She glanced at him, smiled, then looked ahead. “Few people have. It’s a family secret.”
After twenty minutes of strolling, they crested a small rise; beyond, a grassy meadow rolled down to the banks of the stream, here swiftly rushing. The swoosh of the water’s gushing progress reached them; fine spray rose and swirled between the banks.
Caro halted; smiling, she waved ahead. “That’s where we’re going.” She glanced at him. “Where I’m taking you.”
On either side of the meadow, the woods marched down to the stream’s edge, framing a tiny cottage that stood on an island set in the middle of the widening stream. A narrow plank bridge arched over the rushing waters; the cottage was old, built of stone, but was clearly in excellent condition.
“Come on.” She tugged, and he obliging walked on at her side; his gaze remained riveted on the cottage.
“Whose is it?”
“It used to be my mother’s.” She caught his gaze as he glanced at her. “She was a painter, remember. She loved the light out here, and the sound of the stream rushing into the weir.”
“Weir?”
She pointed to the right; as they descended through the meadow, a huge body of water came into sight.
He got his bearings. “Geoffrey’s weir.”
Caro nodded.
He’d known of the weir’s existence, but had never had reason to come this way. The stream bubbled and boiled as it swept into the weir; even though it was summer and the flow far less than in winter, the island in the middle of the streambed forced the incoming water to split and rush past on either side.
Halting a yard from the bridge, he looked around. The stream banks were high, the water level at present much lower than that possible, yet even if the stream did overflow, as it would during a significant thaw, the island was higher than where they stood; much of the meadow flat would flood before the cottage’s foundations got wet.
The bridge was as narrow as it had appeared from a distance, just wide enough for one person. It arched over its span to the island; a single handrail was fixed along one side.
But it was the cottage itself that commanded his attention; it looked to be one large room with numerous windows. The door, shutters, and window frames were brightly painted; flowers nodded and bobbed about a small paved area before the front door.
The cottage was not only in excellent repair, it was in use—not deserted.
“It was originally built as a folly,” Caro said. Slipping her fingers from his, she stepped onto the bridge. “Rather more substantial than most, as it’s such a long way from the house and so isolated. Mama loved it here—well”—starting across the bridge, she waved at the weir—“you can imagine the play of light off and over the weir at sunrise, at sunset, during storms.”
“She came here at sunrise?” Michael followed her onto the bridge, wary at first, but it proved to be solid.
Caro glanced back. “Oh, yes.” She looked ahead. “This was her hideaway—her own special place.” Stepping onto the island, she spread her arms, lifted her head, whirled and faced him. “And now it’s mine.”
He grinned, caught her to him as he stepped off the bridge and backed her up the short path. “You weed the beds?”
She grinned back. “Not me. Mrs. Judson. She was Mama’s maid when Mama first came here—she used to keep the cottage and the garden perfect for Mama to use.” She glanced around, then turned out of his arms and reached for the doorknob. “After Mama died, the others were all grown and gone except for Geoffrey. He had no use for it, so I claimed it for my own.”
Setting the door wide, Caro walked through, then paused and looked back. Michael filled the doorway, his large, strong frame haloed by the sun. With his clothes thrown into shadow, he appeared timeless, paganly, elementally male. A shiver of awareness, of delicious anticipation, slithered down her nerves. Lifting her chin, she locked her eyes on his. “Other than Judson, who spends Friday afternoons here, no one comes here but me.”
It wasn’t Friday.
His lips curved; for one long moment, he studied her, then, his gaze unwavering, he stepped over the threshold, reached behind him, and closed the door.
14
She was waiting for him when he halted before her, waiting, when his hands rose and slid about her waist, to twine her arms about his neck, to step close, stretch up against him, and press her lips to his.
To tempt, taunt, and entice.
To move sinuously against him, soft curves and supple limbs caressing his muscled body in a siren’s call as old as time.
Her invitation was explicit; it was clear in her mind—she wanted it clear in his.
His arms tightened about her, his tongue surged over hers as he accepted, as he relentlessly drew her to him, clamped his hands about her hips, and moved suggestively against her.