didn't want to take any chances.
If he somehow planned to trick her, then she had
already won the upper hand. She did know that marriages could be annulled if
one of the parties was underage and consent wasn't obtained from the parents.
Just this last winter a young heiress from Penzance had been returned to her
family for that very reason, and the wily fortune hunter who'd enticed her to
run away with him had fled to the Continent. Now Corisande had her own way out
of their agreement if she needed one, and, no matter if her father performed
the marriage, she could always plead his state of confusion . . .
"I still intend to meet the good reverend, though.
Are we going to stand here staring at each other or get on with—"
"For someone who supposedly swept me off my feet,
you're an abhorrent tyrant." So said, she brushed past him, but he caught
her cloak and yanked her back, pulling her into his arms.
"You're right, I'm not playing
my part very well, am I?" His tone was low and mocking, but there was
nothing contrived about his embrace when he drew her closer, his fingers
brushing loose strands of hair from her face.
Staring up at him, Corisande gulped, his lips so close
to hers that she could do nothing but focus upon them, his mouth hard-looking
and yet quite appealing, and slightly opened as if he were about to speak. But
he didn't speak, instead lowering his head while Corisande's heart began to
beat like a snare drum, lowering, lowering, until his dark stubbled cheek was
flush against hers, his day's growth of beard chafing her while his warm breath
tickled her ear, a most disconcerting combination.
"There, isn't this better?"
His taunting whisper made her tense, but she gasped
when she felt his lips lightly graze the sensitive spot just behind her ear,
sparking delicious tremors all the way to her toes. Without thinking, she
arched her neck, his lips touching her there, too, but still so lightly that
his breath felt heavier than his kiss, and so hot, like nothing she had ever . .
.
"You're playing your part very well, Miss Easton.
So well I'd almost think you might be enjoying yourself, but of course, that
can't be true. I commend you, nonethe—"
"Cad!" Mortified, her face burning, Corisande
tried to push away from him, her fists balling at his chest. But he held her
fast, and so tightly that she could barely move , his
voice filled with caution.
"I wouldn't struggle if I were you. It will only
confuse our young audience."
"Audience?" Corisande froze, craning her neck
to see beyond him. To her horror, a small cluster of children were peeping
curiously from around the corner of the church, a few of the older ones
giggling and shoving each other. But when they realized that she had seen them,
they turned and fled, squealing, in the direction of the school, while
Corisande groaned.
"Must be luncheon time, since they're not at their
books."
"Yes, and if my sisters hear—" Corisande didn't
finish. Donovan's hold upon her loosened enough that she managed to twist free.
But as she hurried toward the house, she knew he was right behind her—the man
surprisingly quick and agile given his size—and he caught up with her at the
front door.
"Allow me."
She merely glared as he opened the door, hating his
false gallantry, hating him even more, and swept inside without a second look.
But again he was close behind her, through the narrow front passage and into
the formal parlor with its corner cupboard that held her mother's carefully
dusted best china and glass and treasured collection of china cows, birds, and
cats.
"Don't stomp so or you'll break something,"
Corisande warned, even though Donovan wasn't walking that heavily. But he
certainly dwarfed the small room, his dark head nearly touching the ceiling,
which made her think how out of place he looked in such modest surroundings.
That only made her angrier, for the tinners with their
miserable one-room huts would consider the Easton parsonage a grand
If he somehow planned to trick her, then she had
already won the upper hand. She did know that marriages could be annulled if
one of the parties was underage and consent wasn't obtained from the parents.
Just this last winter a young heiress from Penzance had been returned to her
family for that very reason, and the wily fortune hunter who'd enticed her to
run away with him had fled to the Continent. Now Corisande had her own way out
of their agreement if she needed one, and, no matter if her father performed
the marriage, she could always plead his state of confusion . . .
"I still intend to meet the good reverend, though.
Are we going to stand here staring at each other or get on with—"
"For someone who supposedly swept me off my feet,
you're an abhorrent tyrant." So said, she brushed past him, but he caught
her cloak and yanked her back, pulling her into his arms.
"You're right, I'm not playing
my part very well, am I?" His tone was low and mocking, but there was
nothing contrived about his embrace when he drew her closer, his fingers
brushing loose strands of hair from her face.
Staring up at him, Corisande gulped, his lips so close
to hers that she could do nothing but focus upon them, his mouth hard-looking
and yet quite appealing, and slightly opened as if he were about to speak. But
he didn't speak, instead lowering his head while Corisande's heart began to
beat like a snare drum, lowering, lowering, until his dark stubbled cheek was
flush against hers, his day's growth of beard chafing her while his warm breath
tickled her ear, a most disconcerting combination.
"There, isn't this better?"
His taunting whisper made her tense, but she gasped
when she felt his lips lightly graze the sensitive spot just behind her ear,
sparking delicious tremors all the way to her toes. Without thinking, she
arched her neck, his lips touching her there, too, but still so lightly that
his breath felt heavier than his kiss, and so hot, like nothing she had ever . .
.
"You're playing your part very well, Miss Easton.
So well I'd almost think you might be enjoying yourself, but of course, that
can't be true. I commend you, nonethe—"
"Cad!" Mortified, her face burning, Corisande
tried to push away from him, her fists balling at his chest. But he held her
fast, and so tightly that she could barely move , his
voice filled with caution.
"I wouldn't struggle if I were you. It will only
confuse our young audience."
"Audience?" Corisande froze, craning her neck
to see beyond him. To her horror, a small cluster of children were peeping
curiously from around the corner of the church, a few of the older ones
giggling and shoving each other. But when they realized that she had seen them,
they turned and fled, squealing, in the direction of the school, while
Corisande groaned.
"Must be luncheon time, since they're not at their
books."
"Yes, and if my sisters hear—" Corisande didn't
finish. Donovan's hold upon her loosened enough that she managed to twist free.
But as she hurried toward the house, she knew he was right behind her—the man
surprisingly quick and agile given his size—and he caught up with her at the
front door.
"Allow me."
She merely glared as he opened the door, hating his
false gallantry, hating him even more, and swept inside without a second look.
But again he was close behind her, through the narrow front passage and into
the formal parlor with its corner cupboard that held her mother's carefully
dusted best china and glass and treasured collection of china cows, birds, and
cats.
"Don't stomp so or you'll break something,"
Corisande warned, even though Donovan wasn't walking that heavily. But he
certainly dwarfed the small room, his dark head nearly touching the ceiling,
which made her think how out of place he looked in such modest surroundings.
That only made her angrier, for the tinners with their
miserable one-room huts would consider the Easton parsonage a grand
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