Tree Gall Abnormal Outgrowth #2
Realising she’d become a gabbler, Verity removed her gloves and reached out to brush a finger over the silken petals, which were the hue of pale-pink blossom, the centre deepening to a dragon’s blood red, streaks of which infiltrated the petals like fine veins. “It’s beautiful.”
A small bench was opposite and so she sat – the perfect place to admire this hibiscus while inhaling the scent of flowering jasmine.
“Why did you cease drawing flowers?” he asked, also settling aside her on the bench, tugging off his gloves to touch the burgeoning fruit of a passion flower.
Despite the heat emanating from the pipes beneath the floor, she rubbed her hands together, a shiver catching her. “I couldn’t… I could no longer see the beauty in them. Or…in anything.”
Miles let out a breath. “It pains me that you felt such. But promise me you will always look for the beauty. Never stop looking. It’s there.
” He cleared his throat. “I once… Once after a battle in Spain, a good friend had died, and I wondered how to go on, what it was all for, kneeling by his body in blood and filth… When I… I saw a myrtle shrub, flowering white just beside him. And I knew then, what I fought for. I fought for beauty, for life. Because life endures.” His hand touched her cheek, gathered a tear that she’d not known had fallen. “Never stop seeing the beauty, Verity.”
And he bent his head, eyes stern, lips–
“We mustn’t.” She held a finger to those lips. “We shouldn’t for…for I…I need to tel–”
“The army taught me much,” he whispered, “but do you want to know the most important lesson?”
“How to load a musket?”
His lips quirked. Lips that were so close.
“No…” Covering her hand, he dragged her finger to his cheek; she could feel the burgeoning stubble.
“It was that life is made of brief, fragile moments and we must appreciate each one. Appreciate all pleasure this life can give. That is where true peace and…love is to be found.”
And she couldn’t draw back.
As his lips met hers.
At this moment, Miles had no wish to know what she’d needed to tell him.
Verity had lied all those years ago, but he now knew it wasn’t because her passion for him had waned, or that her feelings had altered.
And how was he supposed to suppress such want for her when the intoxicating perfume of jasmine filled him, when the sights of such flowering abundance crammed his eyes and when Verity looked so damn beautiful and yet so sad.
And hell, how he’d missed her – the taste of her, the feel of her, the scent of her. The manner in which they chatted and shared.
They needed to talk of the past at some point, but when all was said and done, they’d both made good on their lives, found peace and joy.
And now, all he wanted to do was explore. To discover the woman Verity had become. So he plundered.
Heaven or hell but she responded, his name a whispered moan as her lips clung to his, opening to his demand, her fingers spread, clutching at his nape.
He had to feel her skin, slid hands to her neck and collarbone, but it wasn’t nearly enough and he felt the short sleeves give beneath his rough palms. His mouth followed, to her earlobe and throat.
His name was moaned once more, a husk-filled word that sent desire soaring, heat roiling and passions wild in this steam-filled jungle. Kisses were left betwixt her neck and shoulder, tasting of salt and blossom.
And her own hands were just as busy, pressing against his chest, shoulders, clenching at his arms, his nape and scratching against his skin in exquisite torment.
His mouth hovered at her shoulder.
As a lad, he would’ve halted here, not allowed himself any further. But he was no longer a callow youth, and he pushed her sleeve lower so that the bodice drooped, allowed his lips to wander over the straps to her chemise and stays, then let his mouth descend to the lace that prettified the edge.
“Verity…” The fierce rise and fall of her chest, her smooth decolletage and swell of breasts drove all thought from his mind but one.
To make Verity his, amongst the plants and the flowers and the heady scents of nature. To not give one bloody damn about the past or the future.
He kissed her again. And again.
Yet…
He could sense a faltering, her lips hesitant, hands no longer so avid but caressing as though to soothe.
She had the right of it, of course: they were in a bloody glass-windowed hothouse and although misted with steam even before their arrival, anyone might catch a glimpse.
But as her lips dallied in dichotomy so her body stiffened, and he knew it was not merely the setting but the past that had come rushing in.
Verity’s past.
And he had the disagreeable feeling that this kiss, this lush passionate kiss, might be Verity’s kiss of farewell.
He swallowed deeply, closed his eyes and willed his ardour to subside.
“Miles?” A hand on his cheek and he lifted his lids. Her lips were rosy, a high colour to her cheekbones and her dress was rather awry. Pins had fallen from her hair and her eyes were tawny as chestnut husks. “We mustn’t,” she whispered.
With reluctance, he nodded and began straightening her sleeves, willing his gaze not to stray. He noted a splodge of grey paint on her wrist. “I can do nothing for your hair but…” He stood and marched to a watering can, let his handkerchief waft about a bit inside and then headed back.
She held it to her flushed cheek and neck before returning it. “I think you may need this too.”
In fact, he needed a dip in Kew’s lake. “We best leave. I think this place brings me to a fever.”
“It’s the lushness,” she whispered. “The assault to the senses of smell and sight. We were slightly…overcome by it.”
Overcome by you, he silently amended.
They meandered out in rather a daze but as he opened the hothouse door, the English day blasted them with reality. A damp wind stirred, carrying the unmistakeable scent of rain, and the clouds brooded better than he.
It cooled the cheeks and desires in no time and Verity hastily shoved her arms into her pelisse of deep green.
She rested her hand upon his sleeve but even that light touch was torture as they began to re-trace their steps, betwixt the hothouses.
Once returned to the route, they walked with quickening pace back past the Temple of Bellona, and Miles became aware of two matters.
One was that Verity had taken to muttering to herself. On occasion, she would also shake her head. Then mutter again.
And second… He peered up to the sky once more. The light had dimmed with an unnatural haste, and was that thunder in the distance?
How the hell were Verity and her relations to travel home in that bloody phaeton of hers? Even with the half-hood, they’d be drenched.
Perchance they could all fit into his carriage but… “We need to make haste, Verity.”
“Oh but…”
“I’d say rain is coming.”
He hurried her along the path, back through the crumbling arch, which looked abandoned rather than romantic, and past the lake.
Some found the rain endearingly bucolic, but they’d never ridden thirty miles in a freezing downpour, needles of water piercing your face and soul, gunpowder the only thing kept dry.
Verity’s muttering continued unabated but Miles strode on until Kew’s side gate came into view, though it was rather a mockery to call it such, when in truth it was an extravagant brick-built carriage arch, with enough depth to keep a coach dry beneath.
Through it, however, he could see Lynch seated atop the town carriage with reins in hand, sheltering beneath the trees that lined the far side of the lane.
As they neared, he could also make out Verity’s phaeton, her tiger atop in an oiled coat.
The hood had been raised but a decent gust of wind would take that to the coast.
Miss Nash and Miss Hamilton, he noted, were nowhere to be seen but then with that sky, they were likely lingering over tea in the Temple of Aeolus, and he continued for the shelter of the gate.
“Wait, Miles!” she called and he turned to Verity who’d dug her proverbial booted heels into the path.
“Verity…” A light drizzle commenced, coating her hair in silver webs. “If you wish to tell me of something, I am ready to listen but let us do so in my carriage.” His gaze flicked to the darkening sky. “And not in the middle of a gathering rainstorm.”
“No.” She folded her arms. “I need the air to think, Miles. I’ve been struggling on ways to explain…why I said what I did that night.”
“Veri–” A low rumble in the distance portended his words. He returned to her and offered a hand. “Come to the carriage. Lynch has it just over there and I’ll not interrupt you, but I’d rather you were dry.”