Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(27)

At that moment, her husband stepped out from behind a tree.

Kate let out a shriek and stumbled backward. For a second, she teetered on the slippery stone, desperately flinging her arms behind her for balance. The basket went flying. Then he stepped close. His arms came about her, and he hauled her against his frame.

He was solid and strong. Her heart thumped against his solid chest; his breaths pushed against her breast. Even after her feet were planted on solid ground, he did not let her go.

“Ned. You surprised me. You were so quiet.”

He looked down at her, his hands on her arms. “How terrible of me. Maybe I should wear a bell, like a cow.”

She pulled away from him—just far enough to look back into his eyes. In the overshadowing trees, they seemed dark, impenetrable pools. There was nothing bovine about him; the shadows rendered him rather more wolfish. Her heart pounded. “Or like a goat,” she said. “You may recall I have aspirations in that direction.”

But he was not distracted. “Where were you just now?”

No. Definitely nothing of the cow about him. That question bordered on dangerous, desolate territory.

“Walking.” Kate twisted the tie of her cloak. “And delivering food to the tenants, actually. We’ve had a good run of eggs of late.” She did not dare drop her eyes from his, did not dare let him see how much his question discomfited her. “Besides, walking is healthful, my physician says, and I haven’t the opportunity to do much of it in London. London is a dirty, smoky place, and the parks are overrun by other people. I don’t much get the chance to be alone.” She was talking too much.

He let go of her waist. “Were you alone?”

“Of course. With whom could I possibly have been walking?”

“I don’t know. I ask only because you jumped from me like a guilty thing.”

“Like a frightened thing, you beast.” She tapped his chest in a pretense of playfulness, but he did not respond. “And what were you doing, lurking behind that tree?”

“I wasn’t lurking,” he said. “I was waiting for you. I caught a glimpse of you when you crossed the upper field. And yes, Mrs. Evans told me you’d gone to deliver some goods to the tenants. But who lives out west?”

A cold awareness seeped into Kate’s hands. It trickled down the back of her neck, trailed along her spine until it lodged in an icy indigestible mass in her belly. Her father had always taken her statements as truth, never questioning them. She’d never imagined Ned would think about what she said.

“Oh,” she said. “Only Mrs. Alcot. She’s getting on in years. I did take a rather roundabout route home.”

He glanced at her. Maybe it was her imagination, but she caught a hint of suspicion in the set of his lips.

“If you must know, I wanted some time alone to think. Much has changed in the last few days.”

“But the Alcots live in the village,” Ned said.

“Not anymore, they don’t.” Kate spoke with some asperity, but it was either that, or let a hint of fear invade her voice. These days, it seemed that all conversations led back to Louisa.

He raised one eyebrow at this. His gaze fixed upon her; she imagined clockwork in his head working as he followed the evidence to the inexorable conclusion. Had he seen her in the cottage? He couldn’t have.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” His words seemed so kind, so solicitous; Kate shivered. Tell him? She would have to trust him, first. And that lay a long way off. Even the story of Mrs. Alcot proved dangerous.

Once he had heard it, he might begin to put together all the strange, unexplained events. After all, Kate was the reason Mrs. Alcot was no longer living with her husband in the village.

“Is there something I should know?” Ned repeated.

“Yes,” she said, and stood up on tiptoes. It wasn’t lust that drove her to place her lips against his, but splintering dismay. She needed time. He reacted with a scalded hiss. His hands came around her waist. And yet when she touched his chest, his mouth opened to her. His tongue met hers. She could feel his body, the outline of his shoulders, the swell of his thigh brushing hers. And then he gathered her up in his arms and pulled her against him. He was hot to the touch, and his heat did nothing to dispel her growing sense of panic. The hard expanse of his chest pushed into her br**sts; her legs fell against his thighs. She reached up to touch his face, and a half-day’s worth of stubble prickled the palms of her hand.

It had started as a kiss given out of panic—the easiest way to put off his questions; the best way to garner time to think. But thinking was the last thing she could do with his mouth on hers. What had started as panic became more. Her lips traced the sum of her fears against his; her tongue met his in sheer desperation. He tasted bittersweet. She could not kiss him, not without remembering the secret, sad certainty of his abandonment. She could not feel the warm promise of his arms around her without knowing that she had to push him away from her secrets.

Her kiss spoke of years of loneliness, and his body had no answer.

She could have poured all her shattered marital hopes into that one kiss, if he had let her continue. But he did not. Those strong arms about her held her in place. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. She doubted he could make out any truth in the shadowed light dancing through the leaves overhead.