“Stop that man!” Boone barked the order.
With a start, Laura realized he was referring to the man who had bumped into her. Turning, she saw the culprit scurrying away, moving with a haste that included no signs of drunkenness. She understood in an instant that the two had been working as a team, the first to distract her while the second pilfered her purse.
Action erupted behind her as the second man took a swing at Boone and jerked his hand out of her purse. The man struggled frantically to break free. From the outset it was obvious that he was no match for the younger and much stronger Boone.
An actual fight was something Laura had never witnessed. On rare occasions at the ranch she’d seen the aftermath of scraped knuckles, cut lips, bruises, and even a black eye a time or two, but she’d never been present when a fight occurred until now.
Within seconds, it seemed, Boone had subdued the man, holding him in a paralyzing headlock, his arm twisted high behind his back as the casino’s security staff converged on the scene.
As brief as the incident had been, Laura had felt all of its heat and heart-pounding fury. She was conscious of the blood rushing through her system in a kind of savage high that simultaneously frightened and thrilled her.
Casino security were quick to take custody of the would-be thief from Boone, and Laura watched the violence ebb from him. Its passing was accompanied by a series of actions, beginning with a big shrug of his shoulders to correct the lay of his suit jacket, followed by a stretch of the neck and a quick adjusting of his tie to center it once again. Then his glance made a sweep of the gathering of onlookers, more as if to challenge any other takers than to search for danger.
When his glance finally stopped on her, his dark eyes still had a trace of battle glitter in them. It was that element of the primitive that Laura found fascinating.
But neither was given an opportunity to converse as security escorted them off the gaming floor to an inner office. There questions were asked, and events described. It was all repeated again when the police arrived and took their statements.
Nearly an hour later Boone and Laura climbed into the rear of the waiting limousine, apologies from casino management still echoing in their ears.
“At last that’s over,” Boone declared on a heavy sigh and settled back in the cushioned seat. “I had hoped to show you an evening to remember, but that wasn’t what I had in mind.”
The limousine passed by a streetlight, the streaming flood of light briefly revealing a tiny smear of blood at the corner of his lips. Laura removed the precisely folded handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and used a corner of it to dab away the touch of blood.
“My hero,” she murmured with a lightly teasing smile. Boone smiled back, but she noticed the secretly pleased look he wore that she had called him that even in jest. “Have I said ‘thank you’ yet for preventing that man from absconding with my winnings?”
“I don’t think you have.” His eyes had an expectant gleam.
“Thank you,” she murmured and leaned into him, covering his mouth in a nuzzling but brief kiss.
Before she could draw back, Boone hooked an arm around her waist to keep her against his chest. “You’re more than welcome.” His voice was husky.
His hand came up and cupped the back of her head, pulling her lips back to him. His mouth came down in a driving, delving kiss full of male aggression that made no attempt to conceal his desire behind finesse. A part of her gloried in its primitive heat, but her head warned her against letting it continue.
With a degree of regret, she flattened a hand against his chest and pushed back, dipping her head to pull in a breath that his kiss had denied her. His hands tightened on her in an attempt to draw her back, but Laura managed to maintain a small distance.
Peering at him through the top of her lashes, she murmured between deep breaths, “You do know the quick way to start a fire, don’t you?”
“I had help,” he reminded her.
Sensing his advantage, Boone again attempted to eliminate the space that separated. This time Laura laid two fingers on his lips.
“I think we both know where another kiss would lead,” she told him without any trace of false primness. “And I don’t know you that well—yet.”
He hesitated, gauging the firmness of her refusal, then loosened his hold on her. “That’s the most promising ‘no’ I’ve ever heard from a woman.”
Laura moved out of his arms and sat back in the seat. “I’m surprised any woman has told you ‘no’ before.” She removed a small mirror and a tube of lipstick from her purse and set about applying a fresh coat to her lips.
“There haven’t been many,” Boone admitted, aware that he’d seen only a rare few of them a second or third time, and lately, none at all.
