A Lady of His Own (25 page)

She settled to her purpose with a will, surprised to learn just how much pleasure she derived from using her body, under her will alone, to pleasure him. His comment about reins proved apt; she was accustomed to riding, and in many ways it was like that, rising up, sinking down in a deliberate rhythm.

But the contol over both rhythm and depth, over, it seemed, the very nature of their joining, was exquisite; she employed it, enjoyed it to the full. Rode him fast, then slow, then at the gallop again. Sensed the different ways she could use her inner muscles, use her hips and bottom to pressure him.

To fray those reins.

Once she was well embarked on her game, his hands rose to her breasts, to fondle, at first gently, then rather more explicitly.

Fingers flexing on his chest, her breath coming in increasingly rushed pants, she looked into his face, saw concentration, and more, possessiveness and something close to devotion. And wondered…

There was a glint in his dark eyes that was secretly triumphant. Had he been pleased she’d been with no other man, that he was the only man ever to have her? The thought focused her mind on where they joined; she shuddered, had to close her eyes for a moment, sink her nails into his chest, until the sharp temptation faded and she could pick up her reckless pace again.

She reminded herself of the questions he’d asked. Given his past, strewn with conquests she had not a doubt, had he assumed she would be the same as he? Had he cared in any possessive way about her answer? Or had he asked purely to decide whether to feel guilty or not?

He was watching her closely, pandering, expertly as the tangle of her nerves testified, to her senses, each sweeping touch of his long fingers heightening the delight she received from feeling him, hard, rigid, and hot, sliding into her body. Again, she caught an impression of orchestration; he was focused on her, on ensuring she achieved the maximum pleasure. His pleasure was not incidental, yet secondary and dependent, as least as he saw it.

He was very very good at pleasuring women. She felt the heat rise inside her, felt her nerves tighten. His reins were nowhere near frayed enough.

“You’ve changed,” she gasped, surprised at how thready her voice had become. “You’ve been with dozens of women—are you always like this, devoting yourself to their pleasure first, rather than your own?”

She’d asked the question to distract him, also because she wanted to know. She was surprised to see a hint of wariness creep into his eyes.

“I’ve always liked women.” His hands slid back to her hips, gripped; he started to undulate beneath her. “You know that.”

She did. He had one older sister and three younger; he’d been far more attuned to them than his older brothers had been. The habit of paying attention to women had been his from an early age.

“Yes, but…” She was clinging to sanity; their combined movements were driving her harder, faster, toward the sun. “That’s not what I meant,” she gasped, “as you well know.”

She sensed he would have sighed, but he couldn’t—their bucking ride was affecting him, too. Those reins, at long last, were unraveling.

Charles dragged his gaze from the junction of her thighs; meeting her eyes, he confirmed that no matter what else was occurring, she was determined to cling to her wits long enough to hear his answer.

He filled his lungs, not easy in the face of all she was doing to him. “With you, it’s different. Not the same. It never was.” He had to pause, had to wait until she released him again, enough so some blood could reach his brain. He gritted his teeth as she sank slowly down again. “No other woman ever made me feel the way you do.”

Her eyes heavy-lidded, she looked down at him, a houri sleek, sultry, and heated. In the candlelight, her skin glowed rosily. “How do I make you feel?”

“Desperate.” He gripped her hips, pulled her fully down on him, and held her there as he thrust into her, once, twice—three times was all it took and the climax that had crept up on her broke and poured through her.

His grip on her hips tightened; every muscle in his body locked as he held back the urge to ravish her. He waited, savoring her contractions, reminding himself to be civilized, or at least not to frighten her, definitely not to hurt her. Finesse, expertise—sanity. All would be useful to deploy…

With a long, low moan, her spine gave way, and she slumped forward, but she crossed her arms on his chest, caught herself on them, met his eyes from bare inches away, fleetingly studied them—then she smiled like a very well satisfied cat, leaned closer, and covered his lips with hers.

The kiss shattered, scattered to the four winds, the control he’d fought to retain. His grip on her hips tightened even more, holding her immobile. He started to move within her again, but no longer with any restraint; with deep powerful surging thrusts, he buried himself in her slick softness.

Her hands rose to frame his face; she matched him kiss for kiss, then pulled back enough to gasp against his lips, “The other way.”

She tried to shift sideways in his arms. He realized she wanted him to roll, to bring her beneath him.

“Why?” Why was he asking? Every muscle in his body had cinched tight at the prospect.

Penny closed her eyes.
Because I like feeling you above me, surrounding me. Taking me. Because I enjoy the strength of you moving against me, into me, around me.

Opening her eyes, she met his. “Because I like it that way.”

