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“Yes. No. I am not certain.” Before he could step away, she crossed her arms over his, hugged him to her middle. Quite without intent, she squirmed back against him again. “I feel as I did with you in the snow. When we kissed. And later, by the fire… Out of breath. Determined. Frustrated. Curious and yearning. For…something.”
“For who,” he stated calmly and his spread hand swept over her abdomen once in a single stroke that stirred all manner of things to life. “For me.” When she didn’t respond, he continued. “Anne?”
“Aye?”
“Turn around and grant me another real kiss? Say you will be my wife. And let us tell our mothers, let them plan a wedding to do their hearts happy.”
“And you?” she asked, still not turning, not looking but definitely feeling—that hard ridge so firm along her flesh. “Will your heart be happy? Or only pacified until another cat-burying, babe-mourning, would-be mistress stumbles across your path?”
“Anne,” he groaned, whipping her around to face him so fast she yelped. “Scream if you must—any number of truly gallant men shall race to your rescue. But if a man—me—has both wife and mistress in one, how could he ever think to look for another?”
“I…”
While she stood there within his embrace, staring into earnest eyes so blue they stole her breath, her very speech, he swore. “Pardon. Anne, if it takes months, I want to make our betrothal