Frovtunes’ Kiss (24 page)

He threw back his head and joined her in disturbing the quiet and alarming the birds. A rabbit formerly nibbling the crocuses lining the fence darted with undue haste into the trees. New tears trickled from Moira's eyes—and from Graham's, as well—tears that had nothing to do with wills or misfortune or hunger. Tears that had everything to do with generosity, and with the dearness of a man who avowed one thing and did the opposite entirely.

And with the notion of Letty Foster tearing out a golden curl for every chipped piece of china she discovered.

With the backs of his fingers, Graham flicked away tears of merriment. “So you'll accept a loan for your mother's sake?” When she hesitated, he raised an eyebrow. “I swear I do not think you're helpless or lacking in integrity or any other affront to your precious ego. For I fully intend to have every last penny back.”

She knew he was lying. But she nodded. “Since you put it so eloquently…yes. Thank you. And I
will
repay you.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

They shook hands to seal the bargain, a single, firm-gripped yank up and then down. He held on longer than necessary and flashed his dimples. Oh, he was always doing that to unnerve her, but this time it produced a notion that zinged her nerves and snatched her breath.

Kiss me
.

She wanted him to, and, dear heavens, she thought he might. It wouldn't be all that inappropriate really, in light of their coming to terms as they just had. And it wasn't as if they hadn't done it before. Good gracious, had they ever done it, especially the time in the study. And now, dimples and boyish grin and all, he was being…well…such a dear.

He gave her hand a little tug. “Come. Your mother is waiting. Let's join her and have our tea. Unless, of course, you'd like to take me to task for something else. Lord knows, my sins are vast and varied.”

Oh, impossible man.

Home. England
.

Those words struck Graham as they never had before as he made his way across the gardens of Monteith Hall and approached the first sweep of the lawn.

The parterres needed weeding; flower beds, replanting. But Monteith achieved an elegance infinitely more genuine by using the best England could offer: a rolling landscape; towering, ancient trees; and a fine morning mist that transformed his surroundings to the muted tones of a watercolor.

Off some thirty feet to his right stood the disordered columns of an orchard left to its own pleasure, gnarled branches tangling in their effort to catch the sun's attention. The sweetness of pears mingling with the tang of apples yet to ripen drifted in wafts and set his mouth watering.

To his left some fifty yards away, a groom led a pair of bays into the nearest paddock, their combined tread thudding a leisurely rhythm on the dusty lane. Through the split-rail fences, he watched the horses entering the paddock, listened with pleasure to their snorts as they strolled, testing the limits of their freedom. Once satisfied no lead rope restrained them, they broke into playful canters.

This
was what he'd forgotten. These simple details of home were what he had missed, lacked, so deep at his core he hadn't sensed the emptiness until now.

The realization tightened his throat. Had he truly thought to judge his homeland on faded memories and the dismal influence of London's sooty skies? No wonder he'd been pining to return to Egypt. But
this
was breathtaking. This was home.

And this, he feared, was who he was at heart. Or at least who he might have been if everything he'd believed in as a young man hadn't been yanked out from under him. If only there'd been one person, one soul brave enough to believe in him.

Isis's prodding at his shoulder came as a welcome distraction from the disagreeable turn his thoughts had taken. She'd looked hungry earlier, crouched on her limbs in the doorway of the leafy burrow that occupied a corner of her crate. When he'd reached in to take her out, she'd pounced on his forefinger, but caught his scent before delivering the painful if harmless bite.

He set off now to a row of pine trees bordering the main riding lane. Crouching, he deposited her at the base of a tree where low branches and fallen needles formed a natural lair. Instinctively seeking camouflage, she scooted toward the tree trunk, out of view. Graham retreated a few steps and waited.

If he had once feared losing the spider by releasing her to hunt, he wasted no worries now. He didn't know why she darted back into his palm once she consumed her fill of beetles, ants, or anything else small and crawly; he only knew she did so each time, for all appearances eagerly. Perhaps one day she'd change her mind and seek freedom.

Wait till you're home, girl. You'd be no match for an English winter
.

While he waited, he turned to view the gardens and house. He wasn't the only one affected by the beauty of this place, not alone in experiencing the sensation of finally arriving home.

Despite Moira's apprehensions about moving her mother a second time, the joy on Estella Foster's face upon walking through the front door assured them they'd made the right decision. After only one reference to her late husband, Estella had seemed unusually coherent, not to mention cheerful and entirely at ease. She even stopped addressing Graham as Nigel. And following supper, she had been thrilled to discover that the Meissen tea service had not gone missing after all.

Graham had opted to occupy a guest room and allow Lady Monteith to move back into the rooms she had once shared with her husband. The look in Moira's eyes and her whispered thanks had been far more rewarding than fame or glory or gold. Later, as the two women embraced and bid each other good night as if they hadn't a care in the world, he'd experienced a kind of quiet, very private jubilation.

A rustling beneath the pine tree recalled his attention. Isis must have snatched something appetizing. Crouching with hands on knees, he peered beneath the tree.

“I see I'm not the only early riser this morning.”

