Page 20 of Who’s That Earl

“Of course.”

Her eyes flashed, as if she’d caught him in some mischief.

“I ken you’re remembering what happened the last time I had you out for a stroll?”

“Certainly not.” The pink in her cheeks deepened.

“Nay?” In the intervening years, he ought to have been too focused on his survival to have spent much time swooning over a girl he’d known for only a few weeks. But he’d held onto those moments like a nun clutched her rosary, lingering over each detail, seeking...something. Solace in the past. An escape from the present. A promise of hope for the future. “I think of it often.”

Her breath caught on a startled gasp that parted her lips most invitingly. That sharp intake of breath, combined with another blush, revealed that those stolen moments had meant something to her too. Even if she’d been telling herself they shouldn’t have.

Slowly, he dipped his head, searching her eyes. “I was beginning to fear you’d forgotten.”

Their first kiss had been swift and secretive, hidden from the prying eyes of the village by the darkness of an autumn night. Now, they stood in the open beneath the wintry sun. The bright, cold air surrounded them like a second embrace and drove them closer together, seeking one another’s heat.

He put his arms around her, one hand against the middle of her back, the other cupping the back of her head. Beneath her hood, he could feel the heavy twists of her hair against his palm. She withdrew one kid-gloved hand from her muff and laid it flat against his chest, over his heart, neither drawing him closer nor pushing him away.

Just before his lips met hers, a low growl rumbled in the stillness. Together, they glanced downward, to the source of the sound. Athena had the fabric of Jane’s skirts between her teeth and had sat down to give herself more leverage as she tried ineffectually to drag her mistress away from him. Aphrodite danced around them, unsure how best to assist in dividing them.

Jane laughed nervously. “See, I told you they were excellent protection.”

When he lifted his head, he scanned their surroundings out of habit. He saw nothing, partly because all around them was a glaring sea of whiteness. And partly because his mind was still full of Jane, the scent of her, the feel of her, the remembered taste of her...

“Protection from whom?”

Cold air swept between them, as she eased herself from the circle of his arms. Satisfied, the dogs once more charged ahead. “From ourselves, perhaps?” she suggested with another weak laugh. She tugged at her pelisse to straighten it, then tucked her hands back into her muff. “I have not forgotten that night, Mr. Sutherland. But I do not believe it would be wise for us to resume our acquaintance right where we left off. For one thing, I feel certain kisses would distract you from your investigation into that letter.”

“Oh?” He was beside her in two strides. “Do you have a great deal of experience in such matters?”

She glanced at him through narrowed eyes. “Do you?”

“Do I have experience in doing my duty, in spite of distraction?” He made no effort to hide the frustration he felt. “May I remind you, ma’am, that I am a soldier?”

Her chin jerked up a fraction of an inch. “You may rest assured I had not forgotten that, either.”

They walked the remaining quarter of a mile in silence. At last, the wee village of Balisaig spread out below them, a point of visual interest in an otherwise-unbroken landscape of white. A few shops and houses dotted either side of a surprisingly wide central road that followed the line of the valley, connecting it with the world beyond the Highlands. In the distance rose the spire of the kirk, and farther beyond black smoke billowed from the blacksmith’s forge.

Very little had changed from his memory of the place, and he could not quite decide whether that was a good sign or a bad one.

He dragged his feet through the final snowy steps, stopping at the village edge.

“Just what are you hoping to discover in Balisaig?” she asked, seeming to read something in his hesitation.

Surely a more complicated question than she had intended. Earlier, he had wondered why she had not returned to her late husband’s family, or to her own. But hard on the heels of that question had come the memory of her father denying her very existence...

No, it was not always possible—and almost never easy—to go home.

“I suppose Robin Ratliff chose such a remote spot in hopes of finding peace and quiet,” he said, an oblique sort of answer to her question.

“Creative types generally prefer freedom from distraction, yes.”

“Freedom from distraction is a luxury most will never know,” he tossed back. “With so little else to divert the people here, there must be a great deal of curiosity about him. People wanting to know what happened to such and so a character, or when his next book might be making an appearance, that sort of thing.”

She withdrew a hand from her muff to wave the question away, like a bit of annoying fluff. “Hardly enough to drive away Mr. Ratliff’s muse.”

“Perhaps not. But something managed to drive him away, it seems.”

The hems of her skirts churned up a swirl of snow as she turned sharply toward him. A shadow flickered across her gaze and was gone. Easy to miss, if one were not accustomed to being vigilant, to watching for shadows on a darkening sea.