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a large holding supporting numerous families.”
    He glanced at her. “That’s in the immediate area around the village. If you range further out, there are more, but the three houses I mentioned are…associated with the village, so to speak. All on those estates would consider Colyton their village.”
    She nodded. “That’s what I wanted to know. Those are the people we need to draw in first.” And one of those houses would most likely be “the highest house, the house of the highest” in which the Colyton treasure was concealed.
    Ballyclose Manor sounded like the place to start their search. She was tempted to ask more, to confirm that the Fortemain family, or whoever had lived at Ballyclose, had been the social leaders of the village long ago, but roofs came into view, lining the road ahead.
    “Seaton.” As he checked his pair, Jonas gave himself a mental pat on the back for having managed to sit next to Miss Emily Beauregard’s slender form for nearly half an hour without triggering any frosty setdown—indeed, even better, she’d started to let her barriers—those she’d erected against him—come down.
    They were still there, just not as heavily fortified as they had been; on a physical level he still had a challenge before him.
    But his strategy for “interrogating” her seemed to be working. He’d reasoned that if he simply gave her the chance—horses and Cynsters notwithstanding—she would ask him things she wanted to know.
    While her interest in the larger houses of the village might conceivably be due to her focus on expanding the inn’s clientele, he didn’t think that was the case; her mention of that had been an afterthought, an excuse for her question.
    So she was interested in those houses—or one of those houses—for some reason. If he could restrain himself for the rest of the afternoon, who knew what he might learn?
    He guided the curricle to Finch’s warehouse. Drawing his horses to a stamping halt in the yard before the heavy doors, he tossed the reins to a young lad who came running, and jumped down.
    The horses had had the edge taken from their energy. He could let them stand for at least a little while.
    Rounding the curricle, he saw his passenger was about to attempt to jump to the ground. “No. Wait.”
    Poised on the edge of the curricle’s raised floor, gloved hands locked on either side of the frame, she looked up.
    He grasped her waist and lifted her down—she tried to jump as he did, throwing him off balance.
    She collided with him, breast to chest. Her weight was nowhere near enough to topple him; he staggered back a step, then halted.
    With Miss Emily Beauregard in his arms.
    Plastered against him.
    For one finite moment, time stood still.
    His brain seized; his heart stuttered, then stopped.
    She wasn’t breathing, either.
    She was gazing up at him, and he was lost in her eyes…
    Sensation returned in a rush. Warmth—heat. His heart kicked to life, thudding altogether too hard.
    His fingers flexed, gripping her waist.
    Just as she dragged in a huge breath—and her breasts pressed into his chest.
    Just as he realized what would inevitably happen—was inevitably happening—with her warm, soft curves pressed so temptingly against him.
    Just as he remembered that he didn’t want to rattle her into taking flight.
    Jaw setting, he forced his arms to work and set her back on her feet, a good half yard of clear air between them.
    She dragged in a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry.”
    I’m not. He bit his tongue, then managed to growl, “Never mind.” Manners raised their heads. “Are you all right?”
    No! Her senses were scrambled and her wits had flown. Em managed a nod. Her cheeks were flaming; she didn’t want to think what she must look like. She still felt hot all the way down her front—wherever her body had touched his—an acutely unnerving sensation.
    She was certainly unnerved. Drawing in another tight breath, too shallow to steady her giddy