Chapter Eleven #2
“Why?” The word flew from his mouth before he could stop it.
Her cheeks darkened with color. She dropped her gaze and then said, “Because the only kiss I’ve ever had was that terrible one from Mr. Anderson.”
Ian frowned. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, you shouldn’t.” She pulled out a handful of grass, her fingers twisting the blades into rope. “I mean, I’ve received a peck or two. When Robert asked for my hand and my father gave it to him, he kissed my cheek.”
“And what did you do?” Ian asked, curious.
“Initially? Nothing.” She dropped her grass and dusted her fingers lightly before adding, “Later, I washed my cheek.”
That was the answer he’d wanted to hear. And still, like a doubting fool, he hedged. “So why would you want a kiss from me?”
“Because you must know how to kiss. You seemed to be doing a good job of it earlier. Or so one would believe from the response you received.” She placed her hand on his thigh, a bold move that was counterbalanced by the timidity in her wide eyes.
Suddenly uncertain, he said, “Miss Harrell—”
“Lyssa.”
“Lyssa,” he repeated, drawing out the syllables. Her fingers were inches from his groin and he was having trouble thinking, since all the blood seemed to have left his brain and was now centered in his very strong erection.
If she noticed, she gave no sign.
Instead, she leaned close. “I’m three and twenty,” she whispered, “and on the shelf, or so my stepmother tells me. After mother died, father and I spent three years wrapped in grief. But he recovered. I was twenty, Ian. My mother had been ill most of my life and I was already old in more ways than age. Then Papa met his duchess and married and I was forced to go out into Society. Do you know how awkward I felt? There were so many rules I had to learn and everything I did seemed to be wrong. Whereas my stepmother knew everything and everyone. She was graceful and poised, and I felt old.”
“You are not old.”
“There were girls younger than myself who were already matrons with babies—”
“Not many,” he corrected.
“More than enough,” she said. “And here I was, not even knowing how to flirt.”
“You know more than you realize,” he answered carefully, his heart pounding in his ears.
“I don’t know how to kiss like you were kissing the widow. I don’t know how to kiss at all, and I do want to learn.” She punctuated her words by moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, and Ian almost groaned aloud.
Here was the first sign that she saw him as a man…and the opportunity to taste her was very tempting.
“Please?” she asked prettily and closed her eyes, offering herself to him.
All Ian had to do was press his lips to hers and nature would take its course.
What he’d give to have her body against his.
Her nipples had tightened and he yearned to feel the weight of her breasts in his hands.
Mary Potter had been a poor substitute for what he really wanted, what he ached for.
What he could have right now if he would only take advantage—
Gently, he moved her hand from his thigh, placing it on the ground between them and holding it in place with his palm. Dear God in Heaven, he was going to regret this.
Her eyes fluttered open. Her brows came together in a question.
“I believe the whiskey is talking to you, Miss Harrell.” He deliberately put a lot of Irish in his voice, needing to remind her—and himself—of their differences.
She gave her head a small shake as if in disbelief. “You won’t kiss me?”
He didn’t answer, knowing whatever he said, he was a doomed man.
His prediction was right. Lyssa rose to her feet, her fists clenched at her side. “You would kiss every woman at the dance tonight and refuse to kiss me?”
This was not going to be good.
Slowly, he came up to stand in front of her, needing his height in the face of her building temper.
There were so many things he could say. He could tell the truth and possibly find himself entangled even further with her—or say something that would put her off him for good.
Then he wouldn’t have to worry about any messy complications like his own heart.
“Your father is not paying me to kiss bluestocking virgins who want to experiment.”
He braced himself, fully expecting her temper to explode and for her to deliver another slap in the face for his impertinence.
She fooled him. Instead of anger, there was sadness. “Yes. Yes,” she repeated. “You are quite right. Silly of me. I’m sorry—”
She turned and ran toward the barn.
Ian took a step, wanting to go after her—and then stopped. If he caught her, then what? More words? More arguments?
Or would he give her the kiss she craved? Kiss her until she bent to his will? Until he could swallow her whole and claim all?
And would that be enough?
No, it was better this way. Now, she would hate him and the job would be easier. They needed to keep a wedge between each other.
Still, she had finally seen him as a man.
