Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Rory thought Miss Windermere might not answer.
It would be her artistic prerogative, after all.
Then she opened her locket and slid out a small pencil and a few scraps of paper.
She began writing as she spoke, and her words flowed over him as smoothly as the water over centuries-worn river stone.
“A series of impressions will come to me. Sometimes one word or two. No longer than three. Usually adjectives of the senses—sight, smell, hearing, taste, feel. But that is the effect on me. The essence of the thing must also come through. What is it elementally at its core? Not how I feel about it, but what is its intrinsic value? And once I arrive there, then I can begin to form a narrative around it.”
Rory had never heard anyone talk about writing or words or images or feelings the way she did—like she took them to heart.
Here sat a different Miss Juliet Windermere from the one he’d assumed her all these years.
Here was the artist.
And yet she spoke to him as one artist to another, as if they were on an equal plane, though he knew the opposite to be true.
He was a terrible poet.
He’d long known it.
But he loved it.
Yet the poetess before him knew and didn’t care. It was as if they met not in talent, but in a passion of the mind, and that was enough for her.
She turned and fixed her ardent emerald gaze upon him. She’d always shimmered with intensity, Miss Windermere. He’d always assumed her intensity was something he didn’t want to get mixed up in. But now, after coming to know her, he was seeing it from a new angle.
“By coming here and experiencing this place that Miss Dalhousie loves,” she said. “I shall be able to begin forming a narrative about her.”
Miss Dalhousie… Rory hadn’t given the lady a moment’s thought. But that wasn’t what Miss Windermere assumed.
Right.
Perhaps Miss Dalhousie wasn’t the best excuse to spend time with Miss Windermere.
“And you,” she continued.
“And me?”
“Certainly.” She swept her arm around. “For you admire the woman who admires all this.”
“You admire all this, don’t you?”
Miss Windermere’s brow gathered in bemusement. “I do,” she said slowly.
Rory opened his mouth to say that, aye, he did admire the woman who admired all this, and that woman wasn’t Miss Dalhousie. But then he noticed something above his head. The sky, namely. It was transforming into an ominous shade of purplish-slate.
He slung his knapsack over his shoulder and shot to his feet. “If we start now, we might make it back to Baile ìm before the storm breaks.”
“Storm?” Miss Windermere tipped her face toward the sky. A fat droplet of rain landed on her nose. “Oh.”
The wind chose that moment to start blowing.
She pushed to her feet and scrambled to follow him. “Do you think we have twenty minutes?” she called out to his back.
“It’s all downhill,” he tossed over his shoulder. “We can make it in ten.”
But eight minutes later, the sky decided the time had arrived to relieve itself of its burden, and unloaded a torrent of rain onto their heads. Rory reached back. “Take my hand,” he yelled. “I know a place nearby.”
A rapid beat of the heart later her cold, wet hand slipped into his, and he tightened his grip around it, careful not to lose her.
Within thirty seconds, they were shoving beneath an old lean-to shelter that needed a good tearing-down, though he was thankful for it today—even with its roof that leaked and absence of walls to protect them from the wind.
Instinctively, they huddled close to the old oak that provided the lean-to’s only reliable support.
With not a foot of space separating them, it occurred to Rory that he’d never stood this close to Miss Windermere.
No, that wasn’t true.
Yesterday, he’d caught her in his arms, giving him a feel for the substance of her body.
And today, she’d given him a feel for the substance of her mind.
And each only made him want to know more of both.
She lifted her hand and, before he knew what she was about, she’d swiped a layer of rainwater off his cheek. “See? My hand is wet.” She smiled. “You are wet.”
A laugh roared out of him. He lifted a sodden clump of hair that had escaped her chignon. “You are a sopping wet mess, Miss Windermere.”
And the laugh that sprang from her was pure joy to his ears. A messy Miss Windermere—so opposite her usual poised and perfect self—was a sight he’d pay to see.
“Can I offer you my greatcoat?” he asked.
“My pelisse is sufficient.”
His eyes narrowed on her. He should’ve expected that reply.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Your lips are taking on a hue of lavender.”
A smile quirked about her purplish lips. “And how does that make you feel?”
A tick of time beat by before they burst into laughter. But in the next instant, Rory felt himself turn serious.
He knew exactly how it made him feel.
Before his mind caught up with what his hand was doing, he was reaching out and cupping the nape of her neck, his other hand sliding around to the small of her back, drawing her into the warmth of his open greatcoat. Her face tipped up, and eyes clear as green ocean glass met his.
