A Lady of His Own by Stephanie Laurens

know, but I missed his nighttime excursions.”
    “Did you ask Mother Gibbs what he’d been doing in those places?”
    “Yes.”
    When she didn’t elaborate, he prompted, his voice carrying a wealth of compulsion—no, intimidation. “And?”
    She set her jaw. “I can’t tell you—not yet.”
    A moment passed, then he said, “You have to tell me. I need to know—this isn’t a game.”
    She looked at him, met his eyes. “Believe me, I know it’s not a game.”
    She paused, holding his gaze, then went on, “I need to think things through, to work out how much I actually know and what it might mean before I tell you. As you’ve already realized, what I know concerns someone else, someone whose name I can’t lightly give to the authorities. And regardless of all else, you, in this, are ‘the authorities.’ ”
    His gaze sharpened. For a long moment, he studied her, then quietly said, “I may represent the authorities in this, but I’m still…much the same man I was before, one you know very well.”
    She inclined her head. “My point exactly. Much the same, perhaps, but you’re not the same man you were thirteen years ago.”
    That was the matter in a teacup. Until she knew how and in what ways he’d changed, he remained, not a stranger but something even more confusing, an amalgam of the familiar and the unknown. Until she understood the here-and-now him better, she wouldn’t feel comfortable trusting him with what she knew.
    What she thought she knew.
    Recalling her intention in coming to the orchard, she rubbed a finger across her forehead, then looked at him. “I haven’t yet had a chance to work out what the snippets I’ve learned amount to—I need time to think.” She stopped the swing and stood.
    He straightened away from the tree.
    “No.” She frowned at him. “I do not need your help to think.”
    That made him smile, which helped her thought processes even less.
    She narrowed her eyes. “If you want me to tell you all, soon, then you’ll allow me a little peace so I can get my thoughts in order. I’m going to my room—I’ll tell you when I’m prepared to divulge what I’ve learned.”
    Head rising, she stepped out, intending to sweep past him. The trailing skirt of her habit trapped her ankle.
    “Oh!” She tripped, fell.
    He swooped, caught her to him, drew her upright. Steadied her within his arms.
    Her lungs seized. She looked up, met his eyes.
    Felt, as she had years ago, as she always did when in his arms, fragile, vulnerable…intensely feminine.
    Felt again, after so many years, the unmistakable flare of attraction, of heat, of flagrant desire.
    Her gaze dropped to his lips; her own throbbed, then ached. Whatever else the years had changed, this—their private madness—remained.
    Her heart raced, pounded. She hadn’t anticipated that he would still want her. Lifting her eyes to his, she confirmed he did. She’d seen desire burn in his eyes before; she knew how it affected him.
    He wasn’t trying to hide what he felt. She watched the shades shift in those glorious dark eyes, watched him fight the urge to kiss her. Breath bated, helpless to assist, she waited, tense and tensing, eyes locked with his, for one crazed instant not sure what she wanted…
    He won the battle. Sanity returned, and she breathed shallowly again as his hold on her gradually, very gradually, eased.
    Setting her on her feet, he stepped back. His eyes, dark and still burning, locked with hers. “Don’t leave it too long.”
    A breeze ruffled the trees, sent a shower of petals swirling down around them. She searched his eyes. His tone had been harsh. She wished she had the courage to ask what he was referring to—divulging her secrets, or…
    Deciding that in this case discretion was indeed the better part of valor, she gathered her skirts and walked back to the house.

CHAPTER
3

    S WEEPING INTO THE A BBEY ’ S DRAWING ROOM AT SEVEN o’clock, just ahead of Filchett, she fixed Charles, watching