"But he never turns up when you bring Sulieman in."
"Or when I take him out. As I said, it's a point of honor with him." Devil glanced at Honoria, his lips twisting wryly. "To make sure I don't forget all he's taught me. According to him, just because I'm a duke doesn't excuse me from currying my horse."
Honoria choked, then gave up and laughed unrestrainedly.
Devil cast her a disgusted glance-and drove on.
She was wiping her eyes, still racked by the occasional giggle, when he checked his team. They were a mile or so short of Somersham; Honoria sobered when Devil turned the horses off the road, eased them along a narrow lane, then swung onto a wide grassy patch and reined in.
"Behold-north Cambridgeshire."
She could hardly miss it-the county lay spread before her, a tapestry of greens and golds, edged with the darker hues of woods and hedgerows.
"This is the closest we come to a lookout in these parts."
Honoria studied the landscape-while her wariness escalated in leaps and bounds. They were on a grassy plateau, a stand of trees screening them from the road. Essentially private.
"Over there," Devil pointed to the right, "you can see the roofs of Chatteris. The first dark green line beyond is the Forty-Foot Drain, the second is the Old Nene."
Honoria nodded; she recalled the names from his earlier lecture on the fens.
"And now…" Devil secured the reins. "It's time for lunch."
"Lunch?" Honoria swung around, but he'd already leapt down from the curricle. An instant later, she heard him rummaging in the boot. He reappeared, a rug in one hand, a picnic basket in the other.
"Here." He tossed the rug at her. Reflexively, she caught it-then caught her breath as his free arm snaked about her waist and he swung her to the ground. He smiled down at her, pure wolf in his eyes. "Why don't you chose a suitable place to spread the rug?"
Honoria glared-she couldn't speak; her heart was blocking her throat, her breathing had seized. She barely had enough strength to whisk herself free of his encircling arm. Marching across the grass as determindedly as her suddenly shaky limbs allowed, all too aware he prowled close behind, she spread the rug over the first reasonable patch, then, remembering her parasol, returned to the safety of the curricle to retrieve it.
The move gave her time to calm her senses, to take a firm grip on her wayward wits-to remind herself of how safe she really was. As long as she didn't allow him to kiss her again, all would be well.
She could hardly be held responsible for the previous kisses he'd stolen-like the buccaneer he reminded her of, he'd surprised her, captured her and taken what he wished. This time, however, while she might unwittingly have walked into his trap, she did know it was a trap. He hadn't sprung it yet-as a virtuous lady it was clearly her duty to ensure his planning came to nought.
His kisses, and the desire behind them, were far from innocent; she could not, in all conscience, indulge in such scandalous dalliance.
Which made her role very clear-circumspection, caution, and unassailable virtue. She headed back to the rug, repeating that litany. The sight of the repast he'd unpacked-the two wineglasses, the champagne, cool in a white linen shroud, the delicacies designed to tempt a lady's palate-all bore testimony to his intent. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You planned this."
Lounging on the rug, Devil raised his brows. "Of course-what else?"
He caught her hand and gently tugged; she had no choice but to sink, gracefully, onto the other half of the rug. She was careful to keep the basket between them. "You didn't even know I was going to join you."
His answer was a single raised brow and a look so outrageously patronizing she was literally lost for words.
He grinned. "Here." He reached into the basket. "Have a chicken leg."
Honoria drew in a deep breath. She looked at the portion he held out, the bone wrapped neatly in a napkin-then reached out, took it, and sank her teeth into it.
To her relief, he made no effort to converse. She shot a glance his way. He lay stretched on the rug, propped on one elbow as he worked steadily through the basket. Honoria took a long draft of champagne-and focused on distracting them both.
"Why," she asked, "did Tolly come by way of St. Ives rather than Cambridge? If he wanted to see you, why didn't he come by the faster route?"
Devil shrugged. "All of us travel via St. Ives."
"For obvious reasons?"
He grinned. "We do, of course, feel a certain link with the town." He caught Honoria's eye. "One of my ancestors built the bridge-chapel, after all."
The chapel she had entirely forgotten to demand a glimpse of. Honoria humphed. "As a penance, no doubt."
"Presumably." Devil sipped his champagne.
Honoria returned to her cogitations. "When did Charles arrive at the Place?"
"I don't know-Vane said he was there when he arrived, late that evening, just before the worst of the storm."
Honoria frowned. "If Charles followed Tolly from town, why didn't he come upon us in the lane?"
"Charles wouldn't come that way."
"I thought all Cynsters travel via St. Ives?"
"All except Charles." Sitting up, Devil started to repack the basket. He glanced at Honoria, then reached for her glass. He drained it in one gulp. "Charles, in case you hadn't noticed, is not really one of the pack."
Pack-a good word to describe them, the Cynster pack of wolves. "He does seem…" leaning on one arm, Honoria gestured, "in something of a different mold."
Devil shrugged. "He takes after his mother in looks and in disposition. Barely a Cynster trait to be discerned."
"Hmm." Honoria settled more comfortably, a warm glow spreading through her. "When did his mother die?"
"Twenty or so years ago."
"So your uncle remarried almost immediately?"
The basket repacked, Devil stretched out, crossed his arms behind his head, closed his eyes-and watched Honoria through his lashes. "Uncle Arthur's first marriage was little short of a disaster. Almira Butterworth did what no other has in the history of the family-she trapped a Cynster into marriage, much good did it do her. After twelve years of marital discord, she died of consumption-Arthur married Louise a bare year later."
"So how would Charles, not being a dyed-in-the-wool Cynster, have come to the Place? Did he drive?"
"He doesn't drive-don't ask me why. He always comes via Cambridge, hires a horse, then comes riding up the main drive. He once said something about a master always coming to the front door, rather than the back."
Charles, Honoria decided, sounded as insufferable as she'd thought him. "So it's unlikely he saw anything?"
"He said he didn't see anyone about."
Honoria tried to think, but could find no focus for further questions. It was pleasant in the sunshine. Her parasol lay furled in the grass beside her; she should open it, but could not summon the strength. A deliciously warm, relaxed sense of peace pervaded her-she was loath to break the spell.
Glancing at Devil, she noted his closed eyes, black lashes feathering his high cheekbones. Briefly, she let her gaze skim his long frame, conscious, as always, of the deep tug she'd never previously experienced, never felt for any other man. A frisson of pure excitement, it heightened every sense, sensitized every nerve, and set her pulse racing. Simultaneously, at some fundamental level, it drew her like a magnet, a potent attraction all too hard to deny. Every instinct she possessed screamed he was dangerous-specifically dangerous to her. Perversely, those selfsame instincts insisted that with him, she was safe. Was it any wonder she felt giddy?
Yet the last was as true as the first. Not even Michael eased her mind to the same degree nor conveyed the same certainty of inviolable protection. The devil might be a tyrant, an autocrat supreme, yet he was also to be relied on, predictable in many ways, rigid in his honor.