Nicole Jordan (14 page)

His voice was a sensual murmur, hot and deep and riveting.

Steeling herself, Caro shut her eyes as brazen images formed in her mind, sensual thoughts of flesh pressed to naked flesh, remembered from her dreams and from reality.

She wanted Max as well—urgently. But she wouldn’t allow herself to indulge her hunger. It had taken her too long to get over him the first time; in truth, she had never quite managed it. She’d spent countless months afterward missing Max. She didn’t want to endure that misery again.

“No,” she managed to reply, her voice a hoarse rasp.

Turning her, Max gently guided her till her back came up against the wall. “Are you certain?”

His teeth grazed her ear, and she shivered. How tempting he was, how impossibly tempting. She shook her head, fighting the erotic memories of their bodies joined, fighting the pulsing need he was arousing in her.

Then the backs of his fingers brushed against her bodice, and her nipples instantly peaked, making her shudder with longing.

His breath warmed her lips as he whispered her name. And when he pressed his body fully against hers, the pulsing moved lower and deeper within her, centering between her thighs.

“Max…”

His arms came around her then, the vibrant heat of his body spearing her through her clothing. When he engulfed her mouth in a possessive kiss, desire flared hot and bright inside her. He was both rough and gentle, and she clung, helplessly aware of her surrender, of the wild, welling hunger he incited.

In only a moment his kiss became more fervent, as if he couldn’t control his own hunger, his tongue plunging rhythmically, searing her with fiery demand, burning away her willpower. The sensations were so riotously hot, they made Caro feel as if she were dying of need.

She needed Max, craved him. She had dreamed about him, longed for him, ached for him for so long….

Far too long…

It required a herculean effort, but she brought her hands up to push against his chest as she tore her mouth away. “Please stop!”

Max heard her rasped plea but couldn’t make himself obey. He bent again, his mouth urgently seeking hers—and not finding it.

She caught him off guard.

Somehow her leg became tangled up with his, and to his bewilderment, Max found himself flat on his back in the straw, with Caro sprawled on top of him, her forearm lying dangerously across his throat.

Dazed, he stared up at her in the dim light, his breath ragged.

She offered him a shaky smile. “Perhaps you aren’t aware, but my knee is poised in a strategic position. Were I to use it, you would find the result exceedingly painful…although not deadly, as my arm would be if I were to increase the pressure against your throat.”

Suddenly he knew: she had tripped him deliberately.

“I warned you,” Caro said in an unsteady tone, “I have an unusual education for a female. This is one of my skills, knowing how to defend myself when assaulted.”

“I was hardly assaulting you,” he rasped, his own voice still hoarse with desire.

“Perhaps not, but I saw an urgent need to protect my virtue.”

She pushed herself off him and struggled to her feet. Then pulling open the stall door, she disappeared into the stable yard.

Max lay there a moment, trying to absorb what had just happened. He
had
nearly assaulted Caro. When he’d kissed her, all he could think about was drawing her long, slender limbs around his waist and plunging hot and deep inside her. His desire had been so fierce, he could have taken her in a stable, for God’s sake.

Hell and the devil.
He had no excuse for his lack of control. True, his desire was fueled by pent-up sexual frustration after weeks of abstinence. Weeks of being alluringly near her but unable to touch.

Just then he felt a soft, warm breath against his cheek. Max flinched in startlement and swore a low oath as he stared up at a graying equine muzzle. To add insult to injury, the old mare was nuzzling his face—whether out of sympathy or curiosity he wasn’t certain.

Torn between laughing and groaning, Max rolled to his feet, and immediately winced at the painful state of his erection. This was hardly the outcome he’d hoped for when he’d surrendered to his fierce need to kiss Caro.

He was determined to carry on the battle, but perhaps a tactical retreat was in order so that he could marshal his forces.

Chapter

Six

Since Caro had pledged to arrange his welcome into society, Max wasn’t surprised when he had a considerable number of callers the following morning.

Gentlemen from all over the island, primarily British and Spanish and a few French, came to make his acquaintance, either singly or in groups of two or three. His visitors extended numerous invitations for the ensuing week, to shoot, to ride, to foxhunt, to dine, and especially to meet their families.

It was only when Max realized how many of the gentlemen had daughters of marriageable age that he began to suspect Caro’s hand at work. She was attempting, evidently, to divert his attention from her by initiating a campaign to make him the toast of the island’s unwed females. And getting their proud papas to meet him was the first step.

That afternoon when Caro drove him to his interview with Sir Gawain Olwen, Max remarked on her deviousness.

“I never would have suspected you capable of such underhanded tactics, angel.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she said with provocative innocence.

“It’s hardly a coincidence that this lavish display of hospitality comes from fathers eager to foist their daughters off on me. You aren’t by chance scheming to exhibit me as a matrimonial prize?”

Her smile was noncommittal. “I simply want you to feel welcome on our island. You cannot blame me if the fathers here—or their unwed daughters—are eager to make your acquaintance.”

“I certainly can blame you. You know very well I came to Cyrene in part to avoid all the snares set for me.”

