Nicole Jordan (28 page)

His refusal had sounded unalterable, though. She wasn’t ready to give up just yet, but she had a sinking suspicion that Deverill would never be persuaded to take on such a mundane role as controlling her father’s shipping empire.

“Well,” she said lightly, “I have a little time to convince you to change your mind.” She rose and smoothed out her skirts. “Shall we go? There is much more to explore, and I don’t want to waste a moment.”

Clambering back over the rocks, Antonia put on her stockings and boots, and then with Deverill’s assistance climbed the steep path to return to their grazing horses.

When he grasped her hand to help her up the last incline, a shiver of awareness ran through her. His merest touch reminded her of the incredible pleasure he could give her. But she had vowed she would forget that reckless, wanton chapter of her life and attempt to view Deverill merely as a friend instead of her most wicked fantasy.

Clenching her teeth, Antonia allowed him to help her mount once more, pretending not to notice the burn of his fingers as they pressed into her waist while lifting her onto her sidesaddle. Yet even before he swung into his own saddle, Antonia spurred her horse forward, as eager to dismiss her wayward feelings toward Deverill as she was to explore.

In contrast to the rugged coast, with its coves and harbors and colorful fishing villages, the golden countryside possessed a mellow sort of charm. A confluence of river valleys, the district was populated by pretty cottages of stone and thatch, occasional churches of granite, and manor farms where fat cattle and sheep and horses grazed.

Antonia was drawn to the natural beauty of the numerous streams and thick woods and flowering meadows, but it was the feeling of freedom she cherished. She could be far more adventuresome here than in London. She could act the hoyden if she wished, galloping wildly across the countryside, challenging Deverill to horse races and archery matches. . . .

To her amusement, he refused her offer to show him how to shoot a bow, but not her proposition for a race. She gave the competition her all, bending low over her horse’s neck as they galloped over a grassy field and up a hill that boasted another spectacular view of the sea. She won with relative ease and pulled up laughing.

When Deverill demanded a rematch, she gave him a brilliant smile that staggered him like a sharp punch to the gut.

“I know, it was not a fair match,” Antonia acknowledged. “I am riding one of Isabella’s excellent horses, whereas you again have a hired hack. But I still relished beating you for once.”

Seeing the shine of excitement in her eyes, Deverill found it almost impossible to keep from hauling Antonia off her horse and tossing her to the ground, where they could both indulge the hunger that had been only momentarily satisfied on board his schooner. Her auburn hair, which had been pinned up beneath a small shako hat, was slipping down to frame her face with loose tendrils, while her cheeks were flushed with the warmth of exertion similar to the heat of passion.

A hard, burning ache lanced through his loins, making Deverill curse under his breath. How tempting she was. How bloody, impossibly tempting. It was driving him mad, not being able to touch Antonia.
She
was driving him mad.

But it was her sheer exuberance that set his blood on fire. She thrived on challenge as he did. And watching her delight was like drinking in a vivid sunrise.

He had made an egregious mistake in letting himself be alone with her, Deverill knew now. He’d hoped this morning would provide a distraction from his restlessness, would keep him from fretting over his impotence and lack of action.

It had indeed distracted him, but also brutally tested his fortitude.

Worse, he was about to compound his mistake. When Antonia had asked him to teach her how to swim, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to disappoint her.

He hadn’t liked disappointing her, either, when she had implored him to take control of her father’s legacy. Yet he’d had no choice but to decline her generous offer.

His life was with the Guardians, not directing a shipping empire—although he couldn’t tell Antonia that, since she knew nothing of the order. He couldn’t explain that he was compelled to follow a deeper calling of his own. That serving the Guardians was his life’s work. That every sinew and fiber of his being was dedicated to self-redemption, his ceaseless attempt at reparation for the men he couldn’t save.

Instead, he’d claimed an adventurer’s need for freedom. Antonia understood the need for freedom better than any other woman he had ever known.

Freedom. That was what she claimed to want most.

He could give her that much, Deverill promised her silently. He could satisfy her thirst for adventure, at least for this short time together. He could make her sojourn in Cornwall one she would never forget.

He would willingly give a slice of his soul to see Antonia smile at him that way again, no matter if it strained his fortitude to the very limits of his endurance.

Twelve

Deverill’s fortitude was strained nearly to the breaking point the following day.

The first report from London arrived by courier that morning, confirming that he was indeed wanted for murder—which only served to intensify his frustration. As instructed, Macky had involved several others on his behalf, including fellow Guardians Alex Ryder and Viscount Thorne, and Madam Venus as well. However, there was little progress to report thus far, although follow-up reports from Macky would soon be forthcoming.

Deverill knew his friends would be almost as eager as he was to vindicate his name and to strike a blow against Heward. They were all cut from the same cloth—men of action who refused to wait patiently while others acted for them. But for now, Deverill realized he had no choice but to grit his teeth and let his colleagues conduct their inquiries without him.

Nearly as frustrating, Deverill was obliged to fulfill his promise to teach Antonia to swim, since Captain Lloyd was not expected to return with his schooner for at least two more days.

They held her first lesson during the warmest part of the afternoon. Deverill chose a private cove on the southern boundary of the Wilde estate, since it was sheltered from heavy waves and prying eyes. Accessed by a winding path down from the cliff top, the secluded cove boasted a narrow sand beach and a natural rock pool that was shallow enough for wading but wide and deep enough to swim in. There was even a rock cave that seemed an ideal place to land and store smugglers’ contraband until it could be safely retrieved when the King’s Revenuers were no longer watching.

