Stephanie Laurens - All About Passion

The damned gypsy was a good nine feet off the ground.

“Got you!” She plucked what looked to be a large ball of fluff from among a clump of apples, then she tucked it to her ample bosom, sat, and swiveled-revealing a twin bundle of fluff in her other hand.

She saw him.

“Oh!” She rocked, then clutched both kittens in one hand, grabbing the branch just in time to keep from falling.

The kittens mewled piteously; Gyles would have traded places in a blink.

Eyes wide, skirts now trapped above her knees, she stared down at him. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. Wolfishly. “I brought the basket. Josh is otherwise engaged.”

She narrowed her eyes at him-indeed, she came very close to scowling at him. “Well, since you’ve brought it, you may as well be useful.” She pointed to the lump of fur that had just discovered the toe of his boot. “They need to be collected and taken back indoors.”

Setting down the basket, Gyles scooped up the fluffball at his feet and slipped it in. Then he scanned the immediate area; once assured he was not about to commit murder, he stepped beneath the branch and reached up. “Give them here.”

That proved difficult, given she had to hold on to the branch at the same time. In the end, she placed one kitten in her lap and handed the other down, then handed the second down.

Returning to the basket, Gyles hunkered down, sliding each kitten in without letting any out. At the edge of his vision, he caught a flash of fur and pounced. Stuffing the runaway into the basket, he asked, “How many are there?”

“Nine. Here’s another.”

Standing, he took receipt of a ginger fluffball. He added it to the collection. “Can a cat have nine?”

“Ruggles obviously believes so.”

Another came tumbling through the grass. He was insinuating it into the furry mewling pile writhing inside the basket when he heard a twig snap.

“Oh-oh!”

He turned just in time to take a giant step and catch her as she tumbled from the branch. She landed in his arms in a jumble of velvet skirts. He hefted her up easily, then juggled her into a more comfortable position.

It took two attempts before Francesca managed to fill her lungs. “Th-thank you.” She stared at him, and wondered if there was something else she should say. He was carrying her as if she weighed no more than one of the kittens. His eyes were locked on hers; she couldn’t think.

Then those grey eyes darkened, turned stormy and turbulent. His gaze shifted to her lips.

“I think,” he murmured, “that I deserve a reward.”

He didn’t ask-he simply took. Bending his head, he set his lips to hers.

The first touch was a shock-his lips were cool, firm. They hardened, moving on hers, somehow demanding. Instinctively, she tried to appease him, her lips softening, yielding. Then she remembered that she was considering marrying him. She slid her hands up, over his chest, over his shoulders. Locking them at his nape, she kissed him back.

She sensed a fleeting hesitation, a momentary hiatus as if she’d shocked him-a heartbeat later it was wiped from her mind by a surge of fiery demand. The sudden pressure shook her. She parted her lips on a gasp-he surged in, ruthless and relentless, taking and claiming and demanding more.

For a moment, she clung, helplessly aware of her surrender, aware of being taken-driven-rapidly out of her depth. Aware of sensations streaking through her body, through her limbs, aware of her toes slowly curling. Far from frightening her, the feelings thrilled her. This was what she’d been created for-she’d known that all her life. But this was only half of it, half of the adventure, half of the apple when she wanted the whole. Without resistance, she let the wave of passion flow through her; as it ebbed, she gathered her will, then set about turning the tide.

She kissed him back passionately, and caught him-surprised him. He hadn’t expected it; by the time he realized, he was trapped in the game with her-the heated duel of tongues that she’d always imagined must be. She’d never kissed any man like this, but she’d watched and imagined and wanted-she’d suspected mirroring his caresses would work. That, she’d assumed, was how ladies learned the art-by kissing and loving with someone who knew.

He knew.

Hot, urgent, their mouths melded, tongues tangling, sliding, caressing. Her flesh heated, her nerves tightened; sharp excitement gripped her. Then the tenor of the kiss altered, slowed, strengthened, until his deep, sliding, rhythmic thrusts became the dominant theme.

She shuddered, felt something in her yield, something open, unfurl. React. Her whole body felt glorious, buoyed, languidly heated. Seduced.

Gyles was drowning, sinking beneath a wave of desire more powerful than any he’d previously known. It drew him under with the force of a tidal wave, eroding, washing away his control.

Abruptly, he broke the kiss. Jerked his head back and looked down at her. Clinging to his shoulders, held tight in his arms, she blinked, struggling to reorient.

His features hardened. He muttered a curse, followed by, “God, you’re so damned easy.”

Her eyes widened, then her lips set. She wriggled furiously; he swung her down, set her on her feet. She pulled away, stepped back, briskly brushing her bodice free of leaves, then shaking and straightening her skirts.

Francesca recalled she’d been miffed at him-even before that comment. He’d said he’d call in the morning-it must have been noon before he’d deigned to arrive. She’d lain in wait to waylay him. When he hadn’t shown, she’d gone riding to calm herself. What did noon say of his eagerness to win her?

As for his attitude! No wooing, no loverlike embraces-just hot passion and bold seduction. All very well that the latter appealed to her rather more than the former-he couldn’t have known that. Was he so uneager… or was it, perhaps, that he was so sure she’d accept him?

And what, exactly, did he mean by her being “easy”?

She threw him a sharp glance as she knelt to check the kittens. “I understand you’ve made an offer, my lord.”

Gyles stared at her back as she counted the kittens; he kept his frown from his face. If she’d heard about that… ”I have.”

