Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) by Ava Archer Payne Page A

girls from the previous evening were nowhere to be found. Even the other coach passengers—who Jonathon expected to find eating their breakfasts—had vanished. His heart skipped a beat and his chest tightened. Mrs. Donnelly? For one anxious second he imagined she’d left without him.
    Then a movement out-of-doors caught his eye. She was there, in the rear courtyard. Relief coursed through him. Without stopping to examine his reaction, he stepped outside to join her.
    The day was crystalline, flooded with brilliant early autumn sunshine. The dreary on-again, off-again rain that had plagued them the previous day had cleared. A sapphire sky hung in its place. In the distance, beyond the red washed barns, picket fences, and church spires, the hills were dotted with sheep, their wool as thick, white, and fluffy as the clouds that dotted the sky. A crisp breeze blew, carrying with it the earthy scent of burning leaves. He heard the echoes of dogs barking, children laughing, the steady pounding of a blacksmith at work.
    Jonathon stopped and stared. He didn’t like the country. Never had. Too dull and provincial. In his estimation, nothing could match the vibrancy and excitement London offered. But damned if this wasn’t lovely.
    And speaking of lovely—Mrs. Donnelly was occupied hanging sheets on a line.
    She was dressed in a modest gown of dark green wool, over which she wore a white cotton apron. She hadn’t yet donned her bonnet, nor had she tucked her hair into the tight bun he’d grown accustomed to seeing. Instead, she wore it pulled back from her face in some sort of tortoise shell clip. It cascaded down her back in long, loose curls. Perhaps it was just the brilliance of the day that heightened the highlights in her hair, but at that moment, her dark brown tresses shimmered with bold streaks of rich, burnished copper.
    He stood and stared, gaping like a schoolboy in the throes of his first crush. She was just a woman, he told himself. Like any other woman. But differently lit.
    As though feeling his gaze, she turned. She sent him a smile of such radiant warmth he was tempted to drag her back upstairs and put their bed to its proper use. Chivalry and gentlemanly restraint be damned.
    “Good morning,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”
    “Your hair is red,” he returned. His words came out as an accusation.
    She lifted her hand to smooth her hair. “Not really. Only when the sun hits it.”
    “The color of cinnamon.”
    She gave a small shrug.
    Not good enough. He wanted an explanation. And not only for her hair. Everything about the woman demanded an explanation Why the mere scent of her skin turned his cock hard as oak. Why watching her eat, the simple act of buttering a slice of bread and sliding it between her lips, could make him fantasize about those lips of hers licking him all over. But then, when he had her in his bed and seduction should have been a matter of course, he’d been content to simply lay with her beside him and listen to her breathe.
    None of it made sense. How could a blind man’s wife—from a lowly pub in Canton, no less—turn up in his life and set his thoughts and habits spinning so thoroughly off-course?
    “What happened to your face?” she asked.
    He reached up and touched his cheek. He’d made use of the razor and strap he’d found in their room, but he’d thoroughly botched the job. He’d scraped his skin in some spots, nicked it in others. His own valet, George, performed the task every morning with such effortless precision, he’d assumed he could do it as well.
    “No good?”
    “Either you’re better at shaving your employer, or you hide all the mirrors in his home.”
    He smiled at the jibe, then directed his focus toward the practical. The courtyard was quiet, empty except for the two of them.             
    “Where is everyone?”
    “Mrs. Wintress and her staff went to town to do their marketing. The passengers we traveled with yesterday departed on