quickly brushed down his mount, measuring out oats without even thinking about it. Just as he finished the task, he heard the thud of hooves, the rider coming at a reckless pace into the stable yard.
Somehow, he knew.
That easily, that fast. Like the same kind of sixth sense that kept him alive through battles like Badajoz and Salamanca. He stiffened, not sure if it wasn't better this way. Over and done with as soon as possible had merit. Like pulling a crusted bandage from a half-healed wound.
Maybe it would be fine. Perhaps all the dread was for nothing.
Somehow he doubted it.
A laugh rang out, light, musical and entirely female. Squaring his shoulders, he strolled out into the stable yard with a slight, practiced smile on his face.
* * * *
She almost fell off her horse in an undignified heap.
The materialization should not have struck her so forcefully. After all, she'd known Carlos Verde was back in England, known he would come to Chedwick soon. It was just this day, this hour, this moment ... she wasn't ready.
Not, Lady Juliet Stather thought in consternation as she reined in her mount, that she would ever probably be really prepared. Rather like having the devil rise from the ground, she pondered darkly as she took a deep steadying—and hopefully inaudible—breath. A handsome one, albeit, but definitely as untrustworthy as sin.
Carlos Verde, Marquess de Santorino, wore his signature mocking expression; a faint curve to those well-shaped lips, a slight rise to his arched ebony brows, just the correct wicked glimmer in his dark, seductive eyes. Raven hair was worn just a shade long as was the fashion and it gleamed blue-black in the afternoon sunshine. He drawled in a smooth tenor without the slightest hint of an accent, “Good afternoon. I wondered how long it would take for our paths to cross. I am sure, of course, you are delighted to welcome me back with open arms, Juliet. I accept in advance your felicitations on my safe return."
Somehow she found her voice after that first earth-shattering moment when she realized he was really there , controlling her restless horse with one hand. “I see the French are as inept as ever with their marksmanship."
Something flickered in his dark eyes.
Touché.
"Since I knew how deeply you would mourn my passing, you can be assured I stayed to the back of the lines to spare you pain.” He was dressed in elegant riding clothes, the usual epitome of style, the tailored jacket spanning wide shoulders, fitted breeches and polished boots obviously new. His mother had said he'd stopped over in London and one would never guess he'd spent the past years in a British uniform.
Except, she could not help but notice he was thinner. Still tall, still muscular, but the classic bone structure of his face was highlighted by his leanness and faint lines by his mouth made him look older than she remembered. He was, as always, devastatingly attractive, nothing would change that, but ... different.
"Ever the gallant, as usual.” Juliet gave him a deliberately false, saccharine smile. “You needn't have bothered to go to such lengths for me."
"For a beautiful lady, nothing is too much trouble, even trying my best to not get shot.” To her dismay he stepped forward and grasped her waist, lifting her easily from the saddle.
The touch of his hands ... dear God, she felt the reaction swirl through her at even the commonplace gesture of politesse as he set her down on the ground. She quickly took a step back—bumped into her horse naturally since it was right behind her—and felt like a fool.
Carlos, damn him, was amused at her discomfort. The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly as he stared down at her. “You have grown up, I see, Senorita. From lovely girl to stunning woman."
She barely noticed when one of the lads discreetly took the reins of her mare. Carlos rarely spoke Spanish but when he did there was a slight husky note to his voice made most women weak-kneed by
Somehow, he knew.
That easily, that fast. Like the same kind of sixth sense that kept him alive through battles like Badajoz and Salamanca. He stiffened, not sure if it wasn't better this way. Over and done with as soon as possible had merit. Like pulling a crusted bandage from a half-healed wound.
Maybe it would be fine. Perhaps all the dread was for nothing.
Somehow he doubted it.
A laugh rang out, light, musical and entirely female. Squaring his shoulders, he strolled out into the stable yard with a slight, practiced smile on his face.
* * * *
She almost fell off her horse in an undignified heap.
The materialization should not have struck her so forcefully. After all, she'd known Carlos Verde was back in England, known he would come to Chedwick soon. It was just this day, this hour, this moment ... she wasn't ready.
Not, Lady Juliet Stather thought in consternation as she reined in her mount, that she would ever probably be really prepared. Rather like having the devil rise from the ground, she pondered darkly as she took a deep steadying—and hopefully inaudible—breath. A handsome one, albeit, but definitely as untrustworthy as sin.
Carlos Verde, Marquess de Santorino, wore his signature mocking expression; a faint curve to those well-shaped lips, a slight rise to his arched ebony brows, just the correct wicked glimmer in his dark, seductive eyes. Raven hair was worn just a shade long as was the fashion and it gleamed blue-black in the afternoon sunshine. He drawled in a smooth tenor without the slightest hint of an accent, “Good afternoon. I wondered how long it would take for our paths to cross. I am sure, of course, you are delighted to welcome me back with open arms, Juliet. I accept in advance your felicitations on my safe return."
Somehow she found her voice after that first earth-shattering moment when she realized he was really there , controlling her restless horse with one hand. “I see the French are as inept as ever with their marksmanship."
Something flickered in his dark eyes.
Touché.
"Since I knew how deeply you would mourn my passing, you can be assured I stayed to the back of the lines to spare you pain.” He was dressed in elegant riding clothes, the usual epitome of style, the tailored jacket spanning wide shoulders, fitted breeches and polished boots obviously new. His mother had said he'd stopped over in London and one would never guess he'd spent the past years in a British uniform.
Except, she could not help but notice he was thinner. Still tall, still muscular, but the classic bone structure of his face was highlighted by his leanness and faint lines by his mouth made him look older than she remembered. He was, as always, devastatingly attractive, nothing would change that, but ... different.
"Ever the gallant, as usual.” Juliet gave him a deliberately false, saccharine smile. “You needn't have bothered to go to such lengths for me."
"For a beautiful lady, nothing is too much trouble, even trying my best to not get shot.” To her dismay he stepped forward and grasped her waist, lifting her easily from the saddle.
The touch of his hands ... dear God, she felt the reaction swirl through her at even the commonplace gesture of politesse as he set her down on the ground. She quickly took a step back—bumped into her horse naturally since it was right behind her—and felt like a fool.
Carlos, damn him, was amused at her discomfort. The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly as he stared down at her. “You have grown up, I see, Senorita. From lovely girl to stunning woman."
She barely noticed when one of the lads discreetly took the reins of her mare. Carlos rarely spoke Spanish but when he did there was a slight husky note to his voice made most women weak-kneed by
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