Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Emma awoke to the unmistakable hush of snowfall and when she glanced out of the window of her room she almost squealed in excitement. Despite being almost twenty four, she retained a childlike fascination with the stuff—especially after the energy-sapping heat of South America.
Determined to take a brisk, invigorating walk in the gardens, she donned her stoutest boots, thick woolen stockings, and her warmest skirt. She’d just finished when a knock sounded at her door.
“Ah, Mrs. Bennington.” She greeted the housekeeper with a warm smile. “Is that tea and toast I spy?”
“It is ma’am.”
“You needn’t have come all this way. I was about to come down.”
“Oh, it’s no bother, but I’m sorry we don’t have a lady’s maid to help you dress. Bess and Sarah have been given the week off to visit with their families, so we’re a little short belowstairs.”
“I quite understand. His lordship wasn’t expecting visitors. Rest assured I’m quite capable of seeing to my own needs. Just pretend I’m not here.”
The housekeeper returned her smile. “Yes ma’am.”
As she scoffed down her breakfast, Emma mentally congratulated Kit on being a considerate employer. Many aristocratic houses entertained lavishly at this time of year, and the poor servants barely got a moment to themselves.
The formal gardens proved to be a delight, and she crunched happily through the snow, dodging low-hanging branches.
A wilder patch of woodland grew a short distance past the maze, and she headed in that direction, her attention caught by the ball of greenery sprouting halfway along the branch of a sturdy oak tree.
Since the oak’s leaves had all fallen away, the puff of mistletoe was easy to spot.
She paused at the foot of the trunk and peered upward, her hands planted on her hips.
As someone who’d spent a great deal of time scampering around the rigging of her father’s ships—her ships now, since the death of both her parents and Andrew—the branches of the stately oak provided little challenge.
Hiking her skirts, she began to climb. She’d just reached the limb where the mistletoe grew when a shout from below broke her concentration.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Emma smiled. Kit was glaring up at her from the bottom of the tree.
“Dear God, woman, are you mad? You’ll fall to your death!”
“I’m perfectly fine, but thank you,” she called back cheerily. “And Merry Christmas. I’m just getting you a sprig of mistletoe for the house. I couldn’t help noticing the lack of it in your festive decorations.”
He winced at her sarcastic reference. Apart from a holly wreath on the front door, his ‘festive decorations’ were practically non-existent. She hid a grin. Teasing him was delightful.
“Andrew told me you were a genius at getting into scrapes,” he growled. “I’m beginning to see what he meant.”
Emma almost lost her footing on the branch. “You and Andrew talked about me?”
“Of course. We spent six months sharing a cell. We shared life stories.”
She risked a glance down at him and was alarmed to see a roguish grin cross his face.
“He told me all your most embarrassing childhood tales.”
Mortification brought a flush to her cheeks.
“I loved listening to them,” he admitted. “I never had a sister. He loved you very much.”
Her throat tightened with emotion, and she coughed to cover it, then busied herself snapping a handful of sprigs from the mistletoe. She started to descend, careful not to squash the sticky white berries against her skin.
“Mistletoe and orchids have something in common, you know,” she called down. “They’re both epiphytes.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Parasites,” she laughed. “They both grow on another tree, getting moisture from the rain and feeding on the decomposing leaves of the host.”
“Isn’t that bad for the tree?”
“Not at all. They don’t take anything, or harm it in any way.”
“I hope, as your host, you’re not going to harm me, either,” he joked. “Or steal anything.”
She snorted at his levity. “As if I could harm you. You’re twice my size.”
Unfortunately, she made the grave mistake of glancing down and became distracted by the impressive breadth of his shoulders and the twinkle in his eyes. As she reached for a snow-dusted branch, her fingers slipped, and she tumbled straight down toward him with a horrified yelp.
He lifted his arms to catch her, and the next thing she knew they were both sprawled on the ground beneath the tree in an ungainly tangle of limbs.
Oof!” he grunted.
