The Devil's Love (23 page)

Michael laughed. “I will teach you to ride.”

“If you are sincere, Darfield, I want to learn to ride like you. That contraption you call a saddle is positively from the Middle Ages!” she said, gesturing wildly toward Desdemona.

Michael removed his coat and laid it on grass beneath the tree. “I will

teach

you to ride sidesaddle, bareback—any way you want.” He sat on the grass and

leaned against the tree with his legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, peering up at her.

The look in his eye made Abbey nervous. Three months, she told herself.

“The

clouds are thickening. Do you think we should linger?” she asked, looking up at

the sky. Michael unexpectedly grabbed her hand and yanked her down. In a whoosh

of woolen turquoise skirt, she landed next to his muscular thighs.

“We have plenty of time.” He slid a hand around her nape and pulled her toward

him, brushing his lips across hers in slow, deliberate movement. Just as she

feared, the familiar warmth began to spread through her. Self-control was leaking out of her. She would have been lost altogether had not the thought

three months popped into her mind. She jerked away from him and sat back on her

haunches.

“That’s not at all how it’s done!” she snapped irritably, for lack of anything better to say.

“I beg your pardon?” Michael’s surprise twinkled enticingly in his eyes.

“It’s simply not done that way!” she insisted. Certainly Galen had not kissed

her like that, nor had she ever felt weak in his arms as she did in Michael’s.

Not that she had exactly ever been in Galen’s arms, really, but had she been in

his arms, she was quite convinced it would not have compared to this.

“Exactly how is it done?” he asked.

Abbey avoided looking into his gray eyes and being pulled into their depths. She

plucked a blade of grass. “Not like that!” she mumbled.

“You speak with the authority of a woman who has been kissed many times, Abbey,”

he teased.

She blanched at the insinuation and pulled several more blades of grass.

“All

right, Galen did not kiss like that!”

Michael arched one brow over the other. “Galen? Who the bloody hell is

Galen?”

“Indian Ocean,” she said lamely.

Michael suddenly grabbed her hand and pulled her closer, pressing his lips to

her palm while his other hand anchored her to him.

“Did he kiss you like this?” he murmured, and lightly brushed his lips across

hers. The tingling sensation swept down Abbey’s spine again.

“No,” she said stubbornly, and because it was true. Galen’s kiss was planted on

her lips. Short, sweet, and to the point.

Michael chuckled low in his throat. “Did he kiss you like this?” he asked, and

brought her bottom lip in between his teeth.

“N-no,” Abbey said shakily.

Michael dragged her across his lap, splaying his fingers against her neck and

jaw while his other hand traced a soft line down her spine.

“Then perhaps it was like this,” he said as he gently pressed his lips to hers.

“Y-yes. That’s it. That’s how it is done,” she agreed in a daze.

Michael looked at her violet eyes, wide and a little glazed. Desire raged through him like wildfire. Everything he had told himself, every caution his mind could dredge up, was tossed aside like the blades of grass that fell from

Abbey’s fingers. “If this Galen had the opportunity, I can assure you he would

have kissed you thus,” he said, and swept down on her, his lips pressing gently

at first, then insistently as his tongue probed her lips and the soft recess of

her mouth. With his hand on the small of her back he pressed her into him. Her

hands traveled slowly up his rock-hard chest, across every taut muscle.

When she

twisted on his lap, he groaned deep in his throat, and when she timidly touched

her tongue to his lips, Michael went wild.

He plunged his tongue into her mouth again and again in seductive rhythm. She

met him there; her tongue dueled with his and, finally, slipped into his mouth.

Michael moved his hands slowly up her sides until he splayed his fingers

against

her breasts. Abbey did not object; when he cupped her breast and squeezed

lightly, she sighed softly into his mouth and sent him reeling.

