She arched up against him, pressed and tangled as they were on the seat, his leg over hers and her skirt all askew. She felt his hard man's part slide against her thigh, their fingers twisted together over it, as if both of them searched and prevented at once. She wanted him closer and pushed him away, frightened and seeking for more.

As she pressed her legs together, he worked his fingers inside her, finding a place that made her sob with smothered pleasure. She'd tried to suppress the sounds that came from her throat, but he kissed her breasts again and thrust his fingers deeper, growling in his chest as he drew a half cry from her, delight and confusion and desperation, wanting and wanting and pushing herself up to meet his hand. She could hear herself panting, and him, their breath coming harder, mingling and rising until she felt a wave of such intense pleasure burst through her that she did cry out, forgetting everything but him. He rose over her, pressing himself hard into that intimate place, not his hand now but the thick head of his erection pushing for entry.

"Callista!"

The sound of her father's voice seemed to echo even now, as if he stood there yet, the door to the carriage f lung open and Trev moving suddenly to sit up. Remembering, Callie bit down on her fingers so hard that it hurt through the glove.

Trev had tried to conceal her, but there was no hope of it. Only an instant of bewilderment, and then her heart had seemed to burst in horror. Sickness rose in her throat. She had barely been aware of Trev's quick move to arrange her skirts; she had seen only her father's face, a nightmare against the shadowed brick of the coach house wall.

"Get down," her father said in a whisper.

Callie had scrambled past Trev, stumbling down the stairs, her gown and hair in disarray. Her father had not touched her. He stood back, his hand working on the riding whip he carried, as Trev swung down after her in one swift move.

"Callista," he said. "Go back to the house."

Trev started to speak, and her father struck him across the face with the whip.

Callie made a choked cry. She took an instinctive step toward Trev as she saw the line of blood well across his cheekbone. His face was white, utterly still. He stared at her father without speaking.

"Go to the house now, Callista," her father said. "Or do not expect ever to enter it again."

She had run. She had turned away and run from the stable yard, up the front stairs, run blindly through the hall and up to her room. She had not seen Trev again. He had vanished from Shelford, from his family, from her life. Not even his mother had known where he had gone until years later, when he began to write from France.