Demon glanced back, saw what she’d done, and nodded. The next instant, he had a flame laid in the kindling; busily, he coaxed it into a blaze.
Flick sat and watched the flames grow, watched the bright tendrils writhe, then lick along the dark wood. Patiently, Demon fed the flames, laying branch upon twig until the blaze roared.
Heat billowed out, enveloping her, washing through her, driving away the chill locked in her damp clothes. Contentment rolled through her; she sighed and rotated her shoulders, one, then the other, then settled again to watch Demon’s hands, steady and sure, pile logs on the fire.
His hands were like the rest of him—large and lean. His long fingers never fumbled. His grip was strong and sure. His movements, she noted, were economical; he rarely used extraneous flourishes, a fact that enhanced the sense of control, of harnessed power, that invested his every act.
He was, now she considered it, a very controlled man. Only when the flames were voraciously devouring two huge logs did he stand. He stretched, then turned; large and intensely male, he stood looking down at her.
Her gaze fixed on the flames, Flick knew he was studying her; she felt his gaze on her face, hotter than the heat from the flames. She looked away from the fire, to the nook beside the hearth, gathering strength to look up and meet his eyes.
In the dark corner she saw a flicker of movement, a twitch of a whisker.
A pointy nose and two pink-red eyes.
“Eeeeeehhh!”
Her shrill scream split the stillness.
With another shriek, she leapt up, straight into Demon’s arms.
They locked about her. “What is it?”
“A rat!” Eyes glued to the dark cranny, she clung, her fingers sinking into his muscles. She gestured with her chin. “There—by the fireplace.” Then she buried her face in his chest. “Make it go away!”
Her plea was a panicked mumble. Demon stared at the small field mouse cowering back against the stones. He stifled a sigh. “Flick—”
“Is it gone?”
This time, he did sigh. “It’s only a field mouse attracted to the warmth. It’ll leave in a moment.”
“Tell me when it does.”
He squinted down at her. All he could see was the crown of her curls. Putting his head to the side, he tried to see her face; she had it buried in his chest. She’d somehow insinuated her hands under his coat, and was gripping him, one hand on either side of his back, clinging for dear life.
She was plastered against him, from her forehead to her knees.
And she was trembling.
A faint vibration, the tremor travelled her spine. Instinctively, he tightened his arms about her, then eased his hold to run his hands slowly down and up her back, soothingly stroking.
Bending his head, he murmured into her curls. “It’s all right. It’ll go in a minute.”
He could feel her panicked breathing, her breath hitching in her throat; she didn’t answer, but bobbed her head to show she’d heard.
So they stood, locked together before the fire, waiting for the still-petrified mouse to make a move.
Demon had imagined waiting patiently, stoically, but within a minute, stoic was beyond him. The fire, a roaring blaze, had dried him; while Flick had been still chilled when she’d rushed into his arms, his body heat was warming her. Warming her breasts, pressed tight against his chest, warming her hips, plastered to his thighs. She, in turn, was heating him—it wouldn’t be long before the largest blaze in the room was not the one in the hearth.
Gritting his teeth, he told himself he could endure it. He doubted she was even aware of his susceptibility; he could manage her easily enough.
The heat between them reached a new high, and her perfume rose to waft about him, to wreathe, then snare, his senses. Making him even more aware of the supple softness in his arms, of the warm breasts crushed to his chest, of the subtle pliancy in her frame that beckoned his hardened senses, of the feminine strength in the arms reaching around him. He snatched a breath—and drew her deep, into his soul. Closing his eyes, locking his jaw, he tried to keep his body from responding.
Entirely unsuccessfully. Hard became harder, tighter, tauter. Inexorably, yet in all innocence, she wound his sensual spring notch after notch.
In desperation, he tried to ease her away—she shook her head frantically and burrowed even deeper into his embrace. Teeth gritted, he used just a little of his strength to shift her, so she was more to his side and no longer in danger of learning, graphically, just how much she was affecting him.
