Page 57 of To Catch an Earl

She hadn’t really had time to think, back at the Tricorn, but now, trapped inside a carriage whose masculine scents of leather and horses reminded her so forcefully of Harland, she had plenty of opportunity. Her troubled thoughts were as inescapable as the man himself. Emmy shifted restlessly in her seat.

She’d given herself to him.His naked body had been next to hers.Insidehers.

The entire episode seemed almost too incredible to believe—as if she’d made love with some mystical creature who existed only in darkness and disappeared at daybreak—except her body remembered with excruciating clarity, even without visual corroboration. Her skin felt newly sensitized, invigorated, as if Harland’s touch had introduced her to a new world of sensation. Her heart pounded whenever she thought about him, and not in fear or trepidation, but with a wicked kind of anticipation.

Had last night meant anything to him, or had she been just another willing body in his bed? Emmy wrinkled her nose. He’dseemedinvolved. His kisses had been ardent, almost desperate. His body had been hard and ready for hers. He’d murmured her name in the darkness too. A little of her tension eased. No, he hadn’t been thinking of anybody else.

Last night had changed something inside her, changedsomething between them, irrevocably. She felt as if she’d been pulled apart and put back together in an entirely new configuration.

Still, she was fiercely glad it had been him. No one else would have done. He was more than a match for her. His steadiness, his resourcefulness, even his bloody-minded determination to catch her, spoke of a strength of character she couldn’t help but admire. Those traits that had led to her capture were the same ones she found irresistibly attractive. He’d outplayed her in this, the ultimate game of chase, and she couldn’t begrudge him that. She had nothing but respect for him as an adversary.

Emmy smiled sadly. Alex Harland was just as much a thief as she was. He’d stolen her heart four years ago and never given it back.

His horse drew level with the carriage, and she sneaked a glance at his profile. He looked windswept and sinfully handsome, entirely at ease in the saddle. Although he’d been in the Rifles, not a cavalry regiment, he clearly felt comfortable on horseback. The muscles of his thighs rippled beneath his soft breeches, and the way his hips rocked with the horse’s gait was positively indecent.

Emmy shoved the travel rug from her lap in irritation. It wasn’t fair. He could discompose her without even trying.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, warming her even further. The brass buttons on his greatcoat flashed, and a wicked idea blossomed in her brain.

He’d called her aggravating, had he not? She’d show him.

She reached into her reticule, pulled out the small mirror, and tilted it so the sun’s rays caught the surface. She trained the beam at the side of Harland’s face. The patch of concentrated light danced over his cheek and jaw, then flashed into his eyes.

He shook his head, momentarily blinded, and turned to locate the source. Emmy hastily hid the mirror in her lap. He flashed her a dangerous, suspicious look, like Lucifer brooding on some secret fantasy of rebellion. Her heart pounded, but she sent him a cheerful smile and a wave. Annoying him was still a pleasure.

They passed Alconbury, then Stilton—a village famous for its cheese—and finally Wansford, the last stop before Stamford, and their destination. Emmy recalled an amusing tale her father had once told her about how the village had come by its full name: Wansford-in-England. According to folklore, it derived from a local man who’d fallen asleep on a hayrick and, upon awakening, found himself floating down the River Nene. Panicked, he’d asked a traveler on the riverbank where he was, and upon hearing the reply “Wansford,” he’d asked, “Wansford in England?” The simple man had been afraid he’d floated out to sea and across to another country.

Emmy sighed. If only she could escape her current situation by floating away down a river.

Frothy white flowerheads of cow parsley and cornflowers the color of Harland’s eyes bobbed in the hedgerows but Emmy glanced doubtfully at the darkening sky up ahead. Despite the sunshine, an ominous bank of clouds hovered on the horizon, threatening rain in the not-so-distant future. It wouldn’t be fully dark until around ten, so they had a few hours before sunset, but she hoped they completed their task quickly. She wasn’t dressed for rain.

When they stopped for a second time, at the George Inn at Stamford, Harland dismounted and indicated for the driver of her coach to climb down. She slid open the window as he came to the door of the carriage.

“We’ll go on alone from here,” he said. “Which way?”

She gave him directions and felt the conveyance tiltand bounce on its springs as he climbed up front. It took another twenty minutes driving back out into the countryside before they reached the spot. “Stop here!” Emmy called.

He pulled the horses to a halt, and she didn’t wait for him to help her down. She lowered the step herself and jumped into the narrow lane, glad to be out of the confining carriage. They were deep in the country, far from the town, and the road they were on was little more than an overgrown farm track. Trees flanked the high verges on either side.

“It’s too narrow to take the carriage any farther,” she explained. “We’ll have to walk from here.” She pointed uphill through the trees. “Grandfather’s hunting lodge is just over there, but the ruins are this way. Come on.”

Harland unhitched the horses from the carriage and secured them where they could crop the grass of the verge. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, threw it into the carriage, then followed her as she started along the narrow lane.

Emmy glanced back. His sinfully broad chest and shoulders were sun-dappled by the leaves, and his face wore an expression of resignation. She couldn’t resist teasing him.

“Don’t you have a shovel?” she asked innocently. “A pickaxe?”

He frowned. “What for?”

“To dig up the treasure, of course. We’ll need to move a lot of earth and stones. Father always brought a crowbar. And a series of pulleys.”

He sent her an exasperated glare. “You never mentioned needing a blasted—”

Her smile gave her away, and he stopped midsentence and fisted his hands on his hips. “You little wretch. I don’t need anything, do I?”

“Only your hands and a little brute strength.” She chuckled.

She beckoned him on, leaving the main track to push between the trees and into the wilderness of brambles, grasses, and ferns. She could hear Harland snapping twigs and rustling leaves behind her.

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