His hands, long-fingered and strong, spread over her sides, gripping, then easing and moving over her back.
Spreading heat, a distracting warmth that rose even higher, spread even more when he angled his head and deepened the kiss. Eagerly, she pressed closer and followed his lead, tempted and very willing.
One hand moved down to the back of her waist, pressing there, locking her to him. The other glided up to curve over her shoulder, lingered there, close to her throat, warm palm against her exposed skin, then smoothly slid down, tantalizingly tracing the bare skin above her bodice before sliding down and around to close over one breast.
She lost what little breath she possessed, felt something akin to lightning streak down her nerves as he weighed her firm flesh, as he blatantly explored the full curves, expertly caressed, then closed his hand and gently kneaded.
A shudder of pure pleasure racked her; worried he might misinterpret, she pressed closer still, slid her hands from his nape into his hair, held his head steady as she kissed him, and with lips and tongue begged for more.
He understood; she felt his lips curve fractionally, then he accepted her unvoiced invitation, kissed her even more deeply, even more intimately, his tongue surging against hers in a rhythm she’d never known yet at some level recognized.
Her head started to spin; her wits slowly sank into a haze of warm delight.
His hands firmed; the one at her breast fondled, then his clever fingers sought out the peak, and rolled it, squeezed until she gasped through the kiss. Until pleasure bloomed and spread under her skin, like a wave rolling through her, pooling low to pulse between her thighs.
He leaned back against the window frame, drawing her with him; his artful fingers continued to play with her nipple, now tightly furled, while his other hand eased from her waist and slid down, over her hips, over her bottom, caressed, increasingly explicitly fondled, then cupped, closed, kneaded.
Her knees buckled. He held her, helpless, increasingly heated, increasingly wanting. Desire flared and spread under her skin; with hands and mouth, lips and tongue, he fed the conflagration.
She clutched his head, kissed him back, felt an unfamiliar urgency rise-
Footsteps pounded on the stairs beyond the door, coming swiftly up.
They broke from the kiss. She heard a muttered curse, realized it wasn’t hers, albeit she agreed with the sentiment.
Gerrard gripped her waist and set her back against the window frame; stepping away, he grabbed a sketch pad and pencil.
The door burst open. Barnaby stood in the doorway, breathing hard, his color high.
They blinked at him.
He blinked back, then waved. “Sorry-but…” He looked at Gerrard. “We’ve found a body.”
I was out walking-I took the path along the northern ridge.” Barnaby glanced over his shoulder as the three of them hurried along the path through the kitchen garden. “The path cuts through the Garden of Hades-it’s all cypress trees, a small forest of them. I noticed a section of bank higher up the ridge had crumbled away…there looked to be material, and an odd shape, so I climbed up to take a look.”
Insatiably curious-Gerrard had said Barnaby was so. Barnaby glanced back at her. Jacqueline met his worried look with grim determination. “Who is it?” she asked.
Barnaby cast an imploring look at Gerrard, then faced forward. “I couldn’t say. It’s not a…a recently deceased body.”
Her stomach lurched, but she clenched her teeth. They’d had a brief altercation in the studio, when Barnaby had tried to leave her behind. Gerrard had agreed with him, but wisely hadn’t said so; in the end, he’d taken her arm and let her accompany them.
But he wasn’t happy about it.
She set her jaw. This was her home, and if there were bodies buried in the garden, she had to know.
Her heart was thudding uncomfortably, high in her chest; she felt slightly dizzy. Heavy clouds had blown over, turning the breezy, sunny morning into an oppressive afternoon, with the rumble of thunder and the metallic tang of lightning a distant threat. As they left the wooden pergola and toiled up the path through the vines of the Garden of Dionysius, she was glad of Gerrard’s long fingers clamped about her elbow, steadying her.
Barnaby had alerted her father and Treadle before coming to find them. When they crossed into the Garden of Hades, into the dark shade of the cypress trees, they heard voices ahead. Looking up, they saw a group of men standing around a crumbling bank. The head gardener, Wilcox, was there, along with two of his men, armed with shovels. The head stableman, Richards, was there, too, as were her father and Treadle.
She stopped on the path. Barnaby continued, toiling up the slope. Gerrard glanced at her, and waited by her side.
Her father spoke with Barnaby, then turned and saw her. Barnaby looked at her, and suggested something. Her father hesitated, then nodded; carefully, ponderously, he made his way down the bank, Treadle hovering solicitously at his elbow. Barnaby followed a little way behind.
Her father reached the path; pale, a trifle out of breath, he took a moment to straighten his coat, then he leaned-truly leaned-on his cane. “I’m sorry, my dear-this is most distressing.”
She gripped his arm, fingers locking tight. “Who is it?”
Her father met her gaze, then shook his head. “We can’t be certain…” He sighed; raising his right hand, he opened his closed fist. “Mr. Adair wondered if you recognized this?”
She looked down at the fob watch that lay in his palm.
For a long moment, she said nothing, just stared while her lungs constricted and her heart thudded in her throat. Then she reached out-not to take the watch but with one finger to brush the dirt from the engraving on the closed lid.
She leaned nearer, looked. “It’s Thomas’s.”
A rushing roaring filled her ears and her vision went black.
8
She came to her senses, how much later she didn’t know. She was lying on the chaise in the drawing room; Millicent, Gerrard and Barnaby stood nearby, talking in hushed voices.
When she struggled to sit up, Millicent saw and rushed over. “You should stay lying down for a while, dear. You were in a dead faint when Mr. Debbington carried you up.”
Jacqueline glanced up at Gerrard, who had come to stand at the back of the chaise. “Thank you.”
His expression remained stony. “If you want to thank me, stay where you are.”
Millicent blinked, taken aback by his tone. “Ah…would you like some water, dear?”
“Tea would be nice.”
“Yes, of course.” Millicent hurried to the bellpull.
With Gerrard’s gaze on her, Jacqueline made a show of relaxing against the cushions. She looked at Barnaby, standing before the fireplace. “What’s happening?”
Barnaby glanced at Gerrard, then came closer. “Your father’s sent word to the magistrate. Meanwhile, Wilcox and Richards are overseeing the…ah, disinterment.”
A chill slid through her. “Is it possible to know…Can anyone tell when he was killed? Or how?” She focused on Barnaby. “Was he shot?”
Barnaby glanced at Gerrard again. Gerrard sighed and, waving Barnaby to a nearby chair, came around to sit on the end of the chaise. “Perhaps it’s better to discuss it, seeing she’s so determined.”
She shot him a look, but Millicent, taking the other armchair, nodded. “I can see no benefit in pretending we don’t have a dead body in the garden, and that it isn’t that poor boy, Thomas Entwhistle. I’m sure Jacqueline will be more comfortable if we approach the matter sensibly.”
“Yes, precisely.” Thank heaven for sensible aunts. Jacqueline looked again at Barnaby; he seemed to be the one with the information. “Is it known when he…Thomas, died?”
“Only that it was long ago.” Barnaby grimaced. “A year at least, probably more. When was he last seen?”