The man Jack had felled groaned; he hauled himself onto his hands and knees, moaning.
“Come on, Fred! We got to get outta ’ere!”
Gathering himself, the man behind her lifted her and literally threw her at Jack.
Jack caught her, pulled her protectively to him, staggered back under her weight but steadied.
His arms wrapped protectively around her, she felt his muscles tense with the impulse to give chase as her assailants stumbled away, quickly disappearing into the blackness that was the rest of the gardens.
Unabashedly clinging to him, she knew the instant they were alone, safe; the battle-ready tension holding him faded, enough for him to move, to gently brush her cheek, cradle her face and tip it up to his.
“Are you all right?”
Not entirely sure she could trust her voice, she no
dded, met his eyes, fell into them.
Watched his gaze devour her face, trace her features, saw in the moonlight the hard edges and planes of his face shift. Saw, very clearly, the Norman lord he truly was, the battle-hardened warrior stripped, for one instant, bare.
What she saw in that instant, in his face, made her heart turn over.
His eyes met hers, seemed to see into her, seemed to sense that she did indeed, could indeed see him. Then something—raw possessiveness, blatant desire—swept through his eyes. His arms tightened about her. He bent his head and kissed her.
As if he owned her. Completely. Utterly.
She was swept away on the tide; she didn’t even try to fight it. Clung, instead; wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back with every iota of passion in her highly passionate soul.
Time stood still.
For long moments, they communed, explicit and intimate on their private plane in the dark of the night.
At last, he lifted his head, looked down into her eyes. She was plastered against him, molded to him; she saw no need to move.
Something caught his attention. He looked at her shoulder, at where her domino had been pushed aside; he frowned. “Your gown’s ripped.”
Freeing one hand, still holding her safe against him, he lifted the torn silk of her bodice, smoothing the fragile material up over her breast to the shoulder seam from which it had parted.
That was when they heard the first titter.
They both swung to look, Jack still holding her protectively within the circle of his arms.
A bevy of guests, old and young, stood crowded around a gap in the bushes a little farther along. Two of the males were holding lanterns aloft.
“Ah…” one said. “We, ah, thought we heard a scream, and…ah, came to look.”
Unsurprisingly, that was greeted with a positive wave of titters. Some of the older guests were whispering behind their hands.
Clarice closed her eyes against the sight and stifled a groan. It wasn’t hard to imagine what they thought they’d seen.
Jack looked faintly disheveled, protective and defensive. Her skirts were badly crushed, her domino all askew, her bodice torn, and she had indeed screamed. No doubt they’d arrived just in time to see that unrestrainedly passionate kiss, and now thought they understood what had happened.
Jack glanced at her; he didn’t know what to say. Neither did she.
Before they could make any attempt to set the matter straight, Alton pushed through the crowd. He strode directly to them. “What the devil’s going on?”
“Two men attacked Clarice,” Jack said, his tone low.
“What?” Alton stared at her; to Jack’s relief, he seemed to see her pallor. “My God! Are you all right?”