"So that's home to you."

Looking over the green meadows, Vane shook his head. "Not any more. I moved into lodgings years ago, and recently bought a town house. When Harry and I came of age, my father settled sizable sums on both of us and advised us to invest in property." His smile deepened. "Cynsters always accumulate land. Land, after all, is power. Devil has the Place and all the ducal estates, which underpin the wealth of the family. While he looks after those, we're each expanding our own assests."

"You mentioned that your brother owns a stud."

"Close by Newmarket. That's Harry's enterprise of choice-he's a master when it comes to horses."

"And you?" Patience tilted her head, her eyes on his face. "What's your enterprise of choice?"

Vane grinned. "Hops."

Patience blinked. "Hops?"

"A vital ingredient used to flavor and clarify beers. I own Pembury Manor, an estate near Tunbridge in Kent."

"And you grow hops?"

Vane's smile teased. "As well as apples, pears, cherries, and cob nuts."

Drawing back in her saddle, Patience stared at him. "You're a farmer!"

One brown brow rose. "Among other things."

Recognizing the glint in his eyes, she swallowed a humph. "Describe this place-Pembury Manor."

Vane did, quite content to follow that tack. After a brief outline, bringing to life the orchards and fields spread over the Kentish Weald, he turned to the house itself-the house he would take her to. "Two stories in grey stone, with six bedrooms, five reception rooms, and the usual amenities. I haven't spent much time there-it needs redecorating."

He made the comment offhandedly, and was pleased to see a distant, considering expression on her face.

"Hmm" was all Patience said. "How far-"

She broke off and looked up; a second raindrop splattered her nose. As one, she and Vane looked up and behind them. With one voice, they cursed. Thunderheads had blown up, dark grey and menacing, swelling in the sky behind them. A leaden curtain of drenching rain steadily advanced, mere minutes away.

Looking about, they searched for shelter. It was Vane who spotted the slate roof of the old barn.

"There." He pointed. "Along the riverbank." He glanced behind again. "We might just make it."

Patience had already sprung her mare. Vane followed, holding the grey back, clear of the mare's heels. They thundered along the track. In the skies above, more thunder rumbled. The leading edge of the rain curtain reached them, flinging heavy drops on their backs. Doors closed, the barn nestled in a shallow depression set back from the track. Patience wrestled the now skittish mare to a halt before the doors. Vane hauled the grey to a slithering stop and flung himself from the saddle. Reins in one hand, he dragged open the barn door. Patience trotted the mare in and Vane followed, leading the grey.

Once in, he dropped the reins and strode back to the door. As he pulled it shut, thunder cracked, and the heavens opened. Rain came down in sheets. Standing catching his breath, Vane looked up at the rafters. Still perched on her mare, Patience did the same. The sound of the rain on the old roof was a steady, relentless roar.

Shaking his shoulders, Vane peered into the dimness. "This looks to be in use. The roof seems sound." His eyes growing accustomed to the gloom, he strolled forward. "There are stalls along that wall." He lifted Patience down. "We'd better settle the horses."

Eyes wide in the gloom, Patience nodded. They led the horses to the stalls; while Vane unsaddled them, Patience investigated further. She discovered a ladder leading up to the loft. She glanced back at Vane; he was still busy with the horses. Gathering her skirts, she climbed up, carefully checking each rung. But the ladder was sound. All in all, the barn was in good repair.

From the top of the ladder, Patience surveyed the loft. A wide chamber built over most of the barn, it housed a quantity of hay, some baled, some loose. The floor was sound timber. Stepping up, she dropped her skirts, brushed them down, then crossed to where the hay doors were fastened against the weather.

Lifting the latch, she peeked out. The hay doors faced south, away from the squall. Satisfied no rain would drive in, she opened the doors, admitting soft grey light into the loft. Despite the rain, perhaps because of the heavy clouds, the air was warm. The view revealed, of the river, whipped by wind, pocked with rain, and the gently sloping meadows, all seen through a grey screen, was soothing.

Glancing around, Patience lifted a brow. Her next lesson from Vane was long overdue; while the music room would have been preferable, the loft would do. With hay aplenty, there was no reason they couldn't be comfortable.

