John took my hand in his and kissed it softly. “Evelyn Blackwell.” He paused to search my eyes and then smiled before continuing. “When we were in the croft, did you run your fingers through my hair?”
I dropped his hand with a laugh. “Thatis the question you want to ask?”
He leaned forward, placing a hand on the bench on either side of me. “Did you?”
One rogue droplet managed to land on his cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. “Does it matter if I did?”
“Yes, it matters, because otherwise the only thing I remember of that night is the morning. I can’t remember that kiss, and even if I did, you were an unwilling participant in it. But I swear these fingers of yours ... ” He carefully pulled off my glove and set it on the bench beside me. He traced a thumb along each of my knuckles. “These I remember. Or at least I think I do, and they were not unwilling. But I cannot remember why they were in my hair. Was it when I kissed you?”
I scoffed. “No, vanity. I was not so overcome by the prowess of a sick man to have my fingers end up in your hair. That kiss was over and done almost as soon as it started.”
He lowered his gaze to my mouth. “A shortcoming I believe I rectified last night, but I will be more than happy to do so again once you have answered my question.”
I put both of my hands on his cheeks and then slid my ungloved hand through his hair. It was as thick, smooth, andtantalizing as I remembered. His eyes closed at my touch. “I was trying to comfort you.”
He simply nodded, keeping his eyes closed. I repeated the motion again, and this time his breath hitched. I hadn’t been able to control his breathing when he was feverish but at least I had some control over it now.
He opened his eyes slowly, the browns and greens of his eyes dancing together in the shade of our copse of trees. “I think I kissed you that night.”
I lifted my eyebrows with a laugh. “I’m fairly certain you did. Even Mrs. Wickerton knows.”
He shook his head. “I’ve had several bouts of the ague. I’ve sat with many soldiers under the throes of that fever. I know how frightening it can be to those living in it, even if they don’t remember it later.” His thumb was making distracting circles on the inside of my wrist. “I know my memory of it is gone, but I think I kissedyou, Evelyn, the woman who stayed by my side, who ran her fingers through my hair and gave me the clothing off her back. You were the one there—you were the one caring for me. I might have been delirious but I know an angel when I see one.”
I blinked at the prickling tears filling my eyes. His words sounded like ones a man might say to excuse himself but I had been in that room. Our connection wasn’t an illusion. He’d wanted me beside him and I’d been terrified I would lose him. Someday I would make him apologize for the anguish of watching his breathing stop over and over again, but not now.
John lifted a thumb to my cheek and wiped away a tear. “I want to thank you again. But this time I will propose first. We were far too scandalous yesterday. It’s a good thing Mrs. Wickerton didn’t get that into her book.”
I put my arms around John's neck and put my lips to his ear. “I quite enjoyed our scandalous behavior.”
There was that hitch in his breath again. “You are not making this any easier for me.”
I slid my lips down his cheek and stopped at the corner of his mouth. “Then propose, or kiss me. I honestly don’t care which comes fir?—”
His mouth was on mine before I could finish. His hands bracketed my waist and he stood, lifting me from the bench with no effort at all, the back of my calves pressed against the stone seat as his fingers burrowed into my hips and he kissed me hard. I didn’t think he’d held back in the library, but apparently I was wrong.
He dragged his lips to my ear and inhaled deeply. “I am going to propose.”
His touch made me shiver. My head fell to the side and my shoulder lifted, wanting to give him more access, but also nearly overwhelmed by the sensation of his newly shaved cheek brushing up against my own.
I slid my hands up his hair and around his head. “Then propose.”
“I’m a little busy at the moment,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the sound of water and by my skin as he trailed kisses from below my ear to my jaw.
And he was—very busy. He continued his path lower, trailing kisses down my throat until he reached my pulse at the base of it. There, he paused long enough to count several heartbeats before pulling away. John was right. Papa definitely wouldn’t have wanted us doing this in his study.
With careful fingers, he slid the neckline of my modest morning dress a few inches to the side. “What is this mark?” he asked after he exposed the smallest part of the scar that splashed across my collar bone.
Speaking seemed impossible, but after blinking my eyes a few times and allowing the world to come back into focus, I found my voice. “Powder burn.”
He didn’t take his eyes off of it but his lips lifted to a grin. “Of course it is. How old were you when you got it?”
His finger traced the mark back and forth, dipping below the neckline of my dress. I cleared my throat, determined to make my voice less raw. “Thirteen.”
His eyes slid up to mine, burning with an intensity that brought heat to my already-flushed cheeks. “Marry me.”
It was more command than question. I raised an eyebrow at him and he raised both of his back. We were back on the lawn playing shuttlecock and battledore, each daring the other to strike the final blow.
“Perhapsyoushould be the one to marry me,” I countered.