He looked at the cold pond, thought about jumping in, and then decided he’d had enough of the “water cure” for what ailed him. Instead, he set off walking. It was a long time before he finally had himself in hand and could sleep.
Lyssa ran to her small room and slammed the door. The widow and Mr. Anderson were both long gone. She was alone.
She raised her hand up to her lips, tracing the line of them. She’d asked him for a kiss and he’d refused.
Sinking down on the cot, she unlaced her belt and threw it on the floor, struggling with an overwhelming urge to cry.
Instead, she fell asleep.
A few hours later, Lyssa woke, fully dressed, with a fuzzy mouth and a rapping sound in her ears. Someone was knocking on the door. She didn’t want to wake and huddled into the warmth of her plaid. In the vague, dreamy recesses of her mind, she had her arms around Ian, her thigh wrapped around his—
She sat up, shocked into wakefulness. She had no idea where such vivid, erotic images sprang from, and remembered his refusing her kiss last night.
What a fool she’d made of herself. Bending over at her waist, she hugged her plaid to her chest and wished she could hide.
But she couldn’t and she knew who was at the door.
Rising, she straightened her clothing as best she could, crossed over to the door, and opened it. Ian stood there holding a steaming mug of tea and looking completely refreshed and more handsome than any one man had the right to. “I thought you could use this. Maggie made it for us.”
With her dream still fresh in her mind, she could do nothing but blush hotly.
Taking the mug, she shut the door in his face.
She knew she had to look terrible. Her face was probably all smooshed from sleeping so hard and her hair was a complete tangle.
“No wonder he didn’t want to kiss me,” she muttered to herself.
He knocked on the door again. She opened it. “We need to leave. We don’t want to be here when Anderson wakes.”
Oh, yes. She wouldn’t be able to face him, not without losing her temper. “Absolutely. Give me a few minutes.” She shut the door again.
And she truly meant to get ready. In fact, she gulped down the tea and put on her belt. However, as she was lacing it up, her gaze fell on the knapsack stored under the cot.
She knew she should leave it alone. There was no time to dally…but her breath needed freshening…and Ian kept tooth powder in his knapsack.
If she had any qualms about helping herself to his knapsack without asking, her curiosity squelched them. After all, she knew what some of the contents were—the gun, the dried beef, his tin cup.
But what else would she find? What secrets did he hold?
Her curiosity was overwhelming. With trembling hands, she pulled out the knapsack and opened the leather flap. She found the tooth powder immediately, with his shaving kit. The contents smelled of the strong soap he used.
She should have stopped then.
She didn’t.
Instead, she pushed aside his pistol and the gunpowder flask. There was another cloth-covered packet that contained the dried beef, and the tin cup was in the bottom. She told herself she would need the cup for water and used the need as an excuse to probe to the very depths of the bag.
That is where she found the packet of letters and the crucifix.
For a second, Lyssa couldn’t move. She stared at the amber prayer beads. She’d heard of them before. Every English child was taught about papist idolatry. She knew that even in London there were Catholics, although she didn’t know any. A piece of ribbon tied the crucifix to the letters.
Without untying the ribbon, Lyssa scanned the letters.
The handwriting was definitely feminine.
My dearest son was the salutation on one.
Leafing through, she could see they were all written by the same hand.
Lifting an edge, she saw the closing, Mother.
Holding the letters, she sensed an overwhelming air of sadness and she could not have stopped herself from reading the first if she’d tried.
Lyssa sat on the floor and glanced over a paragraph she could see without untying the ribbon:…Matters are much better. Please do not fear for your father and I. None of this was your—
The door opened without a knock.
Slowly, Lyssa turned fearing the worst. She was right. Ian stood there, his gaze dark.
She pushed the letters and holy beads back into the recesses of the knapsack. “I…um, wanted to borrow some tooth powder.”
“Did you find it?” His voice was flat, his expression guarded. She could not judge his mood.
“Yes. Thank you.”
He walked over and picked up his knapsack. He could tell she had rifled through his belongings and she was ashamed.
His gaze did not meet hers. “I’ll wait for you outside. I need to shave.”
“Of course.”
He left, and Lyssa wanted to collapse. She knew he was upset. She shouldn’t have pried…and she wished she’d not seen the crucifix.