lovely afternoon, she refused to dwell on Dillon. A sense of pleasurable ease held her. A curious warmth, like the glow from a distant fire, enveloped her. It wasn’t the breeze, for her curls didn’t dance, and it wasn’t the sun, for it didn’t affect all of her at once. Instead, it washed like a warm wave over her, leaving her relaxed, oddly expectant.
In expectation of what she had no idea.
The fact didn’t worry her—with Demon, so large, so physically powerful beside her, nothing on earth could threaten her.
The moment was perfect, serene—and strangely intriguing.
There was something in the air—she sensed it with every pore. Which was odd, for she was hardly a fanciful chit. She was, however, abidingly curious—in this case, abidingly interested. Whatever it was that hung in the air, shimmering like a fairy’s spell in the bright sunshine, almost of this world but not quite substantial enough for mortal eyes to see—whatever that was, she wanted to know it, understand it.
Whatever it was, she was experiencing it now.
The buzz of the bees, the murmur of the stream, and that undefined, exciting something held her in silent thrall.
Demon slowly sat up and reached for the basket. She turned to see him draw out the almost empty bottle. He refilled his glass, then glanced at hers, almost empty. He looked at her face, briefly searching her eyes, then reached over and tipped the last of the wine into her flute.
It fizzed; she smiled and took a sip.
The bubbles got up her nose.
She sneezed. He looked up; she waved his concern aside. She took another, more careful sip as he returned the bottle to the basket, leaving it by the side of the rug. That done, he lay back again, this time propping on one elbow, his glass in his other hand.
“So,” she asked, shuffling to face him, “how are we going to follow Bletchley?”
His gaze on the stream, Demon fortified himself with a long sip of champagne, then turned his head and met her gaze, studiously ignoring the expanse of ivory skin, the warm swells promising all manner of earthly delights, now mere inches from his face. “It’s not a hard task. I’ve got Gillies and two stablemen rotating the watch. It’s a small town—now we know what he looks like, and where he’s staying, keeping an eye on him shouldn’t overtax us.”
“But—” Flick frowned at a nearby willow. “If we don’t learn something soon, won’t he notice? Seeing a particular stableman forever about will surely make him suspicious. Newmarket stablemen don’t have nothing to do.”
A warm flush swept her shoulders, her breasts. She looked at Demon; he was looking into his glass, his lids veiling his eyes.
Then he looked at the stream. “You needn’t worry. He’ll presumably be at the Heath during morning and afternoon stables—I’ll watch him there and in the High Street.” He drained his glass. “Gillies and the stablemen will watch him in the inns and taverns—they won’t be so identifiable in a crowd.”
“Hmm. Perhaps.” Flick stretched her stockinged feet to the sun. “I’ll help, too. About the tracks and in the High Street.” She met Demon’s gaze as he looked up at her. “He won’t suspect a young lady of watching him.”
He stared at her for a moment, as if he’d lost the thread of the conversation, then he murmured, “Very likely not.” His gaze grew intent; he lifted one hand. “Hold still.”
She froze so completely that she stopped breathing. A vise clamped about her lungs; her heart stuttered, skipped, then raced. She held quiveringly still as his fingers slid through the curls above one ear, ruffling the locks as he disengaged . . . something. When he withdrew his hand and showed her a long leaf, flicking it onto the grass, she dragged in a breath and smiled weakly. “Thank you.”
His eyes met hers. “My pleasure.”
The words were deep, rumbling; the tone set something inside her vibrating. Her gaze trapped in his, she felt flustered
In expectation of what she had no idea.
The fact didn’t worry her—with Demon, so large, so physically powerful beside her, nothing on earth could threaten her.
The moment was perfect, serene—and strangely intriguing.
There was something in the air—she sensed it with every pore. Which was odd, for she was hardly a fanciful chit. She was, however, abidingly curious—in this case, abidingly interested. Whatever it was that hung in the air, shimmering like a fairy’s spell in the bright sunshine, almost of this world but not quite substantial enough for mortal eyes to see—whatever that was, she wanted to know it, understand it.
Whatever it was, she was experiencing it now.
The buzz of the bees, the murmur of the stream, and that undefined, exciting something held her in silent thrall.
Demon slowly sat up and reached for the basket. She turned to see him draw out the almost empty bottle. He refilled his glass, then glanced at hers, almost empty. He looked at her face, briefly searching her eyes, then reached over and tipped the last of the wine into her flute.
It fizzed; she smiled and took a sip.
The bubbles got up her nose.
She sneezed. He looked up; she waved his concern aside. She took another, more careful sip as he returned the bottle to the basket, leaving it by the side of the rug. That done, he lay back again, this time propping on one elbow, his glass in his other hand.
“So,” she asked, shuffling to face him, “how are we going to follow Bletchley?”
His gaze on the stream, Demon fortified himself with a long sip of champagne, then turned his head and met her gaze, studiously ignoring the expanse of ivory skin, the warm swells promising all manner of earthly delights, now mere inches from his face. “It’s not a hard task. I’ve got Gillies and two stablemen rotating the watch. It’s a small town—now we know what he looks like, and where he’s staying, keeping an eye on him shouldn’t overtax us.”
“But—” Flick frowned at a nearby willow. “If we don’t learn something soon, won’t he notice? Seeing a particular stableman forever about will surely make him suspicious. Newmarket stablemen don’t have nothing to do.”
A warm flush swept her shoulders, her breasts. She looked at Demon; he was looking into his glass, his lids veiling his eyes.
Then he looked at the stream. “You needn’t worry. He’ll presumably be at the Heath during morning and afternoon stables—I’ll watch him there and in the High Street.” He drained his glass. “Gillies and the stablemen will watch him in the inns and taverns—they won’t be so identifiable in a crowd.”
“Hmm. Perhaps.” Flick stretched her stockinged feet to the sun. “I’ll help, too. About the tracks and in the High Street.” She met Demon’s gaze as he looked up at her. “He won’t suspect a young lady of watching him.”
He stared at her for a moment, as if he’d lost the thread of the conversation, then he murmured, “Very likely not.” His gaze grew intent; he lifted one hand. “Hold still.”
She froze so completely that she stopped breathing. A vise clamped about her lungs; her heart stuttered, skipped, then raced. She held quiveringly still as his fingers slid through the curls above one ear, ruffling the locks as he disengaged . . . something. When he withdrew his hand and showed her a long leaf, flicking it onto the grass, she dragged in a breath and smiled weakly. “Thank you.”
His eyes met hers. “My pleasure.”
The words were deep, rumbling; the tone set something inside her vibrating. Her gaze trapped in his, she felt flustered
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