He was in pain and helpless to do anything about it. He was paying for his sins in having dallied with her, teased her, enjoyed her.
But he didn’t regret a single moment—then, or now.
The realization puzzled him, momentarily distracted him from the physical plane. Grateful for even such minor relief, he followed the thought, trying to unravel the mystery of why, exactly, Flick so attracted him.
He definitely didn’t think of her as just another lady with whom he’d like to dally, no different from those who’d gone before. No other lady had made him feel this protective; none other had tapped the surge of feeling she so effortlessly evoked. That, of all things, was what set her apart—that something she made him feel. She could arouse him effortlessly—in itself a shock—but it was that other emotion that came roaring through him simultaneously with the lust that was so new, so addictive.
It was certainly different—something he’d never felt before. It was as if, in her innocence, she could reach into his soul and touch something innocent there as well—something new, bright, something he’d never known existed within him. Something no other had ever reached, ever touched.
He frowned and tried to shift; she immediately gripped him tighter. Demon inwardly sighed—his protective instincts were well and truly engaged; he couldn’t break her hold. Perhaps he should try and think of Flick in the same way he thought of the twins.
That was impossible, yet . . .
Flick the fearless was afraid of mice. He found the thought endearing. Still, as she was truly frightened, the mouse was as good as a dragon. The question was how best to vanquish it—the fear, not the innocent mouse.
Drawing a difficult breath, he grasped Flick’s arm and eased her back from him.
“Flick—sweetheart—just look at the mouse. It’s a harmless little mouse—it can’t eat you.”
“It might try.”
“Not while I’m here.” He brushed his lips to her temple, nudging her face from his chest. “Come—look at it. It’s so small.”
Warily, she eased her face from his chest; still pressed hard against him, she glanced at the tiny rodent.
“That’s right. We’ll just watch it until it goes.”
A silent minute passed as they watched the field mouse, still frozen, whiskers twitching nervously. Demon couldn’t move to scare it away, not with Flick clinging so tightly—she wouldn’t appreciate him moving closer to the mouse-dragon.
Finally, reassured by their stillness and silence, the mouse started to edge forward. Flick stiffened. Out of the nook the mouse came, hugging the shadow of the hearth’s edge. It reached the corner and paused—A log cracked—sparks spat and showered in the hearth.
The mouse leapt, and dashed back into the cranny, straight to a small gap between two stones. It squeezed its way between and was gone.
“Quick!” Flick released him. “Block the hole!”
Demon sincerely doubted the field mouse would return, but, snatching a small branch from the woodbox, he swiftly bent and jammed it in the hole. “There. Now you’re safe.” Rising, he turned.
Flick was mere inches away. She’d followed him to look over his shoulder, to check he’d sealed the hole; now she stood, breathing quickly, all but against him once more.
His gaze had risen no further than her breasts, rising and falling in heightened excitement. Only excellent reflexes saved him from reacting—he locked every muscle, gripped every rein.
And, slowly, lifted his gaze to her face.
Flick met his gaze and quivered—she told herself it was the remnants of her fright. But the glow in his darkened eyes—the sight of the embers smoldering in the blue—cut off her breathing, leaving her light-headed, swaying with the impulse to return to his arms, not for their safety but for the comfort her senses insisted she would find there.
Eyes wide, lips parted, her cheeks lightly flushed, she literally teetered on the brink of indiscretion—
His lids lowered, steel shutters cutting off the heat in his eyes; an excruciating awareness raced over her skin, from her breasts all the way to her toes. Her nerves flickered; a prickling sensation swept her. Heat washed in its wake.
She dragged in a breath—
He half turned and gestured to the pallet and the chair. “Which do you prefer?”
She blinked, and struggled to calm her rioting senses, to find her voice. She drew in another breath. “I’ll take the pallet—you can have the chair.”
