CHAPTER 40: CHAPTER FORTY

The carriage ride was long, dusty, and vibrating with an unspoken tension. For three hours, Ines had sat opposite the two men, pretending to be absorbed in the passing scenery. Rowan was reading his estate reports. Carcel, however, had not. He had stared, grimly, out his own window, looking for all the world like a man being marched to his own execution. It was, Ines had thought, utterly delightful.

When they finally arrived, the Clifford family’s hunting grounds were exactly as she’d imagined: sprawling, wild, and smelling faintly of horses and damp earth.

Ines stepped down from the carriage, her body stiff from the ride. She smoothed the skirts of her violet traveling dress, a deep, lovely color she had chosen with great care. She adjusted her hat, making sure the small, fashionable brim was angled just so.

A man was striding toward them, his arm raised in a boisterous wave. He was tall, blond, and had a smile so wide and cheerful it seemed to occupy his entire face. This, she was sure, must be Weston Clifford.

He is handsome, Ines thought, her gaze assessing him with a new eye. Yes, very handsome. In that loud, uncomplicated, golden-retriever-in-a-cravat sort of way.

Her gaze then slid, inevitably, to the man descending from the carriage behind her.

Carcel. He was dark, his shoulders were broad, and his jaw was set in a line of such profound, brooding irritation that it made her heart do a small, ridiculous flip.

But Carcel, her mind concluded, a thrill of pure, secret satisfaction warming her, is far more handsome.

A tiny, inappropriate giggle escaped her. She muffled it, quickly, as a small, polite cough into her gloved hand.

"Rowan! Carcel! You devils!" Weston boomed, his voice carrying on the wind. "I didn’t know you were even in town, Carcel!"

Carcel, who looked as if he would rather be facing a firing squad, managed a tight, stiff smile. He clasped the man’s arm, a brief, masculine hug that was more of a collision. "Weston. I came for business."

"Business! Always business with you!" Weston laughed, not at all offended. He turned, his grin widening, to Rowan.

"Weston, you bastard," Rowan chuckled, and the two men embraced in a much louder, back-slapping hug that seemed to shake the dust from their coats.

"Rowan, it’s been too long!"

"Likewise, Champ," Rowan replied, grinning.

Weston’s bright, sunny gaze finally landed on Ines. He performed an admirable, quick recovery, his face softening into one of polite, uncomplicated admiration. "And this must be the lovely Lady Ines. An honor."

Ines, the perfect, well-bred lady, performed a flawless curtsy. He bowed deeply.

"Right then!" Weston said, rubbing his hands together as if he were about to eat a large meal. "Everyone is waiting for you."

Rowan and Carcel exchanged a confused look. "Everyone?" Rowan asked.

"Of course! I couldn’t just have you two grim-faced fools," Weston grinned, clapping Carcel on the back. Carcel looked as if he had been struck. "I invited some of our old friends, too. Come, come! The shooting is about to start."

"Everyone," it turned out, meant a dozen loud, hearty men Ines had never met, and, to her profound lack of surprise, five women she actively avoided.

The scene was precisely as she’d predicted. The men were on a wide, grassy field, their colorful coats bright against the green. The shooting of their rifles was a sharp, unpleasant sound.

The ladies, meanwhile, were gathered at a "safe distance" under a large, striped pavilion. A table was laden with teacups, silver trays of biscuits, and tiny, frosted cakes.

Ines sat at the table, sipping her tea. It was, as she had expected, weak and lukewarm. The gossip, however, was piping hot.

"...and so I told him, my dear," Lady Markham, Weston sister, was saying, her voice a low, carrying whisper, "if he truly loved her, the diamonds would have been reset before the wedding, not after..."

The other women tittered, their fans fluttering.

They did not speak to Ines. They did not look at her. They offered her a cake, once, and when she politely declined, they had simply... forgotten her. She was the Icy Lady. The strange, silent sister of the Duke. She was, as far as they were concerned, part of the scenery.

Fine, Ines thought, her lips a thin, unbothered line. I prefer it. It leaves me free to work.

Her gaze was not on the ladies. It was on the field. It was, specifically, on one man.

She watched Carcel. He stood apart from the other men, who were laughing and boasting. He was, as always, quiet. He lifted his rifle, his body settling into a stance of perfect, coiled stillness. He was not wearing his coat. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up tois elbows, revealing strong forearms. He settled the butt of the rifle against his broad shoulder. His brow was furrowed in concentration. He was focused. He was... magnificent.