“That’s what I thought.” Her sideways glance was bright with amusement. With her lips a shiny peach color once again, she capped the tube and returned both mirror and lipstick to her purse. “Quick, torrid affairs can be fun. But sometimes a person can get burned by them. And it isn’t going to be me. You need to know that.” She paused to meet his gaze. “So if you want to change your mind and forget about taking me to the country this weekend, there’ll be no hard feelings at all.”
He believed her. That knowledge made him all the more determined to possess her, even though there was a part of him that realized he was taking the risk of being possessed by her. Something told him that wouldn’t be a bad thing.
“I’ll pick you up at two—as we agreed earlier.”
The slow and obviously pleased smile she gave him seemed to assure him that anything he gave up would be worth it.
Chapter Five
T
he stately Daimler limousine cruised along the rural highway that wound its way through the rolling hills of the Cotswolds. Spring had worked its magic on the land, greening its pastures and turning its trees into thickly leafed canopies.
The scenery was the quintessence of the English countryside, picturesque and quaint, but Max Rutledge had absolutely no interest in it or the easy chatter between Laura and Tara. Impatiently he flipped on the intercom.
Rudely ignoring the chauffeur, he addressed his words to the man riding in the front passenger seat, Harold Barnett, his personal valet who also doubled as his private nurse. “Dammit, Harold, how much farther is it to this place? I thought we were supposed to be there by now.”
“Honestly, Max, you are really a poor traveler,” Tara chided with easy familiarity. “You know as well as I do that the chauffeur told us that we should be there between four and five, depending on the traffic. It’s only half past four now.”
“Then we should be there, shouldn’t we?” Max said and glowered.
“Excuse me, sir.” The valet’s tenor voice came over the intercom speaker. “But it appears the entrance to the estate is just ahead of us.”
“About time,” Max grumbled and for the first time took an interest in the view outside his window.
“The batteries on his cell phone went dead about seventy miles ago,” Boone inserted his own explanation for his father’s impatience.
“I’d like to know why you packed yours in your suitcase,” Max threw him a glare. “You’re supposed to carry the damn thing.”
“I didn’t see the need. You had yours,” Boone replied.
“Both of you, stop bickering.” Laura smiled to take any sting from her admonishment. “You’re worse than a pair of old maids.”
Max opened his mouth to make a hot retort, then looked at Laura, checked it, and offered her a rare smile instead. “Maybe it comes from a lack of having the civilizing influence of a female in our lives.”
“And this weekend you’re going to have the company of two. We’ll see how much it improves your disposition,” Laura declared impishly.
Max nudged Boone’s arm and nodded in Laura’s direction. “This one’s got a brain. She’ll keep you on your toes.”
Laura laughed. “I can’t imagine any man being on his toes unless it’s Barishnikov.”
The slowing of the limousine as it approached the entrance to the country estate brought a natural end to the exchange, their attention shifting to their destination. A pair of wrought-iron gates stood open. A narrow lane curved away from it, lined with towering oaks that obscured the view. Leaning closer to the window, Laura waited for her first glimpse of the house, feeling a kind of building suspense.
“It’s a damned long driveway,” Max grumbled.
“Not really. If it’s a long driveway you want, come to the Triple C. Ours is forty miles long.” Laura informed him, amusement in her smile.
The lane made a sweeping turn, and the centuries-old manor house suddenly stood before them, a towering two-and-a-half stories, with rambling wings and a scattering of gables. Bathed in the yellowing light of the late-afternoon sun, its native limestone had a golden glow to it despite the weathering by time and the elements.
A castle it wasn’t, but the scale of Crawford Hall was on the grand side. It could have been imposing, even intimidating, except for the thick vines that climbed over the exterior wall of one wing, providing a subtly homey touch.
The limousine rolled to a stop near the recessed front entrance. Moving with a practiced swiftness that showed no haste, the chauffeur exited the car and came around to open the passenger side door.
Tara was the first to emerge. While she waited for the others, she lifted her gaze to survey the old manor house. When Laura joined her, Tara murmured, “It reminds me of some aristocratic dowager, a radiant beauty in her day but a bit worse for wear now.”
