What Price Love?

3

By the time Caxton steered her into his office, Pris had her wits firmly back under control. It helped that, in marching her back to the Jockey Club, he’d done no more than grip her elbow. Even that much contact was more than she would have wished, but it was a great improvement over what had gone before.

Those moments when she’d lain beneath him welled again in her mind. Resolutely, she jammed them down, buried them deep. She couldn’t afford the distraction.

He thrust her into the room, in the direction of the chair before his desk, the one she’d previously occupied.

After hauling her to her feet, with a detachment that, to her in her highly charged, overwrought state, had somehow smacked of insult, he’d tugged loose her kerchief, pulled her arms behind her, and bound them. Not tightly, but too well for her to slip her wrists free.

She’d borne the indignity only because her wits had still been reeling, her traitorous senses still whirling, leaving her weak-too weak to break away.

But their plodding journey through the wood had given her time to catch her breath; she was feeling considerably more capable now.

Halting beside the chair, she narrowed her eyes at Caxton as he came up beside her. “You’ll need to untie my hands.”

It was the earl’s daughter who spoke. Caxton met her eyes, considered, then reached behind her and tugged the knot free.

Leaving her to untangle her hands, he walked on; rounding his desk, he dropped into the chair behind it.

Behind her, Pris heard the door shut and the latch click home. As she sat-noting that Caxton hadn’t waited for her to do so before sitting himself-she glanced at his friend. He limped to the armchair and slowly let himself down into it.

She managed not to wince. Her confidence in Rus hadn’t been misplaced; there was a bruise on the man’s cheekbone, another on his jaw, and from the way he moved, his ribs hadn’t escaped punishment. He looked thoroughly roughed up, yet she detected a shrewdness, an incisiveness in his gaze; he was still very much mentally alert.

Shaking out her kerchief, she rolled it, then calmly knotted it once more about her neck. She looked at Caxton, noted he was frowning, then realized his gaze had lowered to her breasts, rising under the fine shirt as she reached to the back of her neck.

Thanking the saints that she didn’t blush easily, she lowered her arms. “Now that we’re here, what can I do for you, gentlemen?”

She had every intention of making this interview more painful for them than for her.

Dillon blinked, then locked his gaze on her face, on her fascinating eyes. “You can start by telling us what you were doing skulking about the wood.”

Her emerald eyes opened wide. “Why, skulking about the wood, of course. Is that a crime?”

He didn’t try to stop his jaw, his whole face from hardening. “The man in the wood-who was he?”

She considered asking what man. Instead, she shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“You were there to meet him.”

“So you say.”

“He’s a felon who’s been trying to burgle the Jockey Club.”

“Really?”

Dillon could almost believe the arrested look that went with that, as if he’d told her something she hadn’t known. “You know him, because you deliberately distracted me from helping Barnaby-Mr. Adair-apprehend him. You knew he’d overcome one man, but not two. You’re his accomplice-you helped him get away. Presumably you were his lookout.”

She sat back in the chair, outwardly as at ease, as comfortable and assured as she’d been in her emerald gown. Arms resting on the chair’s arms, she met his gaze directly. “That’s a fascinating hypothesis.”

“It’s the truth, or something close to it.”

“You have an excellent imagination.”

“My dear Miss Dalling, what do you imagine will happen if we deliver you to the constable and tell him we discovered you, dressed as you are, hiding in the wood behind the Jockey Club, just as a man seeking to break into the club fled the scene?”

Once again, she opened her eyes wide; this time, a gentle, subtly mocking smile played about her mobile, thoroughly distracting lips. “Why, that the poor constable will curse his luck and be made to feel terribly uncomfortable, for as we’ve already established, skulking about in the woods is no crime, your assertion that I know the man is pure conjecture, conjecture I absolutely deny, and as for being dressed as I am, I believe you’ll discover that, too, is not against the law.”

The poor constable would be mesmerized by her voice. If she spoke more than two phrases, it required a conscious exercise of will not to fall under her spell. And, of course, in this case, she spoke the unvarnished truth. Sitting back in his chair, Dillon studied her, deliberately let the moment stretch.

She met his gaze; her lips curved, just a little-enough for him to know she knew what he was attempting, that she wasn’t susceptible, wasn’t going to feel compelled to fill the silence.

Despite his intention not to shift his gaze, he found himself glancing at her attire. In a town like Newmarket, the sight of ladies in breeches, while not socially acceptable, was hardly rare. An increasing number of females-Flick being one-were involved in one way or another with preparing race horses, and riding such animals in skirts was simply too dangerous. When he called on Flick, he was as likely to find her in breeches as in skirts.

