Free On Sparrow Hill by Maureen Lang

have to bring the glass back to her room if she was to get much milk past her suddenly constricting throat.
    “Tell me, Rebecca,” Quentin said as he sat again. His tone was so intimate she had to set aside the glass altogether, freeing untrustworthy hands. She pulled them beneath the table to her lap. “Do you wake in the morning devising ways to avoid me, or are you truly as overworked as it appears? If so, I believe you need an assistant.”
    She managed a smile. “No, I’m not overworked at all.”
    “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Then it’s the other option.”
    That she was avoiding him? Instantly she knew she couldn’t deny it; it was true. Not that she could explain why. Being busy was certainly one reason. Leftover insecurities from a childhood crush was another.
    She only hoped he didn’t ask—
    “Why?”
    She attempted to brush away his question with a perplexed shake of her head, reemploying one hand to take another drink of the milk. Better to trust an unsteady grip to hide trembling lips than to admit the whole truth.
    “Rebecca? Are you going to answer my question?”
    She put down the milk, touching fingertips to lips, but that tremulous stroke did little to still her nervousness.
    This was ridiculous. She’d felt like a child once already today, in Lady Elise’s company.
    “No, Quentin, I’ll not answer your question.” She was pleased to hear the firmness behind her voice.
    “Then you realize I’m left to draw my own conclusions? That the reason you’ve chosen to avoid me can only be personal? Either you don’t like me, Rebecca . . . or you like me very much. So much that it’s made you uncomfortable around me. For what reason, I cannot guess, since I like you, too. Very much.”
    She pushed her chair from the table. This was really too much. “I’m sorry you’ve had to imagine such guesses, Quentin. It’s very late, though, and I think . . .”
    He stood just as she did, stepping around the corner of the table and taking one of her hands. He felt warm in comparison to the cool glass. Before she could think or breathe or arm herself with a defense, his mouth descended on hers, and there she stood, kissing him back, letting her arms go round his shoulders and marveling how broad they were, how strong he felt. How close he held her, how wonderful it was. Old dreams were one thing, but reality was altogether finer in every way.
    When he lifted his lips from hers, he didn’t let go. Instead he put a hand into the curls of her hair, gently inviting her head to the firmness of his chest. She wondered if his heart thumped as erratically as her own, but with her ear pressed nearby she found his beat was steady, strong like the rest of him.
    “I didn’t know how else to stop you from running away,” he whispered.
    “Seems to have been effective,” she said, much to her own dismay. She should be running. Fast. All the way to employment at the National Trust.
    Quentin kissed her again and she let him. Her brain failed her, weak in comparison to the power of this kiss.
    But it was foolish.
    Lord, help me!
    She pulled away, managing a steadying breath. “Quentin.” She’d meant to summon a touch of caution, even rebuke. He was, after all, her employer. She didn’t have to search long to find a list of reasons this shouldn’t be happening. Instead her tone had been more a plea, like a portion of the entreaty left over from her prayer.
    He was still too close, and she took a step backward but ran into the table. She placed her hands behind her, gripping the edge of the familiar, marred top as if it were her only alternative to holding him. At the moment it was.
    He closed the gap between them, and Rebecca had no place to go, so she raised one hand to his chest, forestalling him. “No.”
    He stopped. Though he didn’t step back, he didn’t follow through with what she fully expected would have been another kiss.
    His brows lifted. “No?”
    “I’m too confused to sort out what