He didn’t argue, but rolled, taking her with him; his weight pressed her into the soft mattress. He settled his hips between her thighs, and thrust deeply home again. She wrapped her arms about him, lifted her legs and draped them over his, gripping his flanks with her thighs, angling her hips beneath him. The reins snapped. All of them.

He groaned, found her lips with his, and plunged into her. Rode her harder, faster, deeper than he ever had—even thirteen years ago.

This time she was with him, urging him on, flagrantly taking as much as he would give. Glorying in his wildness. Meeting it with her own.

She didn’t realize how far she’d gone until he sank one hand into her hair, drew her head back, changed the angle of the kiss to one even more plundering, and drove her straight into the fire.

They burned. The dance consumed them, took every last gasp from their bodies, cindered every last sense.

Until they were deaf, blind, far beyond thought.

Until all that was left to them was a holocaust of feeling that burned every vestige of resistance away, that melded and forged them in the fires of passion unrestrained, and at the last gasp left them, wrung out yet replete, sunk, heart to heart, in each other’s arms.

P
ENNY REACHED THE BREAKFAST PARLOR BEFORE
C
HARLES
the next morning, rather surprised to find him so tardy.

In the mornings, Ellie never came until she rang; she had rung eventually, once Charles had left, which had been after he’d demonstrated yet another way of reaching heaven.
Heaven
. For her money, it was still the sun; heaven was too mild and peaceful a concept to describe the reality of where they’d gone. Let alone how.

She felt buoyed, wonderful, on top of her world. She’d never felt so physically glorious in her life. On the emotional front, she’d kept a close guard on her heart; she was managing perfectly well there. As in trusting Charles with her family’s secrets, she’d been right in letting him be her lover again; she could go forward without reservations.

Sweeping into the parlor, she exchanged a nod and a good morning with Nicholas, already seated at the table’s head. Crossing to the sideboard, she made her selections; returning to the table, she sat, and from beneath her lashes considered Nicholas. He seemed less distressed, more focused today. Had he, perhaps, gone out last night?

No. She and Charles would almost certainly have heard any hoofbeats on the gravel drive. Had someone called on him privately in the night?

She pondered the possibility while attacking her ham and toast.

“Ah—there you are, my dear.”

She turned as Charles entered, met his eyes, and wondered what the message in them meant.

Strolling toward her, he cocked his head. “I wondered if you’d care to ride this morning? I have business in Fowey.”

He was now close enough for her to see the exasperated expression in his eyes. She realized. “Oh, yes! Good morning. Indeed—a wonderful idea.” She glanced at the sideboard. “I daresay you’ve breakfasted, but would you care for something more?”

Looking back at him, she caught her breath at the unholy light dancing in his eyes; she replayed her words, didn’t dare breathe…but he merely smiled and inclined his head. “Thank you.”

She exhaled and returned to her toast.

Casting a surreptitious glance at Nicholas, she saw him not quite scowling at Charles’s back. Nicholas’s guarded greetings when Charles came to the table and took the chair beside hers suggested Nicholas had finally realized how consistently Charles was about.

Although Nicholas shot her a disapproving glance, good manners prevailed, and he made no comment.

Charles, apparently blissfully unaware, mentioned meeting Albert Carmichael at Lostwithiel market the day before.

Nicholas professed never to have met Carmichael.

Penny explained the Cranfields’ interest, then had to remind Nicholas who the Cranfields were.

“Ah, I see.” Nicholas took a long sip of coffee, then shifted his gaze to Charles. “Has there been any advance in your investigation, Lostwithiel? Any suggestion over who is responsible for that luckless young fisherman’s death?”

She had to hand it to Charles; he didn’t so much as bat an eyelid or pause in cutting his roast beef.

“Yes, and no.” His tone was cheery, as if discussing the latest price for fish. “For various reasons, it seems unlikely the killer was anyone normally resident in the area.”

Nicholas blinked. “Why is that?”

Charles sat back, reached for his coffee cup. “Gimby wasn’t killed—he was interrogated, then executed. It was a professional piece of work.”

Nicholas looked like he was going to turn green again. Looking down, he picked up his fork and pushed a small mound of kedgeree across the porcelain. “So…no one local…”

“No. Which is why I’ve been assessing all visitors to the area.”

“Vagabonds?” Nicholas’s brows rose. “Could it be just…no, you said professional.”

“True, but there’s no reason a professional might not have appeared as a vagabond, but if killing Gimby was his only purpose, he’ll be long gone by now. Still”—Charles shrugged—“I might draw a bead on him.”

