“Did the boys tell you what they’re searching for?”
With difficulty Gervase drew his gaze from her hips, swaying provocatively before him, and forced himself to look at her heels. “In a manner of speaking. They assured me they haven’t had any dealings this summer with the smugglers-a fact verified by the smugglers themselves-and then grilled me on all the wrecks I knew of, specifically where debris got washed ashore.”
“I trust you led them astray?”
He grinned. “That wasn’t necessary. From their questions, they’re concentrating on the reefs to the west, off Mullion and Gunwalloe. According to Abel Griggs-he’s the leader of the Helston gang-there hasn’t been a wreck there since last October, and if anyone would know, Abel would.”
She climbed for a minute before saying, “So there’s nothing for them to find, but they’ll hunt through the coves and caves anyway.”
They’d reached the landing before the door to the battlements. He came up beside her; studiously ignoring the perfume that rose from her skin and hair-and its effect as it wreathed through his senses-he reached past her, turned the knob, and pushed the door wide.
She went through, immediately lifting her hands to hold back whipping tendrils of her hair. Below and before them, stretching all the way to Black Head on the other side of the bay, the sea was pale, corrugated and frothed by the strafing wind. Although much less strong than on the exposed ramparts to the west, the capricious gusts that snaked their way around to the battlements were still strong enough to plaster her light gown to her body, to her legs.
Gervase considered them, then remembered what he’d intended to say just as she swung to face him.
“I suppose searching for treasure, even if they find nothing, will still keep them happy as grigs.”
“Actually, I’m not sure about that-at least not in Harry’s case.” Shutting the door, he leaned back against it.
Still holding her hair, she came closer, the better to hear him. Frowning. “What do you mean?”
“I got the distinct impression that the search is mostly Ben’s idea. Edmond’s caught up in it, too, but Ben is the primary enthusiast. Harry, unless I’m much mistaken, is going along because of the others, not because he has any real interest in the endeavor.”
Her frown remained. “He’s usually the instigator-he used to be forever on about joining the smugglers and doing runs.”
“Undoubtedly. But that was before.” Gervase paused, then asked, “He’s fifteen, correct?” She nodded. He grimaced wryly. “I remember being fifteen. I remember Christopher being fifteen.” He hesitated, then said, “A word of advice, if you’ll take it. The very last thing you want is for a fifteen-year-old youth to grow bored. And unless I read matters entirely wrongly, underneath it all, Harry is bored. There’s no challenge in his life.”
Her lips tightened; her gaze grew unfocused. For a moment she was completely still, then she blinked and looked at him. Studied his eyes for an instant, then raised her brows. “You have a suggestion.”
Statement, no question. “A suggestion, nothing more. He’s Viscount Gascoigne, and fifteen is old enough to start learning the ropes.”
Her frown remained etched in her eyes. “He never asks about the estate, things like that. I usually have to push to make him play the viscount, even socially.”
He couldn’t help a snort. “Madeline, the social aspects are the ones he’ll like least. Try him with some of the real work. Take him with you when you ride out, when you visit the farms. Start asking for his opinion-that’ll give him an opening to ask you to explain things.”
Again he hesitated, searching her eyes, pale, green, today remarkably clear. “Don’t wait for him to ask, because he won’t-he’ll see that as encroaching on your territory. If you’re ever going to hand the estate on to him-and yes, I know that’s your intention-you’ll have to make the first overtures. Always, with each aspect, he’ll wait for you to suggest he gets involved. Out of loyalty to you, he won’t push for involvement himself.”
Her frown had evaporated, initially superseded by puzzlement that now dissolved into revelation. “Oh, I see.” After a moment, she added, “Yes, of course.” She refocused on him. And smiled-a glorious smile full of happiness and content.
The impact was considerably greater than if she’d boxed his ears.
“Thank you. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” The power behind her smile faded as fondness crept in. “He’s been so intent on rushing off, keeping himself busy out of the house, that I’ve hesitated to…well, rein him in and test him in harness, so to speak. But if in reality he’s chafing at the bit, then I will. Thank you for the hint.”
“My pleasure.” It was easy to smile back.
When he remained against the door, watching her, his smile still softening the hard planes of his face, Madeline felt her instincts twitch. She raised her brows. “Was there something else?”
“No.” His smile widened in a way she recognized well enough to distrust. “I’m just waiting for you to thank me.”
“I just did.”
“Appropriately.”
Her lips parted to repeat the word; abruptly, she shut them. She narrowed her eyes. “I am not kissing you again.”
His untrustworthy smile deepened. “How do you plan to leave here?”
Belatedly, she glanced around.
“The stair beyond this door is the only way down.”
She swung away and marched down the battlements; she didn’t need to go far to see that there was, indeed, no other exit-no door, not even a dormer window.
Stalking back to where he patiently waited, shoulders against the door, she halted a pace away. Holding back her hair as the breeze swooped past, she glared at him. “You are so…” Momentarily lost for words, she gestured wildly with one hand.
“Good at this?”
She uttered a frustrated hiss. “Irritating!” She felt like stamping her foot. “For heaven’s sake-”
Gervase leaned forward, grasped her waist, lifted her to him, then let her fall against him.
With a smothered squeak she did, her long limbs flush against his, her breasts to his chest, her hips to his upper thighs.
Every nerve, every muscle in his body snapped to attention. Including…
Something she, plastered against him, couldn’t possibly mistake. He saw her eyes widen. He smiled-intently. “Just so.”
He bent his head and kissed her.
Her lips had parted in shock; he took immediate advantage and claimed her mouth. Claimed, tasted, plundered just a little before settling to entice.
She didn’t physically struggle-her body remained passive in his arms, instinctively accepting his embrace-but she battled nonetheless, fighting doggedly and valiantly to hold aloof.
His lips on hers, his tongue stroking hers, his instincts pressed him to wage war against her-against her will, weakening it so her desire could triumph, and she would surrender and be willingly his. Yet as he angled his head over hers and engaged with her more definitely, he was strangely aware of a dichotomy within, of his warrior’s instinct-a primal conviction that he had every right to claim the woman in his arms-clashing with an equally insistent sense that with her he needed to be giving. To persuade and negotiate, not force and insist.
He didn’t want to rule her; he wanted her by his side, a willing partner, a helpmate-his wife.
The thought slid through his mind, gentled his approach-and all but instantly delivered a reward. Her resistance wavered; immediately he set himself to tempt her more, to beckoningly tease, to seduce in earnest.
Her lips softened, then returned the pressure of his-more impulse than considered action-but then she realized, froze for a heartbeat-then gave up. Gave in. Stopped fighting and joined him.