Page 93 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

Chapter 7

“Wherein a kiss lights more than a spark.”

Ned was standing beside the fireplace, staring at her. She could not read his expression, but to her horror there were tears in his eyes. It occurred to her then, and far too late, that the piano must have belonged to his wife. No doubt the music she had played was familiar to him, dear to him, bringing back memories of everything he had lost.

Her throat closed and her cheeks grew hot. She stood quickly, moving away from the piano as though it had scalded her. How stupid she was, stupid and thoughtless. Her eyes burned and she could only think to run away from him, from the strange atmosphere that filled the room. She did, bolting for the door only to fall back with a little shriek as she saw Ned raise his hand, the movement so swift it startled her.

He froze, his face the picture of horror as she flinched and raised an arm to protect herself from the inevitable blow.

“Grace,” he said, her name spoken with such shock and dismay she wanted to curl up and die. “Grace, look at me.”

It took a great effort of will to do as he asked, but she forced herself to comply.

“Grace, I wasn’t going to hurt ye. May God strike me dead if I speak a lie. I have never raised a hand to a woman in my life, and I would rather cut out my heart than hurt ye, lass. I only meant to stop ye running from me. I never meant to startle ye.”

She stared at him, aware of the way her heart was hammering in her chest, every instinct on alert, still urging her to flee, but there was no need to run. The realisation took a moment to sink in. She had been thoughtless and probably hurt him, perhaps made him angry, but he would not strike her for it. In fact, now she looked at him, she saw no anger at all in his eyes, only sorrow. That was worse, she discovered. Hurting him with her stupidity was far worse than making him angry when he’d treated her so kindly.

“F-Forgive me,” she managed.

He took an uncertain step towards her, holding his hands out as though he was approaching a skittish horse.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I won’t ever hurt ye, Gracie,” he said, his voice so gentle and sincere that Grace could only feel a surge of self-disgust for having distressed him. She burst into tears.

“Grace!”

A moment later, she was enveloped in his arms. She buried her face in his chest, and sobbed her heart out. The terror of her flight, the misery of the past months, all of it bubbled up and escaped as tears rolled down her face and made his waistcoat damp beneath her cheek.

Little by little she calmed herself as he stroked her back and made soft, reassuring noises as though he was soothing a child. How wretched she was, to behave with such an utter lack of care for his feelings, and then to revel in the comfort he offered when her guilt and shame brought her to tears. Nonetheless, revel she did in the feel of his powerful arms about her, in the solidity of the chest her head lay upon, and in the reassuring, thud of his heart. She’d wrapped her arms about his waist, her hands splayed upon his broad back, and it took a supreme effort of will not to allow them to wander, to explore this new and inviting landscape of masculinity.

She took a breath and closed her eyes, inhaling his scent, fresh air and hay and leather, horses and clean linen and the musky aroma of a working man that filled her senses and made her light-headed with desire. That strange, liquid heat pooled low in her belly once again, an ache of longing unfurling beneath her skin, a longing to belong somewhere, with someone… with him.

“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, struggling for composure as the barrage of emotions and sensations overwhelmed her.

“What on earth for?” he asked.

One large hand cupped her cheek, and she closed her eyes, wanting to purr like a cat and turn into it, seeking further caresses. She held herself very still instead, not wanting to compound her terrible behaviour by giving him a disgust of her. If she were too forward, he might believe the things her brother said about her, that she was mad, or a slut, or whatever slander he’d spoken to justify his actions.

“The m-music,” she managed, forcing herself to meet his eyes, so he could see how sorry she was. “I didn’t think. It must have been s-so painful to hear it played after so long.”

He frowned down at her, looking for all the world like he hadn’t the slightest notion of what she was talking about.

“Painful?” he repeated, so obviously nonplussed that Grace blinked and took a breath.

“After not hearing it played since your wife died,” she ventured, wondering why this were not obvious. “Did… did she play very well?” she asked, thinking it would be an act of contrition to hear him tell her his wife had played like an angel. It would serve her right.

“Ye think my heart is broke,” he said slowly, searching her face as he spoke, “for hearing ye play a piece my wife played for me?”

She nodded, and he smiled, such tenderness in the expression that it was all she could do not to bawl her eyes out with shame.

“Nay, lass.”

He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, the intimacy of the gesture and the slight brush of his fingers against her skin enough to make her shiver.

“B-But there were tears in your eyes!” she exclaimed, refusing to allow him to shield her from her own insensitivity.

“Aye, that’s true,” he said, something in his voice making her heart thud unevenly. “Because of the beauty of it, the sight of ye and the music combined. It took my breath away.”

She stared at him, unable to understand but, before she could find words to question him, he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss felt like a spark that travelled a fiery path to her belly and ignited the combustible, greedy concoction of want and need already gathered there.