To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

He stepped back and waved her along the line of trees. “It’s this way.”

Luckily, they’d been at the end of the line of chairs; they slipped away beneath the branches without drawing the attention, or the company, of any of the other young people. She saw his watchful glance over her head and knew he didn’t want any others to join them.

Neither did she.

Chapter 4

They strolled through sunlight and shade, wending their way between the old trees that bordered the lawn and dotted the gentle slope leading away from the house. The stream burbled along the bottom of its own narrow valley formed by more steeply sloping banks; Deverell took her hand, steadying her as they made their way down, climbing over gnarled roots to the narrow path that edged the rippling water.

Still swollen by spring rains, the stream was running high, splashing and gurgling over large rocks and boulders. The sound was a pleasant song; the zip of dragonflies and the high-pitched call of finches punctuated the bright melody. The lazy warmth of the afternoon had gathered in the valley; it wrapped around them, sinking to their bones. They walked along without words; she’d visited the manor many times but had never strolled this way.

Then they rounded a curve, and she saw what he’d meant by “a pretty spot.” The stream widened into a large pool; the music of its passing fell away, muted as the babbling rush spread with a sigh into deeper water. The path, which had been hugging the stream’s edge, diverted inland a little way; between it and the water a group of trees clustered, their spreading branches overhanging the pool.

Deverell led her beneath the green canopy. After walking in the sun, the cool air beneath the arching branches was refreshing. She followed him to where an old tree grew just a few yards back from the bank. Halting by the smooth bole, she leaned against it and watched as he stooped, picked up a flat stone, and with one flick of his wrist sent it skipping over the still surface.

The stone sank just before the opposite bank. A flash of turquoise marked a kingfisher, disturbed enough to dart away downstream.

He stood, hands on hips, looking out over the pool. She leaned more heavily against the bole and wondered what she was doing there.

Tempting fate.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, he turned and looked at her. Then, arms lowering, he walked back to her.

He stopped a foot away. He looked into her eyes, searched them, then without a word raised his large hands, gently framed her face, tipped it up, and kissed her.

It happened so smoothly, so easily, she had no time to panic. There’d been no hint of a threat in his movements or his touch; her lips had softened beneath his before she’d had time to think.

Then she did, and mentally froze, waited, ready to tense and push him away. But nothing happened, nothing changed; his lips remained warm and pliant against hers, beguiling as they caressed, seductively tempting.

But he made no move to press her. He didn’t shift closer, didn’t crowd her with his large, hard body; there were only his hands, his lips.

And the pleasure.

Pleasure that insidiously bloomed, that slid through her like warmed honey and slowly heated her.

Slowly, step by step, made her want more.

Hunger for more.

Until she followed his direction and parted her lips, did something she’d never done with any man and welcomed him into her mouth.

Even then he was gentle, unhurried, unthreatening.

There was nothing but pleasure in the heavy stroke of his tongue against hers, in the artful, skillful caresses he fed her, in the gentling of his hands about her face as she responded.

Deverell fought down the instinct to reach for her, to draw her into his arms and take things further; she might be kissing him back, but he’d felt her hesitation, could sense just how wary she was, how ready to take flight. Innocence, inexperience, and wariness; with such a combination, he had to tread carefully.

Had to go slowly, slower than he’d ever gone with any woman.

The knowledge clashed with a burgeoning primitive urge to seize her, to make her his—to at least take steps to set that in train. He could overwhelm her so easily, let loose the passion he held reined and sweep her into intimacy, there in the grass by the stream, but everything he knew of her told him he’d never win her that way.

But if he couldn’t have her yet, he was determined to take the first step at least, to make her crave his kiss. So he kept his hands still, gentle about her face, and bent his mind, his will, and his considerable expertise to capturing her with just a kiss.

Raising one hand, Phoebe touched the back of his, still so gently cradling her face. The muscles and tendons were hard, rigid, yet his touch was almost reverent. So careful, so reassuring. So not what she’d expected.

Even while she indulged and let him beguile her into more, into long, slow exchanges that all but curled her toes, some part of her mind puzzled at the implicit contradiction.

His kiss remained gentle and beguiling, yet he wasn’t a gentle and beguiling man.