angle was enough; he leaned closer, slowly. When she didn’t duck away, he touched his lips to hers. Brushed them gently, temptingly, persuasively.
Oh, he was good, so very good at this; she gave up the battle, pushed her arms up around his neck, and lifted her lips to his.
The invitation was all he’d been waiting for; he accepted, took charge. For several long minutes, she simply let go, let herself flow on his tide, let him steer the kiss where he would, and greedily gathered to her lonely heart all the pleasures he willingly shared.
There was danger here, yes, but it was a danger she would dare. They were standing on the ramparts in full view of any who might chance to look that way; no matter how wild and reckless he was, no matter he had not a sexual inhibition to his name, in this setting, a kiss was as far as he would go.
She stood in no danger of him taking things too far; the danger did not lie there.
Just where it lay, and in what form, she wasn’t entirely sure. When he finally lifted his head and, looking down at her from under his long lashes, drew in a deep breath, and she felt his hands at her sides, thumbs artfully cruising the sensitive sides of her breasts, and felt her inevitable reaction, felt how swollen and tight her breasts were, she suddenly wasn’t sure of anything.
He was studying her far too intently. He’d warned her and was packing her off home so he wouldn’t seduce her, yet…
She drew a tight breath, captured his eyes. “Charles, listen to me—we are not, ever, traveling that road again.”
Planting her hands on his chest, she pushed back. He let her go, but the intensity of purpose behind his dark eyes didn’t fade.
He held her gaze, caught her hand, raised it to his lips. Kissed. “Yes, we are. Just not as we did last time.”
His tone screamed arrogant self-assurance; she would have argued, but he turned and whistled for the dogs. They came bounding up. Her hand locked in his, he gestured to the house. “Come—we should go in.”
Lips setting, she consented, leaving her hand in his as they walked back to the house through the slanting rays of the slowly setting sun. No matter what he thought, what he believed, he and she together as they once had been was never going to happen again; he’d learn his error soon enough.
CHAPTER 7
LATER, OVER DINNER, SHE WONDERED IF HE’D KISSED HER to distract her from his evening’s appointment, or perhaps make her sufficiently wary about returning alone with him late at night to change her mind about accompanying him in the first place. Either way, he’d misjudged.
When they rose from the table, she went with him to the library. Selecting a book of poetry, she settled in one of the chairs before the fire.
He eyed her darkly, then picked up a book left on a side table, sprawled with typical loose-limbed grace in the chair that was the mate of hers, and settled to read, too. The hounds collapsed in twin heaps at his feet.
She noticed he began some way into the book; the way he was holding it, she couldn’t read the title. After ten minutes of reading the same ode and not taking it in, she asked, “What is that?”
He glanced at her, then murmured, “A Recent History of France.”
“How recent?”
“From the beginning of Louis XIV’s reign to the Terror.”
That span included many of the years during which her father had been “collecting” pillboxes.
Charles continued without prompting, “It’s by a French historian, one who belonged to the Academie and was quite pleased to see the end of the aristocracy. There’s a lot of detail here from the French point of view.”
“Do you think you’ll find any reference to Amberly, or to secrets he and Papa sold?”
“No. I’m not sure I’d recognize what might have been a secret all those years ago.” He returned his gaze to the book. “I’m looking for mention of some covert source—that’s probably the most we can hope for.”