The Ideal Bride (27 page)

 
The comment served to emphasize how distracted she’d been; she’d forgotten all about Ferdinand’s odd behavior.

 
Sliding her hand onto Michael’s arm, letting him steer her toward the far end of the long room, she assembled her facts. Looking down, she spoke softly, below the lilting air Elizabeth had started to play. “He wanted to know all sorts of odd things, but Edward said the crux of it was that Ferdinand wanted to know if Camden had left any personal papers—diaries, letters, personal notes—that sort of thing.”

 
“Did he?”

 
“Of course.” She glanced at him. “Can you imagine any ambassador of Camden’s caliber not keeping detailed notes?”

 
“Indeed—so why did Leponte need to ask?”

 
“Edward’s theory is that that was merely a gambit to elicit some reply alluding to where such papers might be.”

 
“I take it the gambit failed?”

 
“Naturally.” Halting before the French doors to the terrace, currently open to let in the evening breeze, she drew her hand from his arm and faced him. “Edward’s entirely trustworthy—he gave Ferdinand no joy at all.”

 
Michael frowned. “What else did Leponte ask? Specifically.”

 
She raised her brows, recalled Edward’s sober words. “He asked if it was possible to gain access to Camden’s papers.” She met Michael’s gaze. “To further his studies into Camden’s career, of course.”

 
His lips thinned. “Of course.”

 
She studied his steady blue eyes. “You don’t believe him, do you?”

 
“No. And neither do you.”

 
She wrinkled her nose. Turning, she gazed out, unseeing. “Ferdinand knew Camden for years—only now has he shown any interest.”

 
After a moment, he asked, “Where are Camden’s papers?”

 
“In the London house.”

 
“It’s closed up?”

 
She nodded and met his eyes. “But they’re not lying around in his study or anywhere easy to find, so…”

 
His eyes narrowed, then he glanced back up the room.

 
Half turning, she followed his gaze. Geoffrey’s eyes were closed— he looked to be asleep; at the pianoforte,
 
Elizabeth
 
and Edward had eyes only for each other.

 
Michael’s fingers closed about her elbow; before she could react, he’d steered her outside.

 
“You’re not, by any chance, considering giving Leponte access to those papers?”

 
She blinked at him. “No—of course not. Well…” She looked ahead, let him link their arms and stroll with her down the long terrace. “At least not until I know exactly what he’s looking for and, even more importantly, why.”

 
Michael glanced at her face, saw the determination behind her words, and was satisfied. She clearly didn’t trust Leponte. “You would have a better idea than most—what could he be after?”

 
“I never read Camden’s diaries—I don’t believe anyone has. As for the rest, who knows?” She shrugged, looking down as they descended the steps to the lawn; distracted by his question, she didn’t seem to notice…

 
Then again, would Caro truly not notice?

 
It was an intriguing question, but not one he felt any need to press her over; if she was willing to go along with his direction, he wasn’t foolish enough to erect hurdles in her path,

 
“I’m sure whatever it is, it can’t be anything diplomatically serious.” She glanced at him through the deepening dusk as they headed down the lawn. “The Ministry called Edward in for a debriefing as soon as we arrived back in England, and that was on top of the discussions both Edward and I had with Gillingham, Camden’s successor. We spent our last weeks in Lisbon making sure he knew everything there was to know. If anything had cropped up since, I’m sure he, or the Foreign Office, would have contacted Edward.”

 
He nodded. “It’s hard to see what it might be, given Camden’s been buried for two years.”

 
“Indeed.”

 
The word was somewhat vague. He looked at her, and realized she’d guessed where he was taking her.

 
She was looking at the summerhouse, at the dark expanse of lake beyond it rippling and lapping, ruffled by the rising breeze. Clouds were racing, overrunning each other as they streaked and tumbled across the evening sky, breaking up the lingering light. They would have a storm before dawn; it was still some distance away, yet the sense of its rising, of the air quivering at its approach, a primal warning of elemental instability rushing their way, was pervasive.

 
Heightening anticipation, tightening nerves.

 
Making senses stretch.

 
The summerhouse rose before them, blocking out the lake. “Do you think Camden’s papers are safe where they are?”

 
“Yes.” She looked down as they reached the summerhouse steps. “They’re safe.”

 
She reached down to lift her skirts. He released her elbow and started up the steps.

 
Immediately realized she hadn’t; she’d remained on the lawn.

 
He swiveled on the step and looked down at her—at her pale face, her shadowed eyes; she was looking up at him, hesitating.

