Lord Deverill's Heir, Catherine Coulter [the best motivational books .TXT] 📗

He smiled at her grimly and took another step. “By God, where did you get that? Put the gun down, Arabella, I would not wish you to hurt yourself.”

“You want that pleasure reserved only for yourself. Now you will listen to me. I am really quite well trained. Could you possibly not believe that my father wouldn’t have had me shooting from the earliest age? And I do not actually wish to kill you, you know. But, Justin, come one step nearer and I shall put a bullet straight through your arm. I will let you select—your right arm or your left?”

He stared at her with a curious mixture of anger, frustration, and admiration. Damn it, he believed her. As a matter of course, he quickly calculated his chances of disarming her. He made no movement toward her.

He could well imagine that the late earl had trained her well. Probably from the age of five. At this distance, she could and readily would, he believed, put a bullet through whatever part of his anatomy she chose. He saw that she was regarding him with a kind of cold detachment, her head and hand as calm and steady as his own would be before a battle.

He tasted defeat and hated it. “This is just one small foray, Arabella.

You have no chance, you know. Enjoy your brief victory for it will be your last.” He turned on his heel and without a backward glance strode into the adjoining dressing room and slammed the door.

Arabella shifted the pistol to her other hand and wiped her sweaty palm on her skirt. She felt her bravado begin to crumble as she foresaw a succession of endless nights in similar conflict. She felt awash with bitter disillusionment. God, was she to hold her husband off at gunpoint for the remainder of her days? She shook her head, too drained to think rationally about what she should do.

She looked at the bed, but passed it by. She sank down into a large stuffed chair beside the fireplace, curled her legs beneath her gown, and wearily laid her face against her arm. Somehow, she wished she could cry, but she knew she would not. Crying solved nothing. How many times had her father told her that? She remembered him saying that in a contemptuous voice once when her mother was crying. She had agreed with him. She kept her fingers curled about the butt of her pistol.

Arabella awoke shivering early the next morning, her legs cramped from long hours in one position. A blanket was covering her. She jumped, realizing she didn’t have her pistol. She saw it lying on a tabletop near her chair. Her heart pounded. Justin had come into the bedchamber while she had slept. He could have done as he wished with her. Yet he had merely covered her and removed the pistol from her fingers. She rose slowly and stretched.

She did not understand him.

At least, finally, she had a plan.

“The lilies grow in great profusion.”

“The laws of nature make it so. There must be a lily pad for each frog.” Lady Ann stopped then and grinned up at him. “I believe that now I am through trying to distract you.” She drew a deep breath. There was so much to say to him, so much to pour out to him from her very soul.

Dr. Branyon cupped her face in his palm. “Just looking at you distracts me. Truly, you don’t wish to tell me now how thick the water reeds are?” She kissed his palm. His flesh was warm. She felt him tremble. She could make him tremble? It was an awesome thought. Her late husband, well, she wouldn’t think about him. But she did, she couldn’t help it. She’d known that he had very likely felt only disgust with her, never had he trembled when she had kissed his hand. Actually, she couldn’t remember ever willingly kissing any part of him. She kissed Paul’s palm again, then raised her head. “The water reeds are rather thick, but not so thick that they are displeasing,” she said.

“I am in complete agreement. Now, I shall volunteer my coat so you can settle yourself amongst the so very thick green reeds.” But she didn’t move. She just wanted to stand here for the rest of her years and look up at him. She loved his face, smooth and lean, and the lines on either side of his mouth—his doctor’s creases—she’d once teased him. His eyes were a pale green, as light a green as the oak leaves glistening beneath the strong afternoon sun. She realized that she wanted more than just a kiss, more than just a hug, perhaps. She wasn’t certain, but she decided that she would like him to kiss her throat, perhaps even lower, her breasts. She blinked. Her breasts? It was apparent to her that she wasn’t the same woman that she had been but ten minutes ago. No, it now appeared that she was a woman who wanted. For the first time in her life she wanted a man to touch her.

Dr. Branyon clasped her hand in his and led her to the other side of the pond. He found a likely spot, spread his coat upon the springy moss and grass, and bowed to her. “Allow me to assist you, Ann. I want you to be very comfortable.”

She sank down gracefully onto his coat and smoothed the flounce of her pink gown over her ankles. Then she pulled up the gown to her calves. She wanted him to see her ankles. “These are new stockings,” she said. “Do you like them?”

He swallowed hard. He stared at her feet, at her ankles, not really seeing the damned stockings.

“Perhaps I should have brought a picnic lunch,” she said, for he was standing motionless as a tree, just staring down at her legs. It pleased her inordinately. She thought to pull