He tore his mouth from hers and pressed his lips against the swell of her breast

beneath her clothes. Abbey instinctively threaded her fingers through his thick

hair as Michael swiftly unbuttoned her blouse. He cupped the soft, pliable mound

of flesh before gently pulling it free from her chemise and molding the hardening peak between his thumb and forefinger. Abbey gasped, and when he

lowered his head to swab it with his tongue, she jumped.

“It’s all right,” he murmured as he took her full into his mouth. Abbey clutched

at his shoulders, her fingers digging into his muscles, unconsciously lifting her breasts to him. Her breathing grew ragged; his own desire was mounting at an

alarming pace. If he did not stop now, he never would. With sheer determination,

he tore himself away from her.

“We have to stop,” he muttered as he ran the palm of his hand over the peak of

her breast.

Abbey pulled her lower lip between her teeth and looked at him with such seductive innocence that Michael came dangerously close to losing all self-control. He eased her off his lap and leapt to his feet, walking blindly into the meadow. He sucked in several deep breaths of the cool air before finally turning around. Abbey had buttoned her blouse and was sitting on her

legs, watching him. Her coif, destroyed by the ride and the passionate kiss, was

an alluring, tousled mess around her shoulders.

“You,” he said as he strolled toward her, “are too enticing for your own good.”

He gracefully dropped down next to her.

“That doesn’t sound very good.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest in a casual

embrace. Over the top of her head, he looked out over the meadow. “It’s not very

good for me.”

Abbey wondered what he meant by that but did not ask. She was too swept up by

the feeling of safety and comfort she felt cradled in his arms. Michael pulled a

long stem of grass from the ground and began to chew contentedly. They sat in

silence for several long moments, each enjoying the cool breeze and the comfortable, quiet intimacy.

“Where did you go after you left the ship that summer?” he asked idly.

“To school. In Rome.”

“Is that where you learned to play the violin?”

Abbey shifted uncomfortably in his arms as she recalled the day she had received

the violin. Her father had told her it was Michael’s Yuletide present to her.

“Yes,” she said softly, hoping he would change the subject.

He did not.

“It’s unusual. Most young girls learn the pianoforte, don’t they? How did you

decide on the violin?”

“It was a gift,” she said simply.

“From your father?”

Abbey hesitated. She was so awful at lying about anything. Her aunt had complained time and again that she was too straightforward for her own good. You

are as open as a book, girl. I can take one look at you and know what you are

thinking, and if there is any doubt, you will tell me straightaway, she had said. Abbey couldn’t help it, and in that moment decided the best way to handle

the horrible, cruel lie her father had perpetuated at every moment of her life was to make light of the whole thing.

“Actually, it was from you,” she said nonchalantly, and felt him tense.

“Papa

said you wanted me to learn to play, and at the time, well, I simply pined for

you, so I was happy to learn it. Do you remember when we were aboard the Dancing

Maiden! I thought you were the most handsome man in the world. You know how

little girls are,” she said, then laughed lightly in an effort to demonstrate that it was a little girl’s fancy, nothing more.

Michael was stunned. He recalled Sam saying that Carrington had given her gifts

ostensibly from him, but he had not believed it. “You learned to play for me?”

he asked hesitantly.

“I suppose you could say that, but I think it was the only way to get a headstrong, uncivilized little girl to play anything, if you ask me. I’m sure that’s why Papa did what he did,” she said dismissively. She suddenly sat up and

stretched her arms above her head.

Michael stared at her svelte back. “What else?” he asked cautiously.

“Pardon?”

“Did you father give you anything else… from me?” Abbey’s laugh sounded forced.

“Oh, I think a pair of earrings once,” she said casually, and came gracefully to

her feet without looking at him. “Nothing spectacular—just some amethysts,” she

said airily and strolled into the meadow. Michael clenched his jaw as he watched

her glide across the tall yellow grass. She was speaking of the amethyst earrings that so complimented her eyes, he thought angrily. She had worn them

every day, but he had not seen her wear them since… since she had learned of her

father’s deception. He could not help feeling angry. Whatever had possessed

Carrington to trick him was one thing, but his deception of Abbey bordered on

vile.