 
He caught her gaze, held it, then extended his hand. “Come with me, Caro.‘

 
Through the dusk, her eyes remained locked on his; for an instant, she didn’t move—then she made up her mind. Transferring her hold on her skirt to one hand, she placed her fingers in his.

 
Let him close his hand about them and lead her up into the soft dimness of the summerhouse.

 
It took only seconds for their eyes to adjust; the last glimmer of light in the sky was reflected off the lake into the section of the summer-house built out over the water. They moved into that gray half-light. She twitched her fingers and he let them go, content to prowl in her wake as she glided to one of the arched openings where a wide padded bench filled the gap, a tempting place to sit and look out over the lake.

 
He had no eyes for the lake, only her.

 
He halted a few feet away; Caro drew in a deep breath and faced him. She was aware of the onrushing storm, of the dance of charged air over her bare arms, of the breeze plucking at tendrils of her hair. Through the twilight, she studied his face—briefly wondered why, with him, it was all so different. Why, when they were alone, here, by the pond—she suspected anywhere—it was as if they’d stepped onto a different plane, one where things were possible, acceptable, even right, that weren’t so in the normal world.

 
Regardless, they were here.

 
She stepped forward. Closing the distance between them, lifting her hands to slide them over his shoulders to his nape, she cupped his head, drew it down, stretched up and kissed him.

 
Felt his lips curve beneath hers.

 
Then they firmed, took control, parted hers. His tongue filled her mouth, his arms closed around her, and she had never been more certain that she was where she wanted, even needed, to be.

 
Their mouths merged, both eager to take, and then give. To participate fully in what they already knew they could share. Heat bloomed—in them, between them; the exchange quickly grew more demanding, more ravenous, more fiery.

 
His hunger was there, real, unfeigned, increasingly potent, increasingly undisguised. How strong was it? How lasting? Those were her burning questions—there was only one way to learn the answers.

 
She met him, taunted in response to his teasing, challenged and dueled. Then she stepped closer, fought to suppress her reactive shiver as their bodies met. Nearly fainted with relief—a delicious giddy faint-ness—at his reaction. Instantaneous, hot, greedy—almost violent.

 
Powerful.

 
His arms tightened, locking her to him, then his hand moved on her back, urging her closer still, then sliding, gliding lower, over the indentation of her waist, lower, over her hips to the swell of her bottom. To trace lightly, then cup, edging her closer, drawing her into his body so she could feel—

 
For one finite moment, all her senses stilled; for one instant, her mind refused to accept the reality, flatly refused to believe…

 
He shifted against her, deliberately, evocatively, seductively thrusting. The solid ridge of his erection rode against her belly, the soft silk of her old gown the flimsiest of barriers, in no way muting the effect.

 
Exultation rushed through her, welled, gushed; her mind seized, then whirled on a joyous tide.

 
He molded her to him; delighted, she wallowed, greedily grasping every sensation, holding each to her, balm to her old scars, and more, a tantalizing promise of what might be.

 
His desire for her was real, indisputably so; she’d actively evoked it. So could they… would he… ?

 
Was it possible?

 
Her breasts were swollen, hot, tingling; as deliberate as he, she shifted against him, sinuously pressing the aching peaks against his chest, easing and inviting, enticing.

 
Michael read her message with incalculable relief; never before had he been so driven by such a simple and powerful need. She was his and he had to have her. Soon. Perhaps even tonight…

 
He blocked off the thought, knew he couldn’t—wouldn’t if he was wise—rush her. This time he was playing a long game, one where his goal was forever. And that goal was too valuable, too precious, too fundamentally important to him—to who he was and who he would be, too much a central part of his future to in any way risk.

 
But she’d offered him an opportunity to make his case; he wasn’t about to decline.

 
He found it surprisingly difficult to free enough of his mind to take stock, to assess the possibilities. The vision of the padded bench beside them flashed through his mind; he acted on it, eased her back enough to straddle the bench, then drew her down to the deep cushions with him.

 
Her hands framing his face, she clung to the kiss. Leaning back until his shoulders propped against the arch’s side, he drew her with him, settling her within one arm. She went readily, leaning into him, her forearms on his chest, caught in the kiss.

 
He reached for her hips, eased her around within the V of his thighs, trapped her lips again, more greedily took her mouth, fed from it as he raised his hands, stroked down her back, and found the laces of her gown.

 
They were easily loosened. That accomplished, he slid his hands around, pushing her arms up, over his shoulders so he could close both hands about her breasts. She shuddered; he kneaded and she moaned. He drank in the sound, set himself the task of eliciting more.

 
But too soon she was quivering with need, her hands greedily, hungrily grasping—at his hair, his shoulders, sliding beneath his coat to spread and flex evocatively on his chest.