Any lingering doubts over how she saw Leponte—any inclination to view the man as a rival—were banished, reduced to ashes by the aggravation in her eyes, by the nature of her hesitation. Her gaze remained locked with his; her expression eased from haughty dismissal to exasperation.
Before she could formulate some other plan, he said, “I was on my way to check the pond, to make sure the stream is still running freely. You may as well come with me.”
She hesitated, making no secret that she was weighing the risks of accompanying him against those of inadvertently running into Leponte. Unwilling to utter any promise or assurance he had no intention of keeping, he kept silent and waited.
Eventually, she grimaced. “All right.”
Nodding, he turned away so she wouldn’t see his smile. Hand in hand, they left the protection of the elders and headed further along the stream.
She threw him a suspicious glance. “I thought you said the stream was unblocked?”
“It was, but as I’m here”—he glanced at her—“with nothing better to do, I thought I’d make sure we’ve got the problem permanently fixed.”
He walked on, leading her deeper into the forest.
The pond was well known to locals, but as it was buried deep in Eyeworth Wood, a segment of the forest and part of his lands, few others knew or even suspected its existence. It was located in a narrow valley, and the surrounding vegetation was dense, less easy to penetrate than the tracts of open forest.
Ten minutes of tramping along forest paths brought them to the pond’s edge. Fed by the stream, it was deep enough for the surface to appear glassy and still. At dawn and dusk, the pond drew forest animals large and small; in midafternoon, the heat—not as heavy here, yet still considerable—wrapped the scene in somnolence. They were the only creatures awake, the only ones moving.
They glanced around, drinking in the quiet beauty, then, still holding Caro’s hand, Michael led the way around the bank to where the stream exited the pond.
It was gurgling merrily, the sound a delicate tinkling melody falling into the forest silence.
Halting at the stream’s head, he pointed to a spot ten yards along. “A tree had lodged there—presumably it came down in winter. There was debris built up around it, almost a dam. We hauled out the tree and the worst of it, and hoped the stream would clear the rest itself.”
She studied the free-flowing water. “It seems to have done so.”
He nodded, gripped her hand and stepped back. Drew her back with him—without warning released her hand, locked his about her waist, lifted and whirled her; setting her down at the base of a huge oak, her back to the bole, he bent his head and kissed her.
Thoroughly this time.
He sensed her gasp—knew she tried to summon and cling to outrage—felt a spurt of very masculine delight when she failed utterly. When despite her clear intent to resist she instead met his thrusting tongue, when within seconds her lips firmed and, for her almost boldly, with that lick of elusive passion, not only met his demands, but seemed intent on gaining more.
The result was a kiss, a succession of increasingly heated exchanges that, to his considerable surprise, evolved into a senusal game of a type he’d never played before. It took him some moments—it took effort to tear even a part of his mind free enough to think—before he realized what was different.
She might not have had much experience kissing, believing, wrongly, that she didn’t know how; he’d expected her, once he’d seduced her thus far, to be eager to learn—as indeed she was. What he hadn’t expected was her attitude, her approach to that learning, yet now he was dealing with it, lips to lips, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, it was, indeed, pure Caro.
He was starting to realize she did not possess an acquiescent bone in her body. If she agreed, she went forward, determined and resolute; if she disagreed, she would resist equally trenchantly.
But being acquiescent, going along with something without any real commitment, was simply not Caro.
Now he’d forced her to face the question, she’d obviously decided to take him up on his offer to teach her to kiss. Indeed, she seemed intent on getting him to teach her more—her lips, her responses, were increasingly demanding. Commanding. Matching him, step by step, meeting him toe to toe.
If the complete capture of his senses, the total immersion of his attention in the exchange, the increasingly definite reaction of his body were anything to go by, she didn’t need any more teaching.
Abruptly, he pulled back, broke the kiss, aware of just how dangerously insistent his own desire was growing. Aware of the rising beat in his blood. He lifted his head only inches, waited until her lids fluttered, then rose—searched her silver eyes.
He needed to know if she was where he thought she was, if he was reading her responses accurately. What he saw…was at first surprising, then intensely gratifying. A degree of amazement—almost wonder—lit her lovely eyes. Her lips were full, a lusher pink, slightly swollen; her expression turned considering, assessing, yet he sensed beneath it all that she was pleased.
She cleared her throat; her gaze dropped to his lips before she quickly raised it and attempted to frown at him. She tried to ease back, but the bole was behind her. “I—”
He swooped, cut her off, shut her up. Shifted closer and slowly, deliberately, pinned her against the tree.
Felt her fingers tense on his shoulders, then ease.
She’d been about to protest, to insist they stop and rejoin the others—it was what she’d feel she had to say. Not necessarily what she wanted.
Most of her would-be suitors, he would wager, had failed to grasp that point. Caro played by the social rules; while she was an expert at bending them to her cause, she also felt bound by them. She’d been married for nine years; she would have got into the habit of refusing all invitations to dalliance. Her reaction was doubtless now ingrained; as he’d just proved, the only way to get inside her defenses was to ignore them, and the rules, entirely.