The Perfect Kiss (4 page)

“Help!” Grace called loudly. “Help me, please! There’s been an accident and I need help!”

A man looked out over a half stable door. “Where the devil did you spring from?” He spoke with an accent she could not place.

His looks made her catch her breath. No, it was the running, she told herself. He was a disgrace.

He was tall, his face was dirty and unshaven, and his thick black hair was tousled and in need of a cut. His face was severe, all hard angles and planes, lean and . . . hungry.

He stared back at her with strange, cold, yellow eyes, his expression impatient. “I suppose you’ve come about the mares.” His gaze ran over her, lingering insolently on the parts where her wet clothes clung. And the strange golden eyes glowed.

Grace did not care. “I don’t know anything about any mares. I need help. There’s been an accident.”

His gaze snapped to her face. “What sort of accident?”

“Our carriage has overturned. On the driveway below.”

He muttered something under his breath. It wasn’t English. “Is anyone hurt?”

“No, not really, but they’re stuck in the carriage and the postilion has run away. He was drunk! You must come, now!”

He considered her words. “So, nobody is dead? Or bleeding?”

“No,” she said, frustrated. “But the door is blocked by the ground and they cannot get out. You must come at once!”

“Any horses injured?” He came out of the stall.

He might be a gypsy, she thought. He was dark enough for it. He wore no coat. He was dressed in mud-smeared high boots and stained buckskin breeches. His shirt, too, was soiled, the sleeves rolled up over sinewy, tanned forearms. She didn’t care. He looked strong and capable and that’s what counted at the moment.

“No, they’re all right. Please
hurry
!”

“Who did you say you were?” He fastened the door behind him with deliberate care.

She almost wept with impatience. She stamped her foot instead. “My name is Greystoke and who I am is of no importance!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Now calm down, Greystoke. Nobody has been hurt. I’m coming. Everything will be all right.” His voice was deep and calm and confident.

She tried to convey some sense of urgency. “Miss Pettifer—in the carriage—” She gestured vaguely down the drive. “Miss Pettifer is Lord D’Acre’s affianced wife and soon to be your mistress, so please inform your master,
at once
!”

“I call no man master.” His calmness was infuriating. His eyes bored into Grace, wicked amusement dancing in their depths. “But I wouldn’t mind a mistress. Are you soon to be my mistress, too, Greystoke?” He hitched up his buckskin breeches. “I could do with a mistress. It’s been a while.”

Grace was scandalized. But she knew better than to bandy words with a golden-eyed, mannerless gypsy devil. She said crisply, “You have no manners and your mind needs as good a scrubbing as the rest of you! Now
hurry
!”

He gave her a faint, wholly wicked smile and moved purposefully forward. At last! she thought, but then he marched right up to her and suddenly he was close. Too close for comfort and before she could react he had her face cupped in his hands and all she could see was his eyes. They were an odd color, a light golden amber, ringed with a thin black line. They gleamed under slanted black brows.

She was trapped. Like a rabbit facing a wolf. Too shocked to move.

His gaze roamed over her face like a caress. “Are those freckles real?” he asked softly. His voice resonated through her. To her surprise he didn’t smell dirty at all, just a bit horsey, which wasn’t surprising. And very masculine.

She pushed back at him. “Stop that at once!
There’s been a coach accident!
” she reminded him in as stern a voice as she could manage.

“But nobody is hurt,” he said and kissed her. It was swift and hard but Grace felt it right through to her very bones.

He released her and stood staring down at her, a blank look on his face. “Now that I didn’t expect,” he murmured. “Or was it perhaps, a fluke?”

Grace tried to step away from him, reeled and staggered. There was something wrong with her legs. She clutched his arms to steady herself. He was hard and warm and very strong.

Thunder rumbled across the skies.

It jolted her back to reality. She rallied, pulled back, wiped her mouth, and glared at him. Realizing she still held on to his arm, she used it to tug him toward the door. “There has been
a coach accident
.”

“Yes, you said. Nobody is hurt and they are stuck in the coach, out of the rain. And in the meantime, I just need to check something.” And he kissed her again, a brief, hard kiss that—again—sucked every coherent thought from her brain. And—again—when he released her she was dazed and dizzy.

“So,” he said on a long note of discovery. “Not a fluke at all. Well, who’d have expected that?” He steadied her, smiling.

The smile was the essence of male satisfaction.

She kicked him hard on the shin.

The smile widened. “Ouch,” he said softly, conversationally.

She kicked him again, harder.

“It would have more effect if I weren’t wearing boots,” he said in an apologetic tone.

She thumped him on the arm. “Listen, you impossible gypsy!
There has been a coach accident
and—”

He gave a start of theatrical surprise. “
A coach accident?
Well, why didn’t you say so?” And before Grace could say another word he’d seized her hand, whirled her out of the door, and started to run. Grace found herself practically flying over the ground, panting and slipping, taking two paces for every one of his.

“So, after this is over, will you give me the good scrubbing you promised me?” he said as they ran. The look he gave her scrambled her brains for a moment.

“No!” she gasped as she flew down the driveway. Her feet barely touched the ground.

“No? Oh well.” A slow grin cracked across his dark, unshaven face. “Let me know when it suits you, then.”

As they rounded the bend he said, “I can see the freckles are waterproof, so I suppose they must be real.” He did not slacken the pace. He was not even breathing heavily.

She was flabbergasted by the irrelevance of it. “Yes. Of. Course. They. Are. Real,” she lied. The freckles were an essential part of her disguise.

“Fascinating. I’ve never seen freckles like that before—all exactly the same shape and color. I’m looking forward to discovering whether they are all over your body or only in . . . selected places.”

He was outrageous. He had no sense of proper behavior. How dare he comment on her freckles—real or not—when they were in the middle of a crisis!

Grace only had enough breath to glare and run. A few minutes before she had been soaked, frightened, and tired. Her whole body ached from being thrown around the rolling carriage.

Now she was furious!

And feeling more alive than she’d ever felt before.

Danger did that.

They sped down the driveway, fast enough so her feet barely touched the gravel. She was in no danger of falling; he was very strong and his big, warm hand held her upright. But he kept on looking at her. In a very insolent fashion.

And it made her utterly furious that when she was beside herself with anxiety for her friend and her father that this—this devil should cause her to be distracted for a single second!

As the carriage came into view he slowed in surprise. “Where are the horses?”

“I cut the traces. I thought they might pull the carriage further.”

He gave her a sharp look. “Good thinking. What did you use?”

“A knife, of course.”

He frowned, but they’d reached the site of the accident and he questioned her no more. Melly thrust her head out of the window.

“Thank God you are here,” she gasped when they came close enough. “Papa is ill.”

At the other window they could see Sir John slumped, his skin yellowish and clammy. His eyes fluttered open. He looked straight at Grace’s gypsy. “D’Acre,” he said.

“Sir John,” the gypsy acknowledged.

“D’Acre?”
Grace exclaimed. “
You
are Lord D’Acre?”

“Who else?” He winked at her. And then winced dramatically as she thumped him on the arm. “Ouch! What was that for?”

“You know perfectly well what for.” Lord D’Acre indeed! All that nonsense about mistresses! And then he had the nerve to kiss her, knowing his betrothed—his
betrothed
!—was stuck in the carriage! The wretch!

He gave a swift grin, acknowledging that he did indeed know, then he thrust his head through the carriage window and said in a cold, calm voice, “Miss Pettifer, I’m coming in through this window. Stand back.”

To Grace’s amazement he swung himself up and went feetfirst through the window. He had to wriggle to get his shoulders through—they were very broad—but she was amazed at his strength and lithe agility.

He poked his head out and told Grace, “Sir John doesn’t seem to be injured, but I don’t like his color at all. Stand aside. I’m going to kick the side panel of the coach out.”

Before she could gather her wits, there was a loud thump, followed by another and another. Wood splintered, then he kicked a few more times and a ragged hole appeared. Another couple of kicks and the whole panel fell out.

“Out you get.” With him holding Melly from within and Grace helping from the outside, Melly managed to clamber out.

“Now you, Bright Eyes, in you hop. I need help to get the old man out.”

Bright Eyes. That would be her, Grace presumed. She climbed in and was told, “You hold his legs and I’ll pull him out from out there.”

He jumped out and together they maneuvered Sir John out through the hole and into Lord D’Acre’s arms. He scooped Sir John up like a child and strode back up the hill toward the house.

Grace grabbed Melly’s hand and they ran after him. The rain intensified, making visibility poor and turning the stone steps slippery. She hurried to the front door. “Oh, there’s no one to answer,” she said, remembering. “How are we to get inside?”

“Key in my pocket,” he said. “Right-hand side.”

He wasn’t wearing a coat. Grace reached into the pocket of his buckskin breeches. They’d been tight enough before; now they were sopping wet and clung like a second skin. She slid her hand into his pocket a little gingerly; she had never touched a man so intimately.

His pocket wasn’t empty, so she had to feel around for the key, past his handkerchief, some loose change, and other odds and ends. The situation was urgent, and yet she was tinglingly aware of his hard, warm flank under the buckskin and the warm, masculine smell of him. It wasn’t at all unpleasant.

She thought again of those two brief, shocking kisses. Her cheeks warmed against the cold rain.

She found the key, a large, old-fashioned brass one, and thrust it into the lock. The lock was stiff and she had to struggle to make it turn but after a moment it clicked and she was able to push the massive oaken door open. Sopping wet, they fell into the cavernous entrance of Wolfestone Castle. It was gloomy, cold, and dusty, but at least they were out of the rain.

They paused a moment to catch their breath, and as she glanced around Grace saw the gargoyle she’d hoped for. He was set high up overlooking the entry hall, not stone, but carved in wood, with a strong, benevolent face and sad, wise eyes. He seemed to be looking straight at her. The poor fellow needed dusting.

“Where shall we put Papa?” Melly asked.

Lord D’Acre grunted. “No idea. Find a room with a sofa or something.”

Grace gave him a quick look of surprise, but there was no time for questions. She ran to look. The first door she opened led to a sitting room containing a chaise longue under holland covers. She whipped off the cover and he placed Sir John on it.

Lightning lit the room with eery flickers, and thunder buffeted the house. Dominic frowned. The old man looked dreadful. His skin was yellowy gray and flimed with sweat, his eyes were closed, and he was breathing stertorously. Dammit, if the old man died he’d be left with the daughter on his hands.

Miss Pettifer said something, but her words were lost as the storm raged. Rain and wind rattled the windows. She tried again, clutching her little friend’s shoulder and shouting in her ear. The taste of the little friend flashed through his mind, distracting him briefly.

“I’ll get it,” Bright Eyes shouted back. “Where is it?”

His fiancée shouted again, she nodded, hugged her in quick sympathy, and ran off.

Dominic bent over the chaise longue, watching as Miss Pettifer loosened Sir John’s tie. Though obviously worried, she tended her father in a calm and capable manner. It impressed him.

The old man looked at death’s door. Dominic bent and shouted in the daughter’s ear, “I’ll fetch a doctor.”

She nodded. “As quickly as possible.”

Dominic hurried to the stables where he saddled the Arabian mare. He’d only managed to catch two of the mares earlier; the third had disappeared into the rain. Thank goodness he had this one to fall back on. His own horse, Hex, was tired after the long journey.

He glanced in on the pregnant mare. She still hadn’t given birth. Probably it would happen in the middle of the night, he thought; most horses gave birth then.

He found a faded black oilskin cloak hanging on a hook, swung it on over his wet clothes, and mounted the mare. He hesitated; he did not know what direction to ride in. He’d ask in the village, he thought, and rode out into the rain.

The mare was a gallant little beauty: she didn’t seem to turn a hair at the storm. He rode down the drive and made to pass the coach without a thought when a moving figure caught his eye. He stopped, dashing rain from his eyes, and was flabbergasted to see a slight figure lashed by rain, trying to drag a heavy valise through the mud. Greystoke.

That must be what Miss Pettifer had sent her to do. She was some kind of servant, that had been obvious from the start. No one would willingly choose such a drab outfit.

Her shoulders were hunched against the wind and the driving rain. Wet skirts clung heavily to her slender body. Dominic felt a surge of fury. To be sent to fetch the luggage in weather like this!