Caro grabbed his arm. “Don’t make a fuss.”

He looked down at her, grimaced. “I wasn’t intending to.” His protective instincts might have leapt at the sight of Ferdinand, bow in hand, but his wits were still functioning; he knew the two men running the contest—neither was so witless as to allow anyone to point an arrow toward the crowd.

And, as he’d assumed but had wanted to confirm, the butts all the contestants were aiming at had been positioned along the edge of the forest. There was absolutely no chance that even a stray arrow could have struck where he and Caro had been, all but in the opposite direction.

In addition to that, the arrow they’d left sunk in the tree trunk had been fletched with dark-striped feathers. All those for the contest carried plain white ones. He scanned the quivers standing filled and ready; not one arrow sported even a single stripe.

“Come on.” He urged Caro back into the crowd.

She drew a tight breath and stayed close. After a few steps, she said, “So you agree. It must have been an accident.”

From her tone, she was trying to convince herself.

“No.” She glanced up; he caught her eye. “It was no accident—but I agree there’s no point in making a fuss. Whoever fired that arrow wasn’t in the crowd. He was in the forest, and he be long gone by now.”

* * *

Caro’s chest felt tight, her heart thudding in her throat as they pushed on through the crowd. But more people had arrived; they had to stop and talk as before. Both she and Michael slipped on their polished masks—no one seemed to guess that behind those masks, they were shocked and upset. However, the more they talked, the more they were forced to respond in a normal fashion to those about them, to discuss the gentle vicissitudes of country life, the further the incident, and the sudden fright it had caused, receded.

Eventually, she realized it really had to have been an accident— perhaps some boys larking about in the forest edge, as boys were wont to do, with no idea they’d shot at anyone. It was inconceivable—there was simply no reason—that anyone would want to harm her.

Certainly not Ferdinand. Even Michael seemed to have accepted that.

Only when they reached the far side of the clearing and Michael continued on did she realize she hadn’t, indeed, any idea what he was thinking.

“Where are we going?” Her hand still locked in his, he was heading for the clearing where the carriages and horses had been left.

He glanced at her. “You’ll see.”

Muriel’s stableman was on watch; Michael saluted him and continued on, leading her to where a long line of horses were tethered. He marched along, then stopped. “Here we are.”

Released, Caro blinked at a faintly familiar bay rump. Then Michael backed his big gelding out of the line.

Her instincts jerked to life. “What—”

“As I was about to say before being rudely interrupted by that arrow”—he lifted his head and met her gaze as his hand locked once more about hers—“come with me.”

Her eyes widened with very real shock. “What? Now?”

“Now.” Reins wrapped about his hand, he reached for her—and hoisted her up to sit in his saddle.

“What… but—” She had to grab the pommel, desperately fight for balance.

Before she could manage anything else, he slipped a boot into the stirrup and swung up behind her. Wrapping an arm about her waist, he lifted her, settled her against him, locked her there.

She looked up, fleetingly glimpsed the main clearing and the distant crowd as he wheeled the huge horse away. “We can’t just leave!”

Michael touched his heels to Atlas’s flanks; the big bay surged. “We have.”

He’d planned, schemed, to make this afternoon their time—the only time when his house lay truly empty, no staff about. Everyone was at the fete and would remain there for hours, happy to while away the day.

While he and Caro seized their moment.

As they emerged onto the lane just outside the village and he turned Atlas away from Bramshaw, he was aware of the thud of the horses’ big hooves—and the echo driving through his veins.

How much of the emotion that hardened his muscles, that fired his determination to cling resolutely to his plan and his goal—to grasp the hours he’d promised himself they would share—derived from the incident of the arrow he couldn!t say, couldn’t at the moment even reasonably guess. Some part of it certainly derived from a primitive conviction that he should claim her without delay, make her his and thus secure the right to protect her, yet while the incident might have acted as a spur, deepening his need to bring their wooing to a swift and satisfactory conclusion, the arrow hadn’t given rise to that need.

She had.

She twisted before him, making him wince; she tried to glance back at his face, then back toward the fete. “What if someone misses me? Edward might—”

“He knows you’re with me.”

