you?”
She couldn’t think. His smell was everywhere, spicy and warm.
“Does he kiss you tenderly, like this?” Trent leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. It was a whisper of a caress. A maddeningly soft kiss. Slowly, with utmost control, he brushed his mouth across hers.
Her breath raveled and unraveled, not knowing where to rest. For there was no rest. No calm. Only want. Only desire for things she could not have.
“Or does he pleasure you like this?” He pulled down on her jaw with his thumb and opened her mouth. Swept his tongue across hers. He tasted hot, of salt and whisky and man.
A shiver snaked up her spine. She wanted him. She wanted this. She wanted more.
His free hand wrapped around her hips and pulled her against him. That aching, pulsing part of her wanted to cry out with relief. She grabbed on to his shoulders and touched her tongue to his. He slanted his mouth and deepened the kiss, desire pouring through him and into her. She stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck. His hands cupped her buttocks, fitted her against him so she felt the hard length of his arousal. Heavens, yes . She clasped him tightly as he kissed her jaw, nipped her ear. “Is this how he makes you shiver?”
Yes! No… no!
God’s teeth, no .
What was she doing?
She dropped to her heels and wrenched away from his hands. Backing up two paces, she pressed her fingers to her swollen lips, then wiped her hand across her mouth.
He watched her, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark.
What was he thinking? Was he triumphant? Angry? She could not tell. He was lost to her. Would always be lost to her. He was her enemy .
Oh, she was a fool.
She turned away, focused on the green curtains still fluttering in the warm breeze, the piano bench still at a slight angle.
Nothing had changed.
A sharp sound behind her made her jump. She spun, prepared to defend herself.
Trent refilled his tumbler of whisky, that was all. He looked up, lines of tension fanning his grey eyes. But as he straightened, everything else about him appeared dark and smug, as if he had proved the victor of this battle. As if he had proved something to himself. So she had enjoyed his kisses. It wouldn’t happen again, and there was certainly more at stake.
Whatever he thought he knew was wrong. He had underestimated her, as men were wont to do.
He was cunning and intelligent and already piecing together more of the puzzle than she would wish. But she had a greater understanding of the situation than he. She was familiar with the county, with the way of the villagers, while he had been in London these last years.
And he was starting with the wrong conclusions about the Midnight Rider. Conclusions she had no intention of setting straight. It was fine with her if Trent thought her a light skirt, some kind of fallen woman who took a criminal for a lover.
Best he not suspect the truth.
Best he never know that the Midnight Rider was, in fact, her brother.
Chapter Six
“If we are bound to forgive an enemy, we are not bound to trust him.” Thomas Fuller
Was he to be challenged at every turn?
Trent glared at his deputy lieutenant from across the wide expanse of his desk. Harrington sat forward in sharp angles, bristling in a patch of bright morning sun.
“My men know the lay of the land,” Harrington huffed. “You needn’t have brought in those lads from the city. They wouldn’t know a badger from a broomstick.”
Trent arched his brows. Harrington clearly felt the need to protect his domain. “I cannot say that I agree with your assessment of the Bow Street Runners, but I did appoint one of your militiamen to each team of three.” His voice was sheared by vexation. He abhorred the need to defend his decisions.
“You didn’t take one out with you yesterday when you went to the old gypsy camp.” The man leaned back into the gloom that took up the rest of the study. “How do I know what you’ve gotten yourself up to?”
“I am not the
She couldn’t think. His smell was everywhere, spicy and warm.
“Does he kiss you tenderly, like this?” Trent leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. It was a whisper of a caress. A maddeningly soft kiss. Slowly, with utmost control, he brushed his mouth across hers.
Her breath raveled and unraveled, not knowing where to rest. For there was no rest. No calm. Only want. Only desire for things she could not have.
“Or does he pleasure you like this?” He pulled down on her jaw with his thumb and opened her mouth. Swept his tongue across hers. He tasted hot, of salt and whisky and man.
A shiver snaked up her spine. She wanted him. She wanted this. She wanted more.
His free hand wrapped around her hips and pulled her against him. That aching, pulsing part of her wanted to cry out with relief. She grabbed on to his shoulders and touched her tongue to his. He slanted his mouth and deepened the kiss, desire pouring through him and into her. She stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck. His hands cupped her buttocks, fitted her against him so she felt the hard length of his arousal. Heavens, yes . She clasped him tightly as he kissed her jaw, nipped her ear. “Is this how he makes you shiver?”
Yes! No… no!
God’s teeth, no .
What was she doing?
She dropped to her heels and wrenched away from his hands. Backing up two paces, she pressed her fingers to her swollen lips, then wiped her hand across her mouth.
He watched her, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark.
What was he thinking? Was he triumphant? Angry? She could not tell. He was lost to her. Would always be lost to her. He was her enemy .
Oh, she was a fool.
She turned away, focused on the green curtains still fluttering in the warm breeze, the piano bench still at a slight angle.
Nothing had changed.
A sharp sound behind her made her jump. She spun, prepared to defend herself.
Trent refilled his tumbler of whisky, that was all. He looked up, lines of tension fanning his grey eyes. But as he straightened, everything else about him appeared dark and smug, as if he had proved the victor of this battle. As if he had proved something to himself. So she had enjoyed his kisses. It wouldn’t happen again, and there was certainly more at stake.
Whatever he thought he knew was wrong. He had underestimated her, as men were wont to do.
He was cunning and intelligent and already piecing together more of the puzzle than she would wish. But she had a greater understanding of the situation than he. She was familiar with the county, with the way of the villagers, while he had been in London these last years.
And he was starting with the wrong conclusions about the Midnight Rider. Conclusions she had no intention of setting straight. It was fine with her if Trent thought her a light skirt, some kind of fallen woman who took a criminal for a lover.
Best he not suspect the truth.
Best he never know that the Midnight Rider was, in fact, her brother.
Chapter Six
“If we are bound to forgive an enemy, we are not bound to trust him.” Thomas Fuller
Was he to be challenged at every turn?
Trent glared at his deputy lieutenant from across the wide expanse of his desk. Harrington sat forward in sharp angles, bristling in a patch of bright morning sun.
“My men know the lay of the land,” Harrington huffed. “You needn’t have brought in those lads from the city. They wouldn’t know a badger from a broomstick.”
Trent arched his brows. Harrington clearly felt the need to protect his domain. “I cannot say that I agree with your assessment of the Bow Street Runners, but I did appoint one of your militiamen to each team of three.” His voice was sheared by vexation. He abhorred the need to defend his decisions.
“You didn’t take one out with you yesterday when you went to the old gypsy camp.” The man leaned back into the gloom that took up the rest of the study. “How do I know what you’ve gotten yourself up to?”
“I am not the
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