The voice startled him. Apparently, the rustling he'd heard hadn't been Isis appeasing her appetite, but Moira strolling up the riding lane. He got to his feet.

“What were you looking for under there?” she asked, smiling as she came around the row of trees. Against a frock of dusty violet, her dark eyes and sable hair stood out with striking intensity. She wore no bonnet, and her hair hung loose—a rare treat—tumbling down her back and framing cheeks gone ruddy from a brisk morning walk.

Simple and stunning, like the countryside.

Her head tilted, the lovely curve of her chin taking on a mischievous slant. “Cat got your tongue?”

In that instant he knew. Understood. This newfound sense of home encompassed far more than the narrow scope of house and holdings, went leagues beyond misty glens and rolling hills.

Moira. Her smile. Her approval. Her trust. Could he have been capable of appreciating this fine English morning had it not been for her influence?

He doubted it. Very much.

Moira and England. Both brave, honest, and beautiful, and able to face the worst adversity with an upper lip of pure steel. And both somehow intricately wrapped around his heart.

What did that mean for him? For his future? It was a question he couldn't answer, not yet. But at that moment he knew one thing with certainty.

“I'm glad you're here.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Are you?”

“Yes. I was looking for you.”

“Under a tree?”

“Everywhere.”

Her laughter was high and light, like the tumble of water over rocks. Utterly devoid of cares. The sound drew him to her with a single-minded resolve that must have shown on his face, for her eyebrows surged higher and she slung a long stride back, then another.

“Graham?” Her voice rose with uncertainty. With amusement, too. “What are you doing?”

“This.” He caught her face in his hands and took a final step that brought them hip to thigh, breasts to chest. Lips to lips. His mouth smothered hers, feasted. His tongue entered without pausing for permission, without allowing her the chance to demur. Not yet. Not until she knew fully what she'd be turning away.

She tasted of tea with honey and every sweet ideal a man could dream of. Her lips were moist, pliant, and, to his delight, pushed readily against his, seeming as eager for more as he was. Her arms around his neck, her breasts melted into the planes of his chest, and her torso undulated—probably without her knowledge—in a seductive dance that filled the hollow places of his body with the soft, luscious feel of her.

With a hand at the small of her back, he pressed her to him and rocked his hips to match her rhythm. While his arousal nestled in skirts and the suggestion of what lay beneath, his free hand explored, tracing her narrow waist, sweeping the curve of her side, molding the swell of her breast above her corset. His thumb and forefinger closed around a nipple gone taut beneath the fabric. Traced and rubbed the bead it became. A moan rose inside her, passing from her mouth into his. Fire seethed through his brain, in his loins.

How many times had they done this before? Done this and stopped, breathless, burning, fighting what felt, at least to him, inevitable.

“This is no kiss of convenience, Moira.” He breathed the words against her mouth. “Nor of merriment or because a bumpy coach tossed us together.”

“No…no, it is not.”

He opened his eyes and pulled slightly back. Her eyes opened, her gaze as brilliant as midnight. He nipped the end of her nose and grinned. “What is going on behind those dazzling eyes of yours?”

“Can't you tell?”

He believed he could. With his arms tight around her, his arousal snug against her, he felt the answer pulsing through him. But he needed to be certain. “I don't like guessing.”

“Then let me make it quite plain.”

He felt an instant's regret when her arms released him. Then she gripped his shirtsleeves, yanked him to her, and kissed him squarely, a kiss commanded entirely by her. Open mouthed, tongue-touching, saliva-sharing. It drew the last bit of blood from his brain and rushed it like a spring-thawed waterfall to his groin.

The great warrior donned his helmet and leapt to the ready. Here was something completely new, unexpected. He throbbed pure flame while sensation fled his arms and legs and left him tingling. Thrumming. In a state of utter surrender, he let Moira hold him in place while she all but sent him over the brink.

And all he wanted was to do the same for her—and more. Reduce her to writhing pleasure wrought by his hands, his body…

She shoved him to arm's length, fingers still bunched in his sleeves. “Be assured that was
not
for the blazing hell of it.”

His reply grated incoherently in his throat. Yet despite having been kissed senseless, he couldn't remain a passive recipient for long. The need to have her rumbled through him. He again took her face in his hands, threading his fingers in her hair as he brought his lips against her ear. “Is your mother awake yet?”

A tremor shook her lower lip. “Not for another hour or so. She's not an early riser.”

They stared into each other's eyes, so close he saw the dilation of her pupils against irises nearly as black. He searched for a hint of turmoil, fear. He saw only a raw anticipation that sent his pulse lurching.

Had he truly asked that question, and had Moira quite understood what he meant?

Did
he?
What had begun as little more than an amusing diversion—find the fortune, kiss the woman—had gradually and subtly changed into something of far greater consequence.

Were they truly about to return to the house, race past the servants to one of their bedrooms, and do things that would change the nature of their relationship forever?

Forever
. His heart bucked.

She stepped out of his embrace, took his hand, and thus decided the matter. Their fingers laced tightly, irrevocably, as they started toward the house.