Leaning forward, she focused on his face. “Geoffrey?”

“As usual hasn’t a clue, but he saw us.” Looking ahead, he negotiated the turn into the lane that led to the Manor. He glanced at her as Atlas lengthened his stride. Raised his brows. “If he does wonder, he’ll imagine you’re with me.”

Which she was.

Caro faced forward. Her heart was thudding again, but with an even more unsettling cadence. He was carrying her off like some knight in a minstrel’s tale, tossing the maiden he desired over his saddle and making off for his isolated keep.

There to have his way with her.

It was a distracting thought.

She blinked back to the present—to the reality before her—when they clattered into the Manor’s stableyard. Michael reined in the big horse, dismounted, then lifted her down. Quickly, he unsaddled the great beast…

Two hours. That’s what he’d said.

She tried to imagine it. Failed completely.

“Come on.” Seizing her hand, he towed her out of the yard and on through the orchard.

She really should protest—shouldn’t she? She cleared her throat.

Over his shoulder, he flicked her a glance. “Save your breath.”

She frowned at the back of his head. “Why?”

He kept towing her along. “Because you’re shortly going to need every last bit of it.”

She frowned harder, tried to peer around and see his face. His jaw was set; the planes she could see resembled chiseled granite. She pulled back, dug in her heels. “Why? And anyway, you can’t simply drag me off like this, like some”—with her free hand, she gestured wildly— “prehistoric caveman.”

He halted, turned, met her gaze, then yanked, sending her tumbling into his chest—into his arms.

They locked around her; looking down, he met her wide eyes. “I can. I have.”

He kissed her; what he’d left unsaid echoed through her brain. And now I’m going to ravish you.

The kiss stated that clearly; it was a storming that left her senses reeling and her wits disengaged.

That cindered every possible protest she might have made.

Her lips parted beneath his, gave before the devastating onslaught. He took her mouth, filled it and her with a heat that was already molten; hot as lava, he sent it flowing down her veins. His hands firmed on her back, holding her so she was acutely aware of his strength, and her relative weakness, then he molded her to him, making no secret of his desire, or his intent.

She clung to him, kissed him back, suddenly wanting as much as he, aware to her curling toes that this—this—was what she needed. This was the right answer—the answer she’d always longed for—to her question. He wanted her, desired her beyond doubt. If only…

As if he sensed her need, her real, impossible-to-state wish, he broke from the kiss, bent, and swept her into his arms.

He strode the last steps to the back door, juggled her and opened it, then strode through. His heels rang on the tiles as he made for the front hall, then he swung around and climbed the main stairs two at a time.

Clinging to his shoulders, she waited to be set down, but he didn’t so much as pause. Glancing at his face, she found it set, his expression resolute and uncompromising. He paused before the door at the end of the corridor; with a quick twist of his wrist, he sent it swinging, and carried her through.

He heeled the door closed; the sharp snap as it shut echoed through the room.

It was a large, airy chamber; that was all she managed to gather as he swiftly carried her across it. To the large bed.

Again, she waited to be set down—again, he surprised her. Effortlessly, he raised her, and tossed her onto the coverlet.

She gasped—gasped again as he joined her, as his weight landing beside her made her bounce—and roll toward him. He helped her along, one large hand wrapping about her hip and pulling her flush against him. With his other hand he framed her face, held her still as his head came down and he covered her lips with his.

Fire. It poured from him into her, and ignited her starving senses. His lips moved on hers; he pressed her into the bed, and his tongue filled her mouth. No languor this time, just a burning, driving need that had her reaching for him, pulling him down to her, sinking her fingers into his shoulders, then spreading them, grasping his clothes, wanting—needing—to feel his body under her hungry hands.

He knew, understood. He drew back enough to shrug off his jacket; still trapped in the kiss, eyes closed, she searched and found the buttons of his waistcoat, frantically undid them. Then she pushed the halves wide and slid her hands over the fine linen of his shirt—over the hard ridged muscles beneath, up over the heavy planes of his chest.