What Price Love? (6 page)

He cursed and tightened his grip, but then they hit the ground, him on top with her on her back stretched full length beneath him.

The impact jarred them; they both lost their breaths. For one instant, all was still, then she transformed into a wildcat, twisting sinuously beneath him, hands rising, claws extended for his face.

He wrenched his arms free, caught her hands half a second before she made contact.

She swore at him in Gaelic, bucked, kicked, fought him like a heathen. He had to shift, twist; he only just managed to avoid her rising knee, to block it and press it back with his thigh.

“Hold still,
damn it
!”

She didn't listen. He could hear her ragged breaths, almost sobs, but she seemed beyond the reach of his voice.

Ruthlessly, he exerted his strength, pressing her hands to the ground on either side of her head, relentlessly using his full weight to subdue her.

It wasn't—definitely wasn't—his idea of a wise move. He could feel every undulation of her supple body beneath his, every caress of her remarkably feminine, sinfully suggestive curves as she writhed beneath him.

His body had reacted instantly—painfully—to the feel of hers. Now…

“For God's
sake
!” He bit off a curse. “Unless you want me to take you here and now,
be still
!”

That
got through to her; she froze—totally and utterly.

He waited; when she remained quiet, rigid beneath him, he dragged in a breath, braced his arms, and eased his weight onto his elbows, enough to look down at her face—not enough for her to have any hope of dislodging him.

They lay in the open, their faces inches apart, but her features were shaded by his head above hers; looking up, she wouldn't be able to see his expression any more than he could see hers.

He had to fight not to glance down at her lips, and farther, at her breasts, still heaving, repeatedly brushing his chest. He forced himself to concentrate on her eyes, wide and framed by the dark curve of her lashes. “What are you doing here?”

For one instant, she stared up at him, then she flung another Gaelic epithet at him and tensed—but she didn't try to buck him off. Possibly because he now lay between her slender thighs. Then she spoke. “Is this how you entertain yourself, then? Accosting ladies in the woods?”

She'd poured scorn and more into her sultry voice, but there was a hint of panic edging it…

The accusation seemed singularly inapt.

Dillon frowned. He stared into her wide eyes. Despite not being able to see their expression, he suddenly understood. Suddenly realized on a wash of sensual heat just what was causing her to lose her grip on her wits.

Realized what it was keeping her lovely eyes doe-wide.

Keeping her breathing skittish and panicky.

Beneath him, he felt her quiver, recognized the response as involuntary, something she would die rather than admit to—something she couldn't suppress or prevent.

He could feel his heartbeat heavy in his loins, could feel the heat of hers trapped beneath him, pressed against him. He felt the telltale tension thrumming through her, resistance combined with a reaction she couldn't control.

One that left her weak.

He would never have a better chance of getting her to tell him all she knew. Deliberately, he let his hips settle more definitely between her thighs.

Her breath caught; alarm flashed through her. “Get off me.”

The last word hitched, caught.

He froze. Inwardly swore. She was one step away from outright panic.
Damn
—he couldn't do this.

He was about to tense and lift from her when a crashing in the wood captured both their attentions.

Turning his head, he watched Barnaby stagger from the trees. He was holding his side and had clearly failed to capture the Irishman.

Very much the worse for wear, Barnaby slumped against the bole of a tree. “Thank God.” He dragged in a painful breath. “You caught him.”

Dillon sighed. Without releasing his captive's hands, he pushed up, got his feet under him, and rose, hauling her unceremoniously up before him.

He looked over her head at Barnaby. “No. I caught
her
.”

B
y the time Caxton steered her into his office, Pris had her wits firmly back under control. It helped that, in marching her back to the Jockey Club, he'd done no more than grip her elbow. Even that much contact was more than she would have wished, but it was a great improvement over what had gone before.

Those moments when she'd lain beneath him welled again in her mind. Resolutely, she jammed them down, buried them deep. She couldn't afford the distraction.

He thrust her into the room, in the direction of the chair before his desk, the one she'd previously occupied.

After hauling her to her feet, with a detachment that, to her in her highly charged, overwrought state, had somehow smacked of insult, he'd tugged loose her kerchief, pulled her arms behind her, and bound them. Not tightly, but too well for her to slip her wrists free.

She'd borne the indignity only because her wits had still been reeling, her traitorous senses still whirling, leaving her weak—too weak to break away.

But their plodding journey through the wood had given her time to catch her breath; she was feeling considerably more capable now.

Halting beside the chair, she narrowed her eyes at Caxton as he came up beside her. “You'll need to untie my hands.”

It was the earl's daughter who spoke. Caxton met her eyes, considered, then reached behind her and tugged the knot free.

Leaving her to untangle her hands, he walked on; rounding his desk, he dropped into the chair behind it.

Behind her, Pris heard the door shut and the latch click home. As she sat—noting that Caxton hadn't waited for her to do so before sitting himself—she glanced at his friend. He limped to the armchair and slowly let himself down into it.

She managed not to wince. Her confidence in Rus hadn't been misplaced; there was a bruise on the man's cheekbone, another on his jaw, and from the way he moved, his ribs hadn't escaped punishment. He looked thoroughly roughed up, yet she detected a shrewdness, an incisiveness in his gaze; he was still very much mentally alert.