Penny kept her head down and her tongue still, for which he was grateful. He didn’t want Nicholas distracted.

After a long moment, Nicholas asked, still not meeting his eyes, “Only purpose…what other purpose do you imagine this villain might have?”

Gallic shrugs were so useful. “Who knows? But it could, for instance, be someone who didn’t want me to be able to question Gimby, not, as one might suppose, to protect whoever Gimby might have betrayed, but because he, this professional, is on the same quest as I am, and he doesn’t want me getting to the Holy Grail first.”

He was feeling his way, gauging how best to pressure Nicholas. Despite their antipathy, he was starting to get a feel for the man; he wasn’t a coward, but was possessed of an extremely cautious nature. Probably a good thing for someone high in the Foreign Office; equally a good thing in a traitor.

Nicholas had blanched at his words, but, this time, had himself well in hand. Lips thinning, he nodded, effectively ending the discussion; Charles got the impression that he’d been fishing for confirmation, having already followed much the same line of thinking.

Penny finished her breakfast; he quickly downed the last pieces of his roast beef, stood, and drew back her chair.

Rising, she glanced at her gown. “I’ll have to change.” Her back to Nicholas, she looked up and raised her brows. “I’ll meet you in the hall.”

“In the forecourt—I’ll have the horses saddled and brought there. I need to be in Fowey by half past ten.”

Her eyes asked
Why?
and
Why didn’t you tell me earlier?
but she nodded, threw a quick farewell Nicholas’s way, and left.

Nicholas rose as he turned to make his own farewell, joining him as he left the parlor. “Do you conduct a lot of business in the area personally?”

Charles glanced at him, wondering. “No. My steward and agent handle almost everything.”

“Ah, I see. I thought the trip to Fowey…”

“That’s part of the investigation.” Halting, he faced Nicholas. “It’s Gimby’s funeral. There’s an old saw that murderers often turn up to watch their victims go into the ground—to witness their final end, so to speak. I’m hoping our professional might not be so professional and turn up.”

Nicholas drew a not-quite-steady breath, tightly said, “In that case, I wish it might be so. Anything that removes such a cold-blooded murderer from among the innocent is greatly to be desired.”

With a nod, he headed for the library.

Charles watched him go, intrigued; of all the words Nicholas had uttered in his hearing, those last had been unquestionably the most sincere.

He was waiting with their horses in the forecourt when Penny came hurrying out. She came down the front steps; a smile of anticipation lighting her face, she walked quickly to him.

She halted before him, waiting to be lifted to her saddle.

He took a moment to slap down his demons; kissing her witless in the forecourt in full view of the library windows wouldn’t be a clever thing to do.

Reaching for her, he lifted her up. He informed her of their reason for hying to Fowey as he held her stirrup for her.

He was mounting Domino when the thud of approaching hooves reached them. They both shortened their reins; holding their horses steady, they watched a dusty rider come galloping in along the drive.

The rider saw them, drew rein, and trotted the last way.

“Mornin’, ma’am, sir. I’m looking for Lord Arbry.”

Penny waved to the house. “If you’ll just ring the bell…”

Norris had heard the hoofbeats; he appeared on the porch.

A step behind him came Nicholas. “I’m Arbry. Is that the dispatch from the Foreign Office?”

“Yes, m’lord.” The courier dismounted and unbuckled a satchel from his saddle. He handed it to Nicholas, who’d come down the steps to take it.

“Good.” Nicholas examined the bag, checking the seals, then nodded at the man. “If you take your horse to the stable, then come up to the house, Norris here will take care of you.”

“Thank you, m’lord.” With a bow to Nicholas and another to Penny and Charles, the man led his horse away around the house.

Nicholas tucked the bag under his arm.

Leaning on his saddle, Charles said, “I didn’t realize you were working down here.”

Penny picked up the silky, dangerous note in his voice; she wondered if Nicholas had. He seemed faintly flustered.

“Just a few things they want my opinion on.” With a weak smile and a nod, he went indoors.

Charles watched him go, then met her eyes. “Let’s go.”

They rode out. Not, this time, like a pair of giddy reckless children. Being responsible adults, they cantered down the lane.

And came upon Julian Fothergill. He was climbing over a stile as they turned into the lane to Fowey. Seeing them, he sat on the top of the stile; as they neared, he saluted.

“Good morning!”

Reining in, Penny smiled. “Good morning. Have you been out bird-watching?”

Two spyglasses on cords hung around Fothergill’s neck. “Indeed.” He gestured across the lane to where the footpath he was on continued toward the estuary. “I’m on my way to have a look around the river mouth to see if there’s any good vantage spots there. I heard there’s a stretch of marsh—that’s always good for spotting.”

