Chapter Thirteen
Anna raced through time.
The forest she’d known as a girl underlaid the matured trees and grasses of the present like an artist’s sketch visible through water paints. Grouse startled from the underbrush up ahead. The babbling of the creek to her right grew louder.
The forest was alive, and that life pricked her skin, lightened her flight, tore away at the caution and bitterness that held her in its grasp.
How many times had she run her fingers across that great boulder’s surface? Climbed that fallen log up into the neighboring tree? Counted the rings on that stump?
When Anna thought of home, it was never the small apartments above her father’s shop in London or her aunt’s house in Widmore. It was this forest, with the wind whistling through the trees, with . . . Jack.
She cocked her head, listening for his bearish pursuit. He’d accused her many times of having a secret route to the creek. There was no secret. Only his flawed thinking. Jackson played the game, racing at top speed through the brush and making a racket so loud, a child could locate him.
She played her opponent. Following his approach, throwing rocks to make him believe she was farther back. He always turned back, always was more interested in catching her off guard than winning the race.
Listening again, she concluded there was no sound of footfalls ahead or behind.
He learned to quiet his steps.
But not his tracks.
Anna smiled, excitement bubbling in her blood. The creek was visible through the trees up ahead; a quick dash and she’d be there.
But if he wasn’t making a beeline to the creek, that meant he thought to take on the role of hunter.
Foolish man.
Anna could hardly resist the challenge.
She made quick work building a rudimentary teepee of sticks, placing a large rock precariously over the top. Another combination of carefully placed sticks would set the whole structure toppling with the right pressure.
Finished, she grabbed a palm-sized rock and threw the stone into the canopy of trees some feet away before scrambling into a heavy thicket.
Bits of broken sticks and sharp branches scraped at her exposed arms, but Anna ignored the pain and hid herself the best she could, knowing her white dress would be easily seen.
That was the right decision because not ten seconds later, Jackson crept into view, his steps light and his gaze sweeping the underbrush . . . instead of observing the trap at his feet.
Three steps away.
Anna extricated herself from the brush.
Two.
She circled around from behind.
One.
He kicked the sticks, and the rock thumped to the ground.
As he whirled at the sudden sound, she sprang and pushed him to the side. She ran full tilt toward the creek.
Cursing echoed out behind her, and the heaviness of boots and a bigger frame came crashing through the trees and closing the distance.
Ten feet between her and victory.
Five.
Two.
Fingers brushed her arm as she jumped the last foot and landed in a crouch on the creek bank.
Jackson appeared a second later, his shirt’s sleeve ripped at the shoulder, his hair in mangled disarray. His breathing was ragged, his gaze wild.
She smiled. “I win again, Duke.”
“Always.” He fell back dramatically on the grass, his chest rising and falling with excitement and exertion. “I knew I shouldn’t have left my position. I was lying in wait up ahead.”
She’d known. Had seen the broken branches where he’d carelessly walked.
“You forget, Duke, how many times I crossed into Grandfellow lands, and how many poaching snares the groundskeeper set.” The old man had taken his duty to extremes.
Anna had once tripped a bait trap that would have taken off her leg if she hadn’t been paying attention.
She’d become very good at seeing traps before they sprung.
“Ones I had to avoid, most of the time at night.” And one of the reasons they’d always met closer to Grandfellow Hall; she hadn’t wished the duke’s son to wander too far into the woods and lose a limb.
Jackson raised up on his elbows, his eyes wide with understanding. “There was no hope of me catching you, then?”
“None whatsoever.”
He fell back to the ground with a sigh and threw his arm over his eyes. “Trained like an assassin since childhood. How can I compete with that?”
“Stop competing?”
An eye peeked out from under his arm. “And miss out on my sound trouncing? Never—wait.” His arm fell away as he sat up suddenly. “How is it you can shift through these woods like some incorporeal wraith, but you can’t manage the London streets with directions?”
“God has a sense of humor?”
His laugh was full, deep, a rich baritone that made something in her lower belly clench.
Her gaze snagged on his lips. They were full for a man, with a deep bow in the lower lip, almost as deep as the cleft in his chin. With delicately curved brows and thick lashes, he’d be considered pretty if it weren’t for the square line of his jaw.
