“I believe the whiskey is talking to you, Miss Harrell.” He deliberately put a lot of Irish in his voice, needing to remind her—and himself—of their differences.
She gave her head a small shake as if in disbelief. “You won’t kiss me?”
He didn’t answer, knowing whatever he said, he was a doomed man.
His prediction was right. Lyssa rose to her feet, her fists clenched at her side. “You would kiss every woman at the dance tonight andrefuseto kiss me?”
This was not going to be good.
Slowly, he came up to stand in front of her, needing his height in the face of her building temper. There were so many things he could say. He could tell the truth and possibly find himself entangled even further with her—or say something that would put her off him for good. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about any messy complications like his own heart.
“Your father is not paying me to kiss bluestocking virgins who want to experiment.”
He braced himself, fully expecting her temper to explode and for her to deliver another slap in the face for his impertinence.
She fooled him. Instead of anger, there was sadness. “Yes. Yes,” she repeated. “You are quite right. Silly of me. I’m sorry—”
She turned and ran toward the barn.
Ian took a step, wanting to go after her—and then stopped. If he caught her, then what? More words? More arguments?
Or would he give her the kiss she craved? Kiss her until she bent to his will? Until he could swallow her whole and claim all?
And would that be enough?
No, it was better this way. Now, she would hate him and the job would be easier. They needed to keep a wedge between each other.
Still, she had finally seen him as a man.
He looked at the cold pond, thought about jumping in, and then decided he’d had enough of the “water cure” for what ailed him. Instead, he set off walking. It was a long time before he finally had himself in hand and could sleep.
Lyssa ran to her small room and slammed the door. The widow and Mr. Anderson were both long gone. She was alone.
She raised her hand up to her lips, tracing the line of them. She’d asked him for a kiss and he’d refused.
Sinking down on the cot, she unlaced her belt and threw it on the floor, struggling with an overwhelming urge to cry.
Instead, she fell asleep.
A few hours later, Lyssa woke, fully dressed, with a fuzzy mouth and a rapping sound in her ears. Someone was knocking on the door. She didn’t want to wake and huddled into the warmth of her plaid. In the vague, dreamy recesses of her mind, she had her arms around Ian, her thigh wrapped around his—
She sat up, shocked into wakefulness. She had no idea where such vivid, erotic images sprang from, and remembered his refusing her kiss last night.
What a fool she’d made of herself. Bending over at her waist, she hugged her plaid to her chest and wished she could hide.
But she couldn’t and she knew who was at the door.
Rising, she straightened her clothing as best she could, crossed over to the door, and opened it. Ian stood there holding a steaming mug of tea and looking completely refreshed and more handsome than any one man had the right to. “I thought you could use this. Maggie made it for us.”
With her dream still fresh in her mind, she could do nothing but blush hotly. Taking the mug, she shut the door in his face. She knew she had to look terrible. Her face was probably all smooshed from sleeping so hard and her hair was a completetangle. “No wonder he didn’t want to kiss me,” she muttered to herself.
He knocked on the door again. She opened it. “We need to leave. We don’t want to be here when Anderson wakes.”
Oh, yes. She wouldn’t be able to face him, not without losing her temper. “Absolutely. Give me a few minutes.” She shut the door again.
And she truly meant to get ready. In fact, she gulped down the tea and put on her belt. However, as she was lacing it up, her gaze fell on the knapsack stored under the cot.
She knew she should leave it alone. There was no time to dally…but her breath needed freshening…and Ian kept tooth powder in his knapsack.
