Chapter 3
“Bring more depth of feeling to the romance.”
Zaira tapped her pen against her lips and stared out at Dover’s Pond.
Mr. Knapp’s editorial suggestion had played round and round her mind for the past hour that she’d been trying to rewrite the romantic scene between the heroine and the man she loved and wanted to marry.
The two shared only a short kiss, but no matter what Zaira put down, she ended up crossing it out.
She tossed her pen onto the manuscript pages, then let herself fall back into the long grass and wildflowers that surrounded the pond. With her skirt hiked past her knees and her feet already dangling in the pond, she swished the water as she peered up at the vast blue sky.
She had to get this next segment perfect. If she failed to deliver what Mr. Knapp and the readers wanted, she would lose her opportunity to be a published author. In fact, her writing career could be over.
To get it perfect, she had to infuse more emotion into her story. But to do that, she needed to experience romance for herself, and she needed the practice of being with a man.
During her sheltered life, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d been alone with a young man who wasn’t her family.
Maybe twice? Three times at the most, if she counted the occasion when she’d stood in the hallway with Coyle Nooan when the rest of their families had lingered in the parlor.
He’d stared at her with stark appreciation, but he hadn’t said anything personal.
“Ugh.” Zaira splashed a foot in frustration, sending droplets over the bare skin of her legs and knees. “No wonder I can’t write realistically.” There was so much of life she had yet to live, so many emotions she hadn’t felt, so many things she’d never done.
When it came to the romance in her story, how could she possibly write with more depth when she’d never been in love, never even come close?
She closed her eyes and puckered her lips. What would a kiss feel like? As she touched her fingers to her lips, she tried to imagine soft lips against hers. It would be tickly and sweet and would make her feel cherished, wouldn’t it?
But even as she tried to guess what a kiss would evoke in her, she sighed. “Oh, Zaira, you’re pathetic.”
“I’d have to agree.”
As her eyes few open, she released a squeak and bolted to a sitting position.
There, standing only a few feet away, was Bellamy McKenna. He had a vest over his shirt, which was rolled up at the sleeves. His hands were stuffed in his trouser pockets, and his flatcap was donned at a rakish angle.
Beyond him near the covered pavilion, he’d tied his horse. How had he approached without her hearing him? Had the rustling breeze and the buzzing of the cicadas masked his arrival? Or had she been too distracted to notice him? Too caught up in imagining what a romance would be like?
Had he seen her kissing the air?
From the smirk tugging up the corners of his lips, she guessed he had.
A flush swelled into her cheeks, but she merely lifted her chin and glared at him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
“Maybe you should be paying better attention to your surroundings. What if I’d been someone nefarious?”
“Nefarious?” She lifted a brow. “My, my, we’re using big words today.”
“Believe it or not, a person doesn’t have to be a writer to use big words.”
She hadn’t known for sure if he was aware of her writing pursuits. But he’d obviously deduced it. Either that, or he’d gone into the newspaper office yesterday after seeing her step out of it and had wheedled Mr. Knapp into telling him what she was up to.
The best thing to do was pretend she wasn’t surprised and act as though she wasn’t perturbed by him in the least.
“Oh aye.” She tried to form her lips into a smirk of her own. “Using big words has more to do with intelligence or the lack thereof.”
“Naturally I’m very intelligent.”
She scoffed. “And, of course, I’m not a writer any more than you are a painter.”
His dark gaze hardened, and his jaw flexed.
Why didn’t he want anyone to know about his painting? As a man, he couldn’t possibly have the same obstacles that she had as a woman, could he?
Perhaps he’d taken a false identity because of family, which was another reason she used her pseudonym. Of course her family and friends knew she loved to read and write stories. And her parents were satisfied with those pursuits . . . as long as they remained firmly in the hobby arena.
She would be expected—just like her two older sisters—to get married and have babies. Not that she was opposed to getting married and having babies. She just wasn’t ready quite yet. She wanted time to write and publish first, before her life became busy with everything else.
The truth was, if her parents knew she was starting an actual career as a published author, they wouldn’t approve.