He nodded; without meeting her eyes, he waved her to her selected seat. Uncertain—of him, of herself, of what shimmered in the air—she went; sitting on the pallet, she shuffled back and drew up her knees so she could balance her boots on the end strut, out of reach of any further rodents. Hugging her knees, she settled her chin atop them, and stared into the flames.
Demon built up the fire, then subsided into the armchair. He, too, fixed his gaze on the flames, denying the urge to gaze at Flick—to look, to wonder . . .
That moment of unexpected awareness had very nearly defeated him, nearly overcome the defenses he’d erected between her and himself, between her innocence and his demons. Only her abiding innocence—the innocent confusion, laced with equally innocent, equally open, curiosity, in her blue eyes—had saved them. Given him the strength to resist. The effort had left him aching, far more intensely than before. And inwardly shaking, as if his strength had been depleted to dangerously low levels.
Which meant he was in trouble—that matters between them had gone much farther than he’d thought. Than he’d been aware of.
Even now, although he’d recognized the danger, at least half his mind was fully engaged in wondering what having an angel beneath him would be like. In fantasizing, as he had so often that afternoon, about how far her delicate blush extended. But his thoughts of her were no longer merely sensual—they were possessively so. Intent, with an underlying, clawing need that he knew no way of easing, bar one. Which, in this case, by extension, meant . . .
The very thought made him shudder. Marriage was not a word he willingly used, not even in his mind.
A rustling had him glancing her way; he watched as, drowsy, her lids heavy, she turned on her side. Tucking her legs up in her skirts, she settled on the mattress, her gaze still fixed on the fire. Demon forced his gaze to follow hers to the flames. And tried, very hard, not to think at all.
Outside, the drops still pattered down in a steady, soaking rain.
When his mind started to wander, he tried to guess the time, but he had no idea how long they’d taken on the path through the park. An hour? Less?
A soft sigh had him turning, looking—after that, he didn’t look away.
She was sleeping.
A hand curled beneath her cheek, her long lashes lay still, brown crescents brushing rose-tinted skin. Her lips, slightly parted, sheened softly, their curves the gentlest temptation imaginable. The firelight gilded her jaw and set golden lights in her hair.
Demon looked, and watched—watched the steady swell and ebb of her breathing reflected in the movement of her breasts, tightly encased in blue velvet, watched the ruffle at her throat rise and fall.
He still wasn’t sure how she felt about Dillon, but he’d detected no sign of any sensual awareness between them. He’d initially wondered if they were simply too young, too innocent, to have developed that susceptibility, but he now knew Flick, at least, was more than capable of feeling it.
Which brought him to wondering how she saw him . . . He watched, and pondered. There was no need to look away.
Chapter 7
He’d seen her face so often in his dreams that he didn’t notice when he fell asleep. Her face was his last image before his lids fell—it was the first thing he saw, through the dimness, when he woke.
Frowning, Demon eased his stiff neck and glanced at the fire to see it a pile of cooling ash. He froze, staring at the grey pile, then whipped around to look at the windows.
The heavy shutters were in place, but a thin shaft of pale light edged each slat.
Swearing beneath his breath, he glanced at Flick, still softly sleeping, an angel in repose. Jaw setting, he rose and strode silently to the door. Opening it confirmed his worst fear—the day had dawned.
Drawing the door wide, Demon hauled in a deep breath. The scent of the wet forest flowed into him; he held it in, then slowly exhaled.
A sound behind him had him turning; silent and still in the doorway, he watched Flick awake.
She didn’t simply open her eyes. Instead, consiousness slowly invested her features, enlivening her brows, curving her full lips. Eyes still closed, she hummed softly in her throat. Her breasts swelled as she drew in a deep breath, then she stretched languorously, straightening her spine, arching slightly, then she relaxed and her lashes fluttered.
Then, and only then, did her lids slowly rise.
She looked straight at him, then blinked her eyes wide, but no hint of consternation disturbed her content expression. Instead, her lips softened into a sleepily warm smile.
