Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

pull away from her. He clasped her slender shoulders, leaned forward, and pressed his lips against hers.

In her frantic desire to secure their final moments together, to lock them forever in her mind, Elsbeth forgot her fear and felt an exquisite tremor of desire sweep through her at his touch.

He felt cold, benumbed, and when her lips parted against his, he could bear it no longer. He jerked away from her and rose shakily to his feet.

“Elsbeth, oh God, I cannot. No, don’t be hurt, it’s not that I don’t want you.” He tried to calm his voice, to reassure her. “I cannot, my little cousin. I have promised to ride with Arabella. Surely, you can see that if I am late, she might suspect. We must be brave, Elsbeth. The end to all this will come soon, I promise you. You must trust me. Can you do that?”

“But, Gervaise—yes, I trust you.” He would not change his mind. She knew him well enough. She nodded slowly. Those wondrous feelings that had scored through her, they were gone now. She wondered if they had existed or if she had simply conjured them up in her pain.

Before he left the stall, he kissed her lightly, passionlessly, on the cheek. She read intense sadness in his gentle gesture. She held back her tears until he was gone from her.

Lady Ann lifted her booted foot and allowed the groom to toss her into the saddle. “Thank you, Tim,” she said as she adjusted the folds of her riding skirt becomingly about her legs. “I do not need you to accompany me, I am riding to Dr. Branyon’s house. Tulip, here, knows the way very well.”

Tim tugged respectfully at the shock of chestnut hair at his forehead and stepped back as Lady Ann flicked the reins on her mare’s neck. Tulip broke into a comfortable canter down the front drive.

The frown that Lady Ann had momentarily banished in the presence of the groom now returned to crease her forehead. She drew a deep breath of fresh country air and pulled Tulip in to a more sedate pace. The mare snorted her gratitude. “You are like me, you old lazy cob,” she said half aloud. “You stay comfortably in your pleasant stall and regard with a jaundiced eye anyone who disturbs your pleasure.” Lady Ann had not ridden in months. She knew that her leg muscles would protest in the morning. But even aching muscles did not seem important at the moment. She felt so very helpless and frustrated, her anger at Justin from the day before turned to despair. Evesham Abbey was a cold, immense, and empty tomb, and she found she could not bear it another moment.

Justin was gone off somewhere, Arabella was very probably also riding, but her destination would be any place that took her as far as possible from her husband. As for Elsbeth and the comte, Lady Ann had not seen either of them since lunch.

It occurred to her as she wheeled Tulip toward Paul’s tidy Georgian home that stood at the edge of the small village of Strafford on Baird, that Paul might not be at home. After all, unlike herself and the rest of the gentry, he could not very well tell someone who was ill that he didn’t feel like taking care of them.

They had not had much time together since Josette’s death. Today she felt that she must see him, just look at those beautiful brown eyes of his, and let her frustration and despair flow away. Oh yes, he could make her forget her own name. She thought about the fishpond, how he had loved her, understood her fear of men, and given her finally a woman’s pleasure. She had liked that very much. She thought it could easily become a craving. She wanted it again and again.

“Now, Tulip, you can rest your tired bones,” she said, turning her mare into the small yew-tree-lined drive. “Even though I don’t see how any bone in your big body can be at all tired.”

“Afternoon, milady.” She was hailed by a sturdy sandy-haired boy, tall and gangly framed, nearly of an age as Arabella. She’d known him all his life.

“It is good to see you again, Will,” she said as the boy limped forward to take the reins of her horse. He’d broken his leg when he had been quite young. “You are looking quite fit. Is Dr. Branyon at home?” She realized after a moment that she wasn’t breathing. He had to be here, he just had to be. She needed him. It was an alarming realization, but true nonetheless.

“Aye, milady. Just returned from Dalworthy’s. Crotchety old bugger broke

’is arm.”

“Excellent,” she said, not caring if Dalworthy had broken his neck.

“Please give Tulip some hay, Will, but not too much. She’s been eating her head off.”

She slid gracefully to the ground and very nearly ran to the three narrow front steps. To her surprise, Mrs. Muldoon, Dr. Branyon’s fiery, fiercely loyal Irish housekeeper, did not answer the knock.

“Ann. What a surprise. Good heavens, my girl, whatever are you doing here?” Dr. Branyon stood in the open doorway, his frilled white shirt loose about his neck, the sleeves rolled up over his forearms, his face alight with astonished pleasure.

Lady Ann stared up at him, not a single word forming in her mouth. She ran her tongue over her lips. She realized he was staring at her mouth.

“I wanted to surprise you, Paul,” she finally said. Goodness, she sounded like a twit.

He smiled at her, still staring at her mouth. “Ah, I’m rude, Ann. Do come in.” He wanted to carry her inside. He then didn’t want to put her down except on his bed. He wanted to kiss that beautiful mouth of hers, touch his tongue to hers. He shuddered. “I’m sorry. But Mrs. Muldoon isn’t here. I’ll make tea for us if that is what you would like. Mrs. Muldoon’s sister has the mumps. Isn’t