He stood up and grabbed his coat. He angrily brushed the grass from it, then

shrugged into it as he watched Abbey stroll toward Desdemona from the corner of

his eye. He turned to see where Samson had gotten off to when a shot rang out.

Michael whirled toward the sound, crouching low as he pulled a pistol from his

boot. Desdemona, for all her laziness, bolted like a young colt at the sound and

collided with Samson, who bolted after the nag. Abbey stood frozen in the meadow, peering curiously toward the woods from where the shot had been fired.

Panic swelled in Michael when she started to move in the direction of the shot.

He sprang to his feet and ran, hurling himself at her. He managed to avoid crushing her, but felt a slash of pain across his chest when they struck the

earth. Ignoring it, he scrambled on top of her, covering her body with his while

he searched the tree line. They were out in the middle of the blasted meadow,

with no cover or protection. Michael jerked around and spotted a large rock

boulder protruding from the ground across the meadow. Beneath him, Abbey was

struggling to rise, but he held her down.

“Abbey, when I tell you, you will run like the wind to that rock and get down

behind it,” he said. Abbey nodded. Michael slowly slid off her back and trained

his pistol on the wooded area. ‘ ’Now,‘’ he said gruffly, and Abbey scrambled to

her feet and ran.

She was crouching behind the rock and peering toward the tree line when Michael

dove in next to her. “What happened?” she asked as she tried to catch her breath.

Michael did not answer as he carefully scanned their surroundings. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. He turned to look at her. Her expression scared

him; gaping at his chest, her eyes were wide and the color had drained from her

face. Bewildered, Michael looked down. A dark stain had appeared on his shirt

and was spreading.

‘ ’Oh, God! Oh, my God! Michael, you’ve been shot!‘’ She shrieked and threw

herself on him. Startled, Michael fell backward as Abbey frantically sought the

wound. He caught her face in his hands and forced her to look at him.

“Abbey, it’s all right, it’s all right, I have not been shot,” he cooed in a vain attempt to soothe her. She jerked her face from his hands and frantically

searched him, her hands fluttering across his body and probing for the wound.

Michael grabbed her hands. Through clenched teeth, he reassured her.

“I’m all

right. I must have landed on a rock,” he said, and struggled to sit up. He had

to dump her off his chest to do it; she landed in a heap next to him. He gingerly inspected his chest. A long, deep gash just under his clavicle was the

source of the blood. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it

against the wound.

“A cut, all right, and a good one at that,” he remarked as he looked around for

the horses. Samson had come to halt at the far end of the meadow.

Desdemona was

nowhere to be seen, and Michael guessed the nag was waddling as fast as she

could for the safety of her stable. He sighed and looked at Abbey, who was

intently studying his gash.

“It’s very deep,” she said, a worried frown wrinkling her brow.

“Yes, I think it is. Apparently we find ourselves in a predicament, Lady Darfield. Desdemona is long gone, and Samson is across the meadow.

You’ll have

to make a dash for him and ride to the house. You can do it,” he added hurriedly

as she began to shake her head.

“No!” Abbey cried immediately, shaking her head so violently that wisps of satin

hair swirled about her. “No, no, no! You are seriously hurt, and I’m not leaving

you!”

Michael glanced up at the darkening sky. A storm was fast approaching from the

west. He grimaced; there was no time to argue with her, especially if their assailant was still training a gunsight on them. “We will both go, then,” he said as he struggled to a squatting position. She started to leap to her feet,

but Michael caught her wrist.

“Pay attention to me, Abbey. On my mark, run for Samson.” Abbey nodded gravely,

and Michael cocked the pistol he was holding.

“Go.” Abbey picked up her skirts and ran. Michael was close behind her, his gun

trained on the tree line. She ran like lightning until she collapsed against Samson’s neck. Michael, fast losing blood, could hardly keep up with her.