Charles nodded in greeting. “There’s fair cover along the banks—the marsh extends out from them, but is underwater at high tide. Be careful.”

Fothergill smiled. “I will.”

“Have you had much luck?” Penny asked, wondering what questions might lead Fothergill to reveal more. He was a sunnily personable gentleman; she couldn’t see him as a murderer, but they ought to be logical and investigate all five visitors.

“Oh, yes! Just yesterday I spotted a pied gull, and…” Fothergill’s countenance glowed with a zealot’s fire as he recounted numerous species he’d seen.

“You’ve covered quite a stretch of territory,” Charles said. “You must have been down along the cliffs to spot those gulls.”

Fothergill nodded. “Until now I’ve spent most of my days closer to the cliffs. I’m gradually working my way to the estuary and plan to move slowly upriver. Actually,” he continued, “I’m glad to have run into you—you both know the area so well. I’m also something of a student of architecture, and I wondered what the best places to visit hereabouts were?”

“Restormel Castle,” Penny answered without hesitation. “Its ruins are not to be missed if only for their history, but its structure is informative and there’s quite a bit left to see. After that…” She glanced at Charles.

“The Abbey—Restormel Abbey, my house—is across the river from the castle. Filchett, my butler, will be happy to show you around. He knows the history as well as I do, and the architecture rather better.”

“And you can always stop in at Wallingham Hall,” Penny said. “I’m sure Lord Arbry won’t mind. There’s a very fine Adam fireplace in the drawing room, and the music room is considered notable.” She paused, then added, “Looe House is the other house of architectural note, but you’ll need to ride to reach it—it’s on the road to Polperro, but the owners, the Richardses, are always happy to show people with an interest around.”

“Thank you!” Fothergill beamed at them, his expression open, his gaze equally so. “You’ve been a great help.”

Domino sidled. Charles tightened his reins. “I’m afraid we must leave you—we have an appointment in Fowey.”

“Yes.” Penny sobered. “And we’ll have to walk to the chapel by the cemetery—it’s the funeral of that poor young fisherman who was murdered.”

“Oh?” Fothergill looked blank. “Did you know him, then?”

“No,” Charles said, swinging Domino down the lane. “We’re attending as representatives of the local families.”

“Ah.” Fothergill nodded. “Of course.”

He saluted them; they both nodded in reply and rode on.

Penny would have liked to discuss Fothergill, but Charles set a pace that precluded conversation. She let her thoughts spin and rode beside him. They went straight to the Pelican, left the horses there, then walked briskly along the High Street. Rather than descend to the quays, then climb up the opposite hill, they followed the High Street along the ridge and out onto the cliff in the lee of which Fowey huddled.

The cemetery was built on the highest and last stretch of land before the cliff fell away to the rocks against which the Channel’s waves broke. Today, the waves sent up a murmurous chant, a dirge for a fisherman lost.

They reached the small chapel beside the cemetery; Charles took her elbow and ushered her in. They were just in time. The plain wooden coffin stood on bare trestles before the stone altar. Someone had placed a spray of white lilies on the unpolished wood. There were few there to hear the short service, few who had known Gimby at all, but there were some “mourners.” All were known to Charles and Penny; all were inhabitants of Fowey.

Together with the rest, they followed the coffin to the graveside and watched it lowered into the earth. Each person threw a handful of soil upon the lid, then one and all, exchanging nods and glances, turned away and left the gravediggers to their task.

Charles paused to speak to the vicar, then joined Penny where she waited with Mother Gibbs, both hanging on to their hats as the wind, brisker here on the point, tried to whisk them from their heads.

Mother Gibbs bobbed a curtsy as Charles came up.

He took Penny’s arm, and the three of them started back to the town. “Have you heard anything?”

“Wish I could say I have, but nay—there’s nary a whisper, and you may be sure I’ve put the word out good and proper.”

“Any advance on Arbry or Granville, or any related subjects?”

Pursing her lips, Mother Gibbs shook her head. “All quiet, it’s been.”

They turned onto the steep path that led down to the harbor; soon they were in the lee of the cliff, out of the wind.

Charles went on, “What about men passing through—gypsies, tinkers, vagabonds, men looking for work?”

“Wrong time of year for most such, but there was a tinker family came through. Near as me and the boys could work out, though, they was camped here, by Fowey town, days before poor Gimby met his end, and though they did head off just before he was found, they said they was heading to St. Austell. Dennis checked with the fishermen thereabouts, and the tinkers did appear there just when you’d expect, so they couldn’t’ve spared time to head the other way and murder Gimby, least not any ways we can see.”