It was his familiarity with ladies’ breeches that prodded his mind. Miss Dalling’s weren’t made for her; they didn’t fit well enough, being a touch too big, the legs a trifle long. Likewise the jacket; the shoulders were too wide, and the cuffs fell across the backs of her hands.

Her boots were her own-her feet were small and dainty-but the clothes hadn’t been hers originally. Most likely a brother’s…

Lifting his gaze, he captured hers. “Miss Dalling, can you tell me you don’t know this man-the man Mr. Adair attempted to apprehend?”

Her fine brows arched haughtily. “My dear Mr. Caxton, I have no intention of telling you anything at all.”

“Is he your brother?”

Her lashes flickered, but she held his gaze, direct and unflinching. “My brothers are in Ireland.”

Her tone had gone flat. He knew he’d hit a nerve, but he’d also hit a wall. She would tell him nothing more, at all. Inwardly sighing, he rose, with a wave gestured to the door. “I would thank you for assisting us, Miss Dalling, however…”

With a look of cool contempt, she rose. Turning, she paused, studying Barnaby. “I’m sorry you were injured, Mr. Adair. Might I suggest ice packs would help with those bruises?”

She accorded him a regal nod, then, lifting her head, walked to the door.

Dillon watched her, noting the swaying hips, the supreme confidence in her walk, then he rounded the desk and went after her.

Even now, especially now, he wasn’t about to let her wander the corridors of the Jockey Club alone.

Damn it, Rus, where are you?”

Holding her frisky bay mare on a tight rein, Pris scanned the gently undulating grassland that formed Newmarket Heath. Here and there between the scattered trees and copses, strings of horses were being put through the daily round of exercises that kept them in peak condition. Horsey breaths fogged in the crisp morning air. Dawn had just broken; it was cold and misty. Beyond the practicing strings, wholly absorbed with their activities, the Heath was largely empty; other than herself, there were few observers about.

More would gather as the sun rose higher; she intended to be gone before too many gentlemen rode out to view the runners for the race meet tomorrow.

The string she’d been observing from a safe distance wasn’t Irish. Straining her ears, she could just pick up the orders and comments tossed back and forth. This group was English, definitely not Lord Cromarty’s string.

Suppressing her disappointment, doing her best to ignore her mounting anxiety, she set the mare cantering on to the next string.

It was the second morning she’d ridden out. Yesterday, Adelaide had accompanied her, but Adelaide wasn’t a confident rider; Pris had spent as much time watching over her as she had scanning the sward. This morning, she’d risen earlier, donned her emerald velvet riding habit, and slipped out of the house in the dark, leaving Adelaide dreaming.

Of Rus, no doubt. In their unwavering devotion, Adelaide and she were alike, albeit for different reasons.

Two nights before, she’d truthfully told Caxton her brothers were in Ireland. Rus wasn’t her brother-he was her twin. He all but shared her soul. Not knowing where he was, simultaneously knowing he was facing some as-yet-nebulous danger, set fear like a net about her heart.

With every day that passed, the net drew tighter.

She had to find Rus, had to help him break free of what ever it was that threatened him. Nothing else mattered, not until that was done.

Catching sight of another string, she turned the mare in that direction. The horse was still fresh; Pris let her stretch out in an easy gallop, but given that she was riding sidesaddle over unfamiliar ground, she kept the reins taut.

The sting of cold air burned her cheeks. Exhilarated, she pulled up on a slight rise and looked down on the exercising string.

Settling the mare, she squinted at the distant horse men. She couldn’t get too close; she might not recognize Harkness, but given he’d been working with Rus, he would almost certainly recognize her.

She needed to locate Lord Cromarty’s string, but until she knew more, she didn’t want anyone from his lordship’s stables other than Rus knowing she was in Newmarket.

Straining her ears, she listened, but was too far away. Twitching the mare’s reins, she trotted around to a knoll closer to the string but more directly downwind.

Again she sat and listened. This time, she heard. Closing her eyes, she concentrated.

Familiar lilting accents, a gently burred brogue, rolled across her senses.

Breath catching, she opened her eyes and eagerly scanned the men before her. She fixed on the large man directing the exercises. Harkness. Big, dark, and fearsome. Her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her-she’d found Lord Cromarty’s string!

