Gabriel D'Arcy. Ann LethbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
With deliberate slowness, as if he sensed her impatience and intended to punish her, he pulled off his own gloves and tucked them beneath one heavily muscled thigh. When her hand disappeared inside his palm, it clearly emphasised the difference in their size and strength. Even through the kid she could feel his warmth. A small shiver slid down her back, but she kept her smile steady, coolly amused, unflustered, despite the unwanted flutter of her pulse. Carefully he undid the tiny button at the wrist, then raised her hand to press his lips to the blue-veined pulse point he had uncovered. Her insides tightened in response to the velvety sensation.
When he glanced up at her, his eyes danced with mischief.
Her heart tumbled over, her body loosened. She swallowed her urge to gasp at the odd sense of discovery. The kind of feeling a younger Nicky might have experienced. Before the world changed and she became a pawn. A puppet with gilded strings. The naive child she’d been was dead and buried beneath her childish hopes and dreams. Only the Countess lived to play this so very dangerous game. ‘You won the glove, sirrah. Nothing more.’
He fastened the button and gave her hand a gentle pat. ‘And you must keep it until I return you home. You need it for now.’
Generous to a fault. A wickedly clever move. She inclined her head as if approving of his thoughtfulness. Oh, yes, the man had charm from his beautiful burnished locks to his highly polished boots, making it hard to think of him as evil. She shored up her defences with a teasing smile. ‘Do you make a habit of collecting ladies’ gloves?’
‘Only yours.’
Gathering her reins, she tossed him an arch look. ‘A very small collection, then.’
He laughed out loud. Again, that deep joyful sound. It stirred something deep in her heart. Recollections of happier times. She squashed the surge of sentimentality. Men never did anything without a purpose and they were at their kindest when their intentions were at their worst. Her own husband was a prime example. She’d thought him their saviour, her and Minette. Instead he’d been her ruination.
She fell in beside him and the horses walked side by side down the slope towards the Serpentine. ‘Do you ride here often?’ she asked, seeking neutral ground.
‘Rarely. Even at this time of year there are too many people.’ He gave her the same charming smile that seemed so friendly and open, yet did not allow her to assume intimacy.
‘You prefer the countryside, then, to town?’ she asked.
‘Each has their place. What about you? Town or country?’
Country. ‘Town.’ The Countess must always prefer the town.
They brought the horses to a halt where a copse ran down to the water and a huge gnarled willow trailed the tips of leafy branches in the water. The horses drank their fill.
They turned to head back at the same moment. She looked over to make a comment about like minds when several rooks took flight. His horse reared. A crack rent the air. A sharp sound, like the snap of a branch. He cursed, coming around behind her on the left and grabbing Peridot’s headstall. And they were off, racing away.
Normally, had any man touched her mount, she would have taken her crop to his hand. But that cracking sound, so innocent at first, had registered. A shot. Someone was shooting nearby. He galloped clear of the trees and bushes and brought the horses to a stop. His eyes when they met hers were blazing. ‘Who did you tell about our assignation?’
Paul. ‘No one.’
The hesitation was slight. Infinitesimal. But the slightest widening of his eyes said he’d heard it. Blast. The shock had made her careless.
‘Who?’ he said in a tone of low menace.
‘My groom, naturally,’ she said calmly. ‘If one can call a groom someone.’
He breathed deep through his nose and looked back over his shoulder at the copse from whence the shot had come. She followed his gaze. There was nothing to be seen except the black birds circling and cawing their protest. She inhaled, but the wind was in the wrong direction to smell any trace of gunpowder and the undergrowth too thick to reveal the smoke. ‘Someone hunting, do you think?’ she asked, wrinkling her nose.
‘Hardly. Not in Hyde Park.’ He spoke tersely, still looking back at the copse as if he could see into the shadows. He returned his gaze to her face. ‘Or...perhaps that was what it was.’ His face calmed. His voice evened out. But fires of anger still burned deep in his gaze. Almost instantly, the heat died away as if it had never been. Perhaps it was all in her imagination.
He released her horse. ‘Time to return to the carriage.’ His hand went to his upper arm. He winced and when he brought it away his glove bore the dark gleam of moisture.
‘You are hit.’
He looked at his hand. ‘A scratch.’
That certainly accounted for their wild gallop. ‘We must seek a doctor.’
‘No need.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and bound it around his arm, while he held his horse in perfect control with his knees. He went to use his teeth to make the knot.
‘Let me,’ she said. She pulled the handkerchief tight and knotted it off. ‘You need to have it looked at.’
‘The innkeeper will see to it. He’s an old friend of mine. I’ve had worse wounds falling out of his front door.’
She frowned at him.
‘I’m not going to let some damned idiot poacher ruin my plans, Countess.’
She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘You think it was a poacher?’
He shrugged, but his eyes were intent on her face. ‘What else could it be?’
Surely he did not suspect her of having a hand in this shooting? ‘If you think so, then who am I to argue? I know little of English ways. But I must say that, in Paris, people do not go shooting...’
‘Rabbits,’ he said helpfully.
‘Tiens. Rabbits, in what I understand is a Royal park.’
They rode at a steady canter, past the spot where he’d teased her with her glove to the gate where they’d left the carriage. All the time they rode, his gaze scanned for hidden dangers. As did hers. Who could have fired a shot? And why?
Paul? Surely he was far too subtle for such an overt act in so public a place. And besides, why would he? She did not yet have the information he sought. Did Mooreshead have other enemies? Someone as mundane as an angry husband, perhaps. Or a jealous lover?
When they arrived at the carriage, her groom was walking the horses as instructed. All seemed as it should. It must have been an accident. A poacher. Or someone undertaking a bit of early-morning target practice. Nothing to do with them at all. Yet she could not stop dread from trickling icy fingers along her veins.
She had learned to never ignore those instincts. If she had listened to them years before, she would never have married Vilandry.
Mooreshead climbed down from his horse and helped her dismount.
Reggie came and took Peridot’s halter.
‘Take the countess’s horse back to its stables,’ Mooreshead ordered. ‘I will escort your mistress home later.’ He led his horse to the back of the curricle.
Reggie looked at her. She nodded her acquiescence. ‘Take it easy, Reggie. She’s had a good run.’
Peridot rolled her eyes, showing the whites.
‘She seems a little nervous, my lady,’ the groom said, his stolid square face showing puzzlement. He frowned at Gabe’s gelding, whose legs were trembling, and then at the makeshift bandage around Mooreshead’s arm. ‘What’s amiss?’
‘A shot,’ she said calmly, smoothing her glove. ‘Some idiot shooting in a thicket.’