In the barn below, Vane took as long as he could tending the horses, but the rain showed no sign of abating. Not that he'd expected it to; having seen the extent of the clouds, he knew they'd be trapped for hours. When there was nothing left to do, he wiped his hands in clean straw and dusted them. Then, closing a mental fist firmly about his own reins, he set off after Patience. He'd caught a glimpse of her disappearing into the loft. His head cleared the loft floor; he looked about-and inwardly cursed.

He knew trouble when he saw it.

She turned her head and smiled, eliminating any possiblity of craven retreat. Washed by the soft light falling through the open hay doors, she sat in the midst of a huge pile of hay, her expression welcoming, her body radiating a sensual tug to which he was already too susceptible.

Drawing in a deep breath, Vane climbed the last rungs and stepped onto the loft floor. With every evidence of his customary cool command, he strolled toward Patience.

She shattered his calm-by smiling more deeply and holding out her hand. Instinctively, he took it, fingers closing firmly. Then he caught himself.

His expression rigidly impassive, he looked down at her face, into her eyes, all hazel-gold, warm and alluring, and struggled to find some way to tell her this was madness. That, after all that had passed between them, to sit together in the hay and look out at the rain was too dangerous. That he could no longer guarantee his behavior, his usual coolness under fire, his customary command. No words sprang to mind-he was not capable of making such an admission of weakness. Even though it was true.

Patience gave him no time to wrestle with his conscience-she tugged. With no excuse forthcoming, Vane inwardly sighed-sealed an iron fist about his demons' reins-and sank down to the straw beside her.

He had a trick or two up his sleeve. Before she could turn to him, he wrapped his arms about her and drew her back, settling the curve of her back against his side, so they could study the scenery together.

Theoretically a wise move. Patience relaxed against him, warm and trusting-only to impinge on his senses in a thousand different ways. Her very softness tensed his muscles; her curves, fitting against him, within his arms, invoked his demons. He drew a steadying breath-and her perfume washed through him, subtly evoking, enticing.

Her hands slid over his arms, wrapped about her waist, and came to rest on his hands, her warm palms curved over the backs of his. Outside, the rain continued; inside, heat rose. Jaw clenched, Vane fought to endure.

He might have succeeded if she hadn't, without warning, turned to him. Her head turned first-and her lips were mere inches from his. Her body followed, sliding sensuously around in his arms; he tightened his grip, sank his fingers into soft flesh, but it was already too late.

Her gaze had fixed on his lips.

Desperation could reduce even the strongest to pleading. Even him. "Patience-"

She cut him off, sealing his lips with hers.

Vane fought to hold her back, but there was no strength in his arms-not for that maneuver. Instead, his muscles strained to crush her to him. He managed to stop himself from doing that, only to feel the pair of them sinking back into the hay, the pile originally behind him increasingly beneath him as it compressed under their combined weights. Within seconds, they were close to horizontal, with her stretched against him, half-atop him. Vane inwardly groaned.

His lips had parted, and she was kissing him-and he was kissing her. Jettisoning his crusade against what had proved the inevitable, Vane focused on the kiss. Gradually, he wrested back control, distantly aware that she relinquished the reins too readily. But the small victory encouraged him; he reminded himself that he was stronger than she, infinitely more experienced than she-and that he'd successfully managed women far more knowledgeable than she in this arena for years.

He was in control.

The litany sang in his head as he rolled and pressed her into the hay. She accepted the change readily, clinging to their kiss. Vane deepened it, plundering her mouth, hoping thus to assuage the clamoring need swelling within him. He framed her face and drank deep; she met him, sliding her hands under his loose jacket, spreading them, sending them questing over his chest, around his sides and back.

His shirt was fine lawn. Through it, her hands burned.

The final battle was so short, Vane had lost it before he'd realized-and after that, he wasn't capable of realizing anything beyond the woman beneath him and the raging tide of his need.

Her hands, her lips, her body, arching lightly beneath him, urged him on. When he opened her velvet riding jacket and closed one hand about her blouse-covered breast, she only sighed and kissed him more urgently.