Quite what she’d hoped to achieve—by the time she reached the stream, sanity had returned.
Sinking onto a flat rock nicely warmed by the sunshine, she frowned at the rippling stream and decided it had been her vision of Sleeping Beauty, trapped, forced to wait and accept the attentions of whichever handsome prince turned up to press a kiss to her lips…it really had been too reminiscent of her own situation, so she’d done what any sane woman would have—even Sleeping Beauty if she’d had the chance. She’d upped stakes and run.
The problem was that she couldn’t run far, and was therefore in danger of being run to earth by one or the other of her princes—pursuers. On top of that, one knew this piece of forest even better than she.
Worse still, if she was destined to be caught by one, and had to choose, she wasn’t sure which of them she should opt for. In this setting, Ferdinand would be difficult to manage; Edward had been right there. However, regardless, Ferdinand had little chance of sweeping her off her feet and into any illicit embrace. Michael, on the other hand…
She knew which of the two was more truly dangerous to her. Unfortunately, he was the one with whom she felt immeasurably safer.
A conundrum—one for which her considerable experience had not prepared her.
The distant snap of a twig alerted her; concentrating, she heard a definite footfall. Someone was approaching along the path she’d taken from the clearing. Quickly, she scanned her surroundings; a thicket of elder growing before an ancient birch offered the best hope of safe concealment.
Rising, she hurriedly climbed the bank. Circling the thicket, she discovered the densely growing elder did not extend to the trunk of the massive birch, but instead formed a palisade screening anyone standing under the birch from the stream. Beyond the birch the ground rose steadily; she might be visible from higher on the bank, yet if she stood in front of the birch…
Slipping into the screened space, she took up a position before the huge birch trunk and peered toward the
stream. Almost immediately, a man came striding along the bank; all she glimpsed through the elder leaves was a shoulder, the flash of a hand—not enough to be certain who he was.
He halted; she sensed he was looking around.
Stretching this way and that, she tried to get a better sight of him—then he moved and she realized he was scanning the bank, the area where she stood, simultaneously realized the coat she’d glimpsed was dark blue. Ferdinand; Michael was wearing brown.
She held her breath, still, eyes locked on where Ferdinand stood…childhood games of hide-and-seek had never felt so intense.
For long moments, all was silent, unmoving, the heavy heat beneath the trees a muffling blanket. She became aware of her breathing, of the beat of her heart…and, suddenly, a disconcerting ruffling of her senses.
Those senses abruptly flared; she knew he was there before she actually felt him, moving silently toward her from around the tree. Knew who he was before his large hand slid around her waist; he didn’t urge her back against him—her feet didn’t move—yet suddenly he was there, all heat and strength at her back, his hard body, his solid masculine frame all but surrounding her.
She hadn’t been breathing before; she couldn’t now. A rush of warmth flooded her. Giddiness threatened.
Raising a hand, she closed it over his at her waist. Felt his grip firm in response. He bent his head; his lips traced the sensitive skin below her ear. Suppressing a reactive shiver, she heard his whisper, low, deep, yet faintly amused, “Stay still. He hasn’t seen us.”
She turned her head, leaned back into him, intending to tartly tell him “I know”—instead, her gaze collided with his. Then lowered to his lips, mere inches from hers…
They were already so close their breaths mingled; it seemed strangely sensible—meant to be—that they shifted, adjusted, closed the distance, that he kissed her and she kissed him even though they were both highly conscious that mere yards away Ferdinand Leponte searched for her.
That fact kept the kiss light, lips brushing, caressing, firming even while they both continued to listen.
Eventually came the sounds they were waiting for, a faint curse in Portuguese followed by the sound of Ferdinand’s footsteps retreating.
Relief swept Caro, softening her spine; she relaxed. Before she could collect her wits and retreat, Michael seized the moment, juggled and turned her fully into his arms, closed them about her, parted her lips and slid into the honeyed cavern of her mouth.
And took, tasted, tantalized…and she was with him, following his script, content, it seemed, both to allow and appreciate the slowly escalating intimacy that each successive encounter brought. Wrought. A reflection of the steadily escalating desire building within him and, he was sure, in her.
He felt confident of that last even though she was extremely difficult to read, and apparently set on denying it.
Recalling that, recalling his real purpose in coming after her, and accepting that greater privacy would be wise, he reluctantly eased back from the kiss.
Lifting his head, he looked into her face, watched the shadows of emotions swim through her eyes as she blinked and reassembled her wits.
Then she glared, stiffened, and pushed back from his embrace.
Managing to keep his lips straight, he let her go, but caught her hand, stopping her from stalking off.
She frowned at his hand, locked about hers, then lifted a chilly gaze to his face. “I should return to the clearing.”
He raised his brows. “Leponte is lurking somewhere between the clearing and here—are you sure you want to risk running into him…alone, under the trees…”