She tightened her grip, then with her nails lightly scored.

He couldn’t breathe. Releasing her breast, he slid both hands down, gripped her thighs, and hoisted her.

With a surprised gasp, she released her hold, but even before he pinned her to the pole, she was winding her long bare legs about his hips. Before he pressed closer, she pulled him to her.

He thrust deep inside her.

Drew back and thrust again, harder, farther.

She broke from the kiss gasping; head back, she wriggled, adjusted about him, then she tightened her legs, holding him close, urging him into a deep, steady, forceful rhythm. One that rocked them both. One designed to fuse them beyond recall.

He caught the pole above her head and pushed her higher, pushed deeper and still deeper into her.

She caught her breath on a sob, found his head with her hands, tipped his face to hers, bent her head, and kissed him.

And they were lost.

Lost to the tempest, to the roiling turbulent need that rose up and swamped them. To the fire and hunger that roared through their veins, igniting flames beneath every inch of skin, spreading and searing, consuming the last shreds of sanity, the last vestiges of reservation, the last shadows of inhibition.

Until they knew only this.

This need, this want, this desperation.

The wild, the reckless, the dangerous-the all-consuming. The elemental power that poured through them both.

That gripped them, ripped them apart, and offered their souls to some higher power as ecstasy swept through them.

As it shattered them, battered them, then flung them, boneless, into some limitless sea.

Into the balm of aftermath that sealed them, healed them.

That finally, uncounted minutes later, receded, and left them clinging to each other in the dark of the night, in the cool shadows of the summer house by the lake.

13

Hel-lo! What have we here?”

Comfortably seated in his study opposite Rus Dalling, Dillon looked up to see Barnaby framed in the doorway. Barnaby’s gaze had locked on Rus-whom he’d last seen in the moonlight behind the Jockey Club.

Rus had recognized Barnaby; cocking a brow at Dillon, he slowly rose to his feet.

Dillon did the same, waving Barnaby in. “The Honorable Barnaby Adair, allow me to present Russell Dalling. And yes,” he added, seeing the speculation in Barnaby’s eyes, “Rus is Miss Dalling’s twin.”

Rus offered his hand. “My apologies for the nature of our previous encounter. I had no idea who you were, and I had good reason not to dally to find out.”

Strolling forward, Barnaby glanced at Dillon, then gripped Rus’s hand. “I take it you’ve thrown in your lot with us-on the side of the angels, as it were.”

Rus’s brilliant smile flashed. “I was always on that side. I just didn’t know who else was, who I could trust.”

Barnaby rubbed his jaw; the bruise there had almost faded from sight. “Speaking of trust, you could earn mine by showing me some of those maneuvers you used. I’ve been in brawls aplenty, but that was something new. And effective.”

Rus exchanged a smile with Dillon, then glanced back at Barnaby. “He said you’d say that.”

“Yes, well, predictable, that’s me.” Barnaby looked at Dillon. “So you succeeded in persuading Miss Dalling to tell you all?”

“Not without considerable effort. Eventually she ran out of options and elected, at last, to tell me about Rus, and what she knew of his problems. Once you hear, you’ll understand, but it was immediately apparent Rus was seeking to expose the same swindle we’re pursuing.”

“From the other end, as it were,” Rus said.

“Excellent…” Barnaby’s voice died away. Consternation dawning, he glanced from Rus to Dillon.

“What?” Dillon asked.

Barnaby nodded at Rus. “You’ve scrubbed up well-I do hope you’re in hiding?”

Dillon frowned. “He is, but you haven’t yet heard the reason why.”

“I can see a damned good reason why,” Barnaby returned. “Just look at us. One sighting by the local mamas of the three of us together and the news will be out in a flash. Well-you saw how it was when it was just you and me. Add Rus here, and I guarantee the news will reach London within hours.”

Looking at Rus, Dillon saw Barnaby’s point. Barnaby was a golden Adonis, he himself was dark and dramatic, while Rus, a touch younger, was the epitome of devilish. He grimaced. “We’ll need to remember that.”

Rus grinned. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, can’t it?” Barnaby said. “How much time have you spent socializing in the ton, here or in London?”

Rus raised his brows. “None, really. Not socializing.”

“Well, you just wait. Take it from us-we’re old hands. It’s not safe for men like us in the ton.” Barnaby looked around for a chair. “You’re young-you’ll learn.”

“Learn what?”

