Kitty winced at the mental image. Wearing a veil wasn’t the fashion now, as it had been a few hundred years ago—brides generally preferred flowers or other adornments for their hair. She did want James to think of her as a bride, but not one that had died.
She forced a light tone. “I’m sure the thought of marriage is enough to instill terror in the heart of every bachelor here.”
He snorted in amusement. “Too true.”
A pang of misery pierced her. She wasn’t jealous of Gwyn, exactly, but she did want what her friend would have on Saturday; to be joined to someone in marriage. A union of hearts and minds, of bodies and souls.
Which wasn’t likely to happen to her any time soon.
Tugging on her leather riding gloves, she approached the nearest hive, alive with buzzing bees.
“Father’s been researching this new kind of hive. He’s always looking for ways to increase efficiency, whether it’s in his factories or his own garden.”
James, sensibly, remained a few paces back. “What’s so inefficient about beekeeping?”
“Well, you usually have to kill all the bees to get the honey.”
“You do?” He sounded properly shocked. “I had no idea.”
“The traditional hive, a skep, is essentially just a large basket, placed open-end-down. It shelters the swarm which surrounds the queen. There’s a framework of wooden slats inside, to which the bees attach their honeycombs, but there’s no way to remove the honey and the comb without killing the bees. The beekeeper usually poisons them at the end of each season by holding the skep over a fire pit burning sulphur. The fumes kill them, and they’re shaken out, and the honeycomb is removed.”
“That’s barbaric.”
“It is. And of course, you have to find another swarm of bees the following year.” Kitty leaned closer, fascinated by the design of the new hive. Moving slowly, she lifted the square ‘roof’ and placed it on the ground at her feet.
“These have sliding frames that can be removed, like drawers. It’s far less disruptive for the bees. They can keep working in one area, while you harvest the honeycomb from another.”
Careful not to annoy the bees, which seemed remarkably docile, she slowly withdrew one rectangular frame and broke off the section of honeycomb attached to it. A few insects buzzed around her face, but she was shielded by her makeshift veil.
Honey dripped from the tiny hexagonal segments, and she held it clear of her skirts and hurried back to where James was waiting with the basket. She dropped the comb into the bowl, and he covered it with the cotton cloth Gwyn had provided.
“There, that should be enough.” She replaced the lid of the hive, then tugged off the net and bonnet.
“Your gloves are ruined,” James said.
She glanced down. It was true; they were covered in honey, so she peeled them off and dropped them into the basket too.
“It’s a small price to pay for sweetness,” she shrugged. “As is the occasional sting. A short stab of pain is more than worth it for a delicious jar of honey.”
Chapter Three
James almost groaned aloud as Kitty lifted her fingers to her mouth and licked an errant drip of honey from her thumb. The innocent move set off a wave of erotic images in his mind; he saw himself pouring the golden syrup onto her beautiful, naked skin . . . and licking it off. Her tongue on him, teasing, tasting.
If he kissed her now, she’d taste of honey?—
He actually swayed toward her before he realized what he was doing and jerked himself back.
Clearly, a combination of the summer heat and months of enforced celibacy had made him depraved. He was wound tighter than a spring. And while he regularly relieved himself with his own hand, it was no real substitute for a warm, willing woman in his arms.
A woman like Kitty.
Her words echoed in his brain. A small price to pay for sweetness.
She was sweetness. What price was he willing to pay?
He wanted her in his arms. In his bed. But she deserved more than a single night of passion, or a brief affaire. She deserved a whole lifetime of love.
Marriage. Was he ready to offer her that?
