In Bed with the Duke(47)

‘Well, you’re clearly going to need both your hands to deal with your bread and jam. So you won’t have one free to carry your valise. I was going to suggest I carry it, so we can make a start.’ She bent to pick it up. ‘It’s not very heavy,’ she said with some relief.

‘And it does have some of your things in it,’ he said, with a funny sort of glint in his eye.

‘Does it? What—?’ She suddenly had a vivid recollection of tossing her stays aside as she’d fled from his room. There were stockings, too. She hadn’t stopped to pull them on. And he’d put at least one of them in his pocket. But—why? It wasn’t as if they could be of any use to him. And he’d already proved that having only one stocking was of absolutely no use to her, either.

Sometimes men were a complete mystery.

‘Come on, then,’ he said, turning and heading out of the barn, leaving her to trot behind him with his luggage.

She supposed he was getting his own back on her for getting a decent breakfast while he’d been mucking out a cow byre. Because it certainly wasn’t like him to behave in such an ungentlemanly fashion.

Not that she could complain, though, could she? She’d offered to carry it, after all. And even if he’d argued that it was his job, as a big strong man, to do so, she would only have pointed out that she was perfectly capable of carrying a small bag for a short while. In a way he was paying her a compliment by taking her at her word and letting her do as she’d suggested.

Or so he would say if she dared say anything derogatory about the way he was striding ahead, enjoying the bread and jam, while she trotted behind him with the luggage.

They walked along in simmering silence past various farm buildings, heading for the track she could see winding across the fields, while he demolished the bread. When the last crust was gone he frowned into the jam pot, then stuck his finger in and swirled it round to get at the very last traces. When his finger was sufficiently loaded, he raised it to his mouth and sucked it clean.

Prudence promptly forgot why she’d been irritated with him as she watched him half close his eyes in bliss. When he set about doing something he did it with total concentration. To the exclusion of everything else.

As if to prove her right, the moment he’d wiped the jar completely clean he set it aside on the top bar of the stile they’d just reached and turned to her with a smile.

‘I’ll carry that now,’ he said, holding out his hand for the valise.

She handed it over without a word of protest. What would be the point? And, judging by the twinkle in his eye, he knew exactly what arguments had been going through her head while he’d been breaking his fast.

He tossed the valise over the stile, then stepped up onto the first rung and swung one leg over the top. When he was safely on the other side he leaned back and reached for her hand to help her over. Since she’d just mounted the lower step his movement brought their faces to within inches of each other. And she couldn’t help noticing he had a smear of jam on his lower lip.

‘You have...um...’ she began, reaching out one finger to wipe the jam from his mouth.

He moved really swiftly, catching her hand and stilling it. And looked at her in a considering sort of way, as though wondering what to make of her. Why didn’t he want her touching his face? Well, then, she wouldn’t do so. But when she went to pull her hand back his hold on it tightened. And the look in his eyes went sort of slumberous. And then he pulled her hand right up to his mouth, dipped his head, and sucked her forefinger inside.

He swirled his tongue round her finger and her knees went weak. She pitched forward, bracing herself against the top of the stile with her free hand.

He released her finger from his mouth and looked at her. In a steady sort of way that seemed to dare her to do what she wanted. So she did. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He tasted of jam. And fresh bread. And outdoors. And man.

She reached for him and clung as hard as she could with the stile between them. And they kissed and kissed and kissed.

When they finished her legs were shaking so much that the stile might as well have been a sheer brick wall. There was no way she was going to be able to get over it.

As though he knew how she felt, Gregory got onto the lower step, leaned over and grasped her round the waist, then lifted her right over as though she weighed next to nothing.

She landed on his side of the stile, breathless and shaky, flush with the solid mass of his body. And yearning for another kiss.

He steadied her, and gently but firmly pushed her away. ‘We need to keep going.’ Then he turned to pick up his valise. ‘Come on,’ he said, holding out his hand to her.