They all looked around. The door was open; Pris stood on the threshold. Her gaze was on Barnaby; she inclined her head in greeting. Then her gaze traveled, slowly, from Barnaby to her brother, then finally to Dillon.

Her gaze lingered, then she blinked, and stepped into the room.

“There-see!” Barnaby turned to Rus. “Even she paused, and she’s your sister and arguably the least susceptible female in the ton. I rest my case.”

Pris frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just trying to warn your brother of a danger he doesn’t yet appreciate he’ll face.”

Before Barnaby could say more, Dillon waved Pris to the armchair he’d vacated and drew his admiral’s chair from the desk. Rus sat again; Barnaby pulled up a straight-backed chair and elegantly subsided.

“Right then.” Barnaby looked at them eagerly. “Enlighten me. Start at the beginning.”

Exchanging a glance with Pris, Dillon started at the point where she’d finally told him of Rus, described how they’d found him, then let Rus explain all he’d discovered before they’d joined forces.

While Rus talked, Dillon studied Pris. He hadn’t been surprised by her arrival; today was the second day Rus had been hiding at the manor.

Yesterday, she, Eugenia, Adelaide, and Patrick had arrived midmorning. Having made Rus’s acquaintance and heard his tale over breakfast, the General had been in excellent form, delighted to welcome the visitors to Hillgate End, to play host and sit chatting with Eugenia and Adelaide when, with Rus and Patrick, Dillon had withdrawn to discuss searching for where Harkness was concealing the substitute horses.

If the three of them had had their way, Pris would have been excluded from that discussion; they were as one in wanting to keep her apart from what they knew to be dangerous. Regardless, their wishes had been overridden by a display of feminine will they hadn’t been able to counter. Rus had tried to argue; with her, he had the freest hand. Having listened to the needle-witted exchange, Dillon felt certain that Rus was the elder twin; he was more responsible and openly concerned for Pris’s safety. The fact he understood, indeed shared, her wild and reckless streak only sharpened his concern.

But he hadn’t succeeded, so Pris now knew that, always late at night, Crom took the horses north and east, away from the Rigby place, farther from Newmarket and the Heath. Patrick would watch the Rigby farm until they learned what they needed to know; he hadn’t seen any activity last night.

Pris was watching Rus and Barnaby talk, impatient to get on, accepting that Barnaby needed to know all they’d learned, yet chafing at the time necessary to inform him. While Barnaby questioned and Rus answered, Dillon let his gaze slide from Pris’s vibrant face to her figure, today elegantly gowned in forest green twill.

He wasn’t sure which of her incarnations-the unconventional female dressed in breeches or the exquisite, faintly haughty lady-distracted him more. The former reminded him of that heated interlude in the summer house two evenings before, while the latter evoked potent memories of the night just passed-and the provocative promise arising from that.

Last night…he’d been restless beyond bearing. Driven by he knew not what-by some impossible-to-deny impulse he hadn’t want to examine closely-he’d surrendered and, close to midnight, had saddled Solomon and ridden to the Carisbrook house.

To the summer house. He hadn’t expected her to be there, had had no thought in his head other than simply to be near her. He’d imagined sitting on the sofa and looking over the lake, until his restlessness had faded.

He’d been doing just that, sitting staring over the still water, when he’d seen a wraith moving through the trees. Her, in a pale gown with a shawl about her shoulders.

They hadn’t made any arrangement; it hadn’t been an assignation. Yet she’d entered the summer house without hesitation. Showing no real surprise at finding him there, she’d walked directly to him, halted before him, and let her shawl slide from her shoulders.

She’d spent the next hours in his arms, in an interlude unlike any other he’d ever known. She’d taken his restlessness, and shaped it, transmuted it into something else, something she’d wanted, and had taken into herself.

Much later, at peace in a way he’d never before been, he’d walked her back to the house, seen her slip inside, then had returned to Solomon and ridden home.

That sense of peace still lingered, even now.

Just gazing at her somehow soothed some part of him he hadn’t before realized needed anyone’s touch.

“So!” Barnaby turned to him. “Did your clerks find anything?”

He shifted, refocused. “They’ve found something, but we don’t yet know what it means. The two horses Rus identified as look-alikes for Flyin’ Fury and Blistering Belle are owned by a Mr. Aberdeen. He’s a gentleman, owns a reasonable stable of runners, and employs his own trainer, yet it appears he’s sent-or is it lent?-those horses to Cromarty.”