Antonia professed delight at the cove’s wild beauty and waded into the clear blue-green swells with scarcely any hesitation.

“The water seems warmer here than where we were yesterday,” she observed.

“Because it’s shallower here, and the surrounding rocks are heated by the sun.”

“This should be perfect for my lesson.”

Deverill couldn’t fully agree. He had made Antonia wear her sailor’s trousers to hide her body as much as possible, but the billowing linen shirt, once wet, plastered to her breasts and revealed the outline of her budded nipples.

Striving to ignore the temptation she presented, he stripped down to his breeches and waded in to his waist to begin her swimming lesson.

He commenced by showing her how to hold her breath and put her face in the water, then taught her to immerse her whole head without panicking. Next, she learned to relax enough to float.

“If you can float, you can tread water,” Deverill instructed. “And if you can tread, you can swim. Now watch how I do it.”

Moving a little deeper, he sank down to his neck, culling the water with his cupped palms while lazily kicking his legs.

“Let me try,” Antonia said eagerly.

He stood beside her, ready to support her if necessary, while she moved her hands and legs as he’d shown her. With Deverill providing a sense of security, she mastered the art of treading water in a very short time.

Finally, he demonstrated how to stroke her arms overhead to gain a forward momentum, letting her practice with his palms under her stomach as she moved parallel to the shore.

She proved so good at stroking that she got away from him.

Delighted that she was actually swimming on her own, Antonia gave a trill of excited laughter—an excitement that suddenly faded when she realized she was alone in deeper water.

She heard Deverill instantly strike out after her, but when she stopped in nervous apprehension, she lost her concentration and promptly sank to the bottom. She broke above the surface, sputtering and thrashing and coughing.

Deverill was there to catch her and hold her up, but Antonia had swallowed a huge mouthful of water, and she clung to him with frantic urgency, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, her breasts pressing against the bare expanse of his chest.

When she finally regained her breath, awareness suddenly assailed her with unexpected force. Deverill’s beautiful face was only inches away, his lips nearly touching hers. His smooth male skin felt resilient and heated beneath her fingertips. . . .

From the way his jaw tightened, she suspected he felt the same abrupt sexual arousal.

“Perhaps,” Antonia murmured, hoping he would attribute the huskiness of her voice to natural hoarseness after swallowing so much salt water, “that is enough instruction for one afternoon.”

Deverill shook his head. “You need to continue a little longer so you end on a successful note—it’s like getting back up on a horse after you’ve fallen. But you can have a moment to rest if you wish. Now, relax and keep hold of my neck. I won’t let you go under again.”

He swam slowly backwards toward shallower water, towing Antonia with him. When his feet touched bottom, he stood and lifted her with his hands beneath her buttocks. Reflexively, she clasped her legs around his hips and held on as he waded toward shore. She could feel the hard, throbbing outline of his arousal through their wet clothing, even though she strove to ignore it.

He set her on her feet on the sun-warmed beach, yet she continued to cling.

“You can let go of my neck now,” Deverill urged.

She couldn’t force herself to release him, however. Antonia stood there dripping, incapable of movement, swaying on suddenly weak limbs.

The yearning sensations strumming through her body were powerful enough to make her dizzy. The trembling hunger that filled her made her breasts swell against Deverill’s chest, made her lower body ache to press harder against the straining bulge in his breeches while her fingers longed to stroke the broad expanse of naked, bronzed chest.

Of their own accord, her hands slid slowly over the wet surface of his arms, feeling the smooth contraction of sinewed muscle.

Deverill’s breathing quickened in rhythm with hers. Yet he obviously had more willpower than she, for he reached up to clasp her wrists and draw her hands away.

A sprightly breeze wafted over her soaked clothing, making Antonia feel a bit chilled despite the afternoon’s bright warmth; they had been in the water for nearly an hour, after all. Yet it was the sudden heat in Deverill’s gaze that made her shiver.

He stared into her eyes for a long moment before his gaze dropped to focus on her breasts, where her chilled nipples had tightened to hard points, the dusky tips clearly visible beneath the damp linen.

At the sight, his green eyes flared beneath spiky clumps of wet lashes.

Watching him, Antonia couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. She had never been more conscious of Deverill, of the hot pounding of her blood. She could almost feel the sizzling flame of his mouth as he suckled her nipples. . . .

Deverill felt the same consciousness, his awareness of Antonia so razor-edged, he could almost taste the salty moisture on her damp skin. The savage knot of lust inside him was a vicious reminder of how difficult it was to fulfill his vow to keep away from her. He desperately wanted to touch her, to kiss her.

Hell and the devil, he couldn’t stop himself. With a muttered curse, he bent his head and captured her lips beneath his.

She tasted of cool seawater and warm summer sun, but the effect was much more stunning . . . like a bolt of lightning that seared them both.

He deepened the kiss urgently, his tongue mating with hers, feeling her body shudder against him as he splayed his hands over her sweetly curved buttocks.

When she moaned and molded herself against him, however, Deverill regained his senses and abruptly broke away.

Without looking at her, he pointed toward the rock cave, gruffly saying, “You are right, that is more than enough lesson for one day. Now go dry yourself off in private and put on your own clothing.”

Mutely cursing herself, Antonia stood staring at him as she raised her fingers to her burning lips. She should have known better than to kiss Deverill. She’d thought it was the wild beauty of the cove that was having such an uncanny effect on her senses. The unaccustomed freedom that stirred her blood so. But it was Deverill himself.

She squeezed her quivering thighs tightly around the hot ache that burned there, and forced herself to turn toward the rock cave, where towels and dry clothing awaited her.