Nicholas on his Tamerlane had accomplished that; the thrill of riding with someone else for company was a feeling she’d missed.
She’d noticed the assessing—indeed, covetous—glances Nicholas had thrown The Barbarian. She turned her head and met Nicholas’s gaze. “You’ve fallen in love with this horse, haven’t you?”
His brows rose, then he replied, “Speaking as a breeder, yes. He’s a remarkable find, and I want him standing at the Cynster Stud without delay.”
That confirmed her reading of just how much he now wanted—lusted after—the bay stallion. “Thank you for being willing to risk him in the handover. No matter how much care we take, there will be a risk—an outside chance, perhaps, yet still a chance—that we might lose him to the blackmailer. I truly appreciate your readiness to go along with our plan.”
He shrugged and looked out over the fens. “Our plan holds the promise of exposing whoever is behind this, and that, I assure you, is also important to me.”
She slid her boot from the stirrup and swung around, but before she could attempt to slide down from her high perch on The Barbarian’s back, Nicholas had dismounted and was there to lift her down.
They tied their reins to the branches of two low-growing, windswept trees, then walked to stand a yard from the escarpment’s edge.
The vista was truly mesmerizing.
After several moments of drinking in the view and the peace that surrounded them, without glancing his way, she murmured, “Given Papa agreed to sell The Barbarian to you, you could have objected to the plan, but you didn’t, and for that”—she swung to face him, looped her arms about his neck, and smiled in blatant appreciation—“I most sincerely thank you.”
His hands closed about her waist, and his brows rose in patent hope, and she laughed, stretched up, and kissed him.
She’d intended the kiss to be playful and light, but within seconds, the exchange had plunged deeper into passion’s sea. Hunger rose between them, his as well as hers; she had assumed the night’s activities—bolstered by those of the morning—would have assuaged their appetites, but apparently not.
Too soon, curiosity transformed into need—a burning desire to explore the arena of alfresco lovemaking—and she couldn’t resist the compulsion, the need to know, to experience everything possible with him.
She made her wishes known and gloried when he obliged. His muttered “There’s no one for miles. It’s safe enough” answered the question she no longer had breath enough to ask.
Together, they sank to the thick grass, and soon, she discovered the extra-special thrill of making love in the open air, where the breeze caressed her heated skin and the albeit-distant threat of someone possibly coming across them heightened her senses to a phenomenal degree, simultaneously increasing her awareness of every tactile delight and escalating the pleasure.
The illicit pleasure.
She came apart in his arms, and he quickly followed, and as passion ebbed and their desire cooled, the moment seemed almost innocent. Touched by simplicity.
On a groan, he turned onto his back, taking her with him. She settled slumped upon him and allowed her mind free rein to absorb all that had invested the engagement—the pleasures, yes, but also the emotions.
She could almost envision the connection between them like a twining rope growing stronger—more resilient and less likely to break or to be easily cut—with every bout of physical sharing. She wasn’t at all sure how that happened; she only knew it did.
Glorying in the soft weight of her draped over him, Nicholas lay on his back, his muscles lax, his brain working furiously. It was time, he judged, to speak more definitely of marriage.
He shifted his head and brushed a kiss to her temple. “Once we marry, we’ll be able to do this any time we feel so inclined.”
She stilled; he felt it to his bones. He held his breath and waited, unsure how she would respond.
Eventually, she murmured, “Is that a proposal?”
If he said yes, she might take offense and stubbornly refuse, and then…
He drew in a slow breath and carefully replied, “It’s more an observation on what might be. Not a formal proposal as such.”
“I see.”
Unable to interpret her tone and, surprisingly, touched on the raw, he acerbically added, “Trust me when I say that when I propose—and yes, I very much intend to do so formally—you’ll be left in no doubt whatsoever that I am, indeed, proposing.”
Addie raised her head and drew back enough to study his eyes. Obviously, his desire to marry her hadn’t waned. She’d thought it might after several intimate encounters; indeed, she had assumed it would. Instead…what she saw in the warm brown of his eyes assured her that, in the same way her own fascination with him and their connection had grown with each excursion into intimacy, so, too, had his hunger for her.
A shiver of responsive need tracked down her spine. She quelled it, along with the frighteningly powerful compulsion to pursue his comment, to probe and prod and see where it led…
She drew in a quick breath and, searching his eyes, said, “I agreed that I would consider marrying you, and I will. When the time comes.”
He nodded. “And when that time does come, as it will”—his arms tightened about her possessively, then eased—“trust me, you’ll know how you want to respond.”
