The Seduction (31 page)

"So, what tall tale did you give them this time?" Margaret asked as Trevor turned the stallion onto the road south, where the tumbled blocks and broken columns of an ancient Roman villa lay scattered amid the brown weeds and new spring grass.

"Why, Maggie, what do you mean?" he asked innocently.

She wasn't fooled. "If we were beset by bandits, how did we have the money to give them?"

"Oh, that. Well, we did manage to escape on one of their horses, remember? The bandit just happened to have a bit of money in his saddlebags."

"How fortunate for us," she murmured dryly. "What a cool liar you are."

"It's a harmless lie," he told her as he stared at the road ahead. "They'll never know the truth of it, and they deserved the money. Are you saying I shouldn't have given them anything for their kindness?"

"Of course not. It's just that I'm continually amazed at how conniving you can be. I think you could convince anyone of anything if you set your mind to it."

"Not anyone," he countered wryly. "I didn't manage to convince you to marry me, did I?"

"You didn't even try. You just said it, as if it were a foregone conclusion."

"What should I have done? Knelt before you and asked for your hand, assuring you that my mummy approved of you, and waxing poetic about how much society would envy us?"

The vision of Trevor on bended knee prattling on like Roger was too much. She burst out laughing.

"I take it that wouldn't have worked," he said, laughing with her. "So, tell me, what would a man have to do in order to win you? What horrible ordeals would you put him through? Would you expect him to come charging in on his white steed, slay the dragon, and carry you off to his castle?"

She pretended to seriously consider that notion. "Well, yes, that might do the trick."

"No, it wouldn't. I've already done that, and I don't see you smothering me with affection as a result. But then, Hadrian isn't white, Emilio is a snake, not a dragon, and, as for your castle"—he gestured to the
ruins around them—"it's not much, as castles go. The roof leaks."

Margaret's laughter faded into silence. She bit her lip and stared at his back, appreciating the truth of what he said. His motive might not have been a very chivalrous one, but he had rescued her. "I never thanked you for that, did I?" she asked, feeling contrite. "I'm sorry."

"Forget it. I don't want your gratitude."

She took a deep breath and asked the question uppermost in her mind. "What do you want?"

"I don't want you to see me as some lecherous fellow beneath your contempt, nor do I want you to see me as some gallant hero either. I'd like you to start seeing me for what I really am."

"And what is that?" she cried. "Every time I start thinking I have you figured out, you change. Getting to know you is like standing on quicksand."

"You might start trusting me. That would help."

"Trust you? You tell me we should be friends, then you tell me you're going to seduce me. Are you a villain or a hero?"

"Both. And neither. I'm just a man, Maggie, not as bad as you believe me to be, nor as good as you want me to be. Why does everything have to be black or white?"

"I don't know," she said, genuinely bewildered. "All I know is that if you want me to see you for the man you are, then tell me the truth. What manner of man are you?"

He didn't answer for a long moment, then he said quietly, "I think that's something you'll have to figure out for yourself."

*
    
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*

She tried. She really did. During the five days that followed, she ran over all the events that had brought them to this point, but the more she tried to figure him out, the more muddled she became. It was like their chess game, where he seemed able to anticipate her moves, while his remained unfathomable.

Since that night in the cave a week ago, he had not touched her at all. She remembered his words about trying to be honorable, and she wondered why he bothered at this late date. She could still recall with scorching clarity every place he had touched her and kissed her. At night, she stared up at the stars while he slept and imagined him touching her again, wishing with fearful anticipation that he would, praying with hot shame that he wouldn't.

The countryside around them changed as they journeyed south toward Naples. Unlike the forbidding mountains of the Abruzzi, the landscape here was lush and green from the winter rains. The gray-green foliage of olive trees bespoke a warmer, milder climate, and meadows were already blooming with spring wildflowers. They stopped for lunch beside one such meadow, settling comfortably beneath an olive tree with a blanket and the sack of food Sophia had given them. After they'd eaten their fill, Trevor settled back on the blanket with an apple, and Margaret headed into the grove of trees for a walk.

When she returned, she found Trevor sitting cross- legged on the blanket writing letters.

"Who are you writing to?" she asked curiously.

"Among other things, I'm writing to Edward and Cornelia to let them know we are fine and should be arriving in a week or so," he answered. "I don't want them to worry, and if I post it from the next town, it should get there well before we do."

"Oh. Let them know that I'm quite well, would you?"

"I already have."

"Who else are you writing to?" she asked curiously, glancing at the completed letter tucked in the flap of his portfolio.

"I don't think that's any of your business. Don't be rude."

"I'm only trying to figure you out," she said with an artless smile. "You suggested I should. So tell me— what is it? A love letter to some long-suffering female acquaintance? Or correspondence about some smuggled Egyptian artifacts perhaps?"

"You'll never know."

"You think not?" She snatched it out of his portfolio and ran.

"Maggie, come back here!" he called, but she didn't come to a halt until she was some distance away. She held up the letter, waving it teasingly.