Not quite as critical, Laura said, “It still has a certain charm about it.”
“Charming is not an adjective that should be applied to a titled estate.” Tara was firm in that opinion.
“This dowager merely needs a face-lift,” Laura stated with a wickedly teasing smile.
“How true,” Tara murmured, fully aware that her own looks were due in no small part to the skill of a surgeon.
Both women were careful to ignore the continued activity on the other side of the limousine. Max’s valet had retrieved the wheelchair from the trunk and with Boone’s assistance was transferring Max from the car to the chair.
“I wonder where our host is?” Tara mused aloud.
“Be honest,” Laura chided. “Aren’t you also wondering just a little bit about how old he is and whether there is a current Lady Crawford or not?”
Tara laughed, and there was a slightly girlish sound to it. “Maybe just a little,” she admitted.
The whirr of the wheelchair motor signaled the approach of the rest of their party. Laura turned as Max rolled out from behind the car.
“How come you two are still standing here?” he demanded, then motioned Boone toward the recessed entrance. “Go let them know we’re here.”
As Boone started toward the oversized door, it opened, and Sebastian stepped out, looking every inch the country gentleman in a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows.
“I see you arrived in good order,” he said in greeting. “You had a pleasant journey, I hope.”
“We did,” Laura confirmed, feeling that familiar tingle of attraction when his gaze met hers.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Max grumbled.
“Now, Max,” Laura began in light reprimand and left it at that when she noticed the sharp way he was studying Sebastian. There was something in his look that said he had the man’s number. It gave her pause.
If Tara observed his expression, she gave no sign of it. “Shall we go in?” she said to Sebastian. “I’m eager to meet our host.”
Sebastian hesitated. “I fear I have a confession to make.”
“He’s not home,” Tara guessed at once, disappointment clouding her expression.
“Oh, he’s home,” Sebastian assured her. “But I misled you a bit in Rome when I claimed a nodding acquaintance with the current earl of Crawford. Strictly speaking, it was the truth. I merely neglected to mention that I am the earl of Crawford.”
Laura realized at once that this was what Max had known. It would have been like him to check out his host before he arrived. She laughed, and there was a touch of relief in it that Max’s knowledge had turned out to be something so innocent.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Amusement riddled her voice, removing any demand from it.
Sebastian’s smile had a wry twist to it. “I expect the position is new enough that I’m not completely comfortable with it.”
Tara regarded him with utter amazement. “Your announcement has been such a surprise that the proper way to address you has completely flown from my mind. Is it ‘Your Lordship’?”
“Sebastian will do,” he replied.
“That’s good to hear,” Boone stated, “considering our country successfully fought a war to rid ourselves of such pointless necessities.”
Laura noticed the hard gleam of challenge in Boone’s eyes and knew he regarded Sebastian as a rival. With some justification, she was forced to admit.
“Ah yes, the rebellion of the colonies,” Sebastian murmured with a touch of drollery. “Fortunately, that war was over some time ago.” He extended a hand. “Welcome to Crawford Hall, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Thank you.” Boone briefly grasped his hand, his fingers automatically tightening in a show of strength.
If Sebastian felt any pain, he didn’t show it, and he turned to Max, again offering his hand. “And I welcome you as well, Mr. Rutledge.”
“Better make it Max.” He released Sebastian’s hand almost before his fingers closed around it. “It will be too confusing this weekend if you persist in calling us both Mr. Rutledge. First names will be easier.”
“I agree.” Sebastian nodded, then swept all of them with a glance. “Why don’t we go inside and I’ll show you to your rooms? No doubt you would welcome the opportunity to freshen up after your drive. Ladies.” He gestured for Laura and Tara to lead the way, then addressed Max. “As you will note, the steps have a side ramp that will accommodate your wheelchair. I’ll have my man Grizwold see that your luggage is delivered to your rooms.”
Once inside, Laura managed no more than a quick glance around the stone-floored entryway with its heavy woodwork before her attention was claimed by a young, ruddy-cheeked man, not much more than thirty, clad in a dark suit and tie.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” He greeted them with a half-bow, his smile pleasant but reserved.
