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The castle became a phantasmagorical tomb after her departure. He roamed the walls, trying to keep his attention of the many tasks his people called him for, to no avail. The nights had been the worst. The agonising want of her would not leave him the hell alone.
No novelty that he should talk to her about her suspicions. She had been transparent when she disclosed the nature of her work to him. Not that he agreed with the fact she involved herself in such kind of thing, but still… He did not pay in kind. Because he did not want to expose her to harm, sure. That came out as a feeble excuse after their time together. He could have done that. By the time she left, everything had been underway, and there would be no effect if the government interfered. The plans were delicate; the team must carry them out with accurate precision if they wanted to succeed. There was not turning back though.
He rubbed his nape under his hair tied in a queue. As he lifted his head again, he saw a too familiar horse. It could not… Bloody hell! The hellion rode the side-saddle as if she was Boudicca incarnate.
His blood heated to explosive temperature just at the sight of her in a fashionable ridding habit made possibly for exhibition in town. Those riotous midnight ringlets caught under her hat and her liquid brown eyes straight ahead.
A groom came to take the horse. She exchanged some words with the boy and turned towards the front gate on foot. She came to give Iseult back. Anger at the rejection of his gift imploded his self-control, as it happened with everything that involved that woman. Launched out of the study, he rushed to the front door, throwing it open.
“You cannot stand even a gift that has come from me.” He growled to her in deep voice.
Swivelling to him in one graceful movement, her eyes clasped on his, the world stanched. Neither said anything for long seconds. The absolute one thing he wanted to do was to grab her and take her to his chambers and lock the both of them inside it. Preferably forever.
“I must not accept it.” She curtsied with that haughty poise of hers, in the motion to leave.
Never!
He surveyed the street, satisfied with the deserted state of it. “Come in.” He uttered, knowing the insubordinate woman did not obey his orders. Ever.
For a flashing moment, her stance hinted at an expression so akin to disappointment. “Your Grace will forgive me, but I have to go.” She began to turn to the gate.
“You either enter with your own legs or with mine.”
That fascinatingly red-hot fury splashed on her flawless face. And he went more aroused, if possible, with the bright crimson on her delectable skin. The same colour that she displayed when she… Damnation!
A derogatory little smile drew in those cushioned lips that once closed around his… “I dare you.” And she gave him her back, him, a Duke, for pity’s sake! Had the curvaceous woman no decorum?
He assumed a nonchalant posture. “Alright. I do not think you would mind a certain tale of a certain dungeon to circulate in The Times, would you?” He would not tell it to a soul even under torture. Well, not if it was not her torture anyway, the best one of his life.
“You despicable scoundrel!” She breathed heatedly.
This powder keg was his. Only his!
In stomps, she climbed the front steps, and he bowed to her with a secret winning smile. So, this was not the best trick to bring her inn, but who cared?
In the marble floor parlour, she gyrated to him as he closed the door. He did not ring for servants, thus there were none there.
“Say what you must and then I will return home.” She demanded.
That feminine hat impeded him from seeing her glorious hair and he fantasised taking it off her head. “Why did you give Iseult back?”
Self-righteousness covered her flawless face. “I will not accept gifts from such as you.”
Deadly serious, his burning perusal took her in with undisguised coveting. “You have no qualms offending a Duke.” He bought the damned horse thinking of her. This rejection slipped down acidly.
Her chin lifted a notch more. “I do believe we are past these social rituals.”
Stare narrowing on her, he retorted, “In town we are not.”
She made a gesture that approached disguisedly a roll of the eyes and a prayer for patience. He enjoyed disconcerting her. All too much.
“You forced me to come in to talk about etiquette?” Impatience vibrating in her. But there was something else, too. Colour high on her cheeks, a quick moistening of her lips, restless gaze. No indifference, there, no, sir.
One elbow propped on the door frame, ankles crossed, not a care on the world, he measured her from the top of her hat to the boots under her skirt. “Talking was not exactly what I had in mind.”
Her liquid eyes bulged, darkening, as aroused as he. “I will not consort with you ever again!”
He left the door frame and prowled to her. “Indeed?”
