Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(82)

As his mouth lowered to hers, she yielded easily, her lips parting. He drew in the taste of her, delighting in her response. The casual kiss deepened, altered into something patient and deeply hungering . . . heat opening into more heat, a kiss with the layered merosity of exotic flowers. Eventually Harry lifted his mouth, his hands coming to her face as if he were cupping water to drink. He had a unique way of touching, she thought dazedly, his fingers gentle and artful, sensitive to nuance.

“Your lips are swollen,” he whispered, the tip of his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

Poppy pressed her cheek against one of his palms. “We’ve had many kisses to make up for.”

“More than kisses,” he said, and the look in those vivid eyes brought a heartbeat into her throat. “As a matter of fact—”

“Eat, or you’ll starve,” she said, trying to push him into a chair. He was so much larger, so solid, that the idea of compelling him to do anything was laughable. But he yielded to the urging of her hands, and sat, and began to peel an egg.

After Harry had consumed an entire pastie, two eggs, an orange, and a mug of tea, they went for a walk. At Poppy’s urging, he left off his coat and waistcoat, a state of undress that could have gotten him arrested in certain parts of London. He even left the top buttons of his shirt undone and rolled up his sleeves. Charmed by Poppy’s eagerness, he took her hand and let her tug him outside.

They went across a field to a nearby wood, where a broad, leaf-carpeted path cut through the forest. The massive yews and furrowed oaks tangled their boughs in a dense roof, but the depth of shade was pierced by blades of sunlight. It was a place of abundant life, plants growing on plants. Pale green lichen frosted the oak branches, while tresses of woodbine dangled to the ground.

After Harry’s ears had adjusted to the absence of city clamor, he became aware of new sounds . . . a rippling chorus of birdcalls, leaf rustlings, the burble of a nearby brook, and a rasp like a nail being drawn along the teeth of a comb.

“Cicadas,” Poppy said. “This is the only place you’ll see them in England. They’re usually found only in the tropics. Only a male cicada makes that noise—it’s said to be a mating song.”

“How do you know he’s not commenting on the weather?”

Sending him a provocative sideways glance, Poppy murmured, “Well, mating is rather a male preoccupation, isn’t it?”

Harry smiled. “If there’s a more interesting subject,” he said, “I have yet to discover it.”

The air was sweet, spiced heavily with woodbine and sun-heated leaves and flowers he didn’t recognize. As they went deeper into the wood, it seemed they had left the world far behind them.

“I talked with Catherine,” Poppy said.

Harry glanced at her alertly.

“She told me why you came to England,” Poppy continued. “And she told me that she’s your half sister.”

Harry focused on the path before them. “Does the rest of the family know?”

“Only Amelia and Cam and I.”

“I’m surprised,” he admitted. “I would have thought she’d prefer death over telling anyone.”

“She impressed upon us the need for secrecy, but she wouldn’t explain why.”

“And you want me to?”

“I was hoping you might,” she said. “You know I would never say or do anything to harm her.”

Harry was quiet, turning over thoughts in his mind, reluctant to refuse Poppy anything. And yet he had made a promise to Catherine. “They’re not my secrets to reveal, love. May I talk to Cat first, and tell her what I’d like to explain to you?”

Her hand tightened on his. “Yes, of course.” A quizzical smile curved her lips. “Cat? That’s what you call her?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you . . . is there fondness between you?”

The hesitant question provoked a laugh as dry as the rustle of corn husks. “I don’t know, actually. Neither of us is exactly comfortable with affection.”

“She’s a bit more comfortable with it than you, I think.”

Glancing at her warily, Harry saw that there was no censure on her face. “I’m trying to improve,” he said. “It’s one of the things Cam and I discussed last evening—he said it’s characteristic of Hathaway women, this need for demonstrations of affection.”

Amused and fascinated, Poppy made a face. “What else did he say?”

Harry’s mood altered with quicksilver speed. He threw her a dazzling grin. “He compared it to working with Arabian horses . . . they’re responsive, quick, but they need their freedom. You never master an Arabian . . . you become its companion.” He paused. “At least, I think that’s what he said. I was half dead from exhaustion, and we were drinking brandy.”

“That sounds like Cam.” Poppy raised her gaze heavenward. “And after dispensing this advice, he sent you to me, the horse.”

Harry stopped and pulled her against him, nudging her braid aside to kiss her neck. “Yes,” he whispered. “And what a nice ride it was.”

She flushed and squirmed with a protesting laugh, but he persisted in kissing her, working his way up to her mouth. His lips were warm, beguiling, determined. But as soon as he gained access to her mouth, he gentled, his mouth soft against hers. He liked to tease, to seduce. Warmth swept through her, arousal flowing through her veins, prickling sweetly in hidden places.