Her heart lifting, she studied the two men beside Harkness; neither was Rus. She was about to shift her focus to the circling riders-so much harder to study as they rose and fell with their horses’ gaits-when a shifting shadow in the clump of trees to her right drew her eye.

A horse man sat on a powerful black standing in the lee of the trees. He wasn’t watching the exercising horses; his attention was fixed on her.

Pris cursed. Even before she took in the lean build and broad shoulders, and the dramatically dark, wind-ruffled hair, she knew who he was.

Abruptly, she wheeled the mare, tapped her heel to the glossy flank and took off. She raced down the knoll, gave the mare her head, and flew, hooves pounding, away across the Heath.

He would follow, she felt sure. The damn man had doubtless been following her all morning, perhaps even all yesterday morning. By now he would know she was searching for one particular string. Thank the saints she’d noticed him before she’d done anything to distinguish Cromarty’s string from all the others she’d observed.

A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed the big black was thundering in her wake.

The mare was fleet of foot, and she rode a great deal lighter than he, but the black was like its rider-relentless. It came on, heavy hooves steadily eating up her lead.

Leaning low over the mare’s neck, she urged the horse on, streaking across the lush green. The wind tugged at her curls, sent them rippling over her shoulders. Shifting her weight as she swung around a stand of trees, she tried to think of what she should say when he caught up with her.

Would he wonder why she’d fled? Would he guess her real reason-that she wanted him far from the string she’d been watching? But no-their last clash, especially those moments behind the wood, were reason enough for her to flee him. And he knew that, damn him! She recalled all too well that instant before his friend had arrived when he’d decided to try a certain method of persuasion that, to her immense shock, had had her heart standing still.

With a peculiar, never-before-felt fear, and an unholy anticipation.

No. She had a good reason not to want to fall into his hands again.

But she didn’t want him thinking about that last string. Remembering it enough to go back later and check. She had to convince him it was just another string like all the others she’d viewed, not the one she was searching for.

She glanced behind her. He was even closer than she’d guessed. Stifling a curse, she looked ahead-she was rapidly running out of Heath. The stands of trees were getting larger; she was heading into more wooded terrain.

He was going to catch up with her soon, but she would rather any catching was done on her terms. As for making sure he didn’t focus on that last string…she might not want to fall into his arms, but there was one weapon she possessed that, in her experience, was all but guaranteed to rattle his brain, to fog his mind and cloud his memories.

She wasn’t keen-wielding that weapon was neither smart nor safe-but desperation beckoned.

The last thing she wanted, the very last thing Rus needed, was Mr. Caxton, Keeper of the Breeding Register, calling at Lord Cromarty’s stables.

Dragging in a breath, she gathered the mare in, let Caxton bring his mount up on her right flank.

She picked her moment, swerved hard and sharp, swinging around a clump of trees large enough to qualify as a wood. The black was less maneuverable; the rapid shift in direction left him careening on.

Curses erupted behind her as Caxton wrestled the beast around, but then she whipped around the wood, streaked along its rear, rounded it again, returning to where she’d started; by then he’d followed and was on the other side.

Hauling the mare to a halt, she slid from the saddle, snagged the reins on a branch, grabbed her skirts, and pelted into the wood.

She raced through the cool shadows, grateful it was reasonably clear under the trees. She found what she was looking for roughly in the wood’s center, a huge old tree with a wide, thick bole. Panting, she whisked around behind it, drew her skirts in, and leaned back against the trunk.

She closed her eyes, fought to catch her breath. Caxton would either find her, or he wouldn’t.

The minutes stretched. She couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of her heart. There was light enough to see, sunbeams lancing through the canopy to dapple the ground; the air was cool, sweet with the scent of wood and leaves.

Her heart slowed, steadied. She strained to hear. All about seemed still. Unthreatening.

A twig snapped, close, on the other side of the tree.

A second later he loomed at her shoulder. Real, larger than life, twice as handsome. Sinfully beautiful and darkly dangerous.

He looked down at her, leaning against the tree, her hands gripping her skirts, then arched his brows, arrogantly unimpressed.

She didn’t stop to think. Straightening, she raised one hand, reached for his nape, came up on her toes, and drew his lips to hers.

And kissed him.

Dillon’s thoughts stopped the instant her lips met his. It was as if he mentally blinked, and when he opened his mental eyes there was nothing there…except for the beguiling sweetness of her lips shifting seductively against his. Delicately tasting, subtly yet evocatively tempting.

His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see. He tried to bring his vision into focus, couldn’t. Instead, he let his lids fall, surrendered, and accepted he was caught, somehow trapped in the moment, that her bold and totally unexpected attack had caught him unawares and snared him.