He rose to his feet. "Give it back."

Laughing, she shook her head and began walking backward. "This is your own fault for being so secretive. Tell me what it says, or I'll have to read it myself."

"I'll get it back before you have the chance."

"I don't think so." She unfolded the letter as if to read it, and he was after her in an instant. With a shriek, Margaret turned and fled. Her bonnet caught the breeze and flew off. Laughing, she made a grab for it, but it sailed through her fingertips and was gone. Her hair came down, whipping across her face as she glanced over her shoulder to find Trevor right behind her.

He caught her around the waist, pulling her hard against him, and the momentum sent him falling backward into the grass, taking her with him, his body cushioning her fall. She tried to rise, but his arm around her waist kept her there. Margaret was laughing too hard to struggle.

Trevor slid out from beneath her and rolled on top, pinning her to the ground. Seizing her wrists, he lifted her arms over her head. "I have you now," he said, grasping both her wrists with one hand as he took the paper from her fingers with the other. He stuffed the letter into his trouser pocket, vowing he'd destroy it at the first opportunity. The letter to his mother didn't contain anything she didn't already know, but he had no intention of letting her satisfy her curiosity by sneaking a peek at it later. He brought his hand up to caress her face. "You can't get away."

He was far stronger than she, and Margaret knew any attempt to escape would be futile. Her laughter faded away, and she looked into his eyes, as brilliantly blue as the sky, and glittering with intent. She realized that she'd been playing with fire. "I wouldn't have read your letter," she said in a shaky whisper. "Honestly."

"That won't save you. You challenged me, I won, you lost. Now I'm wondering what prize I should claim for my victory." He brushed the tip of his finger across her lip and gave her a wicked smile. "What should a man do when he has a beautiful woman at his mercy?"

She frowned. "Don't say things like that to me. Don't lie."

"What is the lie, Maggie? Telling you you're beautiful? But you are. So beautiful it makes me ache."

"Don't!" She turned her face aside. "I'm not beautiful, and it's cruel of you to say so."

"Cruel?" He stared at her in disbelief, shaking his head. "Sometimes I really think you're daft. What makes you think you're not beautiful?"

"I can look in a mirror."

She renewed her struggles in earnest, but he had all the advantage and he used it. She finally gave up and went completely still beneath him, panting from the exertion.

"You may be able to look in a mirror, but you obviously can't see a thing."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he interrupted her. "When I look at you, do you know what I see?" He took a deep breath, his gaze roaming over her face, not knowing quite how to begin. "I'll tell you what I see, Maggie."

The breeze caught a tendril of her hair, and it floated across her face, catching at the corner of her mouth. That gave him a place to start.

"I see your hair," he murmured, gently brushing the loose tendril aside, "which is as dark and rich as sable, and I imagine taking it down, seeing it fanned out around your face just as it is now. I think of tangling it in my hands, feeling it run like silk through my fingers. I see your eyes, and I always think of fine whiskey because they're brown and gold and make me burn inside when you watch me shave in the mornings. And I see these long, thick lashes that don't have that silly debutante curl and these dark brows that get a skeptical little crinkle between them whenever I say things you don't believe."

He touched her forehead as he spoke, then traced his finger along the bridge of her nose and down to her lips. "Then, there's your mouth. Wide and full and perfect for kissing." He moved his hand to the side of her face and touched her lips with his. "And your chin, stubborn as the devil, always testing me, doubting me, challenging me. But it's round as a cherub's, and that rather spoils the stubborn effect, I think."

He buried his face in the curve of her neck, tasting her in small nibbles. "You have the softest skin," he mumbled against her throat. "Warm and soft. So, so soft, like velvet." He drew his tongue along the column of her throat and felt her pulse hammering in the hollow just above her collarbone. He could hear her breath coming in little gasps between her parted lips.

He let go of her wrists and sat up, straddling her, feeling the exquisite shape of her hips between his thighs. "There," he said, not breathing all that evenly himself. "That's what I see, and so would any man alive with half a brain in his head and one eye open."

She opened her eyes and stared up at him in stunned amazement. "You really think I'm pretty? I'm not too fat?" she whispered, so painfully skeptical that he again felt that hard, hot anger surge inside him. The governess who'd made her think she was fat and plain was probably a sour old woman who had the shape of a scarecrow herself. And the malicious comments of Lady Lytton were no better. He knew
she
was a scrawny and sour old woman.

"You're perfect," he said. "Absolutely perfect."

He spread his palms across her ribs just beneath her breasts. "Do you remember that charm I gave you in Rome? I bought it for you because you remind me of a violin." He slid his hands reverently down her torso and back up again. "You have the same shape, with these lush curves that always make me want to touch you. You say you want a noble and chivalrous gentleman, and I've been trying, but Maggie, no man could look at you and feel noble or chivalrous. I know I can't. I—" His voice cracked as his palms touched the sides of her full breasts, and he decided it was time to stop talking.