This time her gaze met with his and held, and he realized he’d given her just the opening she wanted. “And you, of
course, are well acquainted with the proclivities of drunken fools.”
He grinned. “Touché. But Olivia, I have overimbibed but once in your presence. Do you plan never to forgive me for that single transgression?”
She did not smile back. “One transgression?” Her russet brows arched.
Neville shrugged but maintained his good humor. “Are you speaking of our several kisses now? For if you are, I must confess that I will never be able to consider those three kisses as transgressions, not when—”
“Four,” Olivia interrupted, her lips pursed in disapproval. “Not three, but four. And I do think of them as transgressions.”
“But you participated so eagerly,” he countered. “And there were only three. Near the stream in Doncaster; at the town dance; and in the Cummingses’ garden.”
Her frown deepened and anger flashed in her eyes. “What of that last night of our journey, at the Bull’s Manger in Prudhoe? You forget to mention
that
kiss.”
“What?” He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Oho. So you
have
forgotten. No doubt you were too drunk to remember. But I remember it. Very well.”
Neville’s chest was suddenly tight, and the pounding of his heart seemed to reverberate through his entire body. Once before they’d discussed his behavior of that night. But she’d said nothing about him kissing her. Had he kissed her? He couldn’t remember. Had he done anything more than merely kiss her? He was afraid to find out.
All he could remember of that night was that he’d been exhausted and plagued with dreams. And though he’d vowed to avoid strong spirits, that night he had weakened. The next morning he’d been appalled by the destruction he’d caused. But he did not recall kissing Olivia. He didn’t remember seeing her at all that night.
Then again, he didn’t remember smashing those chairs, or that table.
She must have seen the confusion on his face, for her expression
grew colder still. “You
don’t
remember. You were that drunk.”
Neville beat back a sudden wave of panic. Once or twice before he’d had this total loss of memory after a night of drinking, and it was terrifying. Was he going mad?
The answer, though clear, was painful to face. If he was going mad, it was due to the vast quantities of alcohol he consumed. But if he stopped drinking, he could stop the madness.
If
he could stop drinking for good.
He looked over at her, but she stared straight ahead, concentrating on her horse and the overgrown cart track. He cleared his throat. “I understand now why you have been so cool to me of late. If I offended you with my behavior in Prudhoe, then I beg your forgiveness. You are … You are right that I do not remember the details of what happened that night.”
He swallowed the bitterness of that admission and went on. “But I promise you—I promise you, Olivia—that you see before you a reformed man. I have sworn off all drinking, all wines and ales and strong spirits. If I did not have sufficient reason before to stop, you have just given it to me.”
But she would not look at him.
She urged her horse off the cart track and into an open pasture, heading toward an old Roman stone wall. “I don’t believe you, Lord Hawke. Certainly your inability to rise before noon indicates a long-standing habit of drinking away the night—though perhaps you are too drunk to remember most of the time.”
He caught up with her and edged his horse near enough that his knee bumped hers. “I am up before noon today. Besides, my sleep habits have nothing to do with drinking.” Though their discussion had taken a turn into the treacherous territory of why he could not sleep at night, he forced himself to continue. “I have been an insomniac for several years. Whether I drink strong spirits or not, my nights remain sleepless.”
Finally she turned toward him with eyes that were steady and very, very green. “Why?”
This was not the conversation Neville wanted to have with her. None of it. Unfortunately there was no way to avoid her question, not when her attention was turned so fixedly upon him.
Fortunately an old military rule rescued him: when retreat was impossible, the best policy was to attack. He would attack with the truth, or at least one version of it.
He looked away from her and stretched the silence to a breaking point before responding with somber words. “My experiences in the war haunt me.”
My guilt tortures me.
“I see.” She considered that. “I wondered if it might be related to that.”
They had halted the horses in a patch of heather and he shifted in the saddle, then met her eyes once more. There was less condemnation in her expression now and a little crease had formed between her brows.
“I don’t like to speak of it,” he continued. That much certainly was true. “I’m sure you understand.”
She nodded, but her eyes searched his, and it struck him, oddly enough, as being a more intimate connection than any other interaction they’d had. Even their several kisses paled next to this personal, probing stare.
“Perhaps,” she said in a voice devoid now of any artifice. “Perhaps you might find ease in speaking to others about these troubling memories of yours.”
