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“Geoff was shot high in the chest, near his shoulder. I was stationed in Portsmouth. Father sent word, insisting I return home even though Geoff’s wound was not fatal. In fact, the leech thought he’d make a full recovery.”
She would not cry. She would not.
Ian sucked in a ragged breath. “The day I arrived, he took a sudden turn for the worse. Most likely an infection or undetected internal injury, the surgeon said.”
Oh, God, why had she asked? Ian was reliving the horrid event. Tears trickled from the corner of one eye. She blinked several times, but the dratted droplets kept falling. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and wail for everything she was worth.
“He died that night. For once, I was grateful my father was such a controlling sot. I was able to say goodbye to my brother.”
A sob caught in her throat. “Oh, Ian.”
He wiped the tears from her face with his thumbs then caressed her jaw with the back of his hand. “You would’ve liked him, I think.”
If he was anything like you, I would’ve adored him.
“Enough of this morose talk. We cannot undo what’s already done.” He smiled, a melancholic half-smile. “Come, I want to show you the pond.”
He wrapped his hand around hers, and it fit neatly within his. The calluses on his palms rubbed against her fingers. Unlike the majority of the dandies she’d met in London, he was a man accustomed to hard work. The fops’ hands had been softer and whiter than hers.
Walking beside Ian, Vangie considered him. He was a man who loved intensely. The knowledge sparked and simmered deep in her breast. Would he—could he—ever love her that much? A queer flutter disturbed her stomach.
They crossed a large lawn—more of a meadow really—and came to a tree-shaded footbridge. Hundreds of lilies of the valley blanketed the ground beneath the trees. She bent to lean on the rail, watching several swans below the bridge.
“Vangie, don’t!” Ian drew her away. “Take care, sweeting. The bridge is in need of repair.” He guided her to the other side. “This side is safer.” Shaking the rail, he said, “See, this barrier is sturdy. The other is rotted along the planks and won’t support any weight. I really should set Olson to repairing it.”
Leaning over the support, she exclaimed in delight. “Look.”
A female swan passed under the bridge, four cygnets gliding in her wake. Swimming in a circle, the pen waited for her mate. She arched her neck in a caress as he passed by and replaced her at the front of the line.
Ian slipped his arm around her waist and tugged her into the circle of his powerful arms, whispering, “Swans mate for life, sweeting.”
His breath tickled her ear, sending errant flickers of sensation across the sensitive flesh. She forced her attention back to the swans. “They are magnificent, especially the black swans. I’ve never seen any before. Do they stay here year-round?”
“Yes. The pond is really more of a smallish lake. It extends clear into those trees, yonder.” He inclined his head in the direction of some evergreens. “It’s deep too. As boys, Geoff and I often swam in it.” Pointing to the far side of the pond, he asked, “Do you see where the cattails and bull rushes are—that boggish area just this side of the tall vegetation? Two nests are over there, and each pair of black swans has hatched four eggs. The hatchlings are light though, nearly white.”
Grasping his muscled forearm, Vangie cried, “Look, there are some of the little ones, near the middle of the pond.” She turned to look at him and smiled. “God’s creation is exquisite, is it not?”
Ian’s eyes darkened as they roamed her face. He was going to kiss her. Her gaze fell to his mouth, and she parted hers in invitation.
Dipping his head, he murmured, “It is indeed.”
The softest touch of his lips, the whisper of her sigh, and an onslaught bubbled from within, breaking down each of her reservations. This was right. It was meant to be.
Every doubt fled on the wings of wonder under the velvet softness of his lips. She rejoiced in his firm mouth playing atop hers, invoking tantalizing sensations in the most interesting of places. Tilting her head, she allowed him better access. She parted her mouth, welcoming him, inviting him to explore its depths.
Groaning, Ian trapped Vangie within his arms. Her tentative response vanquished him, shook him, igniting his passion until he was consumed with her. Only her. When her slender arms clasped behind his neck, he was overcome. This kind-hearted, generous woman held no ill will, but forgave freely, giving of herself unreservedly. She felt something too. It was apparent in her fervent, if somewhat untried responses.
Holding her tight, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, he yielded to the pent-up emotion he’d buried deep inside. He conveyed his adoration with his mouth.
A distant thunk intruded—likely from the stables. With one final kiss, he lifted his head then surveyed the perimeter. Two forms lurked under the trees, one on either end of the pond. The first, a swarthy-complexioned man turned swiftly, and in one deft move, leapt onto his horse. He vanished into the trees bordering Somersfield.
Who was he?
The other, a darkly-clad woman hovered in the shade of the grove. Icy fingers of unease clawed the length of Ian’s spine. Lucinda. Even at this distance, he sensed her fuming rage.
