Pennyroyal Green: The Legend Of Lyon Redmond Part 39

"Ho, Benedict! Faster, faster!" she cried.

"That's not what I said to my horse when I rode him," he said indignantly, which made her laugh.

She rewarded him by slowly hand-feeding him slices of oranges in the house as the sun lowered. They feasted on bread and cheese and fish and wine until they were sleepy and and sated, and then they curled up next to each other on the cream brocade settee, and the conversation meandered from topic to topic the way a bird flits from tree to tree, simply because it can, taking pleasure in flight. She told him about her cousin, the new vicar, and the uproar he had caused, and about Colin's return from the gallows, and about Genevieve and the duke. He told her about some of his travels, leaving out, she was sure, the violent parts and leaving in only the beauty.

He was her best friend. She was again reminded that every single thing, from the profound to the mundane, was better when Lyon was added to it.

But it was dej vu, too. Once again they skirted the things they ought to talk about and avoided difficult questions. Once again their time was finite. Once again a marriage loomed over them, and this time it was Olivia's.

"How did you get a sugar plantation, of all things, in Louisiana?"

"I purchased it from a man who was up to his eyes in gambling debts. Naturally, I got it cheaply."

"And you've been to see it? What is Louisiana like?"

"Steamy. Green. Beautiful. Mysterious. Wild. Very different from Suss.e.x. The funny thing is, there are alligators, but no crocodiles."

"Do you ride them?"

"Naturally. I've a stable full of them. All named after you."

She laughed. "You didn't arrange to have that awful song composed, too, did you? The way you orchestrated the various modistes?"

"I wish I could take credit, but it really was a matter of the stars aligning, and so forth. Didn't I tell you I would one day become a legend?"

"You did, indeed. The song was awful, but Rowlandson at least got your thighs right."

"Did he? How so?"

She dragged her hand along one to watch his eyes darken, stopping tantalizingly just shy of his c.o.c.k. A wanton thing to do, but nothing had ever felt more natural.

"They are very hard and very beautiful."

He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers softly, lingeringly. As if they did indeed have all the time in the world.

"I remember when I could only touch you here," he murmured against her mouth, and skated a finger slowly, slowly along the neckline of her dress, leaving a trail of sparks in its path. "And here."

He tugged at the hem of her dress, and she raised her arms so he could lift it from her head. And when she was entirely nude, he pulled her across his lap and she hooked her arms around his neck. Her eyelids were growing heavier.

"And I dreamed of touching you like this." He skimmed his hand along the inside of her thigh and her legs slipped open to allow him, to tempt him closer. "And like this." He dragged his hand across her belly, and feathered his fingers open over her breast.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and they met it in a kiss that left both of them breathless. His fingers trailed inside her thigh, and then glided through her damp curls, and lingered there, gliding slowly, circling softly, delving.

"Hurry, Lyon," she begged on a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "Oh, please."

Her wish was his command. Soon she was arching in his arms, pulsing with the pleasure of release. And then she clung to him. They breathed together in silence for a time. They were both a little more tired than either wanted to admit, because they didn't want to waste a moment of the time they had together.

He stood and effortlessly carried her to his bed, and lowered her gently. He undressed casually.

And then he lay down alongside her, and pulled her into his arms. She murmured happily and drowsily, something that sounded like his name.

"I will never stop wanting you," he whispered.

But she was already asleep. And all was perfect, because holding Olivia Eversea while she slept felt like what he was born to do.

SHE WOKE THE next morning to his sleepy blue eyes and his slowly wandering hands, and she wrapped her limbs around him, pulling him close.

She took him into her body greedily, her fingers gripping his hard shoulders as he drove the two of them to release.

She fell asleep again. He woke her a few hours later with black, black coffee.

And then they walked, hand in hand, back down to the cove. They stripped entirely without modesty and waded into the water, idly through the pool, floating on their backs, meeting now and again to share a kiss. They were both sore and a bit weary, but the weariness was the peaceful, sated sort that required no conversation.

Before the sun was too high they flung on their clothes again and climbed back up to the beach, hand in hand.

He stopped suddenly. He went absolutely motionless. Then gently dropped her hand, shading his eyes.

She followed the direction of his gaze.

"It's The Olivia."

She was just a suggestion on the horizon, but her masts and sails were stark against the blue of the sky.

"You'd best pack your trunk," he said finally.

His voice was odd. A bit thick. And unnervingly, carefully neutral.

She turned to study him.

And unease settled in when he didn't meet her eyes.

"Lyon . . . what about you?"

He was silent so long her heart started a sickening hammering.

When he spoke again, he hadn't moved at all. He kept his eyes shaded, watching that s.h.i.+p as surely as if he was at the helm himself.

"I won't be returning to England with you," he said finally. Again, very evenly.