A faint sheen of sweat broke out across his brow. Speak of it? Of his failure and the subsequent death of so many of his comrades? The very idea of her ever learning the truth about him turned Neville’s blood to ice.
“I think not.” His response sounded too curt. It came too fast.
“Yes, but that could be why you drink so much—”
He jerked his horse around and started up the hill, effectively cutting her off. “If you want to see the rest of your estate before the clouds break over us, we’d better be going.”
Olivia stared after Neville, a little stunned by his sudden
rudeness. Then again, she supposed she’d been rude to throw his poor behavior in his face. Could he truly not remember? Apparently so, for he seemed genuinely shocked to learn of it. And now she’d upset him further with her inquiries about his insomnia and his war experiences. No doubt he saw it as an admission of weakness. But she did not see it so. From what she’d heard of the campaign in Ligny, it had been a bloody mess. Too many men had not come back, or had done so crippled or blind or otherwise maimed.
Leaning forward, she urged her mare on, her eyes fixed upon the broad and rigid shoulders of the man ahead of her. A little jolt of guilt snaked through her. Perhaps she was being too hard on him. Perhaps she should be more understanding, given all he’d been through.
And though she should not, the truth was, she wanted to know more about the nightly tortures he suffered, the ones he tried to numb with excessive amounts of alcohol.
She picked her way up the twisting hill, her mind all the while spinning. If he would just talk about it, he would surely feel better. If he could just cry, though she knew he would scoff at the idea. But she understood, as did most women, how much relief could come from a good bout of tears.
At the crest of the hill he turned slightly, just enough to make sure she still trailed him. It was enough also for her to see that he had composed himself once more, that he had beat back all his painful emotions and covered them with the arrogant veneer he wore so well. In spite of all she knew about him, that touched something in her heart, something she instinctively knew was dangerous.
“Oh no,” she groaned, swiping at a limp curl that clung to her damp brow. Bad enough she found him physically attractive, intellectually challenging, and dangerously intriguing. To see him vulnerable as well could nigh well be fatal to her feminine composure. No matter his reasons, she reminded herself, he was still a drunk. No matter his wounds, he was far too much like her father. Indeed, it was on account of those wounds that he played the role of rogue so well. Rogue, rake, man-about-town. He was not looking for marriage, and even
if he were, it would certainly not be the comfortable sort of marriage she sought.
He was a heartbreaker, pure and simple. She’d seen his kind in action before and warned several of her friends away from them. Even her mother, married though she’d been, had suffered a broken heart long before her second husband had died. Olivia knew all that and so she had assumed herself immune to men like Neville Hawke. She’d never imagined herself in danger from his kind.
But she was definitely in danger now.
Ahead of her Neville had paused and sat his horse at the crest of the hill. He made such a picture silhouetted against the turbulent sky. But Olivia vowed not to be swayed by the manly vigor and masculine beauty he wore with such nonchalance, for beneath it lay too much tragedy. He was not the man for her. Everything sensible in her nature proclaimed it so. Her purpose today was to hear his proposal to lease her fallow fields, that was all. He needed the use of her property, she needed his money. That was why she’d come, that was why she remained, and empathy had nothing to do with it. Nor did desire.
This was about business, nothing more.
Neville’s thoughts circled around the same subject as Olivia’s although with a decidedly different attitude. He’d anticipated that she would try to keep this outing as businesslike as possible, and he’d not been entirely opposed to the idea. For a variety of reasons she saw him as unsuitable, and he meant to prove her wrong. He wanted her to see that he took seriously his responsibilities to his lands and the people who worked it—just as he would take seriously his responsibilities as a husband.
He’d not expected her to confront him about his drunken excesses in Prudhoe. Had he done more than kiss her? God, he could not remember! Then she’d again brought up the subject of his insomnia, and to his chagrin he’d not responded well.
But he was calmer now and in control once more.
He glanced back at her as she came up the hill. The woman
was too perceptive by half. Too forthright. Too opinionated.
But then that was part of her attraction. She viewed life—or at least society life—with the same jaundiced eye as did he, and he knew instinctively that she would be content in these Scottish hills.
He watched her guide her mount up the hill, a graceful equestrian despite the awkwardness of the sidesaddle required of proper ladies. In truth, she was everything a man could desire in a woman—save submissive. Yet even that might be possible, he decided, under the right circumstances.
