Part 17 (2/2)

Amazed by her daring, not to mention her agility, Ian was about to back away and let her finish descending unaided when the rotted step on which she stood gave way. ”Help!” Elizabeth cried as she came plunging out of the tree into a pair of strong hands that caught her by the waist.

Her back to him, Elizabeth felt her body slide down Ian's hard chest, his flat stomach, and then his thighs. Embarra.s.sed to the depths of her soul by her clumsy egress, by the boyhood treasures she'd discovered while snooping in the tree house, and by the odd feelings that shook through her at the intimate contact with him, Elizabeth drew a shaky breath and turned uneasily to face him. ”I was snooping in your things,” she confessed, lifting her green eyes to his. ”I hope you won't be angry.”

”Why should I be angry?”

”I saw your sketches,” she admitted, and then, because her heart was still filled with the lingering tenderness of her discovery, she continued with smiling admiration, ”They're wonderful, truly they are! You should never have taken up gambling. You should have been an artist!” She saw the confusion that narrowed his eyes, and in her eagerness to convince him of her sincerity she pulled the sketchbook from her ”belt” and bent down, opening it carefully on the gra.s.s, smoothing the pages flat. ”Just look at this!” she persisted, sitting down beside the sketches and smiling up at him.

After a moment's hesitation Ian crouched down beside her, his gaze on her entrancing smile, not the sketches.

”You aren't looking,” she chided him gently, tapping the first sketch of the young girl with her tapered fingernail. ”I can't believe how talented you are! You captured everything in the tiniest detail. Why, I can almost feel the wind blowing on her hair, and there's laughter in her eyes.” His gaze s.h.i.+fted from her eyes to the open sketchbook, and Elizabeth watched in shock as he glanced at the sketch of the young girl and pain slashed across his tanned features.

Somehow Elizabeth knew from his expression that the girl was dead. ”Who was she?” she asked softly. The pain she'd imagined vanished, and his features were already perfectly composed when he looked at her and quietly answered, ”My sister.” He hesitated, and for a moment Elizabeth thought he wasn't going to say more. When he did, his deep voice was strangely hesitant, almost as if he was testing his ability to talk about it: ”She died in a fire when she was eleven.”

”I'm sorry,” Elizabeth whispered, and all the sympathy and warmth in her heart was mirrored in her eyes. ”Truly sorry,” she said, thinking of the beautiful girl with the laughing eyes. Reluctantly pulling her gaze from his, she tried lamely to lighten the mood by turning the page to a sketch that seemed to vibrate with life and exuberant joy. Seated on a large boulder by the sea was a man with his arm around a woman's shoulders; he was grinning at her upturned face, and her hand was resting on his arm in a way that somehow bespoke a wealth of love. ”Who are these people?” Elizabeth asked, smiling as she pointed to the sketch.

”My parents,” Ian replied, but there was something in his voice again that made her look sharply at him. ”The same fire,” he added calmly.

Elizabeth turned her face away, feeling a lump of constricting sorrow in her chest.

”It happened a long time ago,” he said after a moment, and reaching out slowly, he turned to the next sketch. A black Labrador looked back from the pages. This time when he spoke there was a slight smile in his voice. ”If I could shoot it, she could find it.”

Her own emotions under control again, Elizabeth looked at the sketch. ”You have an amazing way of capturing the. essence of things when you sketch, do you know that?”

His brows lifted in dubious amus.e.m.e.nt, then he reached out and turned the other pages, pausing when he came to a detailed sketch of a four-masted sailing s.h.i.+p. ”I intended to build that one someday,” he told her. ”This is my own design.”

”Really?” she said, looking as impressed as she felt. ”Really,” he confirmed, grinning back at her. Their faces only inches apart, they smiled at each other; then Ian's gaze dropped to her mouth, and Elizabeth felt her heart begin to pound with helpless antic.i.p.ation. His head bent imperceptibly, and Elizabeth knew, she knew he was going to kiss her; her hand lifted of its own accord, reaching toward his nape as if to draw him down to her; then the moment was abruptly shattered. Ian's head lifted sharply, and he stood up in one smooth motion, his jaw rigid. Stunned, Elizabeth hastily turned to the sketchbook and carefully closed it. Then she, too, stood up. ”It's getting late,” she said to cover her awkward confusion. ”I'd like to bathe in the stream before the air turns chilly. Oh, wait,” she said, and carefully she pulled the ring from her thumb, holding it out to him. ”I found this in the same box where the sketches were,” she added, putting it in his outstretched palm.