Her mind blanked in shock. "But . . . why?"

He turned to her then, his eyes so warm.

"I wanted a reckoning, Olivia," he said evenly. "So did you. I now know what I need to know in order for my life to go on. Do you?"

He was b.l.o.o.d.y testing her, she could tell.

Panic swept in. d.a.m.n him and his tests. She was suddenly tempted to kick sand at him.

"Every relative I have is descending upon Pennyroyal Green. I have an immense trousseau. I'm to get married in less than a fortnight. There's a b.l.o.o.d.y song about it," she said desperately. "My family will be devastated if it doesn't happen."

"Well, if you've a trousseau, you've a legal obligation to be married, don't you? I think unwed women are only legally allowed to own two riding habits. And G.o.d only knows one mustn't disappoint the author of flash ballads."

"I don't like it when you're acerbic."

"I, on the other hand, love it when you use words like 'acerbic.'"

She wasn't going to smile, and then she did, and then the smile faded in the face of that inexorably approaching s.h.i.+p, and her inexorably approaching wedding.

They locked eyes as the breeze finished drying their skin. He reached out suddenly, and tucked a whipping lock of black hair behind her ear, and smiled faintly. It didn't stay there.

"Do you love him, Olivia?"

An enormous pressure was welling in her chest. She could tell her silence went on longer than he preferred. It wasn't deliberate. She wasn't playing a game, or attempting to punish him.

It was just that she very much wanted to tell the truth.

"I could one day. I might one day."

"In other words . . . no. You don't love him. But it would be easy, wouldn't it? Life with Landsdowne? And marrying him would make everyone around you happy?"

She stared at him, searching his face for what it was he wanted her to say, but both his tone and expression were ruthlessly neutral and unreadable.

She considered all manner of retorts.

"I don't know what could be easy about being without you," she said brokenly.

He drew in a long breath at that. And then he pulled her into him and wrapped his arms around her, almost too hard, and tucked his face into the crook of her neck. She held on to him as though she'd been cast into the sea and he was the only rock.

She thought her rib cage might break apart from the pounding of her heart.

She almost thought she could feel his heart beating against her chest, but then it could be her own, too.

There really was no difference.

They clung as if they could imprint themselves on each other forever.

"I will never, ever forget a moment of our time here, Olivia," he murmured. "I'll cherish it for the rest of my life."

She stiffened suddenly. That sounded very like a farewell.

She pushed away from him and stood back, icy with shock. She stared at him numbly.

And again, his expression betrayed nothing. And he said nothing.

And then her icy shock gave way to burning fury.

Lyon knew she was furious. As though he'd antic.i.p.ated it.

He was as white-faced and tense as if he was enduring some sort of great physical pain. But his legs were planted apart and he appeared implacable and quite resolute.

"Get on the s.h.i.+p and go home," he said. "And as for what you should do after that . . . You should do whatever you think is right. Because as you've told me more than once, you do not like to be told what to do. You need to decide for yourself."

Fury swept through her. She was once again that wounded girl who had shoved a beautiful pair of kid gloves back at him and fled, because all she wanted was to be with him forever, and she wanted to know what she should do, and what he would do, and she wanted it to be simple, and she wanted to know now.

She quite simply didn't want to disappoint or hurt anyone, ever again.

She hated him for being one step ahead of her, always.

For making her race to catch up to him.

What if loving you is what I do best?

He'd said that to her the night he'd left.

But he'd loved her then.

And here on Cadiz, he hadn't said he loved her still.

Surely he must.

But as he stood there silently, it was this realization that finally made her turn her back on him and go to pack her trunk.

SHE DIDN'T SPEAK to him at all again until they were again on the beach, and his crew was loading her trunk into one of the longboats.

"This is not a game, Lyon. Please . . . please just tell me what you're thinking."

She had never begged for anything in her life until he'd introduced her to the pleasures of her body and his.

"Just remember your code, Olivia."

He turned and walked fifty feet away from her and stopped. As if releasing a captive bird and encouraging it to rejoin its flock.

Pain roiled through her. She wrapped her arms around herself tightly in an attempt to soothe it.

And then he blurred as hot tears scorched her eyes.

But he didn't move. He stood, legs planted firmly apart, wind filling his s.h.i.+rt and tossing his loose hair, so beautiful and so him it was torture to witness.

But if he could let her go again, she could let him go, too.

She spun about so quickly her skirts lashed her legs, like a punishment.

And she didn't look back.

LYON WATCHED, ABSOLUTELY motionless as his crew helped Olivia into the boats.

He recognized the rigid line of her spine. That delicate little chin angled like an axe blade. So proud, his Olivia. So furious. So palpably hurt and confused he nearly retched, for her pain was his, and hers, right now, was vicious.