“I don’t know.” Tossing his breeches over her dressing stool, Charles crawled, naked, onto the bed. His gaze had locked on her; he smiled, and reached for her, lifting her to him as he knelt in the center of the bed. “I don’t understand Nicholas.” He bent his head, kissed her lightly, gently tugged at her lower lip. “But I do understand you.”

He settled her straddling his thighs, slid his hands under her gown, and slowly raised it.

What followed proved his point. It was all she’d hoped for, all she’d ever dreamed of, and more. He seemed to know just what she’d like, just what her senses and her prediliction for challenge craved; more, he seemed devoted not just to giving but lavishing such delights on her, until she reeled with giddy pleasure. Until he drew her to him and possessed her, until she gave herself to him and gloried in the giving.

Yet at the height of the giddy whirl there came a point when they stood at the eye of desire’s storm, when in that instant’s fraught hiatus their eyes met, and something else touched her. A oneness, a sense of communion, of a sharing that went so much deeper than the reality of their skins, their nerves, their bodies. That through that shared glance struck to her core, entwined, and sank deep.

It was a moment of power so great she couldn’t breathe; nor could he. Then his lids fell, and his lips found hers; she clung to the kiss, felt desire rise, and let it whirl her away.

She told herself it was just physical, just some linkage she hadn’t noticed before. She was indulging, just as he was; there was nothing more.

Yet she remained conscious of that power, aware that it didn’t leave them, but flowered, burgeoned; its roots ran deep. It remained with them, within them, yet in the light of day, while she could still detect its shadow, it seemed perfectly normal, as if it were something that had always been there and she’d simply failed to notice.

The following morning began as the one before, with Charles leaving her room as she rang for Ellie-as if he were her husband. She noted the fact, attributed it to his arrogance, his male confidence where she was concerned. She took longer than usual to dress for the morning, but then had to return and change into her riding habit as soon as she’d finished with Figgs. If the morning had been a repeat of the one before, the day looked set to follow suit.

So it proved. They rode to the Abbey and received another communication from Dalziel. In it he confirmed that Mr. Arthur Swaley was known to have considerable business interests in tin mines; rumor had it he was down that way looking to further said interests. Mr. Julian Fothergill was going to be difficult to check up on, there being dozens of branches in that family’s tree, but at first glance there was nothing to set him apart. More on him in due course. Carmichael, too, was not a straightforward case; there were hints of debts in the past, but they’d yet to find anyone who knew enough to tell them anything useful. They would pursue Carmichael further. Mr. Yarrow did indeed hail from Derbyshire; there was no one in town who knew much about him. Dalziel had sent a man north to learn more.

Which left Gerond, who, on the face of it, was their most likely suspect. He had military training and was known to be strongly patriotic, however, all links they’d thus far unearthed led to the royalist camp rather than the revolutionary council or any of those bodies that had succeeded it. More information would be forthcoming as and when it was received.

Charles studied the letter for some minutes before folding it and placing it in a drawer.

Penny had been watching him. “What is it?”

He looked at her, then grimaced. “Dalziel’s hunting.”

“Hunting?”

“His hackles have risen, so to speak. He’s mobilizing people, calling in favors. He wouldn’t unless he was convinced the situation called for it.”

Tilting her head, she studied him. “You don’t think it does?”

His gaze had strayed from her; he brought it back and met her eyes. “No. I agree with him. I just wish I didn’t.”

Well-honed instincts, Charles had often thought, were a blessing; they were also a curse. When alert, as they now were, they rode him, nearly to distraction, more specifically to the point where he was once again toying with plans to get Penny out of the area, preferably to London.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of a single maneuver that would work. Or rather, kidnapping, transporting, and holding her in his house in London by main force might work, but it would irretrievably scupper his plans for the future. He knew her too well to imagine otherwise.

Sometimes, one had to take risks.

So…rising, he walked to her, took her hand, drew her to her feet. He called Cassius and Brutus, and they went out to walk the ramparts and enjoy the present, until the next twist in the tale.