Emma flushed scarlet and tried to push herself upright, but her skirts were rucked up around her knees and their legs were entwined as she straddled him. Her chest was plastered to his, and the hard muscles of his abdomen flexed beneath her palms as she slid them around for a place to push upright.
When she finally staggered to her feet she made a great show of brushing the snow from her skirts to hide her mortification.
Kit rolled to his side and stood, chuckling as he, too, dusted the icy slush from his coat.
He bent and retrieved the sprigs of mistletoe from where they lay strewn about and handed her the posy with a mocking bow.
“Your bouquet, madame.”
Emma accepted it with a wry smile. “Thank you. I’m not usually so careless. The ice made it slicker than I expected.”
He glanced up at the remaining ball of mistletoe growing directly above them and sent her a roguish grin. “That’s the second time I’ve risked life and limb to save you from certain peril.” He raised his brows in cheeky suggestion. “Why don’t you honor tradition and reward me for my trouble?”
He tapped his cheek, indicating where she should kiss him.
Heat scalded up her neck and to the tops of her ears, but her heart pounded in appreciation of this new, flirtatious game. She’d dreamed of kissing Kit for years.
“Very well. Thank you for saving me. Again.”
Balancing up on tiptoe, she pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.
Her lips tingled. His skin was cool and slightly textured with early-morning beard, and her stomach somersaulted at the delicious scent of his cologne.
Just as she told herself to pull away, he turned his head, and the warm exhale of his breath sloughed over her lips.
She froze, hardly daring to breathe. And then his lips brushed hers—a tentative, silent question—and Emma didn’t think.
She turned her own head and leaned up into him, fusing her mouth to his.
His low growl of satisfaction reverberated through her. His lips moved on hers, tasting, nibbling, even as his gloved hands came up to cup the back of her head.
Her knees almost gave out. She was kissing Kit Carlisle! And it was glorious.
When she parted her lips to suck in a breath he took full advantage; his tongue slipped inside and touched her own.
Shocked but intrigued, Emma darted her own tongue out to brush against his, and the moment she did so the kiss turned wild.
He kissed her again and again. Deep, languorous sweeps of his tongue, as if he couldn’t get enough of her taste, as if he wished to consume her.
Enthralled, Emma grabbed the lapels of his coat and kissed him back with all the pent-up longing in her heart. A low, deep ache throbbed in her belly and between her legs.
Just when she thought she might faint from pleasure, he dragged his mouth from hers. His hands dropped from her nape and he took a cooling step backward.
“God, Emma, forgive me—”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” she scolded breathlessly.
He glanced down her in surprise. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, I suppose not.” She sent him a wry smile. “But I’m delighted you did.”
The poor man looked as though she’d hit him over the head with an iron bar. Her smile widened even more.
“As first kisses go, it was lovely.”
His jaw dropped open. “That was your first kiss?”
“It was,” she admitted cheerfully. “At least, my first proper one. I had no idea people did that with their tongues.”
He shook his head, still looking dazed. “But . . . how is that even possible? You’re twenty-three for God’s sake.”
“I know how old I am. And it’s entirely possible. I’ve hardly been in England since I was nineteen. You’d be amazed at the lack of potential suitors there are on the other side of the world.”
“But—”
His gaze seemed fixated on her mouth, as if he was thinking of kissing her again, just for good measure. Emma rather hoped he would do just that, but to her disappointment he turned away and raked his hands distractedly through his hair.
“When Andrew asked me to take care of you I very much doubt that was what he meant,” he growled.
Her heart contracted at the remorse and self-recrimination in his tone. “He asked that of you?”
“Yes.”
She smiled, albeit a little sadly. “He always was the very best of brothers. But please don’t imagine you have some sort of responsibility for me now. Andrew wouldn’t have intended that at all. I’m sure he just meant for you to keep an eye out for me.”
“Hmmm.” Kit’s growl was sufficient to convey his disagreement.
He started off toward the house, and it took her a long moment to catch up with him.