Though it was unwise in the extreme, he had the sudden and compelling need to make her submit in some manner to his will. In one manner in particular.
He dismounted and, when she reached him, caught her horse’s reins. “Let me help you down.”
When he reached up to help her, her eyes flashed in quick alarm. “Why are we stopping here?”
“I want to show you something.” He kept his raised arms steady.
“I’m sure that’s not necessary-—”
“Oh, but it is. You’ve been away from these parts a long time—you were but a child then. If you hope to steward this land wisely, it behooves you to get to know it again. Intimately.” His eyes remained on hers, which were green today, he noted. Green with a compelling rusty cast like cypress trees in the fall. Her eyes always seemed greener when her emotions ran high.
So why were her emotions running high right now? He had a strong suspicion he knew. “You do want to steward your lands wisely?” he prodded, not changing his stance.
She grimaced, then forced a halfhearted smile. “Of course I do.” Albeit reluctantly, she unhooked her knee from the high pommel horn, then leaned toward him. He’d won this round, he thought, holding back his smile. But when her fingers touched his shoulder, when his two hands wrapped around her narrow waist, Neville was struck painfully with a new truth. He had not won..He had not won any battle with her at all. Instead, he had just jumped into water way over his head, and
he was sinking like a fifty-pound grit stone. And the only thing that could keep him afloat was her.
He wanted Olivia Byrde to be his. He needed her to be his. And he would do whatever it took to get her.
So he lifted her down, reveling in the firm weight of her. He did not release her when he should, however. And when the color rose in her cheeks—when she made a weak effort to remove her hands from his shoulders and move out of his grasp—he did what he’d wanted to do for days now, what he wanted to do every time he laid eyes on her.
He dipped his head, staring at the shocked little O she made with her perfectly luscious mouth. He dipped his head, and he kissed her.
OLIVIA wanted Neville to kiss her. No use to deny it. She’d wanted it from the moment he appeared in the forecourt at Byrde Manor, so tall and virile in his buff-colored breeches and dark blue riding coat.
She hadn’t
wanted
to want his kiss. But she’d wanted it all the same—that lovely warm tingling sensation like before, half fear, half joy. Even the panic he’d roused in her when he’d fondled her breasts that time had become a perverse sort of desire, a longing for something she should not want at all. But now as his head dipped toward hers, she let out a guilty little sigh.
At last,
that sigh said.
At last.
Except that the remembered thrill of their previous kisses was nothing close to the powerful reality of this kiss. The fire of then was lukewarm compared to the conflagration of now. His mouth, so firm upon hers, was not tentative. There was no request in this kiss, but rather a demand.
Everything in Olivia that was sensible bade her answer that demand with a proper and resounding no. But everything in her that was sensible fled, dissipated like smoke in the wind at the first touch of his lips to hers. And when one of his arms dragged her body flush against his, and his free hand cupped the back of her head and held her steady against the onslaught of his very thorough kiss, what little sense she had of right and wrong, of proper and improper, disappeared. He kissed her like a starving man, and she kissed him right back as if she wanted him to feast upon her.
Which was precisely what she did want—and precisely what he proceeded to do.
Behind her the mare whickered as if confused by whether to stand and wait, or browse and nose around for the nearest stream. But Olivia did not care what the mare did. Neville nipped her lower lip and slid his tongue along the seam of her mouth, and she opened to him eagerly. Gratefully. His tongue delved deep and met with hers. His mouth shifted and hers did also, fitting them better, closer.
Their bodies moved in a hot slithering shifting that, despite the layers of garments between them, roused every surface of her skin. Her nipples peaked, her stomach clutched, and deeper, in places she’d rather believe did not exist, heat welled up, damp and quivering.
She let out a helpless little moan and clutched his longish hair in her hand. As hard and firm as he was—his chest and thighs and arms—she found his hair to be soft as silk. And warm, like everything else about him.
“Let me show you,” he repeated in a hoarse whisper. His lips moved in a hot trail against her mouth and cheek and down the side of her throat.
“Yes,” she breathed, arching back shamelessly. Could this wanton creature really be her? She wanted him to touch her aching breasts. She wanted him to ease this mad need that rose up inside her.
“Over here.” He walked her backward, his knee sliding between her thighs with every step, abrading skin that had never known more than her own nonchalant swipe as she bathed. That daily ablution had roused no sensation at all, save that of cleanliness. This, however—this rough caress, casual and yet intense, and entirely uncontrolled by her—this ignited an inferno in her belly.
