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.

4

This morning, she was obviously searching for one particular string.” Sprawled in an armchair in the family parlor of Demon and Flick’s home, Dillon described all he’d learned about Miss Dalling to Demon and Flick, attended by their two eldest children.

He and Barnaby, seated on the window seat, had met midmorning; after discussing their findings, they’d decided to seek Demon’s advice. Few knew the inner workings of the racing industry better, and there was no one whose judgment Dillon trusted more when it came to racing swindles.

“When she noticed me watching her, she rode off. I followed. Once she realized she couldn’t shake me, she returned to the Carisbrook house.”

An abbreviated account, but accurate in the essentials. Dillon glanced at Flick, perched on the arm of Demon’s chair. She wasn’t wearing breeches today; she’d been spending time with her offspring rather than her husband’s Thoroughbreds. The older two children, Prudence and Nicholas, had joined their elders in the parlor as if they had the right; Nicholas, eight years old, a miniature Demon in looks and sharp as a tack, was lolling on the window seat beside Barnaby, listening for all he was worth, while Prudence, known to all as Prue, the eldest at ten years old, in looks a Cynster although the stubborn set of her chin reminded Dillon forcibly of Flick, had claimed her place on Demon’s other side. Like her mother, she deemed anything that went on in her vicinity as much her interest as anyone else’s; she was fascinated by the tale Dillon had come to share.

“I seriously doubt Miss Dalling is directly involved in whatever’s going on,” he concluded, “but she definitely knows something, something more than we do. I think she’s protecting someone, very possibly her brother.”

“She certainly reacted when you suggested it was he I’d been wrestling with,” Barnaby put in, “and what you don’t know, because I forgot to mention it, is that the bounder did indeed look like her.”

Dillon blinked. Barnaby amended, “Well, a scruffy male version of her, at any rate. In fact, he looked like a down-on-his-luck cross between her and you.”

Flick had been avidly following their exchange. She opened her mouth to ask the obvious question.

Prue beat her to it. “What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

They all looked at Dillon.

He hesitated, then admitted, “She’s not pretty. She’s the most stunningly, startlingly, strikingly beautiful young lady I’ve ever set eyes on. If she goes to town without a ring on her finger and doesn’t accept an offer inside a week, the matchmaking mamas will be sharpening their knives.”

Flick’s brows rose high. “Good gracious! And this goddess is haunting Newmarket?”

A speculative gleam lit Flick’s blue eyes. Dillon studied it, then glanced at Demon, wondering what tack his powerful brother-in-law would take. Demon had very firm views on Flick getting involved in anything dangerous. Against that, he allowed her to ride his horses, so his definition of dangerous was flexible. Flexible enough for him and Flick to have remained happily married for over ten years.

Demon hadn’t even had to look at Flick to know what she was thinking. He glanced at her. “Do you think you might be able to learn more from Miss Dalling by pursuing an acquaintance socially?”

Flick grinned. “Meeting her socially will pose no problem whatsoever. However”-her gaze returned to Dillon-“extracting the necessary information might require persuasion of a sort I’m not qualified to give.” Her smile grew. “We’ll see.”

Dillon didn’t appreciate the calculation he glimpsed in Flick’s cerulean blue eyes. “Her aunt has rented the Carisbrook place. She says the aunt’s an eccentric, presently fascinated by racing, thus excusing her interest in the register.”

“Hmm.” Flick looked thoughtful. “You met her out riding-how well does she ride?”