“No,” she said.
“Coward,” he said.
Her blue eyes flashed.
“Go ahead, then,” he taunted. “Run away.”
Her eyes were blue murder but she let him help her dismount. Her bottom must be sore, and her legs would soon be aching painfully.
“You need to walk,” he said.
“No, I don’t!” She stamped her foot and winced. “I’m only a little stiff. I do not wish to walk with you.”
“I don’t care.”
“You care about nothing,” she said. “What about the horses? You cannot leave the horses in the middle of the bridle path.”
“Your groom will deal with the horses.”
“I am not going to walk with you,” she said. She tried to mount her horse.
He could have amused himself watching her try to climb into the sidesaddle unaided, but he wasn’t in the mood to be amused. He grasped her hand and dragged her away from the horse and started toward the Serpentine. “I think I’ll drown you,” he said.
She kicked him in the shins and ran.
The attack being the last thing Marchmont expected—though it should have been the first, he later realized—he was slow to react. Stiff-legged and tired though Zoe must be, she made surprising progress during that moment’s delay, and disappeared into a stand of trees.
It was sheer stubbornness propelling her, he told himself, and that wouldn’t take her far. She’d had almost no exercise in recent weeks, her muscles were tired—though she might not realize it yet—and she was dragging a train of heavy cloth.
The trouble was, she didn’t need to go far to get lost—or to trip over that accursed train and stumble and crack her skull against a tree trunk or fall into the Serpentine and drown.
“I shall drown her, I vow,” he muttered, and ran after her.
He watched for a flash of blue and soon found her. She was near the Serpentine but not on the footpath. He easily closed the distance between them, but she kept at her shambling run.
When he came within a pace of her, he reached out to grab her arm. He stepped on her train and his boot tangled in the hem, jerking her off balance. Down she went, and so did he, on top of her.
As they struck the ground, his hat fell off. Out of the corner of his eye he saw hers roll away. Nearer to hand, her bosom rose and fell with her labored breathing. He raised his head and chest to take his weight off her, but he didn’t roll off her completely.
Damp curls clung to her temples and near her ears. Her skin was pink with exertion. She was scowling up at him, blue eyes glittering.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” he said.
Her hands came up. Instinctively he drew back. But she didn’t scratch his eyes out or punch him as he expected. She slid her fingers into his hair and grasped his head. She pulled, bringing his face to hers, and kissed him full on the lips.
At the first touch, he felt the skittering shock he’d experienced the day before, but deeper and stronger this time, as though he’d touched an electrifying machine. This time, though, he didn’t draw away. Her mouth was soft and warm and her scent and taste spilled into him, sweet and fresh and warm, like a summer garden.
Inside him a riot seemed to be going on, of feelings. He didn’t know what they were and didn’t care. About them was springtime, cool and damp, but she tasted like summer and he craved the heat. Her hands slid down to his jaw and her mouth was searching for more from him. She was by turns insistent and coaxing, and he was all too willing to be led.
His brain slowed and he forgot everything else but the warmth and scent and taste of her. She brushed her tongue over his lips, and the shock he felt this time was a familiar one: the rush of pleasure at an invitation.
All of his senses responded to her, all shoutingyes. In the warmth and rightness of their deepening kiss, all the turmoil—the anger and fear and frustration and confusion—melted into simple, inescapable need.
He sank onto her and wrapped his arms about her. He rolled onto his back and she went with him. No hesitation, no thought. Onlyyes.
The world went away. Nothing remained and nothing mattered but the teasing and tantalizing discovery of a kiss, slowly deepening. Nothing remained and nothing mattered but the ripely curved body melting against his.
He dragged his hands down her back and up again to trace the line of her spine and the angle of her shoulder blades and the slope of her shoulders and the curve of her neck.