“You must be Grizwold,” Laura guessed.
“Indeed I am,” he acknowledged, all but clicking his heels.
“I assume you are the butler,” she further surmised.
“I have been trained as one,” he stated as the rest of the party arrived in the entrance hall.
“Here at Crawford Hall, Grizwold’s duties tend to go beyond the scope of a butler,” Sebastian inserted, making it clear he had overheard part of their conversation. “Obviously we no longer have the large staff that once ran the place. But you may be interested to know that he represents the fifth generation of Grizwolds to work here.”
“It sounds like the Triple C,” Laura remarked, shooting a quick glance at Tara, then explaining, “Most of the people who work at the ranch today are descendants of the original ranch hands.”
“And the tradition continues,” Sebastian murmured on a thoughtful note, then pulled himself back to the present. “I promised to direct you to your rooms. Grizwold, will you show Mr. Rutledge to the lift? It’s an old and noisy contraption,” he said to Max, “but I assure you it is in excellent working order.”
“This way, sir.” Grizwold gestured to a wide hall, one of several that branched off the entryway.
Manipulating the control stick, Max sent the chair rolling in that direction, trailed by his burly valet.
“We’ll take the stairs,” Sebastian said and led the way to the massive staircase that swept up to the second floor. Built of oak, it had been darkly stained, and time had deepened its color to a blacker shade of brown.
Laura trailed a hold along the railing, its wood satin-smooth to the touch, evidence of the many hands that had made use of its support over the years. As she climbed the steps, she lifted her gaze to the smattering of old tapestries and gilt-framed paintings that adorned the walls of the second-floor landing.
“The house is much larger than it appeared from the outside,” Tara remarked. “When was it built?”
“Which part?” Sebastian countered. “The original structure was built in the seventeenth century. Over the years several additions have been made to it. It’s been remodeled and renovated more times than I can count. Which is why you’ll find a hodgepodge of architectural styles in evidence, not to mention a jumble of rooms.” He motioned to a spacious hall off the upper landing. “You’ll be staying in the guest wing, an eighteenth-century contribution.”
“Will there be other guests here this weekend?” Laura wondered.
“Not guests, although my sister Helen intends to join us for dinner this evening. I thought it proper to even out the numbers,” Sebastian explained with a hint of amusement in his glance.
“Is your sister married?” Laura stole a glance at Boone to catch his reaction to the news.
“Divorced,” Sebastian replied as there arose a loud clatter and groan from somewhere within the walls. “The lift,” he said in explanation. “I did warn you it was noisy.”
An Oriental rug ran the length of the hall, leaving only the outer edges of the hardwood floor exposed to view. There was a well-worn path down the center of it, an indication of the traffic it had seen.
Sebastian paused in front of the second door on the right side and turned to Boone. “Here is your room. Your father will be occupying the next guest suite. The adjoining servant’s quarters should be suitable for his valet.” He turned the ornate brass knob and gave the door a push, opening it for Boone’s admission. “I hope it will be satisfactory.” After nodding to Boone, he switched his attention to Laura. “You’ll have the room across the hall.”
“Knock on my door when you’re ready to go down,” Boone told her, pausing by the door to his room.
“I will,” Laura promised as she moved toward her own. Her glance landed on a small brass frame affixed to her door, a twin to the one she had noticed on Boone’s door. “What’s this for, Sebastian?”
A smile deepened the corners of his mouth. “How quick you are to notice one of Crawford Hall’s former customs. A rather naughty one, I might add.”
Her interest caught, she tipped her head at a curious angle. “Naughty? How?”
“It goes back to the days when it was considered uncivilized for husbands and wives to share the same bedroom. As you can see, this brass frame has a slot that allows you to insert a card identifying the occupant of the room. Obviously it prevents someone from entering the wrong bedroom, but it was also useful for”—he paused in emphasis—“amorous purposes, proper or not. As the French would say,
chacun à sa chacune,
which translates more or less to ‘each man to each woman.’ ”