Indiscretion by Jillian Hunter Page B

the cairns to avoid talking to Patrick. The moorland air was so pure, it almost burned her lungs to breathe it; she felt afraid without knowing why. Then suddenly it began to rain and she couldn't help thinking about their affair, as much as she resented the man. She couldn't help thinking about what they had shared. Rain, like so many things, reminded her of Patrick.
     
     
    " I can't stay, Patrick. I think my cousin Isobel knows about us. I think she followed me here."
    "Isobel is a silly pea hen."
    "Aye, but—"
    He pressed her against the castle wall, and went down on his knees. Anne was excited; she could not resist him, but she was afraid, too, and even the jackdaws that occupied the castle turrets seemed unnaturally raucous in the afternoon silence. She wanted to tell him what she feared, but they had only a few hours together. Then his head disappeared under her skirts, and his tongue was making a furrow between her flesh; he was loving her with a concentration she dared not interrupt.
    It started to rain—that was another bad omen. There hadn't been a cloud in the sky when they had met on the moor, and it was only afterward, after they'd made love and were getting dressed, that Patrick noticed the bruises on her shoulder.
    "How the hell did those happen?" he demanded.
    She didn't tell him the truth. He had a quick temper; he'd already beaten up half the boys in the village for the hell of it, and she was afraid if she admitted her father had struck her with his walking stick for riding alone, Patrick would confront him. She was starting to believe Papa's assertion that she was a wicked creature, she would never have given herself to Patrick otherwise, but she didn't want him to fight with her papa. The two of them were so different. Patrick had such a liberal view of life, and his father moved in high social circles. Her papa rarely visited town, not since selling his shipping interests. He spent his days praying and judging people. He saw sin everywhere.
    "I fell off my horse," she whispered, pulling on her gown before he could question her further. She was shivering with anxiety, relieved that he accepted her explanation. In those days neither she nor Patrick had done much thinking anyway. They had acted on instinct, and they were fortunate their behavior had not brought them more heartache.
     
     
    I nstinct.
    Anne wished she had learned to ignore her baser instincts, but obviously where Patrick was con cerned she hadn't. Now she was older and supposedly wiser, but it didn't seem as if her experience had done much good. How else had she gotten into this situation?
    She lifted the carriage curtain, her skin prickling as she recognized the recumbent stone circle in the distance. Suddenly she knew where she was. She knew that a sleepy hamlet lay just beyond those hills. If the carriage continued past the ruins of a thirteenth-century castle, it would take them to the manor house where she had lived with her parents, until they had married her off in a relief that was almost comical. She'd had little contact with them after her wedding.
    Her ailing Aunt Mildred and Mildred's daughter Isobel lived there now . As part of her strict upbring ing, Anne had been ordered to spend endless nights at Mildred's house, reading to the woman and keeping her daughter company. But half of the time, after Anne had seen to their needs, she had escaped them to steal a few hours riding her horse on the moor. And once she had stolen away to meet Patrick.
    She glanced at him now. "Did you know we were coming this way? Did you know we were passing by my old house?"
    He looked annoyed. "Believe it or not, I am not responsible for the fact that the main road, built in Roman times, runs past your family estate."
    Nellwyn looked over Anne's shoulder. "Well, bless me, the butler is right. I suppose we shall have to stop."
    "Stop?" Anne bit her lip. "Whatever for?"
    Nellwyn made an impatient gesture. "One simply doesn't gallop past the home of