22 #2
In short order they were seated on the quilt, the food laid out between them.
And Iris found, much to her surprise, that she was more comfortable than she had been since hiding away here in Oliver’s home.
A peculiar thing, really, seeing as they were seated on the ground beneath a bunch of hastily tied-up bedsheets.
Yet as she filled Oliver’s plate with meat pie, robust, hard cheese, and early-summer berries, she realized just how tense she had been as the tightness in her muscles eased.
It could have been because of the vibrant scent of life in the surrounding foliage, or the feel of the ground beneath her, or the glimpse of wide-open sky above her head.
It could have been because of the lazy drone of insects on the air or the undulating way the sheets moved as the breeze caressed them. And it was all those things.
But it was also because of Oliver. The tightness about his eyes loosened, the shadows in them that were part and parcel of him gone as he accepted his plate with a smile. Their fingers brushed, and a jolt of electricity shot through her body, making her breathless.
And perhaps he felt it as well. He froze, smile faltering as his suddenly heated gaze dropped to her lips. His cheeks turned an interesting hue as, hurriedly pulling his hand back, he took up the meat pie.
“You made these yourself, did you?” he asked a touch too loudly. Before she could reply, he took a healthy bite. His eyes flared wide as he chewed, and he looked at it with something like amazement. “But it’s delicious.”
“You sound surprised,” she said, ridiculously pleased, even as she took up her own pie and bit into it. Her own eyes widened as the flaky crust and tender bits of pork and vegetables hit her tongue. “Oh, but it truly is delicious.”
He laughed. “Now who sounds surprised?”
“I sound surprised because I am. Though,” she continued as she studied the pie in her hand, “I cannot credit anything I might have done. Your mother is the one who instructed me on it. She is a kind woman, your mother. I esteem her greatly.”
She glanced up at him and was surprised to see the glisten of something in his eyes. She blinked. “Are you crying?”
He pulled back, eyebrows flying up his forehead. “Crying?” he scoffed. “Of course not. Why would I be crying?” Despite his words, however, he dashed the back of his hand against his eyes, even as he stuffed the rest of the pie into his mouth.
She sat forward. “But you are. You’re crying.”
“I’m not,” he said around the pie.
“You are. Or at least you were about to.”
He scowled. “Why would I be crying?” he demanded.
“Perhaps because you were touched by what I said about your mother? It is nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t see why men cannot cry. And it’s commendable, really, that you love your mother so well that such a comment would bring tears to your eyes.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. “You really aren’t going to let up on this, are you?
” Before she could reply he looked at her, a reluctant kind of humor quirking his mouth.
“You wish me to admit to being touched that you spoke such lovely words about my mother? Very well, I shall. I was moved. Are you happy now?”
She stifled a smile. “Yes, very,” she replied.
A startled laugh tumbled from his lips. “I always forget how artlessly honest you are. It takes me aback, that honesty. I’m unused to people speaking their minds in such a forthright manner.”
She shrugged, taking up a bit of hard cheese and crumbling it with her fingers. “Would that everyone could be honest. It baffles me that people can hide so much of themselves. The world would be a sight easier to navigate if everyone was open with what they were feeling and thinking.”
“I daresay you’re right,” he murmured.
“You agree with me then?”
“Most definitely.”
She shifted so she faced him more fully. “Then why don’t you tell me your honest thoughts right now?”
Oliver had never considered himself a coward. In every instance of his life when fear could have ruled him, he had pushed that emotion down deep and done what had to be done, no matter the cost.
So why did he suddenly want to bolt from the tent and run screaming across the fields?
“You want me to tell you what I’m thinking,” he repeated, as if throwing the words back at her could make her retract the suggestion.
But she merely smiled, dropping what was left of the piece of cheese to her plate and brushing her hands off before folding them in her lap expectantly. “Yes.”
He pushed his plate aside, suddenly not able to take another bite. “I really don’t think that’s wise,” he replied.
A small frown creased the space between her brows. “But you just agreed that life would be easier if everyone were honest.”
“Sometimes,” he said slowly, “it’s best for a person to refrain from saying anything at all.”
That adorable frown deepened. “But if you say nothing, how am I to know what you’re thinking?”
“It’s probably best if you don’t know,” he said, voice low. Though too low for her to hear, apparently.
“For instance,” she continued, scooting closer to him in her exuberance, “things have been a bit strained between us this week. If I had been able to see into your thoughts, I would have been infinitely more at ease.”
He recalled just what had been going through his mind—when he hadn’t been building up the courage to talk her into giving up on her plans, that was.
How many times had he simply sat and stared at her lips imagining kissing them again?
How many hours had he lain awake thinking of her under his roof?
He rather thought that if she hadn’t been glued to his mother’s side or sharing a room with his sister, he wouldn’t have been able to stay away from her.
“I think it’s best for both of us that you were unable to read my mind,” he muttered.
“I don’t think that’s at all true,” she chirped, completely oblivious to the path his thoughts had taken—namely, what he would have done had they been left alone at all this week.
Which, he realized with a sinking heart, they were right this very moment.
And worse, he had made their time together even more intimate than it had been by setting up this blasted tent and this blasted picnic to give her a blasted bit of joy.
He swallowed hard, suddenly excruciatingly aware of just how close this space was.
Why, oh why, did his mother have to go to London now of all times? And why didn’t she have bigger sheets?
Iris must have taken his silence as acquiescence, for she shifted closer and took his hand in hers, smiling at him encouragingly. “Go ahead, tell me what you’re thinking.”
The touch of her hand on his, the sudden proximity of her body, all combined with his excruciating awareness of the unintended intimacy of the tent, scattered his remaining coherent thoughts like birds taking wing.
“I was thinking what an idiot I am for putting together this picnic because all I want to do is take you in my arms—”
He clamped a hand over his mouth to physically silence the confession.
Much too late, of course. The whole damn thing was out in the air hovering between them now.
But that didn’t stop him from trying futilely to stuff the remaining unsaid words back where they belonged: namely, to the very bottom of his soul, where light should never, ever reach them.
Iris, for her part, stared at him blankly for several long seconds, making things so much worse for him.
He was about to yank his hand from hers and do that running and screaming he’d imagined doing just minutes ago when her expression changed, and she gave him the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.
“I was thinking the very same thing. Well,” she continued with a small frown, “not the part where you think you’re an idiot, of course. I could never think you’re an idiot. I believe you’re quite wonderful, really, even if you are a tad stern.”
Her smile widened once more, her eyes glowing. “But the part where you take me in your arms, that I was imagining quite vividly—”
Whatever else she’d been about to say was forever lost as, deciding it must be a good idea if they were both thinking it, he pulled her against him and took her mouth with his.