Free All About Love by Stephanie Laurens

so easily aroused by a gently reared, intelligent, and stubborn virgin, one who was making no effort to attract him at all, had to be fate’s idea of a joke. Perhaps being hit on the head had affected him more than he’d realized.
    Whatever the cause, walking beside and a little behind her left him all too aware whenever the frolicking breeze plastered her gown to her legs and bottom, or when it flicked at the hem of her skirt, exposing slim ankles. Her svelte figure contained a suppressed energy one part of him—the wild, untamed pirate part of him—instantly recognized; he longed to wind it tight, then release it before plunging into its core.
    Climbing the hill was easing his head at the expense of intensifying the ache in his loins. An ache destined to remain unrelieved. Drawing a bracing breath, he looked ahead, and deliberately shifted his thoughts.
    She preceded him into the church and went straight to the altar. Picking up a vase, she headed through an open door into a small side chamber.
    He lounged against a pew. The small church was well endowed with carvings and stained glass. The oriel window above the entrance was particularly pleasing. It was fitting that Horatio’s funeral would be held here; Horatio would have appreciated the church’s beauties.
    A beauty of a different sort swept back in and effortlessly recaptured his attention.
    Phyllida jumped when large hands covered hers as she wrestled with the urn on the font.
    “Let me.”
    She did. The reverberations of his voice played up and down her spine and left her nerves jangling. Wordlessly, she led the way through the vestry and out through the open back door. She indicated the pile of dead flowers. “Just toss them there.”
    He did. She retrieved the urn from his hands; without being asked, he wielded the pump handle so she could rinse it. With a nod of thanks, she swept back into the vestry; swiping up a cloth, she vigorously buffed the urn.
    He halted in the doorway, almost blocking out the light; propping one shoulder against the frame, he watched her.
    The vestry suddenly seemed very small. Awareness prickled over her skin.
    “The funeral will be tomorrow, late morning. I’ll send flowers over first thing—in this weather, they wilt so quickly.” She was babbling. She’d never babbled in her life. “Especially if they’re not picked before the sun strikes them.”
    “Does that mean you’ll be flitting among the flowers at dawn?”
    She wanted to look at him but didn’t. “Of course not. Our gardener knows just how I like them picked.”
    “Ah. No need, then, to get up too early.”
    It was his tone, the deep resonance in his voice, that gave his words their full meaning. For an instant, she froze, her hands on the urn, then she sucked in a breath, grasped the urn, set it on the shelf, and swung to face him. Her expression, she was sure, remained calmly superior, unruffled, and serene. No one in the village ever saw beyond that, which made protecting herself and managing them very easy.
    His gaze, however, settled on her eyes. He saw further, deeper—she wasn’t at all comfortable with what he might see. “I need to speak with Mr. Filing, the curate. Given your injury, you should rest for a few minutes. I suggest you sit in a pew in the cool of the church. I’ll collect you when I’ve finished with Mr. Filing.”
    He continued to study her face, her eyes. After an unnerving moment, he glanced back outside, over his left shoulder. “Is that the curate’s house?”
    “Yes. That’s the Rectory.”
    He straightened away from the doorframe; the movement did nothing to reduce the sense of entrapment she felt. “I’ll come with you.”
    Phyllida drew in a breath, and held it. With anyone else she would have argued, but there was an undercurrent in his voice that warned her she had no chance of swaying him. Not without a fight—and fighting with him was too dangerous. “As you wish.”
    He moved back and she stepped past him,