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Clara shifted her attention to him, and he pulled her close.
She kissed his mouth gently. “What adelightfulspur-of-the-moment plan, James. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Returning her attention to the hamper, she pulled out two fragile plates and the silver. “Which shall we enjoy first? Perhaps some fruit and a glass of the cognac?”
His hands closed over her hips, then kneaded her rear. “Yes, some round, juicy fruit is exactly what I want.” His deep voice was as serious as it was amused.
She pressed back into his hands and turned with a soft but distracted smile.
“I’ll pour the cognac,” he found himself saying, wanting her to enjoy the refreshment.
Clara peeled oranges while he unsealed the citrus-fragranced cognac and poured small amounts into crystal snifters.
“Slàinte mhath.” He offered the toast without thinking.
He nearly indulged a bitter laugh when she only looked at him with bewilderment.
French—the language of England’s enemy—had flowed off of her tongue as she’d read the bottle, yet Gaelic froze her.
Too much for her, this reminder of who I am.
He ignored her stare and drank. Heat spread in his mouth, along with hints of spice, orange, and caramel.
A strange thing that he didn’t regret his words—he almost welcomed her reaction. Wasn’t it an indication of what was to come eventually, anyway?
“Wait,” she urged softly, without sipping her cognac. She slid closer to him until her skirts flowed onto his trousers. “Can you teach me, please?”
“Slàinte mhath?”This time, his toast to good health was spoken like a disbelieving question.
“Slan-jah-va,” she repeated.
She practiced dutifully several times, and after asking what it meant, she finally tipped drops of the dark amber-colored spirit into her mouth.
She murmured in her throat, and James didn’t think—he moved to savorher.His mouth drifted over her lips; he enjoyed the lingering cognac but kissed her until he tasted only her.
When finally they stopped, they both had to right their precariously held snifters, laughing.
“Shall we enjoythissort of fruit for now?” He glanced over at the oranges she’d peeled for them. “I’ll take pleasure in nature’s bounty again when we have true privacy.” His thumb brushed over her gown where it covered the swell of her breast.
She looked torn between their passion and the waiting picnic delights.
That was an immense reward; James was gratified both by her desire for him and her enjoyment of the picnic.
Later, the oranges, cake, and pastries all tried, Clara settled onto her back and gazed up toward the glass roof. Her skin was luscious from the humidity; a few sections of wavy hair had successfully fought their pins, curling around her neck and face.
“Somewhere far above that fogged glass there are stars,” she mused.
He kissed the corner of her mouth before he rolled onto his back. Beyond the glazed roof was an impenetrable shroud of midnight blue.
He let Clara ponder the skies; he was content to enjoy their private, lantern-lit paradise, even if temporary.
“The pains you felt in your shoulders the other day? After the docks?” Clara asked without looking over.
“Yes?”
“You said that you find relief from hot water. Have you heard of the Sultan Hammam?”