His lips gave under hers, eased, shifted; he started to respond to her blatant invitation, his arms rising to hold her, then instinct reared and he caught himself. Tried to pull back, free-tried to find the will to do so.

The clasp of her small hand at his nape tightened; she stepped closer, her lips taunting. Her body brushed his, sinuous, sirenlike. Her other hand rose, came to rest splayed against his chest, then she slid it slowly upward, over his shoulder to twine about his neck as she moved closer yet.

He felt the change in him, the sudden surge of driving need he recognized, yet didn’t. This was desire grown unusually strong, unusually forceful, born of lust heightened by her beauty, colored by a primal need to dominate, to subjugate, lashed to life by her cool contempt-a medley of deeper passions she’d effortlessly stirred, and seemed determined to unleash.

More fool she.

But if she wanted…so did he.

He played out his inner reins, lifted his arms, and closed them about her. Gathering her more definitely against him, he felt the hitch in her breathing, was even more aware of the unadulterated need that seared him. A need to conquer, to possess. To meet her challenge head-on, and triumph.

To put her in her place, beneath him once again.

He did as he wished, and kissed her back. For long moments, he toyed with her, a give-and-take that remained at the level she’d initiated, neither light nor unmeaningful, yet not threatening, more promise than action. A superficial sensual landscape, one where sexual taunts and responses belonged.

She was comfortable enough there, sufficiently in control. Able to duel with him.

He mentally smiled and ruthlessly took control, backed her against the tree, parted her lips, surged into her mouth, and laid claim. Crashed through her outer defenses and engaged her, tasted her, not the sweet but the sensual, the more intimate self she’d until then kept guarded.

Shocked, Pris tried to draw back only to feel his arms lock about her. Like steel, they caged her, trapping her, the tree a solid wall at her back, his body an even more intimidating barrier before her. A threatening barrier. As if to demonstrate, his hands, palms and fingers strong, spread over her back, then he drew her even more definitely into him, against a body far harder, far stronger than her own. One mind-numbingly masculine.

He surrounded her, alien and powerful-and intent.

Her body responded, but not as she wished. Instead of fighting to break free, her limbs melted, her muscles turned to jelly. Clamping her hands on his shoulders, fingers sinking into heavy muscle, she struggled to hang on, to cling to control, or at least to her wits, but he wouldn’t allow her even that much-angling his head over hers, he mercilessly plundered her mouth and sent her wits careening.

Some part of her continued to struggle, to frantically look for some way out even while her senses reeled, even while her mind was overwhelmed, all thought submerged by the waves of sensuality he sent pouring through her.

She tried to draw a line and hold to it, tried to dig in her sensual heels, but he ruthlessly, relentlessly undermined her, and drove her back-into deeper waters. Waters into which she’d never before stuck a toe.

His lips were commanding, demanding, forcing her to scramble to appease, to placate. His tongue dueled with hers, and he constantly won, seizing as his reward the right to caress, explicit and knowing, until shudders of plea sure racked her spine.

She was breathing all but entirely through him, helpless in his arms, unable to retreat. To call a halt, to step back from the engagement she’d started, to break away from what it had become.

There was heat and fire in him; with him wrapped about her she couldn’t mistake it. Couldn’t miss the rigid evidence of his desire so flagrantly impressed against her belly. Yet there was a coolness behind all he did-that aloof control that despite her best efforts, her fond hopes, she hadn’t rattled or rocked in the least.

Even while he engaged with her, even while he set her wits spinning, her senses whirling, he was watching her. Steering her.

He wasn’t lost in this unfamiliar world. He wasn’t out of control-he was dictating.

This, she suddenly realized, was a lesson-a warning.

As if he sensed her realization, his hands, until then splayed firmly across her back, shifted. One rose slightly, holding her pressed to him while his other hand slid slowly down, over her hips, then lower.

Even through the velvet of her habit, she felt the sensual assessment in his touch, the blatant possession.

Far from reacting with contemptuous fury, her traitorous body and even more traitorous senses all but swooned. Heat raced over her skin, prickled beneath his palm as he fondled, then more explicitly caressed.

His head angled over hers, his lips pressing hers farther apart; the ruthless yet languid thrust of his tongue became even more openly intimate, more devastatingly erotic.

She couldn’t stand against him-couldn’t stand against herself, the self he connected with, that he could command. That he’d called forth and turned against her.

