Guilty Series (73 page)

As they rode to the museum, he studied her profile in the sunlight of the open carriage. She had just thrown down a challenge to his wits, and that made him vow that before they left that museum today, he was going to steal at least one kiss from her. With her brother hovering about, it was going to take a bit of ingenuity on his part to get her alone, but he used to be quite ingenious about that sort of thing during their courtship. He began to form some plans of his own.

As it turned out, Tremore was at the museum that day, but he was giving a tour to a contingent of Venetian antiquarians when they arrived, and would be unavailable for at least the next two hours, possibly longer.

It was John's turn to smile. “Well, now,” he murmured, glancing at his wife as they stood in the enormous foyer of the museum, “Tremore cannot join us. Isn't that a shame?”

She wasn't looking quite so pleased with herself now, he noticed. “We'll come back later,” she said.

“No, no,” he said, trying not to laugh. “We are here, after all. Besides, you have developed such a passion for antiquities, you should be able to give me quite a tour of the place.”

He was the one issuing a challenge now, and she knew it. Her chin rose a little higher. “Very well,”
she said with dignity. “Where do you want to start?”

“I don't know yet.” He glanced around at the high, domed ceiling overhead, at the walls and floors of travertine and marble, and at the corridors that branched off in all directions. It was a magnificent building. He had to admit that when Tremore did a thing, he did it well.

He took a printed map from the young man standing nearby and opened it. A quick scan told him everything he needed to know about the design of the place. “They have a new wing, I see.”

“Yes,” she answered as she loosened the ribbons under her chin. She pushed her hat back and it fell behind her, to hang between her shoulder blades. “There isn't much in it as yet. A few rooms of arms and weapons. I've only been in that part of the building once before.”

“Excellent place to begin, don't you think?” He handed her the map. “Lead the way.”

The museum was full of people, especially in the new wing, and they spent the next hour weaving their way amid the crowds gathered around displays of bronze shields and iron spears.

John was surprised to note that she proved more interested in the antiquities than he would have thought. “When did you start liking history?” he asked as they leaned over a glass cabinet that displayed jeweled knives.

“Daphne and Anthony's enthusiasm is infectious, I think. They talk about it so much that one can't help being enthusiastic along with them.” She gestured to the knives. “Besides, jewels have always fascinated me.”

“That I remember.” He decided it was time to make his first move, and he glanced toward a doorway across the room. Remembering the map, he knew that was the way he wanted to go, and he began maneuvering Viola in that direction, one exhibit at a time.

As they paused to admire an intricately carved shield of pewter, he leaned closer to her. “I'm going to see what is down there,” he said, gesturing to the doorway that led into a long corridor. “I'll be back.”

She protested at once. “But there isn't anything down there. That part of the museum isn't even open yet.”

“That doesn't mean there isn't anything to see, does it?” With a wink at her, he slipped into the corridor, then hurried down its considerable length to the other end, passing several rooms filled with baskets of broken pottery shards and half-completed mosaics. Clearly, these were working rooms for people at the museum. He halted at the end of the corridor and looked left and right. A long gallery stretched in both directions, lit by square windows set high up in the twenty-foot
ceilings. He went left, passing baskets of pottery but not much else. There was no sign of people.

Viola's footsteps echoed on the stone floor, telling him that she was following him, just as he'd hoped.

“John?” she called.

“I'm down here,” he called back, and listened as her footsteps brought her closer. He watched as she stepped into the gallery and paused, glancing to her right.

“Viola,” he called softly, and saw her turn in his direction. He beckoned to her from where he stood at the end of the gallery. “Come down here and see this.”

“See what? There isn't anything down there.”

“How do you know? You said yourself you've only been in the new wing once. Have you been this way?”

“No, but I told you this part of the building isn't even open yet. The map says so.”