Who the hell is she? Before he could ask, she said, “There’s six here-we’re missing three.” She stood and looked about. “This house of yours-Lambourn Castle. Is it really a castle? Does it have battlements and towers and a drawbridge and moat?”

“No moat or drawbridge.” Gyles glimpsed a grey kitten hiding beside a rock. He went to fetch it and it danced away. “There’s a section of battlements remaining over the front entrance, and two towers at either end. And there’s the gatehouse, too-that’s now the Dower House.”

“Dower House? Is your mother still alive?”

“Yes.” He pounced on the kitten and collared it. Holding it by the scruff, he carried it to the basket.

“What does she think of your offer?”

“I haven’t asked.” Gyles concentrated on sliding the squirming kitten into the basket while simultaneously holding the others in. “It’s nothing to do with her.”

Only as he stood did he realize what he’d said. The truth, admittedly, but why the devil was he telling her? Turning to frown-openly-at her, he spied another bumbling feline heading for the end of the orchard. With a muttered curse, he strode after it.

“Do you live at Lambourn all of the year, or only for a few months?”

She asked the question as he returned, the wriggling, squirming bundle in one hand. She was cradling a ginger kitten in her hands, snuggled between her remarkable breasts. It was purring fit to rupture its eardrums.

The sight distracted him completely. Gyles watched, his mouth drying, his mind blank, as she bent at the waist and eased the kitten from its nesting place to lay it in the basket.

“Ah…” He blinked as she straightened. “I spend about half the year at Lambourn. I usually go to London for the Season, and then again for the autumn session of Parliament.”

“Oh?” Real interest lit her green eyes. “So you take your seat in Parliament and speak?”

He shrugged as he stuffed the last of the kittens into the basket. “When there’s a matter that interests me, yes, of course.” He frowned. How had they got onto this topic?

Securing the basket’s lids, he lifted it and straightened.

“Here.” She held out the gelding’s reins and reached for the basket. “You can lead Sultan. I’ll take them.”

Before he knew it, he was standing with the reins in his hand watching her walk up the orchard. Watching her delightfully rounded derriere sway as, the skirt of her habit draped over one arm, she negotiated the slight climb. Setting his jaw, he headed after her-then realized why she’d left him with the gelding.

It took a good minute before he could convince the brute that he really was serious about moving. Finally, the huge horse consented to amble after him as he strode after the witch. She who was interrogating him. As he closed the distance between them, he wondered what she thought she was about. One possible answer had him slowing.

She’d known of his offer. That argued that she was in Francesca Rawlings’s confidence. Was it possible that, having confessed to meeting him, she was interrogating him on Francesca’s behalf? Francesca certainly hadn’t known who he was, but if the gypsy hadn’t described him… it was possible.

Falling in behind her, he murmured, “So tell me, what else does Miss Rawlings wish to know?”

Francesca glanced back at him-was he making fun of her? She faced forward again. “Miss Rawlings,” she said, somewhat tartly, “wishes to know if your town house in London is large.”

“Reasonably. It’s a relatively new acquisition, not even fifty years old, so it has all the modern conveniences.”

“I expect you lead a very busy life while in London, at least during the Season.”

“It can be hectic, but the entertainments tend to cluster in the evenings.”

“I imagine there’s quite a demand for your company.”

Gyles narrowed his gaze on the back of her curly black head. Without seeing her face, he couldn’t be sure, but… surely she wouldn’t dare. “I am in demand among the ton’s hostesses.”

Let her make of that what she would.

“Indeed? And are there any specific commitments, to any specific hostesses, that you presently have?”

The brazen witch was asking if he had a mistress. Reaching the stable yard, she stepped onto the cobbles and turned-the green eyes that met his aggravated gaze held a power all their own.

Halting before her, he regarded her. After a fraught moment, he slowly and clearly stated, “Not at present.” The fact that he was considering altering that situation heavily underscored the words.

Holding his gaze, Francesca found it easy not to smile. His grey eyes conveyed a meaning she wasn’t sure she understood. Was he challenging her to be good enough, fascinating enough, to keep him from other ladies’ beds? Was he telling her that whether he kept a mistress or not was up to her? There was a certain temptation in the thought, but she had her pride. Drawing herself up, she let her eyes flash censoriously, then haughtily nodded. “I must get these kittens inside. If you’ll give Sultan to Josh…” Head regally high, she swept around and headed for the kitchens.

Gyles very nearly reached out and spun her back; his hands fisted as he fought the urge.

“Ruggles!” she called. A ginger-and-black tabby came running. It stood to sniff the basket, then mewed and ran along beside her.

Gyles drew in his temper; the effort left him seething. That final look of hers had been the last straw. He’d been about to demand to be told precisely who she was and in what relation she stood to Francesca Rawlings when the damned witch had summarily dismissed him!

He couldn’t recall the last time any lady had dared dismiss him, not like that.

Through narrowed eyes, he watched her disappear into the kitchen garden, crooning to the kittens and their mother. Unless he much mistook the matter, the gypsy had just put him firmly in his place.

He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Couldn’t get the taste of her-so wildly passionate-out of his mouth, couldn’t free his senses from her spell.

It was the next morning, and he was still ensnared.

Trotting through the forest, Gyles snorted disgustedly. With a little more persuasion, he could have had her under that damned apple tree. Why the fact so irritated him he couldn’t decide-because seducing her had proved so easy? Or because he hadn’t had the sense to press his advantage? If he had, she might not be tormenting him still, a thorn in his flesh, an itch he’d yet to scratch.