Harry had never been so ravenous. But he wanted to wash and shave, and put on fresh clothes. He felt out of his element, needing to recapture a measure of his usual equanimity. “I’ll wash first.”
“Very well.” She turned to go to the kitchen.
“Poppy—” He waited until she glanced back at him. “Last night . . .” he forced himself to ask, “. . . after what we . . . was it all right?”
Comprehending his concern, Poppy’s expression cleared. “Not all right.” She paused only a second before adding, “It was wonderful.” And she smiled at him.
Harry entered the cottage kitchen area, which was essentially a portion of the main room, with a small cast-iron cookstove, a cupboard, a hearth, and a pine table that served both as workstation and dining surface. Poppy had set out a feast of hot tea, boiled eggs, Oxford sausages, and massive pasties—thick flaky crusts wrapped around fillings.
“These are a Stony Cross specialty,” Poppy said, gesturing to a plate bearing two hefty baked loaves. “One side is filled with meat and sage, and the other side is filled with fruit. It’s an entire meal. You start with the savory end, and . . .” Her voice faded as she glanced up at Harry, who was clean and dressed and freshly shaven.
He looked the same as always, and yet intrinsically different. His eyes were clear and unshadowed, the green irises brighter than hawthorn leaves. Every hint of tension had vanished from his face. It seemed as if he had been replaced by a Harry from a much earlier time in his life, before he’d mastered the art of hiding every thought and emotion. He was so devastating that Poppy felt hot flutters of attraction in her stomach, and her knees lost all their starch.
Harry glanced down at the oversized pastry with a crooked grin. “Which end do I start with?”
“I have no idea,” she replied. “The only way to find out is to take a bite.”
His hands went to her waist, and he turned her gently to face him. “I think I’ll start with you.”
As his mouth lowered to hers, she yielded easily, her lips parting. He drew in the taste of her, delighting in her response. The casual kiss deepened, altered into something patient and deeply hungering . . . heat opening into more heat, a kiss with the layered merosity of exotic flowers. Eventually Harry lifted his mouth, his hands coming to her face as if he were cupping water to drink. He had a unique way of touching, she thought dazedly, his fingers gentle and artful, sensitive to nuance.
“Your lips are swollen,” he whispered, the tip of his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
Poppy pressed her cheek against one of his palms. “We’ve had many kisses to make up for.”
“More than kisses,” he said, and the look in those vivid eyes brought a heartbeat into her throat. “As a matter of fact—”
“Eat, or you’ll starve,” she said, trying to push him into a chair. He was so much larger, so solid, that the idea of compelling him to do anything was laughable. But he yielded to the urging of her hands, and sat, and began to peel an egg.
After Harry had consumed an entire pastie, two eggs, an orange, and a mug of tea, they went for a walk. At Poppy’s urging, he left off his coat and waistcoat, a state of undress that could have gotten him arrested in certain parts of London. He even left the top buttons of his shirt undone and rolled up his sleeves. Charmed by Poppy’s eagerness, he took her hand and let her tug him outside.
They went across a field to a nearby wood, where a broad, leaf-carpeted path cut through the forest. The massive yews and furrowed oaks tangled their boughs in a dense roof, but the depth of shade was pierced by blades of sunlight. It was a place of abundant life, plants growing on plants. Pale green lichen frosted the oak branches, while tresses of woodbine dangled to the ground.
After Harry’s ears had adjusted to the absence of city clamor, he became aware of new sounds . . . a rippling chorus of birdcalls, leaf rustlings, the burble of a nearby brook, and a rasp like a nail being drawn along the teeth of a comb.
“Cicadas,” Poppy said. “This is the only place you’ll see them in England. They’re usually found only in the tropics. Only a male cicada makes that noise—it’s said to be a mating song.”
“How do you know he’s not commenting on the weather?”
Sending him a provocative sideways glance, Poppy murmured, “Well, mating is rather a male preoccupation, isn’t it?”
Harry smiled. “If there’s a more interesting subject,” he said, “I have yet to discover it.”