Instinct told him that twist was coming, but when and how…

As they strolled, they talked, circling the possibility of somehow taking charge of the game-of setting some scheme in train that would allow them to make the running, rather than being, as they had been to date, forever in the position of reacting to the murderer’s moves. Nothing useful suggested itself. They still knew too little of what was afoot.

The sun slid behind clouds and they went in to tea. Afterward, they headed for the stables.

This time, with neither a shared word or glance, the instant they passed out of the park, they turned their horses’ heads to the northwest. They cantered to the old stone bridge spanning the river not far from the castle ruins. Crossing it, they headed up the long finger of escarpment leading southeast; once atop it, they flew.

The route by the castle bridge was the longest straight ride between the Abbey and Wallingham Hall, but was more difficult, more demanding than the south and east route they normally took; it demanded complete concentration, absolute absorption in the moment, at least at the pace they rode it.

The unrelenting thunder of their horses’ hooves rose and engulfed them, sank into them, resonated through them. The compulsive tattoo beat through their blood, surged through their veins.

Instinct, frustation and sheer exhilaration combined into an explosive mix. Rampant desire provided the spark; all it took was one shared glance as they slowed to descend to the Hall to light their fuse and propel them into a state of mindless need.

Charles changed course, knew she would follow. Instead of heading down to the flat and around to the stables, they angled down to the bank on which the folly stood.

They pulled up in a welter by the folly. Their feet hit the ground, he seized both sets of reins, tied them to the balustrade, then grabbed her hand, dragged her up the folly steps and through the door into the inner room.

If she hadn’t been equally as urgent as he, Penny would have protested, but his strides were longer, being dragged was faster, and…she couldn’t wait.

She couldn’t breathe as he strode past the chaise, then whirled her, twirled her so her back was to the rear wall of the folly, then he lifted his hands, clamped them about her face, and kissed her.

To within an inch of her life.

Her back hit the rear wall; she felt grateful for the support. She slid her arms up, twining them about his neck, stretching against him, frantically pressing to him as he moved deliberately into her; she returned every pressure, suggestively undulating against him in blatant invitation.

His hands left her face and raced, flagrantly possessive, over her velvet-clad body, over her breasts, her waist, her hips. He gripped her bottom, kneaded briefly, then released her and dragged up the front of her habit. She couldn’t get her arms down to help; instead, she encouraged him in every other way, taunting him through their kiss, nipping his lower lip, gasping, her head falling back against the wall as he lifted her, his large hands now gripping bare skin as he braced her against the wall-and pressed in.

Suddenly, she was teetering on a sensual brink. Then he thrust, hard, deep, and she shattered. Convulsed around him, sobbed her pleasure.

He covered her mouth with his, and drove her further.

Into the most glorious mind-numbing pleasure she’d yet experienced. Into the hottest, tightest, most fiery furnace they’d yet to explore. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders, her legs about his hips and clung. Between them, through every deep thrust, through every hungry, greedy grasping, ran an urgency, a thread that was close to desperation, yet colored by conviction, by the absolute assurance of ultimate satiation.

A satiation that ultimately enraptured them both. Caught them, took them, and poured through them. Soothed them.

When, panting, chests heaving, they finally regained sufficient control to lift their heads and meet the other’s eyes, they searched, then their lips started to curve. By the time he’d withdrawn from her and tumbled them both onto the chaise, they were laughing like children.

For long minutes, they simply lay there, exhausted yet pleasantly, even euphorically, so. Time passed, and neither felt any compulsion to move. She lay slumped on his chest, listening to his heart slow. With the fingers of one hand, he played with her hair, with the long strands that had come loose from her chignon either during the ride or later; his other hand lay possessively beneath her skirts, curved over her naked hip.

She was aware to her bones of that intimate yet, she was sure, absentminded touch. His fingers drifted a little now and then, but she didn’t think he was thinking of anything. Any more than she was.

The moment itself was enough.

Eventually he sighed, and stirred. “I suppose we’d better go down. It must be time to dress for dinner.” With a reluctance that showed, he drew down her skirts, sat her up, then rearranged his clothes.