A Comfortable Wife

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“Philip!” Antonia eventually got out, all in a breathless rush. “Put me down! The barrel—!”

“Weighs at least three times as much as you and would have flattened you into the ground.” Philip heard it rumble past them.

His terse words came from directly behind Antonia’s right ear. Horrified, she waggled her toes but couldn’t touch the grass. He had scooped her up, holding her with her back against his chest, one large hand splayed across her middle, easily supporting her weight. He made no move to obey her injunction. She considered struggling—and blushed. The realisation of her predicament sent shock waves to merge with the odd heat spiralling through her.

Men had rushed from all around to slow the rolling barrel. Antonia watched as they brought it under control, then turned it and rolled it towards the stall which would serve the ale.

Only then did Philip consent to set her feet back on solid earth.

Antonia immediately drew in a deep breath. She drew in another before she turned around.

Philip got in first. “You would never have stopped it.”

Antonia put her nose in the air. “I hadn’t intended to try—I would merely have slowed it until the men reached it—then they could have managed it as they did.”

Philip narrowed his eyes. “After it had rolled right over you.”

Antonia eyed his set chin, then lifted her eyes to his. Her jaw slowly set. “In that case,” she said, determinedly gracious although she spoke through clenched teeth. “I suspect I must thank you, my lord.”

“Indeed. You can thank me by coming for a ride.”

“A ride?”

Philip caught her hand. Lifting his head, he scanned the scene. “Everything’s finished here, isn’t it?”

Casting about for relief, Antonia found none. “Perhaps the Punch and Judy—”

“Geoffrey’s got that in hand. I don’t think it would be wise for you to undermine his authority.”

Antonia’s jaw dropped. “I wouldn’t—” she began hotly.

“Good. Let’s go.” Philip started for the booth where he’d left his coat, towing her along, not caring who saw. His jaw set, he swiped up his coat but didn’t stop, tugging Antonia up so he could trap her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Stunned, Antonia blinked free of the masculine web that held her. Her eyes narrowed. “I believe you’ve forgotten one point, my lord.”

Philip glanced frowningly down at her. “What?”

Antonia smiled sweetly. “I can’t ride in this dress.”

She shut her ears against his muttered curse. He abruptly changed direction; in seconds, they were through the side door and into the hall.

Philip halted at the foot of the stairs. “You’ve got five minutes,” he said, releasing her. “I’ll wait here.”

Antonia sent him a furiously disbelieving look. And watched his eyes slowly narrow.

With an exaggerated sniff, she tossed her head and headed up the stairs.

It took longer than five minutes to scramble into her habit but Philip was still waiting, pacing at the foot of the stairs, when she came down. He looked up, nodded, then waved her on.

Her chin defiantly high, Antonia sailed ahead.

The grooms had their horses ready; Philip must have sent word. He gripped her waist and tossed her up, then swung up to his chestnut’s back. He wheeled; Antonia fell in beside him. As usual, they rode before the wind, streaking across his fields.

Philip had decided where to stage their talk. Somewhere they would be assured of being pavate. Hardly in line with accepted precepts, but he was beyond such considerations. He led her deep into the Manor woods, to a cool glade where a stream widened into a pool.

He swung down and tethered Pegasus to a low-hanging branch. A jay shrilled. Sunshine dappled the grass, growing thick and lush by the water’s edge. Enclosed by old oaks, the glade was still and silent—entirely theirs.

Antonia frowned as Philip lifted her down; the catch in her breath, the need to still her heart, no longer even registered. Her hand in his, he strode away from the horses, towards the pool. He was moving far too fast for her liking.

“What is it?” she asked, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. She glanced up at his face. “Is something amiss?”

Abruptly, Philip halted. Jaw clenched, he swung to face her. “As to that, I’m not sure.”

His eyes, Antonia saw, were patterns of roiling grey. Throughout the day, his abrupt movements, his clipped accents, had undermined her confidence—now he was talking in riddles. Taking advantage of his slackened grasp, she pulled her hand from his. Standing her ground, she lifted her chin. “There’s something bothering you—that much is plain.”