“Forget the map.” He took a couple steps backward and made a great show of looking down the two ends of yet another empty gallery. “It seems to me there's plenty to see down here,” he said, and returned his gaze to hers, trying to look as innocent as possible.

She frowned, an adorable look of perplexity on her face. She looked down at the map, then back up at him. “What is down there? More pottery, I suppose.”

“Heaps of it, and some other things, too.”

She took a step closer. “Like what?”

“You want a list? Come and look for yourself.”

He vanished around the corner and stepped into a niche that was clearly meant to hold a statue but was empty at present. He leaned one shoulder against the stone wall, waiting, listening to her approach. She was falling for it. She always did, bless her trusting soul. He grinned.

When she came around the corner and saw him standing in the niche, smiling at her, her perplexed frown deepened into a scowl. “You tricked me.”

“Of course I did.” He straightened away from the wall, laughing as he slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “I used to do this all the time, find ways to get you alone. Don't you remember?”

“I remember. Let go of me and stop being ridiculous.”

She started to pull away, but he didn't let her go. Instead, he pulled her back into the niche with him.

“Hammond, what are you doing?”

He maneuvered them around in the tight space so her back was to the wall. “You're trapped now. To get out, you have to pay the toll. You remember how these things work, don't you?”

She did. Staring at him from where he had her trapped in the shadowy corner, she licked her lips
as if they had suddenly gone dry. “I am not going to kiss you.”

His smile deepened as he flattened one palm against the wall and leaned closer to her. With his free hand he toyed with the ribbons of her hat. He pulled, untying them, and her straw bonnet fluttered to the floor behind her. “You fall for this trick every time,” he said, fingering the button of her shawl collar. “I think it's because you secretly want me to kiss you, but you just can't be honest and admit it.”

“If I fall for your tricks, it's because you are a master of deceit.” She moved as if to step out of the niche, as if expecting him to let her pass. He didn't.

Instead, he tightened his fingers around the collar button at her breastbone and cupped the side of her neck in his free hand. “Rules are rules,” he said, smiling faintly, caressing her jaw with his thumb. “You have to kiss me first.”

“We did silly things like that in our courting days, and we are not courting anymore.”

“Aren't we?” he countered with wry amusement, appreciating the arousal he was feeling at this moment. “This seems very much like courtship to me. A great deal of delicious anticipation and heaps of work and ingenuity on my part. I thought after I got married I wouldn't have to do this courtship business anymore, but you are forcing me to take desperate measures.”

“Forcing you? Of all the ridiculous—” She
broke off, bit her lip, and once again tried to step around him. He wouldn't let her, and she gave a vexed sigh. “Let me out, Hammond.”

“I will, I promise.” He slid his arm down from the wall and curved his hand around the side of her waist, still playing with the button of her collar. “But I get a kiss first.”

A distinctive male voice echoed to them from the other end of the gallery, interrupting any reply she might have made. “Gentlemen, I know you have been eager for a view of the Romano-British pottery we have collected this year that isn't on display yet. Follow me.”

“That's Anthony!” Viola whispered, dropping the map to push frantically at John with both hands. “He will find us.”

John didn't move. “So? We're married now, remember?”

“Let me out of here.” When he still did not move, desperation entered her voice. “He's bringing those Venetians this way!”

With both hands at her waist to keep her in place, John leaned back to look out of the niche and down the long gallery, where the Duke of Tremore paused, then turned right. A line of elderly gentlemen followed him, and they moved toward the deeper recesses of the new wing. “No, they aren't,” John answered her in a whisper. “They are going the other way.”

Once they had vanished from view and their
footsteps could no longer be heard, he returned his attention to the vitally important task at hand. “They are gone,” he said, moving closer to his wife again. “Now, where were we?”

She glanced around as if trying to find a way to escape, but there was none. She was hemmed in on three sides by stone walls. Cornered, she set her jaw. “I want to leave.”

John shook his head. “I want my kiss.”

She made a sound of impatience. “Men are such children.”

