Drove her to twine her fingers in his hair and clutch as his hand, drifting down from her jaw, feathered over her breast, then closed.
Through the taut satin, one artful finger circled her ruched nipple, and she mentally gasped.
Waited. Poised on a cliff edge of elusive tension, wanting to know yet more.
His lips left hers. From beneath her lashes, she watched him glance down, to where his hand cupped her firm flesh.
His fingers lightly closed, then he glanced at her. After an instant, he closed the distance and brushed his lips over hers again, then drew back.
“You’re curious.” His tone made it a discovery.
She blinked, breathed back, “How can you tell?”
“I can taste it.”
Did curiosity have a taste, a texture?
“You want to know about this.” His fingers shifted again.
Her nerves leapt, and she shivered.
“I’ve a confession to make.” His voice was low, a gravelly rumble. “I want to know, too. Want to see where this…”-his fingers drew another shuddering response from her-“leads. Yesterday, at the castle, when you insisted on leaving, when you turned and gave me your hand I very nearly seized you, tossed you over my shoulder and carried you off to my bed.”
“Oh?” Some totally wanton part of her wished he had.
“Yes.” Gervase paused, hand caressing, fingers stroking, then went on, “Just so you know you’re not the only one affected, not the only one involved here.” Caught. Trapped.
By what, he didn’t know.
He drew her back into his arms, back into the kiss, steeped them both in the moment, in the spiraling sensation and welling need-as far as he dared. With her and him, and where they were, there was only so far they could go.
With real reluctance, he lifted his head, drew breath-felt the pounding in his veins, compulsive, insistent, demanding. Sensed the same in her.
Her lashes fluttered, then she focused on his face.
“Have you changed your mind yet?”
She blinked at him, not once, but twice, before comprehension swam into her gaze. Then she snapped out of the spell-theirs, not his alone-and eased back out of his arms. “No.”
He hadn’t expected any other answer, not yet, but despite the words her less-than-certain, faintly puzzled tone sent his spirits soaring. She was wavering, yes!, but experience warned the time to press was not yet. She had to come to him of her own accord, for her own reasons; she was that sort of woman. An independent lady.
Letting his face set, he coolly stated, “If that’s the case, then we’d better get back to the ballroom.”
She hadn’t wanted to return to the ballroom, a fact that demonstrated just how completely her besetting sin had overwhelmed her good sense. Climbing the castle steps the next morning, Madeline sternly lectured herself-yet again-that under no circumstances should she allow Gervase to embrace her again.
The instant his arms settled around her, her besetting sin came to the fore…and turned her into some wanton creature who simply had to know more. Far more, she was convinced, than would be good for her.
Striding into the front hall, she saw Gervase’s butler gliding from the nether regions to greet her. “Good morning, Sitwell.” Halting, she tugged off her gloves, acknowledging Sitwell’s bow with a nod. “I’m here to see his lordship. Where may I find him?”
“I’m here.” Gervase stepped from the mouth of a corridor. He nodded to Sitwell. “Thank you, Sitwell. I’ll ring if I need you.”
As the butler bowed and withdrew, Gervase turned to her. He met her gaze, read the determined, businesslike expression she’d plastered on her face. His lips curved, too knowing for her liking. “I was on my way to the library. If you’d care to join me?”
She nodded. “Indeed.” She kept her tones brisk. “I have some information you need to know.”
His brows rose, but he said nothing more as he strolled beside her down the corridor and ushered her into his library.
She walked to the armchair angled before the desk. Pausing beside it, she glanced back-and discovered him by her shoulder. Felt one hard hand grasp her waist while with his other he tipped up her chin.
So he could kiss her.
A swift, not undemanding yet unforceful kiss, a reminder, a promise.
A complete and utter distraction. When he lifted his head, she blinked at him, dazed, mentally lost.
He smiled and nudged her into the armchair. “Sit. And tell me what brought you here.”
She sank down, struggling to marshal her wits. She’d lost them in the instant his lips had touched hers-no, before, when she’d realized he was close.
He rounded the desk and sat in the admiral’s chair behind it; the smugness he tried to hide as he looked inquiringly at her broke the spell. She dragged in a breath. “This business of the mining leases.”
Once she’d started, it wasn’t so hard. Briefly she explained what her brothers had heard, then outlined the information she’d received from London. “Then yesterday when Harry returned to Helford and spoke with Sam’s father, he thought to ask who had spread the rumor. It was a peddler in the tap-Sam’s father thought the man was most likely heading for the festival. So the boys decided to follow him and see what they could learn-they caught up with the peddler in the tavern at St. Keverne.”
She glanced at Gervase. All hint of private emotion had vanished from his demeanor; he was as intent on her tale as she might wish. “The peddler said he’d picked up the rumor in a tavern in Falmouth. He said it was general, a tale doing the rounds. He didn’t know of any specific source.”
Gervase grimaced. “Falmouth, and the fleet’s in. If one wanted to start an anonymous rumor, a few whispers in drunken sailors’ ears would do it.”
“So I thought. Assuming, of course, that these rumors have no basis in fact but are being spread by this London gentleman or his agent to encourage locals to sell their leases.”
He tapped a pile of letters stacked to one side of the blotter. “Like yours, my London contacts confirmed no suggestion of any diminution in the tin trade, but rather an expectation of improved returns. They were puzzled that I should have heard anything to the contrary. Beyond that, I also wrote to St. Austell, the Earl of Lostwithiel, and Viscount Torrington-his estates are near Bideford.” He glanced at Madeline. “Both hold tin mining leases and are members of the Bastion Club.”
“Your private club?”
He nodded and lifted two letters. “Both replied in much the same vein as all else we’ve heard. No hint of any problem with tin mining, but rather an expectation of increased profits.” His lips curved ruefully. “They, of course, now want to know why I asked.” He dropped the letters back on the pile.
Glancing up, he found Madeline’s gaze fixed on a point beyond his shoulder.
“It occurred to me,” she murmured, “that while most of us-the gentry and aristocracy-are unlikely to sell on the basis of rumor, not without checking if not with London then at least with each other, there are many others who hold leases who are not as well connected, not as well informed.”
She met his gaze. “Should this rumor become widespread, if an offer is made to them, small farmers will likely sell.”
He nodded.
Looking down, chin firming, she started pulling on her gloves. “I’m going to ride to Helston and see if I can locate this agent, and ask him to explain these rumors. If I can’t find him, I intend putting it about that I would like to speak with him concerning selling some leases.” She looked up and smiled-icily. “That should bring him to my door.” Gloves on, she rose.
Forcibly reminded of his Valkyrie analogy, Gervase rose, too. “I’ll ride with you.”
She might be her brother’s surrogate, but he was the local earl, the senior nobleman in the district. A fact she acknowledged with an inclination of her head, and no argument.
Ten minutes later, they were galloping side by side-riding hard, wild, unrestrained. She had her chestnut again, and he was on Crusader; they pounded north across the golden-grassed downs, an exhilarating run, shared and carefree, before, in wordless concert, they mentally sighed, remembered who they were, and eased back and swung northwest for Helston.