“Is it morning?”
The husky tones of her voice, still drunk with sleep, flowed over him, about him, slid under his skin and seized him. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think—he could only want. Want with a searing desire that shocked him, with an absolute possessive need that nearly floored him. Containing that force, reining it in, holding it back, left him rigid. And shaking.
She was still smiling, still waiting for his answer; realizing that, with him framed in the doorway with all light coming from outside, she couldn’t see his passion-blank expression, or anything else, he summoned every last ounce of his strength and managed to utter, “Almost.”
His tone was harsh and uneven; he didn’t wait to see her reaction but turned away to ensure she got no chance to study him further, to see the evidence of that rabid desire. Ostensibly surveying the clearing, he cleared his throat. “I’ll get the horses saddled.”
With that, he escaped.
Of course, within a few minutes, she came to help.
Ivan was grumpy and fractious; Demon made that his excuse for barely glancing Flick’s way. He felt her puzzled gaze; jaw clenched, he ignored it. He didn’t even dare help her saddle Jessamy—if she put her hand on his thigh this morning, he couldn’t guarantee his reaction—or rather, his inaction. As soon as he had Ivan’s girths tight, he grabbed his bridle and led the restless stallion out of the tight space.
The charcoal makers’ hut had been constructed in that particular clearing because it was the natural confluence of four paths through the park. One was the path they’d travelled last night, another led onward to the manor. A third struck across to join the eastern bridle path Flick usually used to reach the ruined cottage and his farm. Halting Ivan in the middle of the clearing, Demon glanced toward the opening of the fourth path, leading in from a small country lane to the west.
To see Hugh Dunstable, the General’s middle-aged steward, ambling up through the morning.
Demon froze.
Dunstable had already seen him; smiling, he raised his hand to his hat. “Ah! ’Morning, sir.”
Demon nodded easily, urbanely, but he couldn’t for the life of him summon a smile. His mind raced while Dunstable’s cob plodded closer, ever closer.
“ ’Spect you got caught in last night’s squall.” Drawing rein beside him, Dunstable beamed down at him. “No doubt but it was heavy. Got caught out myself, it came up so quick. I’d been off to the Carters
, playing a hand of whist—I was on my way back when it hit. I was drenched by the time I reached home.”
“As you say.” Demon glanced surreptitiously at the shadowed stable. “It was too heavy to risk riding on.”
Dunstable snorted. “On these paths? You’d have risked that fine beast.”
The fine beast chose that moment to snort, paw and prance, heavily shouldering Dunstable’s cob. Demon swore and drew in Ivan’s reins. Settling his placid cob, Dunstable chuckled. “Aye—riding him must be an adventure. Not hard to see how you came by your name.”
It wasn’t his expertise in riding high-bred horses that had earned him his nickname, but Demon let the comment pass; he was too busy praying.
Much good it did him. His fervent appeal to the highest authority that Flick would have the sense to remain out of sight was refused; she appeared at that instant, smiling sunnily up at Dunstable as she led Jessamy out.
“Good morning, Mr. Dunstable.”
She glanced up at the sky, and so failed to notice the expression on Dunstable’s face—sheer shock to begin with, rapidly transmuting into horror, momentarily displaced by speculation, only to revert to righteous horror again.
By the time Flick looked down and cheerily remarked, “And a fine morning it seems to be,” Dunstable’s features were set in stone, his expression impassive. He mumbled an incoherent reply to Flick; the look in his eyes when he shifted his gaze to Demon was coldly censorious.
Demon reacted in the only way he could—with a high hand. Cool arrogance in his eyes, he met Dunstable’s gaze levelly; his expression hard, he raised a challenging brow.
Dunstable, only one step up from a servant, albeit an old and trusted one, was at a loss to know how to respond. Demon regretted putting the old man in his place, but every instinct he possessed refused to let anyone even imagine any ill—any indiscretion—of Flick.