“It makes me feel like warming them up,” he muttered into the space between their mouths.
“And how would you go about that?” she asked, her whisper glancing across his lips.
“Like this.”
His mouth brushed against hers, a first touch, their lips slick against each other.
Suggestive, that slipperiness. The hand at her back tightened and gathered her closer, so the slender length of her body met his, allowing not even a sliver of air between them.
Her arms reached up and circled his neck, and he felt the hard buds of her breasts against his chest. The kiss had no choice but to deepen as his tongue sought hers.
A surprised gasp escaped her, but she caught on as her tongue ventured to touch and tangle with his.
This was her first kiss.
He was her first kiss.
And, strangely, it felt right to kiss this woman he’d never once considered kissing in all the time he’d known her.
As if some part of him had been biding its time for this very moment.
His fingers found themselves trailing down the indent of her lower back to the curve of her sweet, round bottom. Her hands contained a certainty of their own as they roamed across his chest and around to his back, and lower to give his arse a responding squeeze.
“Like for like,” she muttered against his mouth, a sly smile pulling about her lips.
Oh, that smile sent his mind to places his body wanted to go. Places that wanted—demanded—satisfaction. Satisfaction he couldn’t give. For his instinct was to seize control, as was his wont when he was alone with a willing woman.
But this woman in his arms was no bit of crumpet for whom he would provide an afternoon’s pleasure.
She was a lady.
A lady who happened to be a cousin of his closest friend and who, in truth, was more like a sister of the Windermere brood.
Right.
His mouth broke from hers, intent on doing the noble thing.
Which was to stop kissing her.
Still, she remained within the circle of his arms, mouth parted, panting, cheeks flushed, eyebrows drawn together in question. “Was it terrible?” she asked.
Oh, he was but a mere, weak, mortal man, and he couldn’t have Miss Windermere distressed or thinking she was terrible at anything.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he claimed her mouth again, this time with a sense of desperation. With a responding desperation, she pressed all her weight into him, so he was left with no option but to follow her lead until his back hit solid oak.
Miss Windermere seemed to know what she wanted.
And it seemed to be him.
His half-full cock went suddenly as hard as the oak at his back.
Her hands trailed lower, guided by a frenzied curiosity, and anticipation filled him to bursting. He knew what those inquisitive fingers would find.
Him.
Tentatively, they grazed along the rigid length of his shaft, pulling a long groan from him. Serious green eyes met his. “Again,” he rasped. He would beg if he had to.
She held his gaze and stroked him again, applying more pressure this time. As the flame of need licked at him, he understood there were only two directions this could go.
He could swivel them around so it was her back against the tree, bunch up her skirts, wrap a leg around his waist, and release his cock. He could tup her silly right here. It was the satisfaction his body demanded.
Or…
There was another option.
He could stop.
Right.
It was the only option.
He pulled back, tearing his mouth from hers, and took her waist in his hands, gently setting her a foot away from him.
They stood apart, panting, staring at each other, trying to grasp what exactly had just happened.
She opened her mouth to ask the question he could see poised on her lips. He held up a hand to stop it.
“You are not terrible at kissing,” he said.
“Then why—”
“You know why, Miss Windermere.”
Surely, she did. Him kissing her and cupping her firm, round bottom. Her caressing his full-to-bursting cock. Them going at each other against a tree…
It was all wrong.
She was a relation of his closest friend.
And she was a virgin.
He was no despoiler of virgins.
The question left her eyes. “I see.”
Of a sudden, she was no longer the Miss Windermere he’d been kissing seconds ago, but rather the Miss Windermere he’d known all these years—cool, collected, and not particularly impressed by him.
Clearly, he’d done something wrong.
But he couldn’t think of what—for he’d done the right thing.
He supposed doing right could be wrong under certain circumstances.
Although Miss Windermere looked in no mood to enlighten him.
She stepped to the edge of the lean-to, stuck her head out, and peered up at the sky. “Looks like the rain has let up.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. “But not for long,” said Rory, shedding his greatcoat. “Take this.”
“But I—”
“Take it.” She wasn’t the only one with a stubborn streak.
She did as told.
“If we leg it,” he said, joining her at the edge of the leaky roof, “we can make it to Baile ìm before the next round of storms start up.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice as she hitched up her skirts to her knees and streaked across the field.
As he followed, and kept his eyes fast on her, he could hardly countenance the Miss Juliet Windermere who had revealed herself to him these last few days.
She wasn’t at all the person he’d assumed her all these years.
He wanted to know more of her.
And he would.