Her smile broadened. “I have no doubt the distraction of being pursued by our young ladies will do you good. You needn’t actually
wed
any of them.”

Max let out a low curse.

“Would you care to cry pax?” she asked sweetly.

“Not on your life.”

“I didn’t think so. But truly, I have little to do with your popularity. The simple fact is, our citizens wish to give you the homage due a war hero.”

“I wager you’ve gone to great pains to exaggerate my heroics.”

“Not at all. I never had to say a word. It so happens that everyone on Cyrene knows of you. John Yates has been singing your praises for months now. Which reminds me, John is eager to see you.”

Max’s expression turned sober. “That surprises me.”

“Why? You saved his life by bringing him home to Cyrene.”

He grimaced. “On the contrary. Yates is the one who saved my life on a battlefield. And he cannot have forgotten I was the cause of him losing his leg.”

“He doesn’t hold you responsible. In any event, you are likely to encounter him at the castle this afternoon, since he is Sir Gawain’s secretary.”

“I know,” Max said tersely, his long-held guilt returning.

He focused his attention on the castle ahead, trying to ignore his mounting tension.

On their approach to the island by ship, Max had viewed Sir Gawain’s stronghold from a distance, but up close it was even more impressive than he remembered. The massive walls were thick enough to withstand a pounding, while the battlements bristled with enough cannon to repel an assault by even the most determined enemy.

The interior was less warlike, Max noted as they were shown into the great hall. Fine tapestries and carpets and gleaming furnishings graced the huge room, tempering the cold stone. Yet he saw so many artifacts of a bygone era scattered about—armor and weapons, swords and maces and shields—that Max could almost imagine himself swept back in time.

The knights of a chivalric order would feel quite at home here, he had no doubt.

But then his attention was claimed by the young man hobbling toward them on a wooden leg. John Yates was thinner than when he had served under Max’s command, but unlike then, his face now glowed with good health and his grin was lively.

He pushed a shock of blond hair from his eyes before pumping Max’s hand. “You cannot know how elated I am to see you again, sir. I never properly thanked you for saving my life.”

Max felt his tension ease a measure. He could detect no signs of bitterness in the man who would have to endure life as a cripple.

“But you did thank me, my friend,” Max replied seriously. “Countless times during your delirium. And I can never begin to even the score, since I would now be lying in a Spanish grave if not for you.”

Yates flushed at the praise. Turning, he greeted Caro by fondly bussing her cheek, then addressed Max again. “If you will follow me, Major, Sir Gawain is eager to meet you.”

He led them through the great hall and along a stone corridor to a large, comfortable chamber that evidently served as the baronet’s study. Papers and maps were strewn over every surface, including the massive desk, where an elderly gentleman sat hard at work scribbling.

Sir Gawain rose immediately at their entrance. Tall and lean and gravely serious, he had penetrating, light blue eyes that seemed to miss nothing. His lined face looked strained, as if he carried a great burden on his shoulders. He also limped slightly, Max noted.

Sir Gawain’s greeting was cordial and genuinely welcoming. “I apologize for neglecting to receive you before this, Mr. Leighton, but we had a situation in France that required my attention.”

Yates withdrew then, while Sir Gawain offered his guests seats.

“I formed an interest in you after you brought John home,” Sir Gawain observed, “and I have been following your military career avidly ever since. You are considered a brilliant leader—an expert if unconventional tactician, with a reputation for winning. And Christopher Thorne’s letter of introduction has nothing but the highest praise.”

“Thorne no doubt exaggerated my exploits,” Max said with what Caro thought was undue modesty. She watched as Sir Gawain eyed Max keenly.

“That is arguable. At any rate,” the baronet continued, “I was delighted to hear you have offered your services as adviser should we need to rescue Lady Isabella. Let me say at once that I would readily welcome your help. I understand you have experience liberating captured soldiers.”

“A fair amount.”

“Can you plan our mission for us?”

“I will give it my best effort,” Max replied. “The key to success will be accurate intelligence, adequate resources, careful preparation. If you can see to the first two, then I should be able to devise a plan that has a strong chance of succeeding.”

“We are doing our utmost to gather intelligence as we speak. And I will make certain you have adequate resources. I assure you, Mr. Leighton, I intend to bring Lady Isabella home safely. Her father was a dear friend of mine, and when he was forced into exile, I promised him sanctuary. That vow extends to his family.”

“I will certainly do my best, Sir Gawain.”

“I know you will.” The elderly man hesitated. “To be frank, we could use a man of your talents permanently in our organization.”

“Permanently?” Max repeated, sounding cautious.

“I would like very much for you to join us.”

“You are offering me a position working for the Foreign Office?”

Sir Gawain nodded. “You would not necessarily have to remain on Cyrene. We are situated here because this location gives us rapid access to Europe, where crises tend to develop with alarming frequency. But we have positions in England as well.”

“From Alex Ryder I was given the impression your operation is rather powerful.”

“We are well connected and well financed, if that is what you are asking.”

“I gather you function something like a modern force of mercenaries.”

