Three minutes later, just as she was about to dismount to go and search, Gerrard appeared. With his easel.
“I say, I’m sorry, but I’ve changed my mind.” He grinned up at them. “There’s clouds coming up and the light’s turned grey—it’s just the look I’ve been waiting to capture. I need to get it down before it changes again.” He shifted his burden and continued to grin. “So go on without me—at least you’ve got each other for company.”
Gerrard’s disingenuity was transparently genuine; Vane swallowed a curse. He glanced swiftly at Patience; she met his gaze, questions in her eyes.
Vane understood the questions—but Gerrard was standing there, large as life, waiting to wave them away. Jaw firming, he gestured to the stable arch. “Shall we?”
After a fractional hesitation, Patience nodded and flicked her reins. With a perfunctory wave to Gerrard, she led the way out. Vane followed. As they thundered along the track past the ruins, he glanced back. So did Patience. Gerrard, slogging in their wake, waved gaily.
Vane cursed. Patience looked forward.
By unspoken accord, they put distance between themselves and the Hall, eventually drawing rein on the banks of the Nene. The river flowed steadily, a reflective grey ribbon smoothly rippling between thickly grassed banks. A well-beaten track followed the river; slowing the grey to a walk, Vane turned along it.
Patience brought her mare up beside him; Vane let his gaze roam her face, her figure.
Fingers tightening on the reins, he looked away. Over the lush riverbanks, insufficiently formal for the discussion he needed to have with her. The grassy banks would do nicely as a couch. Far too tempting. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself in such a setting, and, after the stillroom, he knew he couldn’t trust her. She, however, was an innocent; he had no excuse. Besides which, the area was too open, and Penwick often rode this way. Stopping by the river was untenable. And Patience deserved better than a few casual words and a question on horseback.
Thanks to Gerrard, it seemed he’d have to endure yet another morning without progress. Meanwhile, he, and his demons, were champing at the bit.
Beside him, Patience, too, found the idea of wasting another morning less than appealing. Unlike Vane, she saw no reason not to use the time. Having surreptitiously filled her mind anew with the image of him on his hunter, she voiced the thought uppermost in her mind. “You mentioned having a brother—does he look like you?”
Vane glanced her way, brows rising. “Harry?” He considered. “Harry has curly blond-brown hair and blue eyes—but otherwise”—a slow smile transformed Vane’s face—“yes, I suppose he does look a lot like me.” He slanted Patience a rakish glance. “But then, all six of us are said to look similar—the stamp of our common ancestors, no doubt.”
Patience ignored the subtle tenor of that comment. “All six? Which six?”
“The six eldest Cynster cousins—Devil, myself, Richard—he’s Devil’s brother—Harry, who’s my only sibling, and Gabriel and Lucifer. We were all born within five or so years of each other.”
Patience stared. The idea of six Vanes was . . . And two were called Gabriel and Lucifer? “Aren’t there any females in the family?”
“In our generation, the females came later. The eldest are the twins—Amanda and Amelia. They’re seventeen and have just weathered their first Season.”
“And you all live in London?”
“For some part of the year. My parents’ house is in Berkeley Square. My father, of course, grew up at Somersham Place, the ducal seat. To him, that’s home. While he and my mother, indeed, the whole family, are always welcome there, my parents decided to make their primary home in London.”
“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 int
o 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.
Under his hand, her breast swelled; between his fingers, her nipple was a tight bud. She gasped when he squeezed, arched when he stroked. And moaned when he kneaded.
The tiny buttons of her blouse slipped their moorings readily; the ribbons of her chemise needed no more than a tug to free them. And then her softness filled his hand, filled his senses. Skin like soft silk teased him; the heated weight of her inflamed him. And her.
When he broke their kiss to raise his head and survey the bounty he’d captured, she watched, eyes glinting goldly from under heavy lids. Watched as his head descended and he took her into his mouth. He suckled, and her eyes closed.
The next fractured gasp that filled the loft was the first note of a symphony, a symphony he orchestrated. She wanted more, and he gave it, pushing aside the soft blouse, drawing down her silk chemise, to bare her breasts fully to the soft grey light, the gentle coolness of the air, and his heated attentions.
Beneath them, she burned, as in his dreams he’d imagined her doing, until she was hot and aching—and frantic for more. Her small hands were everywhere, desperately searching, opening his shirt and greedily reaching, caressing, imploring.
That was when he finally realized that control was far beyond him. He didn’t have a shred left—she’d stolen it from him and thrown it away. She certainly had none. That was abundantly clear as, panting, her lips gloriously swollen, she drew his face to hers and kissed him voraciously.
Half-beneath him, she lifted, her body caressing his in flagrant entreaty—the oldest method of beckoning known to woman. She wanted him—and heaven help him, he wanted her. Now.
His body was rigid with need, tense and heavy with it; he needed to claim her, to slide into her body and find release. The buttons fastening her velvet skirts were at her back; his fingers were already on them. He’d waited too long to speak, to formally offer for her hand. He couldn’t focus enough to form a garbled sentence—but he had to try.
With a groan, Vane pulled back from their kiss. On his elbows above her, he waited for her to open her eyes. When her lashes flickered, he drew a huge breath—and lost it as her nipples brushed his expanding chest. He shuddered—she shivered, quivers rippling through her stomach to her thighs. His mind immediately focused—on the soft haven between her long limbs, experience supplying in gratifying detail just what her responses were achieving.
Vane shut his eyes—he tried to shut his mind and simply speak.
Instead, her voice reached him, clear, soft, sirenlike, a whisper of pure magic in the heavily laden air.
“Show me.”
Entreaty silvered the words. In the same instant, Vane felt her fingers slide, glide, then gently close about him. Her tentative touch had him locking his jaw, locking every muscle against a raging impulse to ravish her. She seemed unaware of it; her gliding caress continued, cindering the last of his will.
“Teach me,” she whispered, her breath feathering his cheek. And then she breathed against his lips, “All.”
That last small word vanquished the last of his resistance, the last remnant of caution, of cool command. Gone was any gentleman, any vestige of his facade—only the conqueror remained.
He wanted her—with every ounce of his body, every ounce of his blood. And she wanted him. Words were superfluous.
The only thing that still mattered was the manner of their joining. With ultimate victory assured, his demons—those spirits that moved him, drove him—were more than ready to lend their talents to achieving glory in the most satisfying way. Not control, but focused frenzy.
Patience felt it. And gloried in it—in the hardness of the hands that possessed her breasts, in the hardness of his lips as they returned to hers. She clung tight, hands clutching, then kneading the broad muscles of his back, a moment later sliding around to hungrily explore his chest.
She wanted to know—know it all—now. She couldn’t bear to wait, to drag out the frustration. A yearning—for that knowledge—the fundamental experience all women craved—had bloomed, spread, and now consumed her. Drove her as she arched lightly, responding to the demand in his hands, in his lips, in the steady plundering of his tongue.
He was all heat and shockingly hot hardness. She wanted to draw him into her, to take his heat in and quench it, to release the fevered tension driving him—the same tension slowly suffusing her. She wanted to give herself to him—she wanted to take him into her body.
She knew it, and was long past denial. She knew who she was—she knew what was possible. She’d satisfied herself that she understood how things would be.
So there was nothing to cloud her enjoyment—of the moment, of him. She gave herself up to it gladly—to the shiver of excitement as he drew her velvet skirts down, then rolled her to spread them, a soft blanket, beneath her. Her full petticoats went the same route, becoming a wide sheet beneath her shoulders. She knew no shame as, his lips on hers, he drew her chemise from her, tossing it aside before gathering her to him.