Suddenly one hand was over her eyes. Startled, she stumbled, her back meeting the stone wall behind her. Her lips parted just as she felt a hand cup her cheek, brush her ear, and burrow so deep, his fingers threaded her hair beneath the wig.
And then his lips.
She knew they were near. She could feel his breath sweep her skin like fingertips over blades of grass.
I can hear it.
Hush.
Suddenly it stopped and was quiet. She felt the weight of him as he leaned into her.
His breath smelled like scotch. He smelled like scotch. Single malt.
And something else. Cloves. And cinnamon?
She felt her upper lip plucked, and his teeth skate across them just before he covered her mouth with his and his wet, warm tongue found hers.
He not only smells like scotch, cloves, and cinnamon; he tastes like scotch, cloves, and cinnamon.
She placed her hands on his torso, reached around and pulled him in deeper, holding on as her legs trembled and heat rose between her thighs.
The sound of crunching gravel reached her ears followed by distant voices.
“Ceci!”
She blinked when his hand no longer covered her eyes. When she caught sight of him, the iron mask was back in place.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be sure you get that rifle back.”
“And if it’s loaded?” she asked.
She didn’t know which surprised her more, her question or his answer.
He took her hand and placed it over his heart, throbbing heavy and hard. It was pounding against his chest as though it were trying to escape.
“In that case,” he murmured, “be kind. Aim here.”
Chapter Three
Clarke
Clarke stood in his childhood home, which was part of a vast estate in Sussex, England. He gazed out a window at the rolling hills covered in snow, his eye reaching as far as the gatehouse, one hand on the rifle that rested on the top shelf of the eighteenth-century mahogany Canterbury.
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“How are you going to get that back to her without her knowing?”
“I found out from the Huntingtons she’s staying in London for a few days before going back to the States. I’ll send it special delivery to her hotel and give the Huntingtons’ address as a return address.” He glowered at Athos. “I wouldn’t have to deal with it, if it weren’t for the three of you.”
His other shoulder sagged from the weight of Porthos’s meaty paw.
“Hey,” he boomed. “You agreed to the bet.”
Clarke shrugged them both off and swung around to see Aramis.
Yes, the three musketeers at the masquerade ball were in reality his three elder brothers.
They, like him, had had racing careers, but none as successful as Clarke’s. Athos now worked in the corporate offices for Elegante Racing, the team Clarke raced for. Porthos worked as a stunt driver on films. And Aramis was always in search of some purpose, fancied himself a poet, was definitely a playboy and seemed to want to fashion a life for himself that followed in the path of Lord Byron.
