Stephanie Laurens - Rakes Vow

The route he took was expressly designed to try her temper. More specifically, to have the others try her temper; Vane wisely kept quiet and let them make the running. With her wet feet now positively frozen from standing too long on cold stone, Patience discovered her stock of fore-bearance had dipped dangerously low.

By the time they reached the stables, and she gave Pen-wick her hand in farewell, it was all she could do to fabricate a smile and a polite good-bye.

Penwick squeezed her fingers. "If the rain holds off, no doubt you'll wish to ride tomorrow. I'll call by in the morning."

As if he was in charge of her rides! Patience bit her tongue on a tart rejoinder. Withdrawing her hand, she raised her brows, then haughtily turned away, refusing to fall into the trap of giving Penwick a nod-which could be construed as acceptance. One glance at Vane's face, at the expression in his eyes, was enough to confirm he'd read the exchange clearly.

Luckily, Henry and Edmond drifted off without pushing once they entered the house. As she and Vane climbed the stairs, Patience inwardly frowned. It was almost as if both Henry and Edmond thought they had to protect her from Vane, and Penwick, too, but, once she was in the house, they considered her safe. Even from Vane.

She could imagine why they thought that-this was, after all, Vane's godmother's house. Even rakes, she understood, had lines they would not cross. But she'd already learned she couldn't predict Vane's rakishness-and she wasn't at all sure where his lines lay.

They reached the end of the gallery; the corridor to her room stretched ahead. Halting, she drew her hand from Vane's arm and turned to face him.

His expression mild, his eyes gently amused, he met her gaze. He read her eyes, then raised a brow, inviting her question.

"Why did you stay?"

He stilled; again, Patience felt the net draw tight, felt paralysis set in as his predator's senses focused on her. It was as if the world stopped spinning, as if some impenetrable shield closed about them, so that there was nothing but her and him-and whatever it was that held them.

She searched his eyes, but couldn't read his thoughts beyond the fact that he was considering her, considering what to tell her. Then he lifted one hand. Patience caught her breath as he slid one finger beneath her chin; the sensitive skin came alive to his touch. He tipped her face up so that her eyes locked on his.

He studied her, her eyes, her face, for one instant longer. "I stayed to help Minnie, to help Gerrard… and to get something I want."

He uttered the words clearly, deliberately, without any affectation. His heavy lids lifted. Patience read the truth in his eyes. The force that held them beat in on her senses. A conqueror watched her through cool grey eyes.

Giddy, she fought for enough strength to lift her chin from his finger. Breathless, she turned and walked away to her door.

Late that night, Patience paced before the fire in her bedchamber. About her, the house was silent, all the occupants retired to their rest. She couldn't rest; she hadn't even bothered to undress. There wasn't any point-she wouldn't fall asleep. She was getting very tired of missing out on her sleep, but…

She couldn't get her mind off Vane Cynster. He commanded her attention; he filled her thoughts, to the exclusion of everything else. She'd forgotten to eat her soup. Later, she'd tried to drink tea from an empty cup.

"It's all his fault," she informed Myst, sitting, sphinx-like, on the armchair. "How am I supposed to behave sensibly when he makes declarations like that?"

Declared they would be lovers-that he wanted her in that way. Patience slowed. "Lovers, he said-not protector and mistress." She frowned at Myst. "Is there any pertinent distinction?"

Myst looked steadily back.

Patience grimaced. "Probably not." She shrugged and resumed her pacing.

After all Vane had said and done, every precept she'd ever learned stated categorically that she avoid him. Cut him dead if need be. However… She halted, and stared at the flames.

The truth was, she was safe. She would be the very last lady to throw her cap over the windmill for a gentleman like Vane Cynster. He might be caring in some ways, he might be so powerfully attractive she couldn't focus on anything else while he was by, but she could never forget what he was. His appearance, his movements, his attitudes, that dangerous purr in his voice-all were constant reminders. No-she was safe. He wouldn't succeed in seducing her. Her deep-seated antipathy to elegant gentlemen would protect her from him.

