He played; that was the only way she could describe the knowingness behind his touch. He knew how much she grew to crave the delight his caresses sent surging through her, tangling and jangling her nerves until she couldn’t focus on anything else.
Until craving transformed to yearning, then to need, and eventually to unadulterated desire.
He plucked at the tight peak of her breast, and she gasped. He closed his hand and kneaded, and it was all she could do to remain upright.
But then his caresses slowed. The pressure of his lips eased, drawing her—unwilling, yet unable to forge on without him leading the way—back to the world of moonlight and shadow in which they stood.
At last, his hand fell from her breast, and he raised his head.
To her relief, he still held her close. She’d dropped her bonnet and reticule, and her hands had been gripping his shoulders. She relaxed her fingers, raised both hands, and laying her palms on either side of his face, searched his shadowed eyes. “Why have we stopped?”
The question amused him; the line of his lips curved. But then he swallowed and said, his voice low and gravelly, “Because we need to talk about…this.” His gaze traced her features, then his jaw firmed. “However…”
“There’s so much else going on.” She finished the sentence for him, certain that was what was in his mind.
He nodded. “And this, between us, is not something we should rush.” He paused, then added, “I hope you agree that what comes next deserves our full attention, which is more than either of us can presently give.”
She searched his eyes, his features, felt the warm pressure of his hands at her waist, and knew that he, no more than she, had wanted to call a halt. Yet he was unquestionably correct, and the fact he’d drawn back was surely the clearest assurance she might want that he saw what was evolving between them as both serious and worthy of their unwavering focus.
He didn’t want to get it wrong.
Neither did she.
She drew in a tight breath and nodded. “You’re right. And we have time—will have unlimited time once this business with Goffard Hall and the mastermind is dealt with.”
He sighed. His expression wryly self-deprecating, he murmured, “I was fairly sure you’d agree.”
With mock haughtiness, she arched her brows at him.
Christopher smiled, bent his head, and kissed her once—gently—then raised his head, released her, and stepped back. He bent, picked up her bonnet and reticule and handed them to her, then tipped his head toward the house. “I expect I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Indeed.” She bent a smiling look on him. “You may count on that.”
After holding his gaze for a moment more, she turned and walked through the archway cut in the final hedge.
She passed out of his sight, and he listened to her footsteps crunch on the gravel, then she stepped onto stone, and he heard a faint click.
A second later, he sensed she was gone.
He stood silent and still in the lengthening shadows of the shrubbery and wondered how he truly felt about what had just passed between them.
Eventually, he realized that a smugly satisfied smile had taken up residence on his face—which, he supposed, was his answer.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, he turned and headed back to the manor.
At first light the following morning, Christopher placed a small bunch of wildflowers on the plinth below the once-impressive headstone of Jeremiah Walkhurst’s grave.
The Walkhursts had owned the manor in the distant past, before Christopher’s grandfather had bought the property from the estate of the last of the tribe.
There was barely light enough for Christopher to pick his way between the graves. He quit the churchyard and slipped into the wood that pressed close on the graveyard’s eastern boundary. Deep in the trees, he joined Toby, Granger, and two of the manor’s younger grooms, brought along in case, while maintaining the watch to see who took note of Hardcastle’s signal, they needed to send a runner with a message to the manor.
The five of them found comfortable positions on the thick blanket of leaf mold beneath the trees and settled to wait.
An hour, then two went by without anyone venturing even close to the church.
Eventually, Granger grunted softly, rose, stretched, and ambled off toward where they’d tethered the horses, well back in the woods. When he reappeared, the others discovered that Granger had had the foresight to bring a sack of bread and cheese. He passed the contents around, and having missed breakfast, they all tucked in.
Another hour dragged by, then soft footsteps reached their ears, approaching through the woods. Startled—they hadn’t expected their pigeon to come from that direction, much less on foot—they peered through the trees, wondering whether to leap up and hide, only to spot Drake making his way toward them.
Relieved, they relaxed. They’d ended sitting in a semicircle, propped against the boles of trees, each with a clear view of the graveyard, that side of the church, and part of the green with the vicarage on the opposite side. No one could approach Jeremiah Walkhurst’s grave from the right angle to see the small bouquet without being in their sight, but courtesy of the heavy shadows deep in the wood, the chance of anyone spotting them was negligible.
Drake halted between Christopher and Toby and, hands on his hips, surveyed the scene. “I take it no one’s appeared.”
“No,” Toby replied. “Speaking of which…”
When Toby made a great show of looking beyond Drake—patently searching for someone following him—Drake sent him a warning look. “Louisa’s gone to call on Ellen at Bigfield House.”
Toby looked at Christopher, then back at Drake. “Do we know why?”
“No idea,” Drake said. “And no, I didn’t ask.”
Toby’s expression suggested that might have been a mistake.
Drake crouched, then sat, joining the others in staring out at the graveyard.
Every now and then, Christopher consulted his watch and kept the others apprised of the time. Some minutes after ten-thirty, the crisp clop of hooves reached them. A rider was approaching at a slow trot from the direction of the inn.
Courtesy of the curve in the lane, they couldn’t see the rider at first, but then he neared the churchyard and rode into view.
“Quiet,” Drake murmured. “Don’t move. Let’s see what he does.” He looked at Christopher, waited until Christopher felt the weight of his gaze and glanced his way, then arched his brows.
“Nigel Fontenay,” Christopher whispered.
Drake nodded and returned his attention to the dapper young gentleman clad in flashy riding togs who was perched atop a black hunter.
Nigel slowed the horse to a walk and, apparently idly, scanned the graveyard.
His gaze snagged on the bunch of flowers on Jeremiah Walkhurst’s grave.
Nigel stared at the flowers, then grinned.
Smiling to himself, he shook his reins and sent his horse into a canter around the green.
Christopher got to his feet, and the others followed suit. Moving forward to the tree line, they watched Nigel reach the lane and turn in the direction of Goffard Hall.
Christopher looked at Drake. “Message received.”
Drake nodded. “Indeed. That also means Nigel Fontenay is no more innocent than his sister. Both are acting as agents in the scheme, even if under their cousin’s direction.”