Shaking out her kerchief, she rolled it, then calmly knotted it once more about her neck. She looked at Caxton, noted he was frowning, then realized his gaze had lowered to her breasts, rising under the fine shirt as she reached to the back of her neck.

Thanking the saints that she didn't blush easily, she lowered her arms. “Now that we're here, what can I do for you, gentlemen?”

She had every intention of making this interview more painful for them than for her.

Dillon blinked, then locked his gaze on her face, on her fascinating eyes. “You can start by telling us what you were doing skulking about the wood.”

Her emerald eyes opened wide. “Why, skulking about the wood, of course. Is that a crime?”

He didn't try to stop his jaw, his whole face from hardening. “The man in the wood—who was he?”

She considered asking what man. Instead, she shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“You were there to meet him.”

“So you say.”

“He's a felon who's been trying to burgle the Jockey Club.”

“Really?”

Dillon could almost believe the arrested look that went with that, as if he'd told her something she hadn't known. “You know him, because you deliberately distracted me from helping Barnaby—
Mr. Adair—apprehend him. You knew he'd overcome one man, but not two. You're his accomplice—you helped him get away. Presumably you were his lookout.”

She sat back in the chair, outwardly as at ease, as comfortable and assured as she'd been in her emerald gown. Arms resting on the chair's arms, she met his gaze directly. “That's a fascinating hypothesis.”

“It's the truth, or something close to it.”

“You have an excellent imagination.”

“My dear Miss Dalling, what do you imagine will happen if we deliver you to the constable and tell him we discovered you, dressed as you are, hiding in the wood behind the Jockey Club, just as a man seeking to break into the club fled the scene?”

Once again, she opened her eyes wide; this time, a gentle, subtly mocking smile played about her mobile, thoroughly distracting lips. “Why, that the poor constable will curse his luck and be made to feel terribly uncomfortable, for as we've already established, skulking about in the woods is no crime, your assertion that I know the man is pure conjecture, conjecture I absolutely deny, and as for being dressed as I am, I believe you'll discover that, too, is not against the law.”

The poor constable would be mesmerized by her voice. If she spoke more than two phrases, it required a conscious exercise of will not to fall under her spell. And, of course, in this case, she spoke the unvarnished truth. Sitting back in his chair, Dillon studied her, deliberately let the moment stretch.

She met his gaze; her lips curved, just a little—enough for him to know she knew what he was attempting, that she wasn't susceptible, wasn't going to feel compelled to fill the silence.

Despite his intention not to shift his gaze, he found himself glancing at her attire. In a town like Newmarket, the sight of ladies in breeches, while not socially acceptable, was hardly rare. An increasing number of females—Flick being one—were involved in one way or another with preparing race horses, and riding such animals in skirts was simply too dangerous. When he called on Flick, he was as likely to find her in breeches as in skirts.

It was his familiarity with ladies' breeches that prodded his mind. Miss Dalling's weren't made for her; they didn't fit well enough, being
a touch too big, the legs a trifle long. Likewise the jacket; the shoulders were too wide, and the cuffs fell across the backs of her hands.

Her boots were her own—her feet were small and dainty—but the clothes hadn't been hers originally. Most likely a brother's…

Lifting his gaze, he captured hers. “Miss Dalling, can you tell me you
don't
know this man—the man Mr. Adair attempted to apprehend?”

Her fine brows arched haughtily. “My dear Mr. Caxton, I have no intention of telling you anything at all.”

“Is he your brother?”

Her lashes flickered, but she held his gaze, direct and unflinching. “My brothers are in Ireland.”

Her tone had gone flat. He knew he'd hit a nerve, but he'd also hit a wall. She would tell him nothing more, at all. Inwardly sighing, he rose, with a wave gestured to the door. “I would thank you for assisting us, Miss Dalling, however…”

With a look of cool contempt, she rose. Turning, she paused, studying Barnaby. “I'm sorry you were injured, Mr. Adair. Might I suggest ice packs would help with those bruises?”

She accorded him a regal nod, then, lifting her head, walked to the door.

Dillon watched her, noting the swaying hips, the supreme confidence in her walk, then he rounded the desk and went after her.

Even now, especially now, he wasn't about to let her wander the corridors of the Jockey Club alone.

 

D
amn it, Rus, where
are
you?”

Holding her frisky bay mare on a tight rein, Pris scanned the gently undulating grassland that formed Newmarket Heath. Here and there between the scattered trees and copses, strings of horses were being put through the daily round of exercises that kept them in peak condition. Horsey breaths fogged in the crisp morning air. Dawn had just broken; it was cold and misty. Beyond the practicing strings, wholly absorbed with their activities, the Heath was largely empty; other than herself, there were few observers about.

More would gather as the sun rose higher; she intended to be
gone before too many gentlemen rode out to view the runners for the race meet tomorrow.

The string she'd been observing from a safe distance wasn't Irish. Straining her ears, she could just pick up the orders and comments tossed back and forth. This group was English, definitely not Lord Cromarty's string.