Sir Gawain’s smile was enigmatic. “We like to think we have a higher calling. Protecting the weak, the vulnerable, the deserving. Fighting tyranny. Working for the good of mankind.”

There was so much more Sir Gawain wasn’t saying, Caro reflected as she watched Max. The Guardians of the Sword had been formed more than a thousand years ago by a handful of Britain’s most legendary warriors—outcasts who had found exile here. Now the order was run by their descendants and operated mainly across Europe, although the British Foreign Office had a nominal say in what missions the Guardians undertook.

It was a long moment before Max replied. “I am flattered by your offer, Sir Gawain, but perhaps you will understand why I simply want to remain a civilian. After nine years of war, the thought of more fighting and bloodshed holds little appeal for me.”

“Only a madman relishes bloodshed, Mr. Leighton, but regrettably there are times when it becomes necessary. Yet I can certainly understand why you wouldn’t be eager to return to conflict. You have served your country valiantly, and you need a respite. Perhaps you will find it here on our beautiful island. And if you do take part in a mission to rescue Lady Isabella, you will have a better knowledge of how we function. I have high hopes that you can be persuaded to join us.”

Max appeared reluctant to answer, Caro realized. During their discussion, she had carefully observed his reaction. Although unaware of it, he was being interviewed for a permanent role in the Guardians, but their extraordinary secrets would remain concealed unless Max committed to joining the Foreign Office.

Clearly Sir Gawain was eager to recruit him. Yet she very much doubted Max would accept. She understood his aversion. He was loath not only to kill, but to be the cause of any more crippled or dead lieutenants.

“But you will at least consider my offer?” Sir Gawain pressed.

“I won’t refuse outright, Sir Gawain.”

“Then I will have to be satisfied with that. And perhaps Caro will have better luck at convincing you. Meanwhile, I wish to make you feel welcome on our island. I am planning to hold a ball next week in your honor, Mr. Leighton. I have set John to work on arranging it. John?” Sir Gawain called over his shoulder.

John Yates must have been waiting outside the door, for he immediately hobbled into the room, followed by a butler and two footmen bearing tea and other refreshments. At Sir Gawain’s invitation, the former lieutenant joined them for tea.

Max waited until they had been served and the servants dismissed before addressing his host. “There is no need to trouble yourself with a ball on my account, Sir Gawain.”

“There is every need.” Caro spoke for the first time. “You must meet all our neighbors, Mr. Leighton. It is our duty to advance your introduction to society.”

“And everyone on Cyrene,” Yates interjected, “is always delighted to have an excuse for a ball. The ladies are especially eager to try the new dance imported here from the continent. They have kept our one dancing master hopping, learning the waltz. Except Caro, of course. She refuses to learn.”

“Because I dislike dancing,” Caro said lightly. “But perhaps you should arrange for Mr. Leighton to take lessons.”

“I know the waltz,” Max said.

“Dancing,” Yates explained to her, “was one of our diversions on the Peninsula.” He returned his attention to Max. “Even I will be waltzing, sir. I am not as spry as I once was, but I can still hold my own on a ballroom floor.”

“John is eager to impress his sweetheart,” Sir Gawain observed dryly.

Yates grinned. “At first I feared she might be put off by my loss of limb, but my infirmity hasn’t concerned her.”

Sir Gawain tactfully changed the subject then, and they spoke about numerous other things until it was time for Max and Caro to take their leave.

“Yates does seem genuinely happy,” Max remarked to her as they drove away from the castle.

“I truly believe he is. He enjoys working for Sir Gawain—he says because it gives him a laudable purpose in life. And he is courting a lady…Miss Danielle Newham. Miss Newham and her brother came to our island this past spring for a visit and decided to stay.”

Max felt himself frowning as the name pricked at his memory. “What does this Miss Newham look like?”

“She is quite beautiful, with auburn hair and a statuesque figure. I confess it surprised me a little that she encouraged John’s attentions, since she appears to be a few years older and is far more sophisticated than he is. But she seems to be good for him.”

Max had once known a sophisticated, auburn-haired beauty by that name, and he suspected it was not mere coincidence. “I would like to meet her.”

“I’m certain you will have the opportunity at Sir Gawain’s ball.”

“You actually mean to attend?” he asked. “Even with your aversion to balls?”

“Yes, I do,” Caro retorted. “Genteel society here on Cyrene is much more agreeable than in London. And Isabella would be the first to scold me were I to stay at home. Moreover”—a serene smile curved her lips—“I am eager for you to find some other woman to make the target of your lust.”

“How many times must I tell you, sweeting, I have no intention of lusting after anyone but you?”

When a flush suffused her cheeks, he flashed her a slow, sensual smile that took her breath away.

Caro clenched her fingers on the reins, regretting her deplorable reaction. She didn’t want Max to dazzle her with a smile. Didn’t want to feel the tingling, alarming surge of heat in her body. Didn’t want to remember the seductive power of his caresses.

Their competition was only a game to him, Caro reminded herself. And to end it, she needed to introduce him to Julia Trant and Blanca Herrera. With their ravishing beauty, they would instantly capture his interest, she had little doubt.