The English Bride. Margaret Way
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But he has his own life you know.”
“But no grandchildren.” Grant pointed out bluntly. “You have to give him them. Such a child, a male child, would become his heir. The future Earl of Moray. Inescapably a fact.”
“Oh don’t let’s take that all on yet, Grant,” Francesca burst out. She wanted them to be together, with no conflicts between them.
But Grant had other ideas, seeing where it was taking them. “I have to. You know as well as I do we’re becoming increasingly involved. Hell what am I sacrificing here? I could fall in love with you then you’d go off home to Daddy, back to your own world, leaving me to profound wretchedness.”
Somehow she didn’t associate him with becoming any woman’s victim. He was too much the self-contained man. “I think you have what it takes to resist me.”
“Darn right!” Abruptly he bent his head and gave her a hard kiss. “I’ve seen these patterns before.”
“So what’s the solution?” She was compelled to clutch him for support.
“Neither of us allows ourselves to get carried away,” he said brusquely.
“So much for your behaviour then. Why do you have to kiss me?”
He laughed, a low, attractive sound with a hint of self-disgust. “That’s the hell of it, Francesca. Reconciling sexual desire with the need for good sense.”
“So sadly there are to be no more kisses?” she challenged with a little note of scepticism.
He looked down into her light filled eyes, aware of the complexity of his feelings. She looked so lovely, very much a piece of porcelain, a woman to be cherished, protected from damage. “Can I help it if I’m continually at war?” he asked ironically. “You’re so beautiful, aren’t you? You moved into my path like a princess from a fairy tale. I know dozens of eligible, available women. Wouldn’t I be the world’s biggest fool to pick on someone like you? A young woman who has lived a charmed life? Equally well I don’t think your father would get a big kick out of knowing you were dallying with a rough-around-the-edges man from the outback.”
It in no way described him. “Rugged, Grant. Never rough. You’re a lot more edgy than Rafe, but he’s very much your brother and one of the most courteous men I’ve ever met.”
“Free from my aggression, you mean.” Grant nodded in wry amusement. “It’s an inborn grace, Francesca, he inherited from our father. I’m nowhere near as simpatico.”
Her normally sweet voice was a little tart in her throat, like citrus peel in chocolate. “Well don’t feel too badly. I like you. Temper and all. I like the way you hit on an idea and go for it. I like your breadth of vision. I like the way you make big plans. I even like your strong sense of competitiveness. What I don’t like is the way you see me as a threat.”
He could see the hurt in her eyes but he was compelled to speak. “Because you are a threat, Francesca. A real threat. To us both.”
“That’s awful.” She looked away abruptly over the moon-drenched home gardens.
“I know,” he muttered sombrely, “but it makes sense.”
Unlike a lot of men let loose at a barbeque, Brod cooked the steaks to perfection, each to their requirements from medium rare to well done. For all her whirring feelings Francesca enjoyed herself, eating a good meal, warming to the conversation, and afterwards offering to make coffee.
“I’ll help you.” Impulsively Grant moved back his chair, willing the pleasure of the evening to go on. Brod and Rebecca had shifted seats and were now holding hands. The younger couple wouldn’t be missed for a while.
In the huge kitchen outfitted for feeding an army, Grant thought, Francesca set him to grinding the coffee beans, the marvellous aroma rising and flowing out towards them. Francesca was busy setting out cups and saucers then assembling plates for the slices of chocolate torte she’d already cut. All very deftly, he noticed. She was very organised, very methodical, with quick, neat hands.
“You’re managing very well,” he drawled.
“What is that supposed to mean?” The overhead light turned her glorious hair to flame, giving him a great wave of pleasure.
“Have you ever actually cooked a meal?” he smiled.
“I made the salad,” she pointed out collectedly.
“And it was very good, but I can’t think you ever have any need to go into a kitchen and start cooking the supper.”
She scarcely remembered being allowed in the kitchen except at Christmas to stir the pudding. “Not at Ormond, no.” She named her father’s stately home. “We always had a housekeeper, Mrs. Lincoln. She was pretty fierce. Nothing casual about her and she had staff, just as Brod’s father did, only Brod and Rebecca have decided they want to be on their own. At least for a while. Once I shifted to London to start work I managed to get all my own meals. It truly isn’t difficult,” she added dryly.
“When you weren’t going out?” He poured boiling water into the plunger. “You must accept lots and lots of invitations?”
“I have a full social life.” She flashed him a blue, sparkling look. “But it’s not an obsession.”
“No love affairs?” He found he couldn’t bear the thought of her with another man.
“One or two romantic involvements. Like you.” Grant Cameron didn’t lack female admirers.
“No one serious?” he persisted as though the thought was gnawing away at him.
“I’ve yet to meet my perfect man,” she answered sweetly.
“Which brings me to why you have designs on me.”
His effrontery took her breath away. “You can haul yourself out when the going gets tough. Because I’m only following my own instincts. You do have a certain emotional pull and physically you’re extraordinarily attractive.”
He gave a mock bow, surprisingly elegant. “Thank you, Francesca. That makes my heart swell.”
“As long as it’s not your head,” she retorted crisply.
“My head has the high ground at the moment,” he drawled. “But I’ve enjoyed tonight. Brod and Rebecca are such good company and you are you.”
It was so disconcerting, the swings from sarcastic to sizzling emotion. An acknowledgment, perhaps, that their connection was powerful, though he was going to fight it all the way.
“That’s good I’ve done something right,” Francesca said in response, trying to keep her tone light, but she was utterly confounded when tears came into her eyes. Being with him made her more sensitive, more womanly with a much bigger capacity for being hurt. For all the calmness of her voice, Grant was instantly alerted. He glanced up swiftly, catching her the moment before she blinked furiously.
“Francesca!” Heart drumming with dismay and desire he reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “What is it? Have I hurt you? I’m a brute. I’m sorry.” He could see the pulse beating in her creamy throat answering the pulses that were beating in him. “I’m trying to see what’s best for both of us. Surely you can understand that?”
“Of course.” Her voice was a husky whisper. She dashed her hand across her eyes. Just like a little girl. Grace under fire.
An immense wave of passion tied to a deep sense of protectiveness broke across him, causing him to mould her into him more tightly, achingly aware of the feel of her delicate breasts against the wall of his chest. He was on the verge of losing it. It was terrible. But good. Better than good. Ravishing.
She attempted to speak but he was seized by the urgent need to kiss her, to take the crushed strawberry sweetness of her mouth, to find her tongue, to move it back and forth against his in the age-old mating ritual. This incredible