Page 63 of Walk on the Wildsyde

“Oh, but ye do,” he insisted. “And despite all ye blethering, ye want me to kiss ye still.”

“You are without a doubt the most egotistical, rude, thick-headed—” The words were silenced, her breath catching as he pressed his mouth to hers. For a moment, she could not think of anything past the fact that his lips were warm and far softer than she had imagined, and she had imagined, drat her disorderly thoughts. The scratch of his beard rasped against her cheek as he brushed his lips back and forth over hers, such a gentle touch from such a large man that everything inside her seemed to melt like warm treacle in response.

He drew back, regarding her with satisfaction and Clara could do nothing but stare at him with wide eyes, breathing so hard she felt somewhat light-headed.

“There, are ye happy now?” he asked, a wicked glint lighting his eyes.

Immediately furious with herself for giving him the opportunity to make such a provoking comment, she shoved at his chest, startled to find that it was akin to pushing a brick wall. Still, he straightened, putting a little distance between them, though it did not help as much as she might have hoped. He was still there, looming, all rugged handsomeness and smug, arrogant, insufferable… oh, lord, but she wanted him to kiss her again. The knowledge was beyond mortifying, and she could not bring herself to look at him.

“I am not in the least bit happy,” she ground out, frustrated by the breathless quality of the words.

“Well, I can do it again if ye want more,” he offered, apparently in all sincerity.

Clara made a high-pitched sound of pure vexation which was ridiculous and unbecoming, but it was that or stamp on his foot and she would not allow herself to sink to such childish behaviour. Instead, she pushed past him and would have practically run from the alley had he not caught a hold of her.

“Wait, make certain ye are nae seen,” he told her, which was sensible advice, sadly, so she waited as he suggested, and then gave a muffled shriek as pulled her back into the shadows.

“What on earth—” she demanded, only to find his large hand covering her mouth. It was warm and calloused against her lips, his touch firm but gentle.

“Hush a moment,” he whispered in her ear, his breath warm against the side of her neck as he released her. She shivered, and he must have felt the tremor run through her. “Ye are cold,” he observed, sounding annoyed by the information.

Before she could deny it, which on reflection was just as well as the truth would not have helped her cause, he pulled her close. The sensation was akin to being enveloped by a bear in a blanket. He seemed to surround her, the smell of whisky and musk and earthy male fragrances invading her senses. She was aware of the warmth of his body, like a furnace beneath his clothes, and her cheek lay against his broad chest as if of its own accord. In short, Hamilton Anderson up close was thoroughly overwhelming, and Clara did not have the will to pull away from his embrace, though she knew she ought.

Raucous voices sounded on the street, and he stiffened, the muscles that surrounded her growing taut until the ribald chatter faded away and the drunken party of men had disappeared into the next street.

Silence reigned for a long moment, and Clara was horribly aware of her own heart thudding in her ears, and worse, the fact she ought to protest at being so manhandled. Unfortunately, she could not bring herself to do so. He let out a long, somewhat unsteady sigh, and let her go, moving once more to the mouth of the alley.

“Come, lassie,” he said, his deep voice a growl in the darkness. “We must nae linger here, much as I would like to.”

“Certainly not,” she replied, wishing she could infuse some of her usual steel into the words and frustrated to discover they sounded instead wistful and full of regret.

Still, she walked from the alley, though her legs wobbled rather oddly. Indeed, she felt rather odd all over, a restless sensation of frustration and… and something, simmering beneath her skin that was quite unaccountable.

They walked in silence until the vicarage came into sight.

“I’d best leave ye here,” he said, sounding gruff and rather irritable himself.

“Very well. I thank you for your chaperonage. Only think who might have accosted me and taken liberties had I been all alone,” she added tartly, relieved to discover she had regained some shred of dignity along the way. She turned, intending to stalk off with her nose in the air, but he caught hold of her hand, staying her.

“Did ye nae like my kisses, then?” he asked, his eyes bright as the clouds parted and a thin sliver of moonlight appeared. “Tell the truth and shame the devil,” he added, daring her to lie to him.

Clara glowered at him, for the truth would certainly shame someone, but she was fairly certain it wouldn’t be the devil. Trapped, she refused to reply at all and tugged her hand free, running the short distance to the house and closing the door rather harder than was necessary.