Free Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) by Jennifer Blake Page B

knew she should have stepped back away from him or at least protested; instead she stood quite still. His hands, she saw, were beautifully shaped and well cared for, but carried hard ridges of calluses on the fingers and across the palms. They were the mark of one who practiced often with a sword. It was intriguing, that knowledge. She allowed her gaze to search his face, noting the strength of its bone structure, assessing his absorption in his task.
    He accepted her quiet scrutiny, until, suddenly, he looked straight into her eyes.
    What happened then seemed beyond belief, yet, at the same time, inevitable.
    He let the handkerchief in his hand fall, so it drifted down to catch on her wide skirts, then glided in snowy folds to the floor. A softly whispered phrase that might have been a plea or an imprecation damning himself rose to his lips, though in what language she could not tell for the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears. With infinite care, he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.
    It was a kiss of such gentle sweetness, such reverence, that it touched her to the heart. She felt the rise of tears, tasted their saltiness, even as her mouth throbbed under his and her blood began to froth in her veins with the effervescence of champagne. She felt glorified, transfigured in some way, so that who and what she was no longer mattered. It was as if she had discovered a part of her that had been missing, as if that piece had just locked in place, so it could never be lost again. The only thing important was the moment, and the feelings that made it her own.
    He raised his head, his gaze on the trembling, coral-pink softness of her lips. Slowly, as if exercising a perilous restraint, he stepped away from her until his back and taut shoulders struck the upright post of the pavilion. He turned from her then, grasping the post with one hand in a grip so tight that the tips of his fingers turned blue white with the pressure and the structure creaked somewhere in the metal beams above them.
    “Forgive me,” he said in ragged tones, “my manners — but I meant no disrespect, I swear it.”
    “Please, don’t.” Her words were so quiet he might not have caught them if he had not been straining to hear. “I — I was also at fault.”
    He shook his head. “You will think that I am a trifler who took advantage. It isn’t so — or rather, it is, but it was not deliberate.”
    “I — realize.” She glanced at his broad back, then back down at her clenched hands.
    “Do you?” He turned to face her then, but kept his distance.
    Her lips trembled into a smile. “I think that had you intended it, you — might have used more address.”
    Relief and laughter sounded in his voice as he said, “I would like to think so.”
    She met his gaze for a long instant. Turning slightly from him to stare out into the park, she said, “I am married.”
    There was a small silence before he answered. “I know. I saw the ring.”
    Violet looked down at her hand where a ruby surrounded by diamonds surmounted the shining gold circle on her finger, the traditional marriage ring of Gilbert’s family. Closing her fingers into a fist, she folded her arms, tucking the ring away out of sight. At the same time a heated feeling moved over her as she wondered if she had assumed too much in telling this man of her marital status, as though it could make a difference to him.
    He spoke again. “Where are you staying while in London?”
    “Just a hotel,” she said, without giving the name. “We will be here only a few days more before moving on to see other sections of Britain. Afterward, we cross the channel to France.”
    “Paris, of course.”
    She nodded her agreement. The quiet, made murmurous by the rain, which fell more gently now, stretched between them. She sent him a quick glance from under her lashes, but he seemed to be absorbed in some thought that made him frown. She swallowed. In stifled tones, she said, “My husband will be