The Perfect Kiss Read Online Free PDF Page B

horses?”
    “I cut the traces. I thought they might pull the carriage further.”
    He gave her a sharp look. “Good thinking. What did you use?”
    “A knife, of course.”
    He frowned, but they’d reached the site of the accident and he questioned her no more. Melly thrust her head out of the window.
    “Thank God you are here,” she gasped when they came close enough. “Papa is ill.”
    At the other window they could see Sir John slumped, his skin yellowish and clammy. His eyes fluttered open. He looked straight at Grace’s gypsy. “D’Acre,” he said.
    “Sir John,” the gypsy acknowledged.
    “D’Acre?” Grace exclaimed. “ You are Lord D’Acre?”
    “Who else?” He winked at her. And then winced dramatically as she thumped him on the arm. “Ouch! What was that for?”
    “You know perfectly well what for.” Lord D’Acre indeed! All that nonsense about mistresses! And then he had the nerve to kiss her, knowing his betrothed—his betrothed !—was stuck in the carriage! The wretch!
    He gave a swift grin, acknowledging that he did indeed know, then he thrust his head through the carriage window and said in a cold, calm voice, “Miss Pettifer, I’m coming in through this window. Stand back.”
    To Grace’s amazement he swung himself up and went feetfirst through the window. He had to wriggle to get his shoulders through—they were very broad—but she was amazed at his strength and lithe agility.
    He poked his head out and told Grace, “Sir John doesn’t seem to be injured, but I don’t like his color at all. Stand aside. I’m going to kick the side panel of the coach out.”
    Before she could gather her wits, there was a loud thump, followed by another and another. Wood splintered, then he kicked a few more times and a ragged hole appeared. Another couple of kicks and the whole panel fell out.
    “Out you get.” With him holding Melly from within and Grace helping from the outside, Melly managed to clamber out.
    “Now you, Bright Eyes, in you hop. I need help to get the old man out.”
    Bright Eyes. That would be her, Grace presumed. She climbed in and was told, “You hold his legs and I’ll pull him out from out there.”
    He jumped out and together they maneuvered Sir John out through the hole and into Lord D’Acre’s arms. He scooped Sir John up like a child and strode back up the hill toward the house.
    Grace grabbed Melly’s hand and they ran after him. The rain intensified, making visibility poor and turning the stone steps slippery. She hurried to the front door. “Oh, there’s no one to answer,” she said, remembering. “How are we to get inside?”
    “Key in my pocket,” he said. “Right-hand side.”
    He wasn’t wearing a coat. Grace reached into the pocket of his buckskin breeches. They’d been tight enough before; now they were sopping wet and clung like a second skin. She slid her hand into his pocket a little gingerly; she had never touched a man so intimately.
    His pocket wasn’t empty, so she had to feel around for the key, past his handkerchief, some loose change, and other odds and ends. The situation was urgent, and yet she was tinglingly aware of his hard, warm flank under the buckskin and the warm, masculine smell of him. It wasn’t at all unpleasant.
    She thought again of those two brief, shocking kisses. Her cheeks warmed against the cold rain.
    She found the key, a large, old-fashioned brass one, and thrust it into the lock. The lock was stiff and she had to struggle to make it turn but after a moment it clicked and she was able to push the massive oaken door open. Sopping wet, they fell into the cavernous entrance of Wolfestone Castle. It was gloomy, cold, and dusty, but at least they were out of the rain.
    They paused a moment to catch their breath, and as she glanced around Grace saw the gargoyle she’d hoped for. He was set high up overlooking the entry hall, not stone, but carved in wood, with a strong, benevolent face and sad, wise eyes. He seemed