Rowan and Delaney walked in silence. The leaves crunched under their boots.
"You lied," Rowan said suddenly.
Delaney stopped. "What?"
"Your husband," Rowan said. "Captain Smith. You ntioned him to annoy ."
"Well you made him up yourself, rember?" Delaney corrected. "And he is very useful. He taught French, he taught to shoot, and he apparently hates mutton." She smiled at the irony.
Rowan stopped walking. He turned to her.
"I hate him," Rowan said.
Delaney looked at him. "You hate an imaginary man?"
"Yes," Rowan admitted. "Because every ti you say his na, you smile. And I want to be the one making you smile."
The air between them suddenly felt very thin.
The birds stopped singing.
Delaney’s breath hitched. She looked at his lips.
"Your Grace..."
"Shhh," Rowan hissed suddenly. He held up a hand.
He pointed.
Fifty yards ahead, in a small clearing, was a rabbit. It was brown, twitching its nose, completely unaware of the drama unfolding nearby.
"Target," Rowan whispered.
He raised his rifle.
He tried to focus. He tried to look down the barrel. He tried to line up the sights with the rabbit.
But he couldn’t.
His hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from the adrenaline of the argunt. From the proximity of her.
He was thinking about her smile. He was thinking about the chemise she had worn when he went to check up on her last night. He was thinking about the way she had destroyed the apple.
He couldn’t steady the gun. The barrel wavered.
"You’re doing it wrong," a voice whispered.
Delaney moved.
She didn’t step away. She stepped closer.
She ca behind him.
Usually, the gentleman stood behind the lady to teach her. It was a classic courtship move.
Delaney reversed it.
She pressed her body against his back.
Rowan froze.
He could feel everything. He could feel the softness of her curves against the rigid line of his spine. He could feel the warmth radiating from her through the layers of her beige dress and his green coat.
She reached around him. Her hands covered his on the rifle. Her fingers were long and cool, sliding over his knuckles.
"Relax your shoulder," she whispered.
Her mouth was right at his ear. Her breath, warm and moist, tickled the sensitive skin of his neck.
It sent a shiver straight down his spine.
"Miss Kingsley," Rowan choked out. It was a warning. It was a plea.
"Hush," she murmured. "Look at the target. Not at ."
She adjusted his grip. She pulled the stock of the rifle tighter against his shoulder.
"Breathe out," she instructed.
Her chest pressed against his back as she exhaled. He could feel the rise and fall of her breathing. It was intimate. It was maddening.
Rowan swallowed hard. His throat felt dry.
The scent of her filled his nose—jasmine, soap, and that unique, spicy scent of her. It intoxicated him. It clouded his brain.
He tried to look at the rabbit. But all he could feel was her body molded to his.
He felt his blood rushing. It didn’t go to his head. It went south.
It rushed to his manhood, heavy and hot. He felt himself hardening against the rough fabric of his trousers. It was sudden and painful and undeniable.
He was standing in the woods with a loaded gun, supposed to be shooting a rabbit, and all he wanted to do was drop the weapon, turn around, and press her against the nearest tree.
"Steady," Delaney whispered. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear.
Rowan groaned low in his throat.
"I can’t," he whispered back.
"Why not?"
"Because you are touching ," Rowan confessed. His voice was rough, gravelly with desire. "And I am about to miss the rabbit and shoot the moon."
Delaney went still.
She realized what she was doing. She realized how close they were. She felt the tension in his body—the way his muscles were locked tight, vibrating like a plucked string.
She pulled away and stood up.
"I’m sorry," she whispered. " Go ahead."
Rowan’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Bang.
The shot went wide. It hit the dirt three feet to the left of the rabbit.
The rabbit bolted. It disappeared into the underbrush in a flash of brown fur.
Rowan didn’t care. He lowered the gun.
He stood up and turned around, invading her space.
They were face to face. Their bodies were inches apart. The gun was trapped between them, a cold barrier between their heat.
Rowan looked down at her. His eyes were dilated, dark with want. His breathing was ragged.
"You made miss," he said.
"You missed on purpose," Delaney countered softly. Her hazel eyes searched his.
"Maybe," Rowan said.
He dropped the gun. It fell onto the soft moss with a thud.
He reached out. He hesitated at first but later cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs traced her cheekbones.
"Your Grace..." Delaney said, surprised by the physical touch.
"The rabbit is safe," Rowan whispered. "But you, Miss Kingsley... you are in a great deal of danger."
"Why?" she breathed.
"Because," Rowan said, leaning down until their lips were a breath apart. "I am very tired of pretending that I want to shoot rabbits."
He didn’t kiss her. He stopped just before contact. He let the yearning hang there, thick and heavy. He let her feel the heat of his desire without crossing the final line.
Delaney trembled. She wanted him to cross the line. God, she wanted it. Her body was aching for sothing.
But the sound of a distant bell ringing from the house shattered the mont.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Lunch.
Rowan closed his eyes. He let out a frustrated groan that rumbled against her forehead.
He pulled back. He stepped away, picking up the gun. He needed distance. He needed cold water.
"Lunch," he said. His voice was strained.
"Yes," Delaney whispered. "Lunch."
Rowan turned and began to walk back toward the house. He walked with a slight hunch, trying to hide the physical evidence of his desire.
Delaney watched him go. She touched her lips, which were tingling even though he hadn’t kissed them.
She looked at the empty woods.
"What was I thinking? I am in trouble," she whispered to the trees. "I am in so much trouble."
User Comments
0 comments from readers