Back they went, step by step, her head thrown back, his lips at the base of her throat. His right leg shoved rhythmically between her thighs, and Olivia could do nothing but surrender herself completely to the madness of it. To her shame she even opened her legs a little wider, granting his muscular leg easier and deeper access.
Then she came up against a tree, his lips found hers once more, and he pressed his full weight against her.
Her arms were already around his neck, but now she felt the most perverse urge to wrap her legs around him as well. She went so far as to raise one knee, allowing him to fit his lean hips completely to hers—and she felt the hard pressure of his manly arousal.
She gasped at the stunning impact of that intimacy. But with oxygen came the first glimmer of returning sense. “Oh, my God.”
Neville felt Olivia stiffen, but he ignored any sign of her resistance. He wanted her; he had to have her. And since he meant to marry her … Since his intentions were ultimately honorable …
When she turned her head aside he nipped her earlobe, then circled his tongue inside her delicate shell of an ear. At once her resistance melted away, and he felt the heated pliancy of her delectable body. Like a goad it urged him on, enflaming him beyond the bounds of all reason.
Every torturous night, every exhausting day, every lonely moment of the past four years seemed to have brought him to this moment, to this woman. It was an illogical thought, a mad thought. Yet it filled Neville with a conviction he could not shake off.
“Olivia.” He breathed the word against her neck and she turned her face up to his. For a moment only their gazes met and held, one long moment of utter truth, stripped down to its purest form. He wanted her and she wanted him too.
Then she murmured his name, “Neville,” and their course was irrevocably set. He caught her lips in a kiss of no return, of no going back, only forward. There was no restraint left in him, only the most basic need. Chest, loins, and legs, they strained together. His lips forced hers apart, his tongue tasted deeply of her. But she was a willing receptacle to his lust. Her arms circled his neck and her leg came up again around his thigh.
He caught her knee, lifting her leg higher still and thrust convulsively against the vulnerable warmth of her. Every one
of their encounters had led them to this. Every one had been but an exquisite form of foreplay, he now saw. Their anger. Their misunderstandings. The taunting and baiting between them. Their dancing—the restraint of the cotillion, the unabashed sensuality of the waltz. Even the long journey to get here and their enforced proximity had only heightened this raw need they shared.
But there was no restraint now and no turning away. He took complete possession of her mouth, delving deep, mirroring the thrust of his pelvis against hers, and she strained for more. One of his hands cupped her derriere and through her bunched skirts he stroked the cleft of her femininity. She gasped and whimpered, but it was a whimper of need.
Somewhere beyond them the heavens boomed approval, a long, rumbling accompaniment to his thunderous pulse and throbbing body. The wind whipped around them, tangling her loosened hair in his hands. The tree that supported them shook its leaves over them, and Neville felt like one with all the elements. For this was nothing if not elemental. The mating of man to woman. Of a man to his woman, the one woman in all the world meant to be his.
He loosened the front buttons of her riding habit, then slid his hand in to cup her breasts. Against his lips she let out a strangled cry—of protest? No. For between his finger and thumb her nipple hardened with need. Her breath came in shallow gasps, urging him on.
At once he laid her down on the springy grass, flinging the sides of her bodice wide. Though her camisole hid her from view, the soft mounds of her breasts enticed him all the same.
“Neville?” She stared up at him, the perfect picture of wanton woman and innocent lady, of desire and hesitance. He vowed to rid her of any doubt.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “So perfect.” He kissed her again and covered her body with his own. As before she responded to the kiss, and when he began to knead her breast she shifted with restless desire.
He shifted too, for his arousal had become painful, and he
raised her skirts, sliding his palm up the side of her smooth thigh. Again she moved in restless longing.
He thrust his hips against her in response. He was about to burst! But she was an innocent, he reminded himself. He must be certain she was ready. So he slid his hand between them and found the moist center of her desire.
“Soon enough,” he said, trailing the words and kisses across her cheek to her jawline, then down to her throat. And all the while he stroked that wet, warm place. “Soon enough, Olivia. My lovely Hazel …”
She moaned with his every stroke, urging him on. Her eyes were closed now, her mouth partly opened, and as he stroked the rising nub of her desire, she began to pant and quiver. Despite the urgent demand of his own arousal, he watched her, entranced.