He lifted his hand from her waist to cup her cheek, and the feel of her soft skin against his palm had his desire rising higher. His thumb caressed that tiny mole at the corner of her mouth, and he breathed in deeply of violets. The slow ache of desire inside him began to burn hotter. “My thoughts at this moment are anything but childish, believe me.”

A hint of panic came into her face. “I am not going to kiss you!”

Still caressing her cheek, he slid his other arm around her waist. “Fine. I am perfectly content to just stand here and hold you.”

“You mean we are going to remain here all day?”

“That depends on you. Come on, Viola. Pucker up.” He bent his head, moving his hand back until his fingertips slid into her hair, loosening the complicated knot at the back of her head. A hairpin
fell, hitting the stone floor at their feet with a delicate clink.

He brought his mouth closer to hers and watched her lips part. Her thick brown lashes lowered a fraction. Oh, yes, she remembered this game of theirs as well as he did. Just as he had so long ago when they were courting, he held back, controlling the desire in his body, waiting for hers to flare up. He brushed his lips lightly against her cheek, right at the edge of her lips. “One kiss,” he coaxed. “Give me just one, and I'll let you go.”

“No, you won't.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “I know you too well to believe that. You'll just take more liberties.”

“Only if you don't say no.” He fiddled with the collar button, unfastening it, then pulled the lacy shawl away, exposing the skin of her throat and shoulders above the wide, rounded neckline of her dress.

“What are you doing?” She made a grab for the collar, but he dropped it to the floor.

“Taking those liberties. You dither too long.” He bent his head and kissed the bare skin along the side of her throat, inhaling the soft, familiar scent of her. She let out her breath in a little, fluttering sigh. Her neck, her weak spot, his opportunity. He blew warm laughter against her throat, loving it.

Footsteps echoed on stone, and the voices of a
man and woman floated to them from far away. It had obviously occurred to some other man that a museum had plenty of opportunities to get his woman alone.

“You have to let me go,” Viola whispered, but not so forcefully this time. “Someone will see us.”

Undeterred by something as trivial as faraway voices, he trailed kisses along the curve of her neck and shoulder as he slid his hand down. “They'd have to come all the way down the gallery, and we'll hear them in plenty of time. Besides—” He broke off, forgetting whatever he'd been about to say as his palm curved around the full, round shape of her breast and she gave a little gasp. Layers of fabric impeded him, but his memory of his wife's luscious shape was perfectly clear. The excitement inside him rose like the tide and he forgot whatever he'd been about to say.

She slid her hand between them, curling her fingers around his wrist as if to pull his hand down. He stilled, tense, waiting in agony with her breast against his palm. He remembered the rules they had established long ago. Whether he got his kiss or no, if she stopped him, he stopped. But not before.

Her hand moved, her palm flattened over his, not quite pressing his hand to her breast, but almost. Tacit encouragement. No stopping yet.

John shaped her breast through the fabric with his hand, his fingertips brushing back and forth
over the bare skin just above the rounded neckline of her gown. He tasted her throat in countless little nibbles, all the way up to her cheek.

Her breath was coming faster now, and she twisted in his arms. “Someone will see us,” she moaned softly, sounding aroused and miserable and angry all at once. “Oh, John, someone will see.”

“Better kiss me quick, then.”

She made a wordless sound and turned her face toward him, giving him what he wanted. Her mouth touched his and opened, sending shimmers of pleasure through his body. Her hand lifted to spread across his cheek. Her kid glove felt smooth and cool on his skin, her mouth hot and sweet. He closed his eyes, savoring a delight so long forgotten, and yet so familiar. This was Viola; he remembered her taste as he kissed her, he remembered the puffy fullness of her lower lip as he sucked it, he remembered the perfect line of her teeth as he explored them with his tongue.

She broke the kiss suddenly, turning her face away. She stirred in his hold and made a faint sound—a protest, maybe.