The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 1)
Hard, sure, with every iota of passion in his possessively protective soul.
And she seized him in return; sinking her fingers into his hair, she held him to her.
To their kiss as it raged, fueled by emotions neither could control. That neither had yet even had a chance to own.
Need and want combined to give birth to a ravenous hunger.
Desire swelled, and passion surged.
But they were too exposed—too much at risk—there in the depths of the wood.
Rand broke from the kiss and, with his gaze, raked their surroundings. Nothing disturbed the stillness around them.
He looked back at Felicia as she drew in a steadying breath. Their eyes met, and their gazes held.
So much lay between them—so much needed to be said—yet now was not the time.
Patently, not the time.
After a moment, somewhat gruffly, he offered, “I doubt we’ll see Mayhew again.”
Slowly, he lowered his arms, releasing her from their cage. When she stepped back, he reached out and closed his hand about one of hers. “We’d better get back to the house.”
She nodded, and they set off, walking slowly but steadily along the path.
“He was intending to kidnap me and hold me in a cottage to force William John not to present the engine at the exhibition. He said he would let me go once the exhibition was over.”
He managed to grind out, “Did he hurt or harm you in any way?”
She shook her head. Then on a spurt of shaky laughter, she said, “I suspect I hurt him significantly more when I tripped him and fell on him.”
“Good.” He would prefer to tear Mayhew limb from limb, but that could wait.
As they tramped beneath the trees, through the soothing woodland quiet, his wits started to settle and function again. “Mayhew has to be working for someone. I’ve no idea whom.” He glanced at Felicia and briefly met her eyes. “I’m going to send to Raventhorne Abbey. It’s not far, and my brother can and will provide the men we need to ensure we get the engine and carriage to Birmingham safely—on time and in one piece.”
Her gaze on the path, she nodded.
They reached the edge of the woods and walked onto the lawn.
Felicia waved at the jumble of items strewn on the grass. “He even left his things—his satchel, easel, and stool.”
Rand halted and considered the sight. “Those are his tools of trade. He must have wanted very badly to stop the invention succeeding.”
“I’ll send one of the footmen to gather them up. Who knows? If we ever catch up with Mayhew, they might prove useful in some way.”
He saw no reason to argue. In his experience, artists were protective of their equipment. If they did catch up with Mayhew, his well-used easel, stool, and satchel might help to pry loose the name of whoever had hired him.
They started up the long slope of the south lawn. Looking ahead, Felicia heaved a resigned sigh. “I suppose we’d better go and see what William John blew up this time.”
Rand nodded because she expected him to. In reality, the Throgmorton engine and William John’s endeavors had sunk low in the scale of what was important to him; they now rode well below the lady whose hand he held firmly in his grasp.
The lady his inner self had already decided he should never, ever, let go.
CHAPTER 11
The moon was riding high in a black and cloudless sky as Rand slowly paced the terrace. Night had fallen hours before, but the emotions roiling inside him, along with the inevitable conjectures—the what-ifs that rose to plague him—hadn’t yet settled enough to allow him to relax, much less sleep.
His hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed unseeing on the flagstones before his feet, he slowly walked the balustraded expanse; at least he’d stopped pausing to stare through the darkness at the far end of the lawn.