Prologue #2
“If you miss? What if you only scratch him? Then you’ve lost the chance at surprise, and he’ll turn your knife against you. Now, again.”
Bella sighed, her lips pursed in irritation even as she gathered her sun-golden locks into one hand.
He’d watched her twist those strands around that pin so many times.
The scene should have felt commonplace at that point, but the sight of something of his—something he had given her—on her person left him jittery and heated.
West’d had more than one shameful dream of some lordling or another approaching her, only for Bella to rip his pin from her hair and threaten the lad off with a snarl, saying she belonged in no arms other than Miles Weston’s.
It was as silly a hope as it was thrilling.
A stable master’s son had no business lusting after a lady.
Every time the shade of Blackwood Grange fell over his father’s cottage, West was reminded of that fact.
“Again,” he repeated once she had set her hair to rights. Bella turned, offering her back, and straightened. His approach was slow, methodical, and silent. Then he sprang. Between one breath and the next, he’d banded his arms around her and hauled her tight against his chest.
She whirled, her hand snatching the pin from her hair. She slashed it toward his cheek—stopping short of actually injuring him. West released one hand from her waist to clutch his face as her unsuspecting victim would.
Finally finding it fit to listen to him, she shoved him with all her might. He staggered back while she spun on her heels to dash away.
“Well done!”
“I still think it would be more effective to aim for a graver injury.”
“Bella…”
Her dark eyes tipped skyward. “Yes, yes.” With a dramatic sigh, she plopped down right where she stood, her golden floral skirts spilling around her on the ground.
West’s heart jolted at how young she looked. Sometimes he thought Bella was born a woman grown. She had been, in a way, given that her mother passed in the birthing bed. Bella was named lady of the house before she’d taken her first breath.
Without a sound, he settled beside her.
“Do you need to return to the house?”
“Almost certainly,” she said, leaning back on one hand. Her neck hinged as the sunlight kissed the freckles dotting her nose.
West mimicked her position.
“But I’ve— You must never tell Ben this— When he’s there… I’m a wretched person for being grateful when he’s there. When he’s gone…”
West’s stomach clenched. He knew the sorts of things Ambrose Sinclair did to his son—had seen the aftereffects of the man’s whip. But he hadn’t thought Bella received the same treatment.
“Your pa?”
“Yes. I mean, no—not the way you are thinking. And I’m glad Benedict is away in that respect. He’s safer away at university. But the men Father invites to game with him— They’re… tempered by Ben’s presence.”
“Has someone—?”
“No! They look—always have. But now they look with intent. Someday soon, one of them will make Father an offer. And…” Bella refused to meet his gaze, focusing on the wildflower blooms under her free hand.
West’s swallow was loud in the quiet meadow. “Do you want to marry one of them?”
“What has that to do with anything?” she asked, genuine confusion written in the furrow of her brow and in her flat tone.
Rather a lot. “Nothing, I suppose.”
He plucked a sprig of toadflax and twirled it between his fingers. Another one appeared in his hand—harvested without thought. He sat up and twisted them together the way his mam showed him when he was a lad. He added another bloom, a violet one he didn’t know the name of.
“What on earth are you doing?” Bella asked after he’d added a fourth.
“Wait and see,” he said, allowing the corner of his lip to tip up. One by one, he added more flowers until they formed a ring several inches in diameter.
With great ceremony, he offered up his finished creation to her on both palms. Bella responded with equal pomp and tipped her head forward. West held his breath as he placed the crown atop her waves. The strands were impossibly soft under his coarse fingertips.
Bella’s eyes crinkled in delight as she reached up to straighten her new diadem.
“You are a man of surprising talents, Miles Weston. Not particularly useful talents, of course, but surprising.”
A huff of laughter escaped his chest. “I’ve got one or two of use as well.”
“Debatable.” She tipped her head to the side with the retort. The blooms slid across her glossy strands.
His fingers reached out to arrange the crown before her own could react.
“I have you,” West breathed. His hand, entirely without his permission, slid down to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. Still possessed, his forefinger traced the line of her jaw down to her chin.
Bella’s lips parted, full and supple. God, he wanted to taste them.
Wide, hopeful eyes met his. A puzzle piece snapped in his head—his heart threatened to burst as understanding washed over him.
This wasn’t a passing fancy. West wanted to give her more than a hairpin, more than a flower crown—he longed to give her his body, his home, his heart… his name.
No action had ever cost him more than when he ripped his hand from her skin. He glanced away and cleared his throat.
“I, uh, I should— I can walk you back to the house?”
Bella’s gaze dropped to the ground with a quiet nod. West rose and offered her his hand. Instead of accepting, she pressed up to her feet and wiped her hands on her dress.
“I can see myself back.” She reached for the hairpin in the grass and slipped it into her hair with practiced efficiency. The crown threatened to fall from her head, but she caught the blossoms and held them in front of her chest.
“But—”
“Thank you. For the lessons.”
Dismissal clear, West merely nodded.
With far more dignity than anyone in possession of a flower crown ought to have, Bella strode off toward Blackwood, taking West’s heart with her.