”My father gave it to me when I was a boy,” he said in an offhand voice. His long fingers closed around it, and he slipped it into his pocket.

”I think it may be very valuable,” Elizabeth said. imagining the sorts of improvements he could make to his home and lands if he chose to sell the ring.

”As a matter of fact,” Ian drawled blandly, ”it's completely worthless.”

Chapter 16.

To Elizabeth the meal they shared with the vicar that night was a period of mystified torment. Ian conversed with his uncle as if absolutely nothing of import had happened between them, while Elizabeth's mind tortured her with feelings she could neither understand nor vanquish. Every time Ian's amber gaze flickered to her, her heart began to pound. Whenever he wasn't looking she found her gaze straying to his mouth, remembering the way those lips had felt locked to hers yesterday. He raised a winegla.s.s to his lips, and she looked at the long, strong fingers that had slid with such aching tenderness over her cheek and twined in her hair.

Two years ago she'd fallen under his spell; she was wiser now. She knew he was a libertine, and even so her heart rebelled against believing it. Yesterday, in his arms, she'd felt as if she was special to him-as if he not only wanted her close but needed her there.

Very vain, Elizabeth, she warned herself severely, and very foolish. Skilled libertines and accomplished flirts probably made every woman feel that she was special. No doubt they kissed a woman with demanding pa.s.sion one moment and then, when the pa.s.sion was over, forgot she was alive.

As she'd heard long ago, a libertine pretended violent interest in his quarry, then dropped her without compunction the instant that interest waned-exactly as Ian had done now. That was not a comforting thought, and Elizabeth was sorely in need of comfort as twilight deepened into night and supper dragged on, with Ian seemingly oblivious to her existence. Finally the meal was finished; she was about to volunteer to clear the table when she glanced at Ian and watched in paralyzed surprise as his gaze roved over her cheek and jaw, then s.h.i.+fted to her mouth, lingering there. Abruptly he looked away, and Elizabeth stood up to clear the table.

”I'll help,” the vicar volunteered. ”It's only fair, since you and Ian have done everything else.”

”I won't hear of it,” Elizabeth teased him, and for the fourth time in her entire life she tied a towel around her waist and washed dishes. Behind her the men remained at the table, talking about people Ian had evidently known for years. Although they'd both forgotten her presence, she felt strangely happy and content listening to them talk.

When she finished she draped the dishtowel on the handle of the door and wandered over to sit in a chair near the fireplace. From there she could see Ian clearly without being observed. With no one to write to but Alex, and little she could risk saying in a letter that might be seen by Ian, Elizabeth tried to concentrate on descriptions of Scotland and the cottage, but she wrote desultorily, her mind was on Ian, not the letter. In some ways it seemed wrong that he lived here now, in this solitary place. At least part of the time he ought to be walking into ballrooms and strolling into gardens in his superbly tailored black evening clothes, making feminine heartbeats triple. With a wan inner smile at her attempted impartiality, Elizabeth told herself men like Ian Thornton probably performed a great service to society-he gave them something to stare at and admire and even fear. Without men like him, ladies would have nothing to dream about. And much less to regret, she reminded herself.

Ian had not so much as turned to glance her way, and so it was little wonder that she jumped in surprise when he said without looking at her, ”It's a lovely evening, Elizabeth. If you can spare the time from your letter, would you like to go for a walk?”

”Walk?” she repeated, stunned by the discovery that he was evidently as aware of what she was doing as she had been aware of him, sitting at the table. ”It's dark outside,” she said mindlessly, searching his impa.s.sive features as he arose and walked over to-her chair. He stood there, towering over her, and there was nothing about the expression on his handsome face to indicate he had any real desire to go anywhere with her. She cast a hesitant glance at the vicar, who seconded Ian's suggestion. ”A walk is just the thing,” Duncan said. standing up. ”It aids the digestion, you know.”

Elizabeth capitulated, smiling at the gray-haired man. ”I'll just get a wrap from upstairs. Shall I bring something for you, sir?”

