As she slumped in his arms, Michael let his reins slide and surged within her, racing toward the shattering release that with every rippling contraction of her sheath about his painfully engorged length beckoned. Her body, still thrumming, drew him on, pulled him over that glorious edge and into sweet oblivion.
He didn’t let himself sink too deep beneath the golden waves; couldn’t. Yet still he lingered, glorying in the feel of her body in his arms, in the hot wetness that so tightly enclasped him. Drawing the scent of her deep into his lungs, he let his hands soothingly roam her sweet flesh. She was flushed, dewed after their exertions, yet her skin remained a wonder, the finest, most delicate silk. He nuzzled the tender hollow between her neck and shoulder, drew his face alongside hers, feeling the springy frizz of her hair against his cheek.
Matters between them had shifted, not so much changed as grown deeper, developed in ways he hadn’t foreseen. Yet the changes had only made his ultimate goal all the more desirable, all the more precious.
Once his head had stopped whirling, he lifted her from him and laid her on the pillows. Eyes closed, exhausted, she slumped like one dead; wryly triumphant, he flicked the silk coverlet over her and slowly, reluctantly, left the bed.
Caro was dimly aware that this time he hadn’t joined her amid the rumpled sheets, that his large, hot male body wasn’t spooned around hers. Distant creaks, tiny rustles reassured her he was still in the room, yet many minutes passed before she could summon sufficient strength to lift her lids and see what he was about.
The sun was still strong, still beaming above the treetops, yet not by much; it had to be past four o’clock. Michael stood before the windows looking out at the trees. He’d donned his breeches, but remained bare-chested; as she watched, he raised his hand and sipped from the glass he carried.
His jaw was set. There was something in his stance, in the set of his shoulders, that told her something was wrong.
A sinking feeling assailed her. She closed her eyes…felt his hands on her, fingers sinking into her hips as he made love to her; opening her eyes, she resolutely pushed her fear aside.
If she’d learned anything about life, it was to face difficulties directly. Nothing good ever came from beating about any bush. She sat up. Her head spun once, but then steadied. She grabbed the coverlet as it started to slither down.
He heard the rustle, glanced around.
She caught his gaze. “What is it?”
He hesitated. The sinking feeling started to swell again, but then he moved, came closer, and she read enough from his face to know seeing her naked in his bed wasn’t any part of the problem he was wrestling with.
He halted at the foot of the bed, sipped again from the glass. She could now see it contained brandy. Lowering it, he fixed her with a steady, almost considering stare. Almost pensively said, “Someone’s trying to kill you.”
Michael had wondered how she’d react; his guess proved accurate—she started to smile reassuringly. Her lips curved, her eyes started to light—then the transformation paused. Faded as she read his face, and realized he was serious.
Eventually, she frowned. “Why do you think that?”
Inwardly, he gave thanks his marital lust had settled on an intelligent woman. “Consider these facts. One—that day when your horse, Henry, was spooked and you nearly came to grief in your gig, Hardacre found evidence that Henry had been hit with pellets, most likely from a slingshot.”
Her jaw fell. “What?”
“Indeed. There seemed little point in worrying you at the time— Hardacre and I both reasoned it was some nonlocal lads larking about. Highly unlikely it would happen to you again.” He nodded. “And it didn’t. Something else did, or almost did.”
She blinked, thinking back.
He watched, then told her, “Those men who attacked Miss Trice.”
She focused on his face. “You think they were after me?”
“Think back. You were the first to leave the drawing room. If it hadn’t been for me arguing, detaining you in the hall until Miss Trice had gone out, and then taking you up in my curricle, you would have been the first lone female walking down the village street. And there wouldn’t, in normal circumstances, have been anyone close behind to aid you.”
Realization sank in, chilling her; Caro shivered and pulled the coverlet closer. “But if they were intending to attack me—and I still can’t see why”—she looked at him—“how could they have known I was about to leave, and that I’d be walking alone?”
“You’d walked there alone—reasonable to imagine you’d walk home alone, too, as, indeed, you’d intended. And the doors to the back garden were open—easy enough for anyone to have crept close and kept watch.” He held her gaze steadily. “You made your farewells to Muriel, then headed for the front hall—the signs were clear.”
She grimaced.
He went on, “And now we have an arrow striking a tree in precisely the spot where you’d been resting a mere instant before.”
She studied his face, knew all his facts were true. “I still can’t credit it. There’s no point, no possible reason.”
“Be that as it may, I believe there’s no alternative but to conclude that someone, for what reasons we have no clue, is set on, if not killing you, then at the very least, causing you serious harm.”
She wanted to laugh, to push the idea aside, to flippantly dismiss it. But his tone, and even more what she saw in his face, made that impossible.
When she said nothing, he nodded, as if acknowledging her acceptance, and drained his glass. He looked at her. “We need to do something about it.”