It fizzed; she smiled and took a sip.
The bubbles got up her nose.
She sneezed. He looked up; she waved his concern aside. She took another, more careful sip as he returned the bottle to the basket, leaving it by the side of the rug. That done, he lay back again, this time propping on one elbow, his glass in his other hand.
"So," she asked, shuffling to face him, "how are we going to follow Bletchley?"
His gaze on the stream, Demon fortified himself with a long sip of champagne, then turned his head and met her gaze, studiously ignoring the expanse of ivory skin, the warm swells promising all manner of earthly delights, now mere inches from his face. "It's not a hard task. I've got Gillies and two stablemen rotating the watch. It's a small town-now we know what he looks like, and where he's staying, keeping an eye on him shouldn't overtax us."
"But-" Flick frowned at a nearby willow. "If we don't learn something soon, won't he notice? Seeing a particular stableman forever about will surely make him suspicious. Newmarket stablemen don't have nothing to do."
A warm flush swept her shoulders, her breasts. She looked at Demon; he was looking into his glass, his lids veiling his eyes.
Then he looked at the stream. "You needn't worry. He'll presumably be at the Heath during morning and afternoon stables-I'll watch him there and in the High Street." He drained his glass. "Gillies and the stablemen will watch him in the inns and taverns-they won't be so identifiable in a crowd."
"Hmm. Perhaps." Flick stretched her stockinged feet to the sun. "I'll help, too. About the tracks and in the High Street." She met Demon's gaze as he looked up at her. "He won't suspect a young lady of watching him."
He stared at her for a moment, as if he'd lost the thread of the conversation, then he murmured, "Very likely not." His gaze grew intent; he lifted one hand. "Hold still."
She froze so completely that she stopped breathing. A vise clamped about her lungs; her heart stuttered, skipped, then raced. She held quiveringly still as his fingers slid through the curls above one ear, ruffling the locks as he disengaged… something. When he withdrew his hand and showed her a long leaf, flicking it onto the grass, she dragged in a breath and smiled weakly. "Thank you."
His eyes met hers. "My pleasure."
The words were deep, rumbling; the tone set something inside her vibrating. Her gaze trapped in his, she felt flustered panic rise. She looked down and gulped a mouthful of champagne.
The bubbles hit her again; this time, she nearly choked. Eyes watering, she waved a hand before her face and hauled in a much-needed breath. "I'm really not used to this." She lifted her glass. "This is all new to me."
Demon's gaze had remained steady, his eyes on hers. His lips lifted lightly. "Yes, I know."
Flick felt curiously warm, distinctly light-headed. There was a light in Demon's eyes, an understanding she couldn't fathom.
Demon saw confusion grow in her eyes-he looked away, uncertain of how much of his interest, his curious, newfound obsession with innocence, showed in his. He gestured to the sylvan scene before them and looked at her, his expression easy, controlled. "If you haven't been here before, you couldn't have strolled the path by the stream. Shall we?"
"Oh, yes! Let's."
He retrieved her almost empty glass, drained it, then set both glasses back in the basket. Then he rose and held out his hands to her. "Come. We'll investigate."
She gave him her hands; he drew her to her feet, then led her to where a beaten path followed the meandering stream. They strolled along; she ambled beside him, sometimes ahead of him, furling her parasol when it limited her view of his face. Demon was grateful-the parasol had prevented him from watching her-any of her. They saw a mother duck with a gaggle of tiny ducklings, all paddling furiously in her wake; Flick pointed and exclaimed, and smiled delightedly. A sleek trout broke the rippling surface, chasing a fat fly; a kingfisher swooped out of the shade, dazzling them with his brilliant plumage. Flick grabbed his arm in her excitement, then sighed as the bird flew on down the stream.
"There's a bronze dragonfly."
"Where?" She searched the banks.
"Over there." He leaned close; she leaned closer still, following his pointing finger to where the dragonfly hovered above a patch of reeds. Engrossed, she drew in a breath and held it; he did the same.
The scent of her washed through him, sweet, fresh-quite unlike the cloying perfumes to which he was accustomed, to which he was immune. Her fragrance was light, airy; it reminded him of lavender and appleblossom, the essence of spring.
"Ah." The dragonfly darted away, and she exhaled.
His head swam.
She turned to him; they were so close that her skirts brushed his boots. If she took another deep breath, her breasts would touch his coat. His nearness surprised her; she looked up, eyes widening, lips parting on a silent gasp as her breath seized. Her eyes met his-for one fleeting instant, pure awareness invested the soft blue. Then puzzlement seeped in.
He saw it, but had too much to do holding his own desires in check to attempt a distraction. For the last hours, he'd delighted in her-in her innocence, in the fragile beauty of a female untouched, unawakened. He'd seen, sensed, her first glimmerings of consciousness-of him, of herself, of their inherent sensuality.
Sensuality was a quality he'd lived with daily for ten years and more; experiencing it anew, through her innocent eyes, had heightened his own far-from-innocent desires.
Her eyes held his; about them, the pulse of burgeoning spring hummed and throbbed. He felt it in his bones, in his blood. In his loins.
She felt it, too, but she didn't know what it meant. When he said nothing, she relaxed, just a little, and smiled, tentatively yet without the slightest fear. "Perhaps we'd better head back."
He held her gaze for an instant, then forced himself to nod. "Perhaps we had."
His voice had deepened; she threw him another, slightly questioning look. Ignoring it, he took her hand and turned her back along the path.
By the time they regained the swath of green, Flick's puzzlement had grown. Absentmindedly, she helped him fold the rug, then, picking up her parasol, followed him to the curricle.
After stowing the basket and rug, he returned to where she waited by the curricle's side, her frowning gaze fixed on the grass where they'd lain. She looked up as he halted beside her. She said nothing, but her frown was etched in her eyes. He saw it, and read her unvoiced questions with ease.
He had a very good idea what she was feeling-the disconcerting uncertainty, the nervous confusion. She was so open, so trusting, that she thought nothing of showing her vulnerability to him. He knew all the questions crowding her mind-the questions she couldn't begin to formulate.
He knew the answers, too.
She waited, her eyes on his, clearly hoping for some hint as to what it was she sensed. Her stance was both a demand and a plea-a clear wish to know.
Her face was tilted up to him; her tapered chin was firm. Her full lips, tinted delicate rose, beckoned. The soft blue of her eyes, clouded by the first flush of desire, promised heaven and more.
If he'd stopped to think, he would never have risked it, but the web of her innocence held him, compelled him-assured him this was simple, straightforward, uncomplicated.
His eyes locked with hers, he slowly lifted one hand and gently framed her jaw. Her breath caught; deliberately, still moving with mesmerizing slowness, he brushed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. The contact shook her-and him; he instinctively tightened his hold on his demons. Their gazes held, hers unwaveringly curious.