Her defenses crumbled; all resistance-in her mind, in her bones and sinews-simply faded away. On a shattered sigh, half-tortured moan, she surrendered.

Dillon knew it; he had to wage a war with himself not to react. Not to brace her against the tree, lift her skirts, and sheathe himself in her wanton heat.

He closed his eyes tight, sank into her mouth, and fought to leash his demons, his almost overpowering need to have her, here and now. Fought to convince himself that what he’d already taken, what he’d already enjoyed, was enough. For now.

He’d won, triumphed, but he hadn’t expected the battle to rage so far. Recognizing her tack, he’d responded in the only way that, in the heat of the moment, he’d deemed possible-in kind. But he hadn’t expected her to meet him and match him on field after field, hadn’t expected her to defend so recklessly, to hold against him until they’d come to this-this critical point in passion’s dance; he’d expected her to yield long since. He hadn’t expected to have to press her so hard, to have to wield his own sensual weapons so strongly, not to this extent.

To the extent where he was inwardly shaking, racked with volcanic yet unslaked desire, raked by passion’s claws.

A self he didn’t recognize, one driven by hot desire, reminded him she’d started this. He’d called her bet-shouldn’t she pay his price?

With her locked against him, her slender body and lush mouth fully yielded, all his, the temptation to ravish her-to deal with what she’d started in the most appropriate way-whispered darkly through his mind.

Yet now she’d surrendered and was no longer fighting him, there was a subtle innocence in her responses; no longer screened by her determination to counter him, she-the woman within-seemed so very vulnerable.

He might wish-that harder, darker side of him might want-but he didn’t have it in him to harm her.

Drawing back from the kiss required effort; they’d traveled too far along passion’s road to simply stop and step away. He needed to draw her back to the world, needed to force himself step by step back from a precipice he’d never before faced.

The realization that that last was indeed true helped.

Eventually he lifted his head. He looked down at her lips, swollen, slightly bruised; he hadn’t been gentle. He shifted his gaze to her eyes, watched as she drew in a breath, then her lashes fluttered, and rose.

Revealing eyes brilliant and dark, deeper than emerald, the veil of ebbing passion slowly fading.

He studied those eyes, tried to ignore the compulsive beat in his blood, still painfully attuned to her, aware to his throbbing fingertips of the rise and fall of her breasts beneath her velvet jacket as she fought to catch her breath.

There was comprehension in the eyes that stared back at him, eyes that, like his, would never be distracted by superficial beauty, that would look past it, search deeper, and see.

They both knew what had happened, what had just occurred, what question had been decided. She’d thought to challenge him, had risked doing so knowing that at the least she’d learn which of them was the stronger on this plane.

She’d hoped she’d be able to manage him, bedazzle and hypnotize him with her not-inconsiderable charms. She’d wantonly rolled the dice-and lost; he saw the knowledge in her eyes.

He couldn’t stop a cynical, arrogant smile from curving his lips. “I believe that answers that.”

Her eyes flashed, temper flaring, but, still recovering, she made no reply.

He looked into her eyes for a moment longer, then, very slowly, released her. “Might I suggest we’d be wise to return to the horses?”

It would definitely be wise to get some distance between them.

She looked away, toward the horses.

He forced himself to step back, let her slip from between him and the tree; silent and, he judged, slightly dazed, she started back to the edge of the wood.

Without a word, he fell in beside her.

Pris struggled to get her limbs to work, to get her mind to function, struggled to assimilate all that had happened and all that hadn’t. There’d been a moment there…she slammed a mental door on those thoughts. If she dwelled on what she’d sensed, she’d never be able to deal with him-and deal with him she must.

He was striding beside her; she didn’t dare glance at him-she was still much too quiveringly aware of him, of the impression of his body against hers, of the insidiously dangerous thrill of being trapped in his arms, his lips on hers, his tongue dueling with hers…

Thrill? What was the matter with her? Being kissed by him had obviously warped her mind.

She frowned as they neared the edge of the trees, frowned even more definitely when, glancing about, she realized there was no convenient fallen log, no stump she could use to regain her saddle.

He’d noticed. With a curt wave, he gestured her to her horse. He followed, still close. Steeling herself, she halted by the mare’s side and swung to face him.

Finding herself looking at his neatly tied cravat, she forced her gaze up to his eyes, just as his hands slid about her waist and gripped.

