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Authors: Mary Jo Putney
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the top of the topiary queen.
“I’ve done no damage,” he said mildly. “Even a useless gentleman can do this kind of work when the topiary shapes are so well denned.”
Her gaze flicked over him so quickly that once again she managed to avoid meeting his eyes, but she seemed satisfied. Returning to her side of the shrub, she continued her trimming with sharp snaps of her clippers. No more singing, to his regret.
Since the day was warm and his coat made it hard to raise his arms over his head, he stripped off the garment and tossed it aside before resuming work. He took great pains with the top of the queen, sure there would be hell to pay with Lady Meriel if he damaged such an important piece. He was so intent on doing the job right that he almost stumbled over Meriel as he worked his way around the shrub. Off balance with the effort of not stepping on her bare feet, he lurched and instinctively caught her elbow to steady himself. Everything seemed to stop—his movements, hers, the lazy breeze. Everything but his heart, which suddenly accelerated.
He looked down at the crown of her head, where flaxen hair pulled back into the heavy braid that fell past her waist. She stood frozen, her gaze on his throat, but he could see a pulse beat in her jaw. A delicate film of perspiration sheened her pearly complexion.
Lord, she was small, her head barely reaching his chin. Yet not fragile, despite her slight build. There was wiry strength in the arm under his hand, and tension in her slim, elegant frame. What would he see if she raised those demurely downcast eyes—alarm, or anger?
“You’re not used to being touched, are you?” He made himself release her arm. “Yet marriage involves touching of the most intimate kind. I wonder how you would react to that. With revulsion? Endurance?
Or possibly pleasure?”
He expected her to draw away, perhaps even flee. Instead, she raised her left hand and touched his bare throat. His muscles spasmed under his skin in reaction to the light, almost caressing stroke of her fingers. He felt the faint roughness of calluses on her fingertips, heard their delicate rasp against his whiskers. Her intent exploration sent chills through him as she skimmed his throat and jaw, traced the outline of his ear. At least, by God, she was aware of him.
“You have a voice, Meriel,” he said softly. “Can’t you use it to say yes or no? To speak my name?”
Abruptly she whirled away and stalked across the board to another chess piece, this time the black bishop. Definitely a stalk, not a walk.
He supposed that was her way of saying no.
Her hands shook so much that she cut too deeply, marring the smooth surface of the dark bishop. His fault! In two short days, he had gone from being a creature with no more importance than a sparrow to being fully alive, as real as Kamal. Even the ladies lacked his vividness and texture. She made herself pause, slow her breathing, before she resumed clipping the bishop. Renbourne would go soon, for he was too much of the world to linger in so quiet a place. But until then, he would disturb her peace, for he was impossible to ignore.
At least he was capable of trimming a shrub without damaging it. She glanced across the board. His arms were lifted above his head to shape the top of the pale queen. The white shirt drew taut across his wide shoulders. Their breadth narrowed down sharply to his waist and hips, forming a triangle that pleased the eye. She gazed at him, enjoying his movements, until he finished and started to turn toward her.
Hastily she bent her head to the bishop again. There was no reason for her face to heat at the knowledge that she found pleasure in watching him. Every day she observed the bees and badgers, birds and butterflies, and the other creatures of Warfield. All life was lovely in its own way. He was simply one more beautiful beast, no different or more important than the others. She told herself that… but she could not believe
“I’ve done no damage,” he said mildly. “Even a useless gentleman can do this kind of work when the topiary shapes are so well denned.”
Her gaze flicked over him so quickly that once again she managed to avoid meeting his eyes, but she seemed satisfied. Returning to her side of the shrub, she continued her trimming with sharp snaps of her clippers. No more singing, to his regret.
Since the day was warm and his coat made it hard to raise his arms over his head, he stripped off the garment and tossed it aside before resuming work. He took great pains with the top of the queen, sure there would be hell to pay with Lady Meriel if he damaged such an important piece. He was so intent on doing the job right that he almost stumbled over Meriel as he worked his way around the shrub. Off balance with the effort of not stepping on her bare feet, he lurched and instinctively caught her elbow to steady himself. Everything seemed to stop—his movements, hers, the lazy breeze. Everything but his heart, which suddenly accelerated.
He looked down at the crown of her head, where flaxen hair pulled back into the heavy braid that fell past her waist. She stood frozen, her gaze on his throat, but he could see a pulse beat in her jaw. A delicate film of perspiration sheened her pearly complexion.
Lord, she was small, her head barely reaching his chin. Yet not fragile, despite her slight build. There was wiry strength in the arm under his hand, and tension in her slim, elegant frame. What would he see if she raised those demurely downcast eyes—alarm, or anger?
“You’re not used to being touched, are you?” He made himself release her arm. “Yet marriage involves touching of the most intimate kind. I wonder how you would react to that. With revulsion? Endurance?
Or possibly pleasure?”
He expected her to draw away, perhaps even flee. Instead, she raised her left hand and touched his bare throat. His muscles spasmed under his skin in reaction to the light, almost caressing stroke of her fingers. He felt the faint roughness of calluses on her fingertips, heard their delicate rasp against his whiskers. Her intent exploration sent chills through him as she skimmed his throat and jaw, traced the outline of his ear. At least, by God, she was aware of him.
“You have a voice, Meriel,” he said softly. “Can’t you use it to say yes or no? To speak my name?”
Abruptly she whirled away and stalked across the board to another chess piece, this time the black bishop. Definitely a stalk, not a walk.
He supposed that was her way of saying no.
Her hands shook so much that she cut too deeply, marring the smooth surface of the dark bishop. His fault! In two short days, he had gone from being a creature with no more importance than a sparrow to being fully alive, as real as Kamal. Even the ladies lacked his vividness and texture. She made herself pause, slow her breathing, before she resumed clipping the bishop. Renbourne would go soon, for he was too much of the world to linger in so quiet a place. But until then, he would disturb her peace, for he was impossible to ignore.
At least he was capable of trimming a shrub without damaging it. She glanced across the board. His arms were lifted above his head to shape the top of the pale queen. The white shirt drew taut across his wide shoulders. Their breadth narrowed down sharply to his waist and hips, forming a triangle that pleased the eye. She gazed at him, enjoying his movements, until he finished and started to turn toward her.
Hastily she bent her head to the bishop again. There was no reason for her face to heat at the knowledge that she found pleasure in watching him. Every day she observed the bees and badgers, birds and butterflies, and the other creatures of Warfield. All life was lovely in its own way. He was simply one more beautiful beast, no different or more important than the others. She told herself that… but she could not believe
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