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Biting my lip, I waited with bated breath for a reaction - but none came. I breathed out. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I began to push the door open. It slid open silently, as if on the wings of dark angels. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the room.
As soon as I entered, I felt the cold. Not metaphorical cold from Mr Ambrose - oh no, this was real and tangible. The window was thrown open, letting in gusts of arctic air. Cold moonlight spilled across the room. And there, right in the middle of the bed, his back to me, lay Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his hands opening and closing convulsively as if he were dreaming of strangling someone. But he wasn’t dreaming. He was still very much awake.
‘Damn him!’ he growled. ‘Damn him to hell!’
Stepping up to the bed and slipping in behind him, I pressed close. ‘Who?’
‘What the-!’
He moved so fast I didn’t even have time to blink. In an instant, he had thrown himself around, one of his hands suddenly encasing both my wrists in a tight grip, his free arm above my throat, about to crush down, his heavy body pressing me in the mattress.
I had to say, apart from the imminent throat-crushing, I wasn’t at all averse to the situation.
‘Mr Linton!’
‘Hello to you, too, Sir,’ I croaked.
The pressure on my throat eased. ‘What are you doing here?’
I smiled up at him, sweetly. ‘It seemed wasteful for us to be using two such big beds when we would both fit easily into one. So I thought I’d do a bit of economizing.’ Leaning up, I brushed my cheek against his. ‘It’s much more comfortable like this. Don’t you agree, Sir?’
A muscle in his rock-hard jaw twitched. ‘Mr Linton! Be serious. This isn’t about economy.’
‘True. It’s also about warmth. For some reason,’ I glanced at the wide-open window, ‘It seems to be unseasonably cold in here. We could share a little warmth, just like in the coach. There’s no harm in that, surely.’
His sea-coloured eyes flared. ‘More harm than you might think. You’re playing a dangerous game, Mr Linton.’
‘No, Sir.’ I let the smile slide from my face and bared myself. Looking straight into his eyes, I let him see everything. Who I was, why I had come here, and what I wanted. ‘I’m not playing at all. I…I need warmth. I’ve needed it for a long, long time. And I think you need it, too.’
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
‘Well, Sir?’
‘If…’ He cleared his throat. ‘If you need warmth, I’ll light you a fire.’
Stretching up, I once more brushed my face against his, letting my lips slide in a gentle caress over his cheek. ‘A fire won’t warm me. A furnace won’t warm me. But you will.’
And instantly, his eyes, cold as the ocean floor a moment ago, burned with blue-green fire. Heat flooded over me. Then cold. Then heat again. I shivered, and it was not from the long-forgotten open window. His face began to lower towards mine.
‘Mr Linton…’
Tearing my arms free of his grip, I placed a gentle finger on his lips, cutting him off.
‘For the next few hours,’ I told him, my voice low and demanding, ‘you are not allowed to call me “Mister”.’
And, taking hold of him, I pulled him down to claim his mouth with mine.
The Not So Silent Storm
I did it.
I kissed him.
I kissed Mr Rikkard Ambrose. And the moment my lips touched his, all the fantabulous advice Amy had given me about how to do it well, how to draw a man in, just flew right out of my mind. It felt like our very first time - like a first kiss was supposed to feel. Soft, and hesitant, and you still can’t quite believe that this is happening, that he wants this as much as you do, but he does, and he’s here with you, and he’s kissing you, kissing you, kissing you until all the breath is gone from your lungs.
His arms wrapped around me like irons and he lowered himself down, pinning me to the mattress, answering my kiss in a silent shout of Yes! Yes! that roared out the window and echoed from the snow-clad hills. For a few precious, blissful moments,
we weren’t two people desperately searching for something, we were one, and we were warm inside.