He’d always been a combination of soft and hard: the pampered son of a duke, but one who braved the woods at night. A young man with refined tastes but who never said no to the cheap meat pies she’d buy at the market stall every week.
A man with his finger on the pulse of the upper echelons of society.
The same man who’d once looked at her as if she—outspoken and as stubborn as a mule—were his own personal sun.
His gaze caught hers, and his humor faded.
She swallowed hard, her heart turning over in her chest. He wore that same look now, as if everything else in the world had faded away.
Another crack formed in the wall around her heart. One she could not tolerate.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she ordered.
“Like what?” he whispered, his body leaning forward ever so slightly.
Anna herself couldn’t resist the pull. Her body drew closer against her will. She ground her teeth, the pain keeping her from closing the distance. “Like I mean something to you.”
“‘Something,’” he said, his breath tickling her skin. “Allow me to clarify something, my lady.” His lips brushed hers. “You never meant something to me.”
His hand came up to tip back her chin, but it was his eyes—blue and piercing—that held her captive.
“Once upon a time, you meant everything.”
His lips pressed hers, and Anna choked back a whimper at the explosive contact.
No, it wasn’t his kiss that had her insides a riot of sensation.
“Everything.”
“You meant everything.”
His words echoed around her, through her, deep into her soul, where not even she would accept the lies of her claimed indifference.
He nipped at her lower lip, and she gasped.
And again as his tongue slid across hers.
He tasted of ginger tea and lemon scone: spicy and tart. Of late nights and stolen moments. Of lengthy pursuits and sweet victories.
He tasted like the Jack of her memories.
But the man touching her, weaving his fingers through her hair to change the angle of the kiss, was more potent than ever.
When she placed her hands on his chest to push him away, she found herself pulling him closer.
His tongue twined with hers, thrusting and parrying in a sensual duel. It was another battle, one that had no clear leader.
She met him thrust for thrust, her nails digging into his chest when he moaned low in his throat.
The huskiness in his tone undid her. Made her ache. She scooted closer on her knees, her hips meeting his in an awkward bump.
The ache grew. Deepened.
Madness overtook her. A frenzy that had her fingers grasping her breasts through her dress. Had one hand trailing down the cotton across her stomach . . . to rub the ache between her legs.
She fumbled for a moment, first rubbing without thinking, then in short, quick circles.
Yes!
The madness hit a fever pitch.
She tore her mouth away to give a cry of surprise.
Her stomach twisted, and her hips opened more fully, preparing for something Anna didn’t quite grasp. Her other hand joined her first, bunching the cotton between her legs—
Hands snatched her wrists and pulled her to her feet, Jackson along with her. “Don’t.” The look in his eyes was wild. Feral.
Heat pulsed between her legs.
His eyes darkened, as if he knew. He licked his lips, his tone little more than a growl when he said more gently, “Let me.”
She could only nod and bite her lip to restrain another moan as he sank back to his knees. As his gloveless hands found her bare ankle. As his fingers met the laced bottom of her drawers and trailed up her calf, passed her knee, up the back of her thigh.
Her dress was up around her hips now. The shock of air through the thin cotton should have chilled her. She wasn’t cold.
She was on fire.
His fingers kneaded her flesh through the fabric of her drawers. First the back, his thumb skimming the underside of her arse. Then the front, inching higher and higher until his fingers hooked inside her waistband and tugged them low. Lower. Exposing her most private places.
“Heavens,” he breathed. The look on his face: spiritual. “You are lovely.”
The tone of his voice: devout.
Heat flushed her cheeks. She was a laborer’s daughter; she had no doubt of what he intended to do. But the way he kneeled before her, gazing at her as if she were a queen to be celebrated, a saint to be worshipped.
It was sweet torture.
She didn’t want sweet.
“Kiss me or else, Duke—”
She wasn’t prepared for the rush of heat, for the intimate slide of his tongue between her thighs.
For the loss of everything.
She gripped his head as she threw back her own.
The buildup to her pleasure was swift, pounding, a cascade that swept her into a series of short gasps and wanton bucks of her hips.
The pleasure was overwhelming. Dizzying.
She was falling back.
But he was there to catch her as he stood, bringing her with him, and captured her mouth in a bruising kiss.
Bruising and claiming.
Caution flicked through her mind, but pleasure had her in its grasp. With every soft caress, every possessive nip of his lips, the warning faded.