Suppressing her disappointment, doing her best to ignore her mounting anxiety, she set the mare cantering on to the next string.

It was the second morning she'd ridden out. Yesterday, Adelaide had accompanied her, but Adelaide wasn't a confident rider; Pris had spent as much time watching over her as she had scanning the sward. This morning, she'd risen earlier, donned her emerald velvet riding habit, and slipped out of the house in the dark, leaving Adelaide dreaming.

Of Rus, no doubt. In their unwavering devotion, Adelaide and she were alike, albeit for different reasons.

Two nights before, she'd truthfully told Caxton her brothers were in Ireland. Rus wasn't her brother—he was her
twin
. He all but shared her soul. Not knowing where he was, simultaneously knowing he was facing some as-yet-nebulous danger, set fear like a net about her heart.

With every day that passed, the net drew tighter.

She had to find Rus, had to help him break free of what ever it was that threatened him. Nothing else mattered, not until that was done.

Catching sight of another string, she turned the mare in that direction. The horse was still fresh; Pris let her stretch out in an easy gallop, but given that she was riding sidesaddle over unfamiliar ground, she kept the reins taut.

The sting of cold air burned her cheeks. Exhilarated, she pulled up on a slight rise and looked down on the exercising string.

Settling the mare, she squinted at the distant horse men. She couldn't get too close; she might not recognize Harkness, but given he'd been working with Rus, he would almost certainly recognize her.

She needed to locate Lord Cromarty's string, but until she knew more, she didn't want anyone from his lordship's stables other than Rus knowing she was in Newmarket.

Straining her ears, she listened, but was too far away. Twitching
the mare's reins, she trotted around to a knoll closer to the string but more directly downwind.

Again she sat and listened. This time, she heard. Closing her eyes, she concentrated.

Familiar lilting accents, a gently burred brogue, rolled across her senses.

Breath catching, she opened her eyes and eagerly scanned the men before her. She fixed on the large man directing the exercises. Harkness. Big, dark, and fearsome. Her mind wasn't playing tricks on her—she'd found Lord Cromarty's string!

Her heart lifting, she studied the two men beside Harkness; neither was Rus. She was about to shift her focus to the circling riders—so much harder to study as they rose and fell with their horses' gaits—when a shifting shadow in the clump of trees to her right drew her eye.

A horse man sat on a powerful black standing in the lee of the trees. He wasn't watching the exercising horses; his attention was fixed on her.

Pris cursed. Even before she took in the lean build and broad shoulders, and the dramatically dark, wind-ruffled hair, she knew who he was.

Abruptly, she wheeled the mare, tapped her heel to the glossy flank and took off. She raced down the knoll, gave the mare her head, and flew, hooves pounding, away across the Heath.

He would follow, she felt sure. The damn man had doubtless been following her all morning, perhaps even all yesterday morning. By now he would know she was searching for one particular string. Thank the saints she'd noticed him before she'd done anything to distinguish Cromarty's string from all the others she'd observed.

A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed the big black was thundering in her wake.

The mare was fleet of foot, and she rode a great deal lighter than he, but the black was like its rider—relentless. It came on, heavy hooves steadily eating up her lead.

Leaning low over the mare's neck, she urged the horse on, streaking across the lush green. The wind tugged at her curls, sent them rippling over her shoulders. Shifting her weight as she swung around
a stand of trees, she tried to think of what she should say when he caught up with her.

Would he wonder why she'd fled? Would he guess her real reason—that she wanted him far from the string she'd been watching? But no—their last clash, especially those moments behind the wood, were reason enough for her to flee him. And he knew that, damn him! She recalled all too well that instant before his friend had arrived when he'd decided to try a certain method of persuasion that, to her immense shock, had had her heart standing still.

With a peculiar, never-before-felt fear, and an unholy anticipation.

No. She had a good reason not to want to fall into his hands again.

But she didn't want him thinking about that last string. Remembering it enough to go back later and check. She had to convince him it was just another string like all the others she'd viewed, not the one she was searching for.

She glanced behind her. He was even closer than she'd guessed. Stifling a curse, she looked ahead—she was rapidly running out of Heath. The stands of trees were getting larger; she was heading into more wooded terrain.

He was going to catch up with her soon, but she would rather any catching was done on her terms. As for making sure he didn't focus on that last string…she might not want to fall into his arms, but there was one weapon she possessed that, in her experience, was all but guaranteed to rattle his brain, to fog his mind and cloud his memories.

She wasn't keen—wielding that weapon was neither smart nor safe—but desperation beckoned.

The last thing she wanted, the very last thing Rus needed, was Mr. Caxton, Keeper of the Breeding Register, calling at Lord Cromarty's stables.

Dragging in a breath, she gathered the mare in, let Caxton bring his mount up on her right flank.

She picked her moment, swerved hard and sharp, swinging around a clump of trees large enough to qualify as a wood. The black was less maneuverable; the rapid shift in direction left him careening on.

Curses erupted behind her as Caxton wrestled the beast around,
but then she whipped around the wood, streaked along its rear, rounded it again, returning to where she'd started; by then he'd followed and was on the other side.