“And even you and Hardacre thought the first incident with the pellets was just boys being stupid.” Caro spread her hands. “So we have two likely accidents, and one attack. And while I grant the attack on Miss Trice wasn’t an accident, there’s no evidence it was me those men were after. Indeed, there’s no reason to think that anyone wishes me, specifically me, ill.”

She concluded on a definite note. She glanced at them, first one, then the other. They met her gaze and said nothing.

Caro frowned. She opened her lips—then had to swallow her “Well, what do you think?” as Elizabeth entered.

Michael rose; he and Elizabeth shook hands.

Bright-eyed, Elizabeth looked around. “Have you been discussing the fete—or business?”

“Both,” Caro replied, and rose, too. She didn’t want Michael and Edward worrying Elizabeth with speculations. “But we’ve exhausted both topics, and now Edward is free. I’m going for a stroll in the gardens.”

Michael reached across and appropriated her hand. “An excellent idea. After all those hours amid the crowds, you’re no doubt longing for silence and solitude.” He drew her hand through his arm. “Come, I’ll walk with you.”

He turned to the door. She narrowed her eyes at him; he’d taken the words out of her mouth and turned them to his own advantage.

“Very well,” she assented as he guided her through the doorway. “But”—she lowered her voice—“I’m not going anywhere near the summerhouse.”

The way he smiled in response, his expression shadowed in the dimmer corrider, did nothing for her equanimity.

But as they strolled across the lawns, then along the walks lushly bordered by beds burgeoning with the summer’s verdant growth, the peace of their surroundings closed in, cocooning them from the world, and her serenity returned, bringing with it a degree of ease, of acceptance.

She glanced at him; he was looking about them. “I really can’t believe anyone is seeking to harm me.”

He looked down at her. “I know.” He studied her eyes, then said, “However, Edward and I do.”

She grimaced and looked ahead.

After a moment, he lowered his arm, took her hand in his, and said, his voice even, but low, “We both care for you, Caro—consider… if we were ultimately proved right, but hadn’t taken any precautions, hadn’t done what we could have and you were hurt, or killed…”

She frowned; they walked on.

“We’ll keep watch over you—you won’t even be aware of it.”

Much he knew; she’d know every instant, would feel his gaze on her… would that be bad?

She inwardly frowned, thankful when he said no more but gave her time to wrestle with what for her was a novel situation. No one before had “watched over her” for the reasons he’d given. Camden had been protective, but only because she’d been one of his most treasured possessions, and she used the word “possessions” advisedly, that was what she’d been to him.

Edward was attached to her; they shared a common bond through their years with Camden and their respect for him and his memory. Edward and she were friends as well as associates; she wasn’t surprised he was concerned for her safety.

But Michael… his quiet tone veiled yet, she suspected quite deliberately, didn’t conceal a wealth of deeper emotions, and a need—a reason—to watch over her, to guard and protect her, which stemmed from a different source. It was a form of possessiveness, true, but one that arose not from an appreciation for and a need of her skills, her talents, but from an appreciation for and need of her, herself, the woman she was.

“Yes. All right.” Her agreement was on her lips before she’d thought further, already distracted by a wish—a strong urge and desire—to learn more about his need of her, to understand the true nature of what drove him to protect her. Halting, she faced him. Looked into his eyes. “Will you spend the day with me?”

He blinked, briefly searched her eyes as if to confirm the invitation, then reached for her. “Gladly.” He bent his head. “There isn’t anywhere I’d rather be.”

They were in a secluded walk, fully screened by thick bushes. She stepped into his arms, twined hers about his neck, and met his lips. Parting hers, she ardently welcomed him in, artfully teased.

Tempted, flagrantly taunted.

She knew what she wanted; so did he.

Within minutes, the reality was apparent; desire hummed through their veins, thrummed beneath their skins. Their mouths greedily, hungrily melded, sharing heat, fire, stoking their conflagration, reveling in it.

She pressed closer, arched against him; he shuddered and drew her closer still, molded her to him.

He broke from the kiss, laid a tracery of fiery kisses from temple to ear, ducked beneath to continue the line down the arched length of her throat. “The summerhouse is too risky.” His words were a trifle rushed, fractionally breathless. Infinitely persuasive. “Come back to the Manor with me. The staff might be shocked, but they’ll be discreet. They won’t talk… not about us.”

From his point of view, the matter was irrelevant; he intended to marry her, soon. More important and urgent was their mutual need for privacy.

Caro lifted weighted lids and looked at him. Moistened her lips, cleared her throat. “There’s somewhere I know where we can go.”

He forced his mind to think, but couldn’t imagine where…

She saw; the smile that curved her lips was essentially, fundamentally feminine. “Trust me.” Her eyes lit, almost mischievous. Drawing back from his embrace, she took his hand. “Come with me.”

It took him an instant to recognize the sultry invitation, his own seductive phrase given back to him, its potency multiplied a thousand times by the look in her eyes, by the spritelike way she turned and led him further along the path.

At no point did it occur to him to refuse.

She was a wood nymph leading him, a mere mortal, astray. He told her so and she laughed, the silvery sound drifting on the breeze— reminding him anew of his pledge to draw that magical sound from her more often.

Hand in hand, they descended through the gardens, eventually leaving the tended areas through a narrow gate in a hedge. Beyond lay a medley of meadow and wood, largely undisturbed by man. The path led underneath trees, then across open clearings where grasses encroached, reducing it at times to little more than a track.

Caro’s feet seemed to follow it instinctively; she neither looked for landmarks nor searched for the path but strolled on, glancing at the birds flitting through the trees, occasionally lifting her face to the sun.

In the middle of one clearing, he halted, drew her back to him. Into his arms. The house was some distance behind them; he bent his head and kissed her, long, deep, letting his real yearning have full sway—a yearning he was learning, day by day, possessed a greater depth and breadth than he’d imagined it ever could.

Finally raising his head, he watched her face, watched her lids flutter, then rise, revealing the silvery sheen of her eyes. He smiled. “Where are you taking me?” Lifting her hand, he brushed a kiss across her fingertips. “Where is your bower of unearthly bliss?”

She laughed, a joyous sound, but shook her head at him. “You won’t know of it—it’s a special place.” They started walking again; after a moment, she murmured, her voice soft, low, as magical as her laugh, “It is a bower of sorts.” She glanced up, fleetingly met his eyes. “A place apart from the world.” Smiling, she looked ahead.

He didn’t press for more; she clearly wanted to surprise him, show him… anticipation flared, steadily built as she led him deeper into the wooded reaches of her family’s property. She had spent her childhood here; she knew its grounds as well as he knew his own. He couldn’t, however, guess where she was making for; he wasn’t lost, but… “I’ve never been this way before.”

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.