“There is indeed,” he replied, his hands rising to his hips, his eyes boring into hers.

When she simply continued to stare at him, waiting, open challenge in her gaze, Philip muttered a curse. Tense as a bowstring, he glanced away, then abruptly turned back. Capturing her gaze, he caught her hand; he lifted it, deftly turned it and placed a kiss on her wrist, on the pulse point exposed by her glove.

And felt her reaction, the quick shiver she tried to suppress, stiffening against it. Her eyes widened but not with amazement. The rise and fall of the lace ruffle at her breast increased.

Philip’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Antonia. Am I seducing you—or are you seducing me?”

For an instant, Antonia was sure the world had spun. She blinked. “Seducing…?” Stunned, she stared at him.

“Seducing.” Ruthlessly, Philip held her gaze. “As in capitalising on the age-old attraction that sometimes flares between a man and a woman.”

Antonia strangled the impulse to repeat the word attraction—she could hardly deny its existence. She could feel it shimmering between them. Dazed, she blinked again. What was he suggesting? “I…?”

“Don’t know what I’m talking about?” Philip supplied, catching her chin in one hand.

The cynicism in his tone stung. Antonia’s eyes flashed. “I wouldn’t know how to begin seducing you!”

“Know?” Philip pretended to consider the point while the tension that had held him all day wound tight. “I don’t suppose you would actually need to know how—you could do it by instinct alone.” Looking down at her, at her wide green-gold eyes, her softly curved lips, he felt the tumult inside him swell. The urge to surrender to it waxed strong—he who never permitted himself to be driven, compelled, coerced, frustrated, aggravated or obsessed.

“Whatever,” he said, his voice deepening, darkening. “You’ve succeeded.” If he took what was offered, would he know peace again? On the thought, he bent his head and set his lips to hers.

And felt, as he had known he would, her instantaneous response. It rose to his touch, to his caress, easily overriding her equally instinctive stiffening. Her unfettered reaction was balm to his bruised ego—at least she was, at this level, as helpless as he. Her lips softened; at his subtle urging, hesitant, beguiling, they parted under his.

Antonia felt the whirlpool rise and snatch her up, so strong she could only ride its tide. Her wits scattered, her senses stretched, heightened by excitement, eager, clamouring for experience. She felt his arms slide around her; as her limbs softened, they tightened and locked, crushing her to him.

Wanting more of his caress, she tilted her head and felt his lips firm. Driven, she pressed closer. The magic of his kiss had her firmly in thrall; tentatively, she returned it, revelling in the shocking intimacy, marvelling at the sensations crowding her mind. The seductive hardness of the muscles surrounding her, the tempting heat of his large body—all were new discoveries; the slow crescendo building within her, the swelling tempo of her heart, were fascinating, novel perceptions.

His strength surrounded her, his kiss intoxicated her. The feel of him, the taste of him, overwhelmed and excited her. Dragging her hands from where they had been trapped against his chest, she wound them about his neck, returning his kiss with an ardent fervour she hadn’t known she possessed.

Philip groaned and crushed her even more tightly to him, her breasts firm and swollen against his chest. He let one hand roam over her hips, urging her against him, moulding her to him.

The whirlpool had caught him, too.

He was too experienced to let it pull them down. Nevertheless, dragging them both free of its turbulent power took all the strength he possessed. When he finally managed to raise his head, soothing her hungry lips with a gentle brush of his, they were both breathing raggedly.

Tense, his muscles locked tight, he waited for common sense to return and save them. Very slowly, Antonia’s lids rose. Mesmerised, he watched as her eyes were revealed, the gold flecks blazing, the green more deeply jewel-like than he had ever seen. Then darkness swam in, dulling the brilliance. Her breath caught; she caught her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes widening with what could only be alarm.

She stiffened in his arms.

Philip felt the panic grip her. “Don’t,” he said, in the instant before she started struggling.

To his relief, she stilled, a frightened bird locked in the cage of his arms, tense and quivering.

Holding her gaze, Philip dragged in a deep breath, his chest swelling, making him unwillingly aware of the softness pressed against it—and took a firm grip on the reins. “I’m not about to ravish you.”