When she finally risked a glance at him, she deemed it prudent to ignore what had just happened, since he clearly seemed determined to forget it.
She rubbed her arm with a scowl. “I think I bruised my elbow.”
“I think I bruised more than my elbow.” He rubbed his backside. “I’m going to be black and blue by tomorrow.”
Emma forced her eyes away from the sight of his large hand stroking his shapely posterior. The man had no right to look that good in breeches.
She cleared her throat as they neared the house. “I need to change and then check on my plants.” She bobbed him a brief curtsey. “Good morning.”
As much as she would have preferred to avoid Kit for the rest of the day, he was in the greenhouse when she finally made her way back downstairs. She went straight to her five remaining orchids and busied herself checking the dampness of their soil.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She picked up a small jug from the potting table and scooped out a measure of warm water from the nearest pool.
“They don’t need watering until they’re almost dried out.
If they get too wet, they rot. That’s why so many of them died on the way across the Atlantic—it was too damp for them on the ship. ”
“Ah.”
Emma stroked a shiny leaf. “But this is a good sign that they’re improving. See, how they’ve become a nice bright green? That means they’re getting enough daylight. They were much darker when I first arrived.”
Kit moved to stand at her shoulder and she tried not to bask in his nearness. Or think about what his lips had felt like on hers.
“I’m glad they’re thriving in this environment,” he said. “You seem to have a magic touch. Perhaps there’s something about your presence that makes them want to live?”
She glanced sideways at him, unable to tell if he was serious or not. “I don’t think there’s any particular magic to it. I just care for them and give them what they need.”
Do you feel better in my presence? She wanted to ask. Do I make you want to live? To come alive?
Where had those foolish thoughts come from?
Kit stared at Emma’s exquisite profile and swallowed down the admission that was forming on his tongue. How could he possibly explain that he felt like those orchids of hers? That he’d been in his own ‘dormant stage’ for the past eighteen months, but . . . maybe she was coaxing him to bloom again?
His teasing suggestion that she kiss him under the mistletoe had been impulsive, a bit of fun, but the moment she’d stepped up close all he could think about was knowing the taste of her lips, the feel of her in his arms.
Kissing her had been a revelation.
She wasn’t the first woman he’d been in contact with since his recovery, but she was the first one to truly rouse his interest—and his body. Desire, thick and dark, had pulsed through his bloodstream, reigniting passions he’d thought long dead.
He’d wanted to kiss her at sixteen when he’d visited her brother during their breaks from school. Now, at twenty five, he wanted to take her to bed and show her every pleasure that could be had between a man and a woman.
It wasn’t only her physical body he craved, though. He admired her unflagging optimism and her thirst for life. Her vital presence had underscored how stagnant he’d allowed his own life to become, how drab and lacking in color.
He wanted to live again. Not merely to exist, but to expose himself to the world. To all the highs and lows it had to offer, despite the risks.
Two days in Emma’s company, and he was dangerously close to declaring his undying love. He’d never seriously thought about his future before—it seemed like he’d be tempting fate to imagine it in prison—but now a whole vista of possibilities was opening up before him.
Getting married had seemed equally far-fetched. Despite the happy unions of his friends—Nic with Marianne, Raven with Heloise, and Richard with Sabine—he’d never really believed such a thing could happen to him. But Emma Townsend had turned his life upside down.
Andrew had been the very best of men, and his sister was cut from the same cloth. Caring, Kind. Fearless. The thought of being permanently attached to her wasn’t so impossible to contemplate.
Kit snorted under his breath. The main flaw to that plan, of course, was that Emma was in no hurry to settle down. As a wealthy heiress with little interest in bowing to society’s rules, she had the luxury of being able to go where she wished and do as she pleased.
She would be off on her next adventure as soon as she’d convinced the Botanical Society to acknowledge her latest discovery.
Still, he could enjoy her company for what little time they had together. Tomorrow was Christmas day and despite the fact that he’d been invited to spend the day with all three of his friends and their wives, he was glad he’d refused.
He would have Emma all to himself.