"Well, all right. Since you put it so romantically. Someplace else. Shall I be adventurous?"
This was too ridiculous. They were marooned in the desert, bedraggled, on the run for their lives. And he was having a bit of fun with her. It was clear from the amusement on his face, the carefree curve of his mobile lips, that she should not take him seriously.
But her heart had lost track of the game. "This is absurd."
"Indeed. So much is absurd. For instance, where are your crinolines?"
Her hands pressed flat against the thin muslin draping her thighs. Before today, she had never stepped into the world so lightly. Feeling the breeze as it flirted under her skirts seemed very close to being naked. "You are unkind to notice."
"I do try not to," he said softly. "And it seems as if it should be easy. But it isn't."
From somewhere inside, a place that trembled and ran hot and cold all at once, she found the courage to meet his eyes. "You are not joking," she said.
"No, Emmaline. I never said I was."
She inhaled as he leaned toward her. "I said my lips—"
"So you did," he said against her ear, and she closed her eyes as his teeth gently trapped her lobe.
"That is not a kiss," she gasped. Her voice sounded as if it came from a distance, barely penetrating the thunder of her pulse.
"Do you want one?" He spoke it against her skin; his tongue flicked over the tender rim of her ear, drew a line down the edge. "I thought it was not advisable."
She would have laughed, if she had not felt as though every bone in her was dissolving. "You are a rake," she whispered.
"My dear, how unoriginal." His mouth shifted to trace down her cheekbone, skating very lightly over the swelling bruise. His eyelashes flickered up as he passed, giving her a momentary glimpse of some unreadable thought. Then, pausing where her jaw met her neck, he sipped gently, and then again, harder now, as if trying to draw her heartbeat to the surface.
Her hand rose of its own volition, curving around the very same spot on his own jaw. His skin was so warm to the touch, the stubble a strange and pleasing texture under her palm. "This isn't a kiss either."
"No," he murmured. He pressed his face fully into her throat. For the space of several breaths he remained like that, breathing deeply against her. Her hand moved up to grip the back of his head, threading through the softness of his hair. A strange impulse to grip him harder, to cradle him fully, had her biting her lip. The urge was animal. Unnerving. Entirely out of her experience.
But how right it felt. Perhaps that was what unbalanced her most.
He spoke against her neck. "Have I kissed you, then?"
"Not yet," she whispered.
"Then you should be content."
"I am certainly awake."
He pulled away a little, just far enough to show her his appreciative smile. "Shall we walk?"
"By all means," she said, and gave him her hand.
----
Chapter 7
« ^ »
A bell chimed in the distance, a melodious accompaniment to a chorus of voices raised in song. It lured Emma from sleep, drawing her upward through half-formed dreams. Her eyes opened. Dusk glowed lavender on the white walls of the small room, and past the open archway, in the courtyard, shadows were welling.
She'd slept the day away, then. Fair turnabout for the hellish trek they'd endured. They had come upon this village shortly after dawn, alerted by the bright voices of young women gathering at a well. The well water, fed to her from a dipper by a girl with amber eyes, had tasted impossibly sweet—divine ambrosia, life itself. Warm hands had drawn her away from the Marquess, patting her shoulder, guiding her to this small hut where a stooped, wrinkled woman laid down a tray of lentils, spinach, and butter-fried bread. Emma had eaten with her fingers, finding no shame in it as the grandmother nodded encouragement.
The song outside drew her out of the hut now and into the lane. The village of Sukhpur was clean and peaceful, a curving line of thatched,
This was too ridiculous. They were marooned in the desert, bedraggled, on the run for their lives. And he was having a bit of fun with her. It was clear from the amusement on his face, the carefree curve of his mobile lips, that she should not take him seriously.
But her heart had lost track of the game. "This is absurd."
"Indeed. So much is absurd. For instance, where are your crinolines?"
Her hands pressed flat against the thin muslin draping her thighs. Before today, she had never stepped into the world so lightly. Feeling the breeze as it flirted under her skirts seemed very close to being naked. "You are unkind to notice."
"I do try not to," he said softly. "And it seems as if it should be easy. But it isn't."
From somewhere inside, a place that trembled and ran hot and cold all at once, she found the courage to meet his eyes. "You are not joking," she said.
"No, Emmaline. I never said I was."
She inhaled as he leaned toward her. "I said my lips—"
"So you did," he said against her ear, and she closed her eyes as his teeth gently trapped her lobe.
"That is not a kiss," she gasped. Her voice sounded as if it came from a distance, barely penetrating the thunder of her pulse.
"Do you want one?" He spoke it against her skin; his tongue flicked over the tender rim of her ear, drew a line down the edge. "I thought it was not advisable."
She would have laughed, if she had not felt as though every bone in her was dissolving. "You are a rake," she whispered.
"My dear, how unoriginal." His mouth shifted to trace down her cheekbone, skating very lightly over the swelling bruise. His eyelashes flickered up as he passed, giving her a momentary glimpse of some unreadable thought. Then, pausing where her jaw met her neck, he sipped gently, and then again, harder now, as if trying to draw her heartbeat to the surface.
Her hand rose of its own volition, curving around the very same spot on his own jaw. His skin was so warm to the touch, the stubble a strange and pleasing texture under her palm. "This isn't a kiss either."
"No," he murmured. He pressed his face fully into her throat. For the space of several breaths he remained like that, breathing deeply against her. Her hand moved up to grip the back of his head, threading through the softness of his hair. A strange impulse to grip him harder, to cradle him fully, had her biting her lip. The urge was animal. Unnerving. Entirely out of her experience.
But how right it felt. Perhaps that was what unbalanced her most.
He spoke against her neck. "Have I kissed you, then?"
"Not yet," she whispered.
"Then you should be content."
"I am certainly awake."
He pulled away a little, just far enough to show her his appreciative smile. "Shall we walk?"
"By all means," she said, and gave him her hand.
----
Chapter 7
« ^ »
A bell chimed in the distance, a melodious accompaniment to a chorus of voices raised in song. It lured Emma from sleep, drawing her upward through half-formed dreams. Her eyes opened. Dusk glowed lavender on the white walls of the small room, and past the open archway, in the courtyard, shadows were welling.
She'd slept the day away, then. Fair turnabout for the hellish trek they'd endured. They had come upon this village shortly after dawn, alerted by the bright voices of young women gathering at a well. The well water, fed to her from a dipper by a girl with amber eyes, had tasted impossibly sweet—divine ambrosia, life itself. Warm hands had drawn her away from the Marquess, patting her shoulder, guiding her to this small hut where a stooped, wrinkled woman laid down a tray of lentils, spinach, and butter-fried bread. Emma had eaten with her fingers, finding no shame in it as the grandmother nodded encouragement.
The song outside drew her out of the hut now and into the lane. The village of Sukhpur was clean and peaceful, a curving line of thatched,
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