Page 59 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“The price would be far too dear,” she said. She no longer wanted any confessions from him, fearful that she now stood to lose as much from the revelation of his secrets as he. She stood up briskly, shaking blades of grass from her skirts.
She forced a more cheerful inflection into her voice. “Well, sir,” she said, “since it was you who were so ungallant as to make me race, if Furlong doesn’t recover, I think it only fair that you lend me your mount.”
“If you think you could ride Nemesis, milady.”
“Pooh! My mother gave birth to me on the back of a horse. I learned to ride before I could walk,” she boasted. “We Irish are famous for our horse sense.”
“For your horse thieving, too-so I’ve heard.”
When Armande made comments like that, Phaedra harbored no doubts as to the man’s origin. The smug expression settling upon his handsome features resembled nothing so much as what she termed, ‘the Englishman’s superior smirk.’
She scooped up a handful of water and flicked it at him. Unruffled, he wiped the spray from his cheek with the back of his hand, his desire for reprisal betrayed by the devilish light that danced in his eyes.
“And of course,” he drawled, “there is the Irish lady’s fondness for taking a swim.”
But Phaedra, guessing his purpose, tore off running across the meadow. She could hear Armande coming after her, and she had no more chance of outdistancing him than Furlong would have Nemesis.
Armande caught her roughly about the waist and tumbled with her to the grass. They rolled over until they both became entangled in her skirts, gasping with laughter. Armande pinned her beneath his weight and swooped down to capture her lips, the sweet, rough texture of his tongue mating with hers.
Breathless moments later, he drew back. He entwined a lock of her hair until it formed a fiery ring about his finger.
“Sorceress,” he murmured. “Your name should be Circe, luring a man into forgetting all he ever knew of his past after being ensnared by your charms.”
Phaedra’s smile was tremulous. She wished she did possess witchlike powers, to free Armande from whatever dark motives had first swept him into her life-from those anguished memories she feared would one day tear him from her. In the innermostcorner of her heart, she knew this idyll they shared could not last. Phaedra flung her arms about his neck with a fierceness akin to desperation, pulling his mouth down to meet hers, heedless of the hot sun blazing down upon them.
This was her season, hers and Armande’s, a season of fire. But the frosts of autumn and the chilling winds of winter could never be far behind.
The sun was much lower in the sky by the time Phaedra and Armande rode back to the Heath; they shared a quiet mood born of contentment, languorous with the afterglow of making love. As the gates leading to the stable yard came into view, Phaedra made one last effort to smooth back the wildly curling ends of her hair. She feared she had sun burned her face. She wrinkled her nose, wincing.
Her disheveled appearance alone would not have been so bad, but somehow Armande contrived to appear as neat as when they had set out, his white shirt once more buttoned decorously to the top, his hair bound trimly in place. Phaedra found this neatness disturbing; it galled her that the passion they had shared this afternoon in the meadow had left no visible mark upon Armande.
He glanced across at her and smiled. “It is as well we are returning. It would seem you have a visitor.”
He reined in, drawing Nemesis to a halt. Phaedra did likewise with her gelding, staring in the direction that Armande indicated. Another rider was just cantering into the stable yard ahead of them, taking his sorrel mare at an easy loping pace. Phaedra covered her eyes with one hand, squinting in the new arrival’s direction. But she did not need to be that close to recognize the lazy grace with which the man rode his horse, or the familiar tumble of black curls.
“It is Gilly,” she said, her words coming out in a joyful breath of excitement. “My cousin. You remember?—”
“Aye, I remember him,” Armande said dryly. “Though it has been some time since I have had the pleasure of his company.”
“He’s been in France,” Phaedra began, then stopped abruptly. The minute the words were out of her mouth, she realized her mistake. Armande looked as though she had just kicked him in the stomach. He quickly recovered, his features setting into the mask of ice she had hoped to never see again.
“To France?” he repeated. “I see.”
“You don’t see at all. Armande, please, it is not what you are thinking. Gilly left long before we ever?—”
But Armande had already kicked Nemesis in the sides. The stallion eagerly responded, charging off toward the stables, leaving Phaedra in a choking cloud of dust.
Gritting her teeth, she whisked Furlong’s reins, following him. Even as she did, her heart chilled with premonition. Their summer idyll was about to come to an end.
Fourteen
By the time Phaedra reached the stable yard, Armande had dismounted and flung Nemesis’s reins into the hands of a waiting groom. She caught a glimpse of her lover’s tight-lipped expression before he turned on his heel and strode away.
“Armande, wait,” she called desperately. “I can explain.” She slipped out of the saddle before Furlong came to a complete halt. Her toe caught on the train of her riding habit, sending her crashing to her knees, hands out flung to save herself. But she barely noticed the stinging of her palms. Scrambling to her feet, she started to run after Armande as he disappeared beneath the archway which led back to the house.
But a wiry male arm caught her about the waist, halting her roughly in midstride. “Here now, Fae.” Gilly’s lilting voice sounded close to her ear. “Where would you be off to in such a hurry you’ve no time to greet your own cousin?”
Phaedra struggled to pull free. “Please, Gilly. I am glad you have returned, but let me go. I will come back directly.” “Directly, she says, and me gone on her own errand for nigh a month. Nay, I’m thinking we’d best have a chat right now, coz.”