”Not for me,” he said, wrinkling his nose. ”I don't like tramping about at night.” Belatedly realizing he was openly abdicating his duties as chaperon, Duncan added quickly, ”Besides, my eyesight is not as good as it once was.” Then he spoiled that excuse by picking up the book he'd been reading earlier, and-without any apparent need for spectacles-he sat down in a chair and began reading by the light of the candles.

The night air was chilly, and Elizabeth pulled her wool shawl tighter around her. Ian didn't speak as they walked slowly across the back of the house.

”It's a full moon,” she said after several minutes, looking up at the huge yellow orb. When he didn't reply, she cast about for something else to say and inadvertently voiced her own thoughts: ”I can't quite believe I'm really in Scotland.”

”Neither can I.” They were walking around the side of a hill, down a path he seemed to know by instinct, and behind them the lights from the cottage windows faded and then vanished completely.

Several silent minutes later they rounded the hill, and suddenly there was nothing in front of them but the darkness of a valley far below, the gentle slope of the hill behind them, a little clearing on their left, and a blanket of stars overhead. Ian stopped there and shoved his hands into his pockets, staring out across the valley. Uncertain of his mood, Elizabeth wandered a few paces to the end of the path on the left and stopped because there was nowhere else to go. It seemed colder here, and she absently pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders, stealing a surrept.i.tious look at him. In the moonlight his profile was harsh, and he lifted his hand, rubbing the muscles in the back of his neck as if he was tense.

”I suppose we ought to go back,” she said when several minutes had pa.s.sed, and his silence became unsettling.

In answer Ian tipped his head back and closed his eyes, looking like a man in the throes of some deep, internal battle. ”Why?” he said, still in that odd posture.

”Because there's nowhere else to walk,” she answered, stating the obvious.

”We did not come out tonight to walk,” he said flatly. Elizabeth's sense of security began to disintegrate. ”We didn't?”

”You know we didn't.”

”Then-then why are we here?” she asked. ”Because we wanted to be alone together.”

Horrified at the possibility that he'd somehow known what thoughts had been running through her mind at supper, she said uneasily, ”Why should you think I want to be alone with you?”

He turned his head toward her, and his relentless gaze locked with hers. ”Come here and I'll show you why.”

Her entire body began to vibrate with a mixture of shock, desire, and fear, but somehow her mind remained in control. It was one thing to want to be kissed by him at the cottage where the vicar was nearby, but here, with absolute privacy and nothing to prevent him from taking all sorts of liberties, it was another matter entirely. Far more dangerous. More frightening. And based on her behavior in England, she couldn't even blame him for thinking she'd be willing now. Struggling desperately to ignore the sensual pull he was exerting on her, Elizabeth drew a long, shaky breath. ”Mr. Thornton,” she began quietly.

”My name is Ian,” he interrupted. ”Considering our long acquaintance-not to mention what has transpired between us-don't you think it's a little ridiculous to call me Mr. Thornton?”

Ignoring his tone, Elizabeth tried to keep hers nonjudgmental and continue her explanation. ”I used to blame you entirely for what happened that weekend we were together,” she began softly. ”But I've come to see things more clearly.” She paused in that valiant speech to swallow and then plunged in again. ”The truth is that my actions that first night, when we met in the garden and I asked you to dance with me, were foolish-no, shameless.” Elizabeth stopped, knowing that she could partly exonerate herself by explaining to him that she'd only done all that so her friends wouldn't lose their wagers, but he would undoubtedly find that degrading and insulting, and she wanted very much to soothe matters between them, not make them much, much worse. And so she said haltingly, ”Every other time we were alone together after that I behaved like a shameless wanton. I can't completely blame you for thinking that's exactly what I was.”

His voice was heavy with irony. ”Is that what I thought, Elizabeth?”

His deep voice saying her name in the darkness made her senses jolt almost as much as the odd way he was looking at her across the distance that separated them. ”Wh-what else could you have thought?”

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turned fully toward her. ”I thought,” he gritted, ”you were not only beautiful but intoxicatingly innocent. If I'd believed when we were standing in the garden that you realized what the h.e.l.l you were asking for when you flirted with a man of my years and reputation, I'd have taken you up on your offer, and we'd both have missed the dancing.”

Elizabeth gaped at him. ”I don't believe you.”

<script>