He fired. The CRACK of his rifle was louder, sharper than the others. The distant clay target exploded into a puff of dust.

He is, she noted, with a cool appreciation, an excellent shot.

After the first round, the men returned to the pavilion, loud, sweaty, and thirsty. The entire atmosphere of the ladies’ table changed. The bored expressions vanished, replaced by bright, false smiles.

As usual, they flocked to Rowan.

"Oh, Your Grace! You were marvelous!"

"You must be so terribly thirsty, Your Grace! Let me pour you some lemonade!"

Ines was already tired of the same, predictable, ridiculous routine. She felt a familiar headache beginning to throb at her temples. She needed to escape.

She stood up.

She saw Carcel, standing alone by the water barrel, wiping his face and neck with a handkerchief. He glanced at her, just once. His eyes were dark, wary, and he looked away immediately.

Good. She had his attention.

She made her move. She walked to Rowan, her parasol held high, clearing a path for herself through the fluttering fans and pastel silk dresses.

"Rowan," she said, her voice low and, she hoped, just a little weak.

He turned, his face flushed and happy from the sport. "Ines! Are you enjoying yourself? You see? It is not so bad!"

She put a gloved hand to her temple, a perfect gesture of delicate, feminine frailty. "I... I need to rest my head," she said, her voice a soft murmur. "I am feeling a bit... faint."

Rowan’s happy expression vanished, replaced instantly by one of brotherly concern. "Faint? Is it your heart? Do you need the doctor? Should I call for the carriage?"

"No, no," she said quickly, touching his arm. "It is not my heart. It is just... the sun. It is too bright. I just need a quiet room. To lie down. Just for a moment."

"Of course," Rowan said, his voice full of worry. "Go to the house. Weston will have a maid show you to a room. You rest."

"Thank you, brother," she whispered, giving him a weak, grateful smile. She turned and began the long, slow, faint walk toward the grand house.

Carcel watched her go. He watched her walk away, her back straight, her violet dress a defiant speck of color against the green lawn.

Faint?

He didn’t believe it for a second. She was up to something.

"Another round, Carcel?" Weston clapped him on the back, making him jump.

Carcel needed to get away. He needed to think. He needed, perhaps, to see just what she was up to.

He handed his rifle to Weston. "I need more bullets," he lied, his voice flat. "I seem to have run out."

Weston pointed. "Of course! Just in the shed, over there. By the stables. I’ll have a man bring a box out for you..."

"No," Carcel said, his voice firm. He had to be alone. "I’ll get them myself. I need to... stretch my legs."

He walked away from the noise, his long strides eating up the ground. The shed was small, stone, and blessedly quiet. He was grateful for the solitude. He just needed a moment. A moment to breathe air that wasn’t filled with her perfume. A moment to think of something other than her.

He reached the shed. It was quiet, half-hidden by a large oak tree. He pushed open the heavy, unpainted wooden door.

It was dim inside, smelling of gun oil, old leather, and dry, dusty hay.

And she was there.

She was standing by a single, small, dusty window, bathed in a sliver of light, as if she had been waiting for him.

He stopped dead in the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. His voice was not surprised. It was low, and rough, and suspicious. "I thought you were faint."

Ines turned. Her face was not pale. She was not weak. Her eyes were bright, sparkling with a light he was beginning to find deeply, deeply alarming. And she was smiling. It was not a polite, social smile. It was a slow, satisfied, predatory smile.

"I was," she said, her voice a soft, silken purr that did things to his spine he did not want to acknowledge. "But then I overheard Weston telling you to go to the shed."

She had lied. She had lied to Rowan. She had faked an illness. She had come here. And she had hunted him.

He should have been furious. He was furious. But he was also, to his absolute, profound horror, impressed. And aroused.

"Ines," he growled. It was a warning. His final warning. "Go back to the house. Now."

She did not go back. She did the opposite.

She walked toward him, her violet skirts whispering on the dusty, stone-flagged floor. She did not stop until she was standing directly in front of him, so close he could see the tiny gold flecks in her hazel eyes.

She lifted her hands.

He thought she might slap him. He almost wished she would. It would make things simpler.

She did not. She slowly, deliberately, with a confidence that was entirely new and utterly devastating, wrapped her arms around his neck. Her gloved fingers tangled in the hair at his nape, sending a jolt of pure fire straight down his back.

He froze. He was a statue. His hands, his large, capable, empty hands, were frozen at his sides. He could not, would not, touch her.

She pulled his head down. Her gaze was locked on his mouth.

"Kiss me, Carcel," she whispered.