And it happened again. Heat flared, then spread from where he touched; desire and more rose like a wave and surged through her. And him. His eyes locked on hers; the expression in his face, all hard angles and austere planes, perfectly sculpted, classically beautiful, stated very plainly that he wanted her. But…

Although desire flared in his mink-dark eyes, it was harnessed, controlled. He studied her for a moment, then evenly, rather coldly, said, “I would suggest, Miss Dalling, that if you have the slightest sense of self-preservation, you will not again attempt to sway me using yourself as bait.”

Her temper flared. Haughtily, she raised her brows.

His features resembled cold stone. “Regardless of what men you’ve previously bent to your will, be under no illusion. If you offer yourself to me again, I’ll take.”

It took considerable effort to meet his gaze and stare him down, considerable effort to stop herself from reacting to the unsubtle threat. She hadn’t needed to hear it; if she’d learned anything in the last minutes, it was that he was one gentleman she’d be wise to avoid.

She had every intention of doing so, as far as she was able. She pointedly glanced at her horse.

Lips set, he hoisted her up. He sat her in the saddle, held the stirrup for her-as if he were accustomed to assisting ladies in that way.

She wondered who…then resolutely turned her mind from such unnecessary questions. “Thank you.” With a chilly nod, she gathered the reins and wheeled the mare.

And promptly gave the horse her head. Anything to get out of Caxton’s sight as soon as humanly-equinely-possible.

Pris rode like the wind, letting the physical exhilaration soothe her mind and settle her still-shaky senses. She was approaching the rented manor house before she felt calm enough to think.

“Hardly surprising,” she muttered, reining the mare to a walk. “It’s not every morning I’m nearly ravished.”

She knew Caxton had considered it. Considered it, then deliberately backed away and spared her.

Recalling the moment, recalling how she’d felt-been reduced to feeling-she hissed through her teeth. “He should be outlawed. If he can do that to me, inured as I am to physical charms, what effect does he have on more susceptible young ladies?”

The mare snorted and walked on.

Pris humphed. Regardless, Caxton had given her a reprieve. Like the gentleman he was, he’d declined to take advantage of her sadly misjudged attempt to manipulate him. She should have known he would prove immune, the more cautious part of her had known he might be, but she’d had to try…the reason why returned to her.

Brows rising, she considered; if she hadn’t recalled why she’d kissed him until that moment, the chances were good that he’d forgotten entirely the string she’d been watching before she’d led him on their merry chase.

Good. Indeed, excellent! That was precisely what she’d set out to do, and she’d succeeded.

But she’d lost Cromarty’s string; she hadn’t even had time to see if Rus had been on one of the horses. Caxton’s fault; it was intensely annoying, especially given her increasing anxiety-blind but even more troubling for that-over Rus’s safety.

At least she now knew the area in which Cromarty’s string worked. She’d go out and locate them again, find Rus, and all would be, if not well, then a great deal better.

As for what came next, she sincerely hoped she’d be able to avoid Caxton, arrogant rake that he was. His warning irked; worse, her temper being what it was, her nature as it was, warning her not to do something invariably left her even more tempted to take the risk, regardless.

Reaching the manor, she turned the mare’s head toward the stable. There was something about Caxton’s warning that didn’t ring true. Replaying his words, his inflections, she tried to read the emotions beneath. His reined desire she recalled clearly.

She’d dismounted in the stable yard, absentmindedly handed over the mare and was striding to the manor’s side door when the discrepancy hit her.

He’d had no real reason to utter any warning.

He’d known she’d seen the danger. If he were as truly in command as she’d thought-as he’d pretended to be…as he’d allowed her to believe him to be?-if he were half as clever as she suspected he was, he should simply have let her go.

She halted.

If she couldn’t sway him sensually, why bother warning her off?

He wanted her to tell him what she knew; if he was impervious to her, why not let her try again and simply hold her off again, using the moment to get her to tell him what he wanted to know? Manipulation of that sort worked both ways, something he, of all men, beyond question knew.

She stood in the strengthening sunshine, turning over all the possibilities in her mind. Only one fitted.

He wasn’t nearly as impervious as he’d seemed.

He didn’t want her testing him again because, next time, she might succeed in holding him to a line that wasn’t so close to the edge of the sensual cliff, might succeed in gaining enough control to have the upper hand.

Or at least have some bargaining power.

“Well, well, well.” Eyes narrowing, she considered, then mentally nodded and walked on. That was certainly something to note and remember, especially if, as she greatly feared, avoiding him proved impossible.

She’d found Cromarty’s string, and had learned of one possible chink in Caxton’s otherwise formidable armor. All in all, her morning hadn’t been a complete waste.