“Do you like that, love?” He moved his finger back and forth a little faster, a little harder.
“Yes. Oh. Oh …”
“Ah, damn,” he muttered, struggling to tamp down his own desire even as he worked to increase hers.
“Oh, oh …” she panted. Then with a little shriek she bucked up, and against his hand he felt the convulsions in her belly.
“Oh … Oh …”
Neville watched in rapt fascination as she shuddered with her release. Color flooded up her chest and neck, and she sucked in huge draughts of air. For a moment her eyes opened and fastened upon his—those beautiful hazel eyes, glazed now with sexual fulfillment. Then she blinked, the glaze began to clear, and at the same moment, with a roar of fiendish delight, the heavens opened up over them.
“Bloody hell!” Neville tried to shield Olivia with his body, but there was no way to avoid the fierce onslaught of the storm. She gasped and turned away from the blinding assault of raindrops. Neville rolled her to the side, facing him, but she shoved him back, trying at the same time to close her bodice, pull down her skirts, and rise to her feet.
She failed at all three.
Nonetheless her frantic movements managed to convince Neville that their interlude was done. He cursed his wretched luck even as he pushed to his feet. Then he caught her by the elbow and helped her up. “Come on. We can shelter beneath those willows.”
“No.” She stared at him, her eyes huge. Then she jerked her arm free, averted her eyes, and fumbled with her already drenched bodice. The pounding rain made her awkward, blinding her eyes and dragging the skirt of her riding habit close against her legs.
“Bloody hell,” Neville muttered. But he turned away, giving her some privacy. Sheltering his eyes with his hand, he collected the two nervous horses and led them beneath the thick, overhanging willows, then looked back at Olivia. She was staring at him now, and even through the downpour he could tell she was appalled by what had just happened, and that she wanted desperately to escape his presence. That, more than anything, stiffened his resolve. He might yet be bursting with unfulfilled desire, with no hope of easing it now, but he would be damned before he allowed her to ignore what had just passed between them.
A jolt of thunder crashed over them and Neville’s hands tightened around the reins when the horses jerked. Olivia also cringed, and with no other choice, she joined him beneath the willows.
“We’ll wait here a while,” he said. “The storm should pass soon.” Then he extended an arm. “Come here, Olivia. Let me shelter you.”
She wrapped her arms around herself but advanced no nearer him. “I don’t think I … That …” She shook her head, the picture of abject misery. “That should never have … have happened.”
Neville had no intention of letting her get away with such thinking. He looped the reins around a branch, then faced her in the dripping shelter of the trees. “What happened just now was inevitable, Olivia. It’s been inevitable since our very first meeting. But for the rain we would have fully culminated this attraction between us.”
“Is that why you lured me up here?” She stabbed him with her accusing gaze. “That was your plan all along, wasn’t it? You do not want any land leases from me—”
“You’re wrong. My intentions were honest on that score. And they remain honest. I want those land leases. But now …” He thrust a hand through his dripping hair. “I had not intended to address this matter so soon, but there seems to be no helping it.” He took a breath and stared intently at her. “I believe we ought to be wed.”
Just saying the words out loud was unnerving. Olivia’s stunned silence did nothing to reassure him. She stared at him as if she had not heard him at all—or wished she had not.
“Well?” he demanded, as aroused as ever, for her garments clung to her like a second skin, covering all, yet revealing everything. “Have you no response to what I said?”
Olivia could hardly believe her ears. She was hard-pressed to believe anything that had happened in the last quarter hour: the liberties he’d taken with her person; the liberties she’d allowed and, indeed, encouraged. And then that … that earthquake inside her!
She quivered to even recall the power of her response, it was that unbelievable. And now he was proposing marriage.
“If … if it is the land leases you want,” she stammered. “You can have them.”
. “It’s not the leases I’m speaking of. It’s marriage. After what has just passed between us—”
“No!” She shook her head and backed away. “No. You will not force me—” She broke off. God in heaven, what had she done? How could she allow him such unimagined liberties and yet refuse to marry him? It was unheard of!
“Oh, my God,” she moaned. “I must get away from here.” She started out into the rain, but he followed.
“Olivia, wait! You can’t run away from this.”
“I’m not running away!” She spun around so abruptly he had to catch her by the shoulders to prevent himself from colliding with her, but he let her go at once.