To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,72

English countryside. Never had the fields been so green, the songs of the birds so sweet. Life seemed infinitely precious, now that her days were numbered.

They stopped to change horses at a posting inn near St. Neots, but apart from providing her with a cup of coffee and a meat pie to eat in the carriage, Harland largely ignored her. She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t want her to show her face. If someone recognized him in the company of a lone female, they would either assume she was his mistress or—worse—that the two of them were eloping. They were, after all, heading north toward Gretna Green.

The idea should have been amusing, but instead, it added to the ache in Emmy’s heart. She and Harland might have shared a night of passion, but they were far from being lovestruck swains. They weren’t even friends. They were adversaries, under a temporary truce.

She hadn’t really had time to think, back at the Tricorn, but now, trapped inside a carriage whose masculine scents of leather and horses reminded her so forcefully of Harland, she had plenty of opportunity. Her troubled thoughts were as inescapable as the man himself. Emmy shifted restlessly in her seat.

She’d given herself to him. His naked body had been next to hers. Inside hers.

The entire episode seemed almost too incredible to believe—as if she’d made love with some mystical creature who existed only in darkness and disappeared at daybreak—except her body remembered with excruciating clarity, even without visual corroboration. Her skin felt newly sensitized, invigorated, as if Harland’s touch had introduced her to a new world of sensation. Her heart pounded whenever she thought about him, and not in fear or trepidation, but with a wicked kind of anticipation.

Had last night meant anything to him, or had she been just another willing body in his bed? Emmy wrinkled her nose. He’d seemed involved. His kisses had been ardent, almost desperate. His body had been hard and ready for hers. He’d murmured her name in the darkness too. A little of her tension eased. No, he hadn’t been thinking of anybody else.

Last night had changed something inside her, changed something between them, irrevocably. She felt as if she’d been pulled apart and put back together in an entirely new configuration.

Still, she was fiercely glad it had been him. No one else would have done. He was more than a match for her. His steadiness, his resourcefulness, even his bloody-minded determination to catch her, spoke of a strength of character she couldn’t help but admire. Those traits that had led to her capture were the same ones she found irresistibly attractive. He’d outplayed her in this, the ultimate game of chase, and she couldn’t begrudge him that. She had nothing but respect for him as an adversary.

Emmy smiled sadly. Alex Harland was just as much a thief as she was. He’d stolen her heart four years ago and never given it back.

His horse drew level with the carriage, and she sneaked a glance at his profile. He looked windswept and sinfully handsome, entirely at ease in the saddle. Although he’d been in the Rifles, not a cavalry regiment, he clearly felt comfortable on horseback. The muscles of his thighs rippled beneath his soft breeches, and the way his hips rocked with the horse’s gait was positively indecent.

Emmy shoved the travel rug from her lap in irritation. It wasn’t fair. He could discompose her without even trying.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, warming her even further. The brass buttons on his greatcoat flashed, and a wicked idea blossomed in her brain.

He’d called her aggravating, had he not? She’d show him.

She reached into her reticule, pulled out the small mirror, and tilted it so the sun’s rays caught the surface. She trained the beam at the side of Harland’s face. The patch of concentrated light danced over his cheek and jaw, then flashed into his eyes.

He shook his head, momentarily blinded, and turned to locate the source. Emmy hastily hid the mirror in her lap. He flashed her a dangerous, suspicious look, like Lucifer brooding on some secret fantasy of rebellion. Her heart pounded, but she sent him a cheerful smile and a wave. Annoying him was still a pleasure.

They passed Alconbury, then Stilton—a village famous for its cheese—and finally Wansford, the last stop before Stamford, and their destination. Emmy recalled an amusing tale her father had once told her about how the village had come by its full name: Wansford-in-England.