Such aspirations weren’t acceptable for a lady of an upstanding family like the Shanahans.
And after the trouble her other siblings had caused over the past six months, Zaira refused to burden them with additional scandal.
For now, it was best to let them believe she was their “easy” daughter, the one who “complied” and “never caused trouble.” Those assumptions allowed her to go unnoticed much of the time and have freedom to do as she pleased.
Maybe they would never have to know about her publishing.
Maybe she could keep her pseudonym forever.
Whatever the case, she needed Bellamy to understand that if he didn’t respect her privacy, then she wouldn’t be able to respect his.
His brooding eyes held hers.
She wanted to stay irritated, but the longer those dark eyes peered at her, the tighter her lungs grew, until she felt breathless. My, but he had such beautiful eyes, so expressive and rich, especially with such thick lashes surrounding them.
“So . . .” He was the first to break their intense connection by looking away.
She tried to draw in a breath, but as his gaze landed upon her bare feet and legs, her lungs squeezed shut again.
He ought to cast his sights someplace else as any gentleman would do under the circumstances. He should give her time to pull down her skirt and petticoat to hide her indecent exposure, especially since he’d caught her unaware.
But Bellamy McKenna was no gentleman. He was a rake, and he did as he pleased by taking his time in perusing every inch of her exposed legs.
She wanted to be outraged or, at the very least, scold him for his lack of good manners. But as his attention lingered over her pale skin, a strange warmth fanned to life low inside—a warmth that spread, a warmth that filled her with pleasure, a warmth that she didn’t want to stop.
Was this similar to the feelings Mr. Knapp had referenced? If so, she clearly needed to experience more of it, and Bellamy was the perfect candidate to help her. She’d already decided that yesterday after their encounter. The attraction she felt for him was too undeniable and too delicious.
The trouble was, Bellamy would never agree to help her with research for her stories . . . unless they could strike a bargain—a bargain in which they both got something they needed.
And she knew exactly what he’d come for.
She couldn’t keep a smile from tilting up her lips. “So, Bellamy McKenna. What brings you out to visit me on this lovely summer day? I gather it’s not so you can ogle me, although you’re doing a fine job of that so far.”
He smirked in response. “Oh aye. I am doing a fine job, am I not?”
Too fine if the warmth continuing to flow through her was any indication. If he refused to be a gentleman and stop looking, then she had to put an end to the indecency. She lifted first one foot and then the other, setting both into the grass, and then pulled her skirt down over them.
As she did so, he finally lifted his gaze to meet hers.
For just an instant, the dark brown of his eyes glowed with a barely banked heat—a heat that reached across the distance between them and sparked against her, sending tiny flames skittering over her skin, just like it had done yesterday and on other occasions she’d been near him.
Did he feel the heat too? Or was she just so enamored with him that she would take any look or word he was willing to give her and add more meaning to it than he intended?
She tucked her skirt more firmly around her legs. “What can I do for you?”
“I think you know.”
“Do I?” She tilted her hatless head, her braid dangling over her shoulder and down her chest. Of course she knew he was there to get information about Deirdre Whitcomb. But Zaira wasn’t about to make this easy on him. He deserved to work for whatever she gave him.
He scanned the surrounding woodland, thick with the foliage of brambles and briars and wild berries. Would the picturesque landscape end up in one of his paintings?
His gaze touched on each lily pad in the pond and the long cattails growing along the far end before settling on a log near the pier and a turtle sunning itself there.
“You told me you could help me with Deirdre.” His voice was soft and free of the arrogance that usually filled it. “I’m sorry I turned you down. I could use your perspective, if you’re willing to give it.”
A tiny needle of guilt pricked Zaira. She should help him because it was the right thing to do, not because she needed something in return.
But she had only three days left to rewrite the next segment of the story that included the kiss.
And she had to get everything right or perhaps lose out on her chance to continue publishing.
Slowly she pushed up, shaking out her now-damp skirt.
She didn’t hassle with donning her stockings and shoes, but she did make a point of tucking her feet out of sight underneath the hem of her skirt.
She wasn’t sure why she was bothering, especially now that he’d already seen not only her feet but also her calves.