Which meant she could, with impunity, satisfy her curiosity. Over those odd sensations he evoked, sometimes knowingly, at other times apparently unconsciously. She'd never felt the like before.

She needed to know what they meant. She wanted to know if there was more.

Brow furrowing, she paced on, formulating her arguments. Her experience of the physical was severely limited-she herself had ensured that was so. She'd never before felt the slightest inclination to so much as kiss any gentleman. Or to allow any gentleman to kiss her. But the one, amazingly thorough, astonishingly lengthy kiss she'd shared with Vane had demonstrated beyond doubt that he was a master in that sphere. From his reputation, she'd expected nothing less. Who better to learn from?

Why shouldn't she take advantage of the situation and learn a little more-all within the bounds of the possible, of course. She might not know where his lines lay, but she knew where hers were drawn.

She was safe, she knew what she wanted, and she knew how far she could go.

With Vane Cynster.

The prospect had consumed her thoughts for most of the afternoon and all of the evening. It had been exceedingly difficult to keep her eyes from him, from his large, lean frame, those strong, long-fingered hands, and his increasingly fascinating lips.

Patience frowned and continued to pace.

She looked up as she neared the end of her well-worn route-her curtains were still undrawn. Crossing to the window, she reached a hand to each drape to twitch them shut-in the gloom below, a light gleamed.

Patience froze and stared down. The light was quite clear, a ball glowing through the fog shrouding the ruins. It bobbed, then moved. Patience didn't wait to see more. Whirling, she hauled open her wardrobe, grabbed her cloak, and ran for the door.

Her soft-soled slippers made no sound on the runners or stair carpet. A single candle left burning in the front hall threw her shadow back up to the gallery. Patience didn't pause. She flew down the dark corridor to the side door.

It was bolted. She wrestled with the heavy bolts, dragging them back, then pulled open the door. Myst shot out. Patience stepped quickly outside, and shut the door. Then she whirled and started out-into thick fog.

Five impulsive steps from the door, she stopped. Shivering, she swung her cloak over her shoulders, quickly tying the cords at the collar. She glanced back. Only by straining her eyes could she make out the wall of the house, the blank eyes of the downstairs windows, and the darker patch that was the side door.

She looked toward the ruins. There was no sign of the light, but the Spectre, whoever he was, could not have reached the house, even using the light to guide him, not before she'd reached the side door.

In all likelihood, the Spectre was still out there.

Setting her back to the house, Patience took a few cautious steps. The fog grew denser, colder.

Tugging her cloak more tightly about her, she set her teeth and forged on. She tried to imagine she was walking in bright sunshine, tried to see in her mind's eye where she was. Then the first of the tumbled stones dotting the lawn loomed out of the fog, a reassuringly familiar sight.

Dragging in a more confident breath, she continued on, carefully picking her way between the toppled stones.

The fog was densest over the lawn; as she neared the ruins, it thinned, enough for her to make out the major structures, from which she could judge her position.

Cold, damp streamers of thick fog wound their way in and out of the shattered arches. A drifting mist obscured, then revealed, then obscured again. There was no real wind, yet a fine thread of sound seemed to whisper through the ruins, like a distant keening from ages past.

As she stepped onto the lichen-covered flags of the outer ward, Patience felt the eerieness close about her. A denser drift of fog wafted about her; one hand outstretched, she felt her way along a short wall, part of the monks' dorter. It ended abruptly; beyond was a large gap giving onto the flagged corridor leading to the remains of the refectory.

She stepped toward the gap; one slipper slid on crumbling masonry. Stifling a gasp, Patience leapt forward onto the corridor flags.

And collided with a man.

She opened her mouth to scream-a hard hand clamped over her lips. An arm like steel locked about her waist, trapping her against a long, hard frame. Patience relaxed; her panic flowed out of her. There was only one body within ten miles like the one she was pressed against.

Reaching up, she pulled Vane's hand from her lips. She drew breath to speak, opened her lips-

He kissed her.

When he eventually consented to stop, he only lifted his lips a bare fraction from hers. And breathed: "Quiet-sound travels very well in fog."

Patience gathered her wits. And breathed back: "I saw the Spectre-there was a light bobbing about."