Free A Midsummer's Kiss (Farthingale Series Book 4) by Meara Platt

jolted his leg. He tried to ignore the stabbing pains coursing through his body, but the struggle left him in a cold sweat. Moisture beaded across his brow.
    He grabbed her hand when she started to turn away. “I’ll give him back to you,” he explained between clenched teeth, still fighting to subdue his pain. Blessed Scottish saints! Every movement hurts. “I didn’t pay for him and won’t turn a profit at your expense.”
    She stopped trying to draw her hand away. Instead, she wrapped her fingers in his and stared at him, trying to decide whether or not he could be trusted. “You did pay for him,” she said in a whisper of contrition. “You paid dearly with your broken leg.”
    He may have been physically hurt, but she was hurting too and unable to forgive herself for the accident. Damn. When she looked at him in that soft way, he was in danger of giving her anything she wished. “I didn’t spend any blunt on him and won’t make you spend any either. He’ll be returned to you at the proper time. Don’t ever offer to buy him from me, lass. He’ll be yours once your father gives his permission. You obviously love that beast. I won’t keep him from you.”
    He watched her expressive face, the flash of confusion in her exquisite eyes warring with the relief and gratitude she obviously felt.
    She sighed softly and leaned toward him.
    Was she about to give him another prim kiss on his cheek?
    She leaned closer still, and then suddenly remembered that her hand was still wrapped in his. She hastily removed it and took the book back in her grasp.
    The incredible feel of her slender fingers grazing his rough skin remained with him. He fought off the wave of heat now coursing through his body. Could he still blame this hot attraction on the laudanum working its way through him? Or on the fact that he hadn’t taken any laudanum today to stem his pain?
    He didn’t want his heart involved in this marriage business.
    He couldn’t afford to like her.
    Stick to your purpose.
    “I’m sorry I’ve been so unpleasant to you today,” Laurel said, withdrawing a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dipping it into the ewer near his bedside that had been freshly filled with water shortly before she’d arrived. After wringing out the moisture, she applied it to his forehead and gently wiped the sweat off his brow. Her light touch felt so good. Too good.
    He needed a girl to marry, not one to love.
    Graelem watched as she set aside the handkerchief and returned to her seat on the stool. She sighed softly, clasped her hands, and then once again stared at her toes. “I chose Titus Andronicus for two reasons.” She spoke so quietly, he almost missed what she was saying. “The first reason is that I thought Shakespeare’s classical tragedies would bore you to tears.”
    “Because you believe me to be a bull-headed, uncouth lout. My grandmother thinks the same of me, so I suppose I am.” He arched an eyebrow. “And the second?”
    Although her face was still angled to gaze at the floor, he caught the rosy stain of a blush on her cheeks. “My parents refused to allow any of us to read this particular Shakespeare tragedy. I’ve been curious about it ever since.”
    He let out a hearty laugh. “Very efficient of you, lass. Dispatching two birds with one stone. But there’s good reason for their admonition. It’s a cruel and violent play. Not for tender young hearts or delicate sensibilities.”
    “I won’t be afraid.” Her chin shot up again. “It’s just a play.”
    He glanced at the uncut pie on the tea tray. The enticing aroma of cinnamon and apples still filled the air. “Hand me the book.”
    She hesitated only a moment before doing so.
    He began to read her the part where the queen was told her children had been baked in the pie she’d just eaten. Laurel shot to her feet. “Wait! Let me see that.” She grabbed it from his hands and began to silently peruse the passage, her eyes widening and gracefully