Page 63 of The Mistletoe Dare

Georgie bit her lip, indecision gnawing at her. The temptation was simply too great to resist though, and she gave in, bending to scoop up a compact handful of snow. Silently, she stood and crept closer, took aim, and threw the snowball.

It hit him in the back of the neck, knocking his hat to the ground and, from the violent oath that erupted from him, sent ice down the back of his shirt. He swung around, looking ready to do murder. Georgie quailed, wondering if she’d made an error of judgement. But then his expression changed, a very different light glinting in his grey eyes.

“Well,” he said, his voice a soft murmur that made her shiver far more than the cold. “You started it.”

Quicker than she would have credited from a man of his size, he grabbed a handful of snow and lobbed it at her.

Georgie squealed, trying to dodge out of the way, but too slowly. She turned at the last minute and the snowball hit her on the bottom.

“Oh!” she said, excitement surging through her blood. “This means war!”

“No quarter,” he warned her.

“No quarter,” she agreed, and ran up the hill to higher ground and the nearest tree.

Rochford hit her twice on the way. One glanced off her shoulder, but the next knocked her bonnet off so it dangled by its ribbons. Impatiently, Georgie tugged at the bow and cast it aside, quickly taking advantage of her sheltered position to gather snow enough for five balls before peeking out from behind the tree.

Rochford was advancing on her, walking up the hill with a snowball in each hand.

Georgie grinned and gathered up her prepared ammunition.

“Prepare to meet your maker, Rochford,” she yelled, and then threw the snowballs one after the other.

He dodged the first, smacked the second aside with his hand, and the third missed altogether. The fourth hit his shoulder, but the fifth—the perfect fifth snowball—hit him square in the face.

“Bweffh!” came the muffled sound of Rochford eating snow.

“Huzzah!” she exclaimed, running about in a circle, crowing and doing a little victory dance.

“Never turn your back on the enemy,” murmured a low voice from behind her, and Georgie shrieked as Rochford stuffed a handful of snow down the back of her dress.

“Eeeek!” she screamed, jigging about and tugging at the material to get the snow off her skin. She turned to see Rochford laughing himself silly, doubled over with mirth.

“Oh, you wretch! That’s not fair,” she complained, though she too was laughing as she ran at him and pushed with all her might. Rather to her surprise, he went down, but not before grabbing hold of her. He fell heavily and then gave another oof as Georgie landed on top of him.

They both stilled, their laughter dying as Georgie stared down at him.

“Sorry,” she muttered, pushing at his chest to scramble away, but Rochford held onto her, his firm hands clasped about her waist.

“Don’t go,” he said, his voice quiet.

Georgie hesitated. His grey eyes were soft, and she could feel the heat emanating from his big body. The desire to burrow into his warmth was almost irresistible, but some measure of sanity kept her from moving. Sadly, there did not seem quite enough sanity left to climb off him. She swallowed as his icy hand moved to cup her cheek.

“I cannot stop thinking about you,” he said. “You’re in my mind every minute of the day. What do I do?”

Georgie’s breath caught. “I’m going back to Scotland after Christmas,” she said in a rush. “And you to Cumbria.”

He nodded, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip and sending thrills of sensation lancing down her spine.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” she said, aware the words quavered, too aware of the powerful masculine body beneath hers. Everything feminine in her reacted to it, no matter how she told herself the provoking man would make a horrible husband.

“Is that right? If you leave here and return home, you’ll not think of me again? Because I shall think of you. I shall think of you a great deal.”

Georgie swallowed, uncertain of what she wanted to say.

“I shall take the lack of response as a positive sign, so if I’ve no hope, I beg you to speak now. For I mean to follow you to Scotland and ask your father’s permission to court you.”

She gasped, scrambling away from him, not having expected such a bold declaration.