The air was sweet, spiced heavily with woodbine and sun-heated leaves and flowers he didn’t recognize. As they went deeper into the wood, it seemed they had left the world far behind them.
“I talked with Catherine,” Poppy said.
Harry glanced at her alertly.
“She told me why you came to England,” Poppy continued. “And she told me that she’s your half sister.”
Harry focused on the path before them. “Does the rest of the family know?”
“Only Amelia and Cam and I.”
“I’m surprised,” he admitted. “I would have thought she’d prefer death over telling anyone.”
“She impressed upon us the need for secrecy, but she wouldn’t explain why.”
“And you want me to?”
“I was hoping you might,” she said. “You know I would never say or do anything to harm her.”
Harry was quiet, turning over thoughts in his mind, reluctant to refuse Poppy anything. And yet he had made a promise to Catherine. “They’re not my secrets to reveal, love. May I talk to Cat first, and tell her what I’d like to explain to you?”
Her hand tightened on his. “Yes, of course.” A quizzical smile curved her lips. “Cat? That’s what you call her?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you . . . is there fondness between you?”
The hesitant question provoked a laugh as dry as the rustle of corn husks. “I don’t know, actually. Neither of us is exactly comfortable with affection.”
“She’s a bit more comfortable with it than you, I think.”
Glancing at her warily, Harry saw that there was no censure on her face. “I’m trying to improve,” he said. “It’s one of the things Cam and I discussed last evening—he said it’s characteristic of Hathaway women, this need for demonstrations of affection.”
Amused and fascinated, Poppy made a face. “What else did he say?”
Harry’s mood altered with quicksilver speed. He threw her a dazzling grin. “He compared it to working with Arabian horses . . . they’re responsive, quick, but they need their freedom. You never master an Arabian . . . you become its companion.” He paused. “At least, I think that’s what he said. I was half dead from exhaustion, and we were drinking brandy.”
“That sounds like Cam.” Poppy raised her gaze heavenward. “And after dispensing this advice, he sent you to me, the horse.”
Harry stopped and pulled her against him, nudging her braid aside to kiss her neck. “Yes,” he whispered. “And what a nice ride it was.”
She flushed and squirmed with a protesting laugh, but he persisted in kissing her, working his way up to her mouth. His lips were warm, beguiling, determined. But as soon as he gained access to her mouth, he gentled, his mouth soft against hers. He liked to tease, to seduce. Warmth swept through her, arousal flowing through her veins, prickling sweetly in hidden places.
“I love kissing you,” he murmured. “It was the worst punishment you could have devised, not letting me do this.”
“It wasn’t a punishment,” Poppy protested. “It’s just that a kiss means something special to me. And after what you’d done, I was afraid to be close to you.”
All hint of amusement left Harry’s expression. He smoothed her hair and drew the backs of his fingers softly along the side of her face. “I won’t betray you again. I know you have no reason to trust me, but in time I hope—”
“I do trust you,” she said earnestly. “I’m not afraid now.”
Harry was baffled by her words, and even more by the intensity of his response to them. An unfamiliar feeling welled up in him, a deep, overwhelming ardor. His voice sounded a bit strange to his own ears as he asked, “How can you trust me when you have no way of knowing if I’m worthy of it?”
The corners of her lips tilted upward. “That’s what trust is, isn’t it?”
Harry couldn’t help kissing her again, adoration and arousal pumping through him. He could barely feel the shape of her body through her skirts, and his hands shook with the urge to pull up the bunches of fabric, remove every obstruction between them. A quick glance along both directions of the path revealed that they were alone and unobserved. It would be so easy to lay her into the soft carpet of leaves and moss, push up her dress, and take her right there in the forest. He pulled her to the side of the path, his fingers clenching in a swath of her skirts.
But he forced himself to stop, breathing hard with the effort to check his desire. He had to be careful with Poppy, considerate of her. She deserved better than to have her husband throwing himself on her in the woods.
“Harry?” she murmured in confusion as he turned her to face away from him.
He held her from behind, his arms crossed around her front. “Say something to distract me,” he said, only half joking. He took a deep breath. “I’m a hairsbreadth away from ravishing you right here.”
Poppy was silent for a moment. Either she was struck mute with horror, or she was considering the possibility. Evidently it was the latter, because she asked, “It can be done outside?”
Despite his fierce arousal, Harry couldn’t help smiling against her neck. “Love, there’s hardly any place it can’t be done. Against trees or walls, in chairs or bathtubs, on staircases or tables . . . balconies, carriages—” He let out a quiet groan. “Damn it, I’ve got to stop this, or I won’t be able to walk back.”
“None of those ways sound very comfortable,” Poppy said.
“You’d like chairs. Chairs I can vouch for.”
A chuckle rippled through her, causing her back to press against his chest.
They both waited until Harry had calmed himself sufficiently to let go of her. “Well,” he said, “this has been a delightful walk. Why don’t we go back, and—”
“But we’re not even halfway done yet,” she protested.
Harry glanced from her expectant face to the long path that extended before them, and he sighed. They linked hands and resumed traversing the ground woven with sun and shadows.
After a minute, Poppy asked, “Do you and Catherine visit each other, or correspond?”
“Hardly ever. We don’t get on well.”
“Why not?”
It wasn’t a subject that Harry liked to think about, much less discuss. And this business of having to talk freely with someone, withholding nothing . . . it was like being perpetually naked, except that Harry would have preferred being literally na*ed in lieu of revealing his private thoughts and feelings. However, if that was the price of having Poppy, he’d bloody well pay it.
“At the time I first met Cat,” he said, “she was in a difficult situation. I did as much as possible to help her, but I wasn’t kind about it. I’ve never had much kindness to spare. I could have been better to her. I could have—” He gave an impatient shake of his head. “What’s done is done. I did make certain that she would be financially independent for the rest of her life. She doesn’t have to work, you know.”
“Then why did she apply for a position with the Hathaways? I can’t imagine why she would have wanted to subject herself to the hopeless task of making ladies of Beatrix and me.”
“I imagine she wanted to be with a family. To know what it was like. And to keep from being lonely or bored.” He stopped and gave her a questioning glance. “Why do you say it was a hopeless task? You’re very much a lady.”
“Three failed London seasons,” she pointed out.
Harry made a scoffing sound. “That had nothing to do with being ladylike.”
“Then why?”
“The biggest obstacle was your intelligence. You don’t bother to hide it. One of the things Cat never taught you was how to flatter a man’s vanity—because she doesn’t have any damned idea of how to do it. And none of those idiots could tolerate the idea of having a wife who was smarter than himself. Second, you’re beautiful, which meant they would always have to worry about you being the target of other men’s attentions. On top of that, your family is . . . your family. Basically you were too much to manage, and they all knew they were better off finding dull, docile girls to marry. All except Bayning, who was so taken with you that the attraction eclipsed any other considerations. God knows I can’t hold that against him.”
Poppy gave him a wry glance. “If I’m so forbiddingly intelligent and beautiful, then why did you want to marry me?”
“I’m not intimidated by your brains, your family, or your beauty. And most men are too afraid of me to look twice at my wife.”
“Do you have many enemies?” she asked quietly.
“Yes, thank God. They’re not nearly as inconvenient as friends.”
Although Harry was perfectly serious, Poppy seemed to find that highly amusing. After her laughter slowed, she stopped and turned to face him with her arms folded. “You need me, Harry.”
He stopped before her, his head inclined over hers. “I’ve become aware of that.”
The sounds of stonechats perched overhead filled the pause, their chirps sounding like pebbles being struck together.
“I’ve something to ask you,” Poppy said.
Harry waited patiently, his gaze resting on her face.
“May we stay in Hampshire for a few days?”
His eyes turned wary. “For what purpose?”
She smiled slightly. “It’s called a holiday. Haven’t you ever gone on holiday before?”
Harry shook his head. “I’m not sure what I would do.”
“You read, walk, ride, spend a morning fishing or shooting, perhaps go calling on the neighbors . . . tour the local ruins, visit the shops in town . . .” Poppy paused as she saw the lack of enthusiasm on his face. “. . . Make love to your wife?”
“Done,” he said promptly.