Stephanie Laurens: All About Passion

As they crossed the lawns, his companion continued with her canine family tree. He paced beside her but his attention had flown.

The damned gypsy had been riding fast-exceedingly fast. And the horse she’d been on-had it just been the distance and her small self that had made the beast appear so huge?

Reaching the parterre, his companion turned onto the path that led around the formal garden. He halted. “I must be on my way.” Remembering why he was there, he summoned a charming smile and bowed. “Thank you for your company, my dear. I daresay we’ll meet again.”

She smiled ingenuously. “That would be pleasant. You are a very good listener, sir.”

With a cynical nod, he left her.

He strode through the shrubbery, keeping an eye out for green-habited dervishes. None appeared. Reaching the stable, he looked in, then called a “Hoi!” Receiving no reply, he walked the long aisle, but could discover no stablelad. He found his chestnut, but could see no sign of any horse that had just been brought in. Yet the gypsy should have reached the stable by now; she’d been heading in this direction.

Returning to the yard, he looked around; there seemed to be no one about. Shaking his head, he turned to go in and fetch his own horse when a patter of feet heralded the stablelad. He came racing into the yard, lugging a double-panniered picnic basket-he skidded to a halt when he saw Gyles.

“Oh. Sorry, sir. Umm.” The boy glanced to the side of the stable, looked at Gyles, then at the basket. “Umm…”

“Who’s that for?” Gyles indicated the basket.

“Miss said to fetch it right away.”

Miss who? Gyles nearly asked, but how many misses could there be at Rawlings Hall. “Here. Give it to me. I’ll take it to her while you get my horse. Where is she?”

The lad handed over the basket; it was empty. “In the orchard.” He nodded to the side of the stable.

Gyles set out, then glanced back. “If I haven’t returned by the time you have the horse ready, just leave it tethered to the door. I’m sure you have other work to do.”

“Aye, sir.” The boy touched his forelock, then disappeared into the stable.

A slow smile curving his lips, Gyles walked into the orchard.

Pausing, he looked around; the orchard stretched for some distance, full of apple and plum trees, all laden with fruit as yet unripe. Then he saw the horse-a huge bay gelding at least seventeen hands high with a massive chest and a rump to be wary of-standing, saddled, reins trailing, chomping grass.

He started toward it and heard her voice.

“My, what a pretty boy you are.”

The smoky, sultry voice oozed seduction.

“Come, let me stroke you-let me run my fingers over your head. Ooooh , that’s a good boy .”

The voice continued, murmuring, cajoling, whispering terms of endearment, invitations to surrender.

Gyles’s face hardened. He strode forward, scanning the long grass, looking for the vixen in green and the lad she was seducing…

She stopped talking; Gyles strode faster. He reached the apple tree beside which the bay stood. He searched the surrounding grass, but couldn’t see a soul.

“Josh,” she murmured, “have you got the basket?”

Gyles looked up. She lay stretched full length along a branch, one arm outstretched, reaching, fingers straining…

Her skirts had rucked up to her knees, revealing a froth of white petticoats and a tantalizing glimpse of bare leg above the tops of her boots.

Gyles felt giddy. Feelings and emotions whirled and clashed within him. He felt foolish, with unjustified anger bubbling through his veins and having no outlet; he was half-aroused and rocked by the fact that such a minor glimpse of honey-toned skin should have the power to so affect him. Added to all that was flaring concern.

The damned gypsy was a good nine feet off the ground.

“Got you!” She plucked what looked to be a large ball of fluff from among a clump of apples, then she tucked it to her ample bosom, sat, and swiveled-revealing a twin bundle of fluff in her other hand.

She saw him.

“Oh!” She rocked, then clutched both kittens in one hand, grabbing the branch just in time to keep from falling.

The kittens mewled piteously; Gyles would have traded places in a blink.

Eyes wide, skirts now trapped above her knees, she stared down at him. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. Wolfishly. “I brought the basket. Josh is otherwise engaged.”

She narrowed her eyes at him-indeed, she came very close to scowling at him. “Well, since you’ve brought it, you may as well be useful.” She pointed to the lump of fur that had just discovered the toe of his boot. “They need to be collected and taken back indoors.”

Setting down the basket, Gyles scooped up the fluffball at his feet and slipped it in. Then he scanned the immediate area; once assured he was not about to commit murder, he stepped beneath the branch and reached up. “Give them here.”

That proved difficult, given she had to hold on to the branch at the same time. In the end, she placed one kitten in her lap and handed the other down, then handed the second down.

Returning to the basket, Gyles hunkered down, sliding each kitten in without letting any out. At the edge of his vision, he caught a flash of fur and pounced. Stuffing the runaway into the basket, he asked, “How many are there?”

“Nine. Here’s another.”

Standing, he took receipt of a ginger fluffball. He added it to the collection. “Can a cat have nine?”

“Ruggles obviously believes so.”

Another came tumbling through the grass. He was insinuating it into the furry mewling pile writhing inside the basket when he heard a twig snap.

“Oh- oh! ”

He turned just in time to take a giant step and catch her as she tumbled from the branch. She landed in his arms in a jumble of velvet skirts. He hefted her up easily, then juggled her into a more comfortable position.

It took two attempts before Francesca managed to fill her lungs. “Th-thank you.” She stared at him, and wondered if there was something else she should say. He was carrying her as if she weighed no more than one of the kittens. His eyes were locked on hers; she couldn’t think.

Then those grey eyes darkened, turned stormy and turbulent. His gaze shifted to her lips.

“I think,” he murmured, “that I deserve a reward.”

He didn’t ask-he simply took. Bending his head, he set his lips to hers.

The first touch was a shock-his lips were cool, firm. They hardened, moving on hers, somehow demanding. Instinctively, she tried to appease him, her lips softening, yielding. Then she remembered that she was considering marrying him. She slid her hands up, over his chest, over his shoulders. Locking them at his nape, she kissed him back.

She sensed a fleeting hesitation, a momentary hiatus as if she’d shocked him-a heartbeat later it was wiped from her mind by a surge of fiery demand. The sudden pressure shook her. She parted her lips on a gasp-he surged in, ruthless and relentless, taking and claiming and demanding more.

For a moment, she clung, helplessly aware of her surrender, aware of being taken-driven-rapidly out of her depth. Aware of sensations streaking through her body, through her limbs, aware of her toes slowly curling. Far from frightening her, the feelings thrilled her. This was what she’d been created for-she’d known that all her life. But this was only half of it, half of the adventure, half of the apple when she wanted the whole. Without resistance, she let the wave of passion flow through her; as it ebbed, she gathered her will, then set about turning the tide.

She kissed him back passionately, and caught him-surprised him. He hadn’t expected it; by the time he realized, he was trapped in the game with her-the heated duel of tongues that she’d always imagined must be. She’d never kissed any man like this, but she’d watched and imagined and wanted-she’d suspected mirroring his caresses would work. That, she’d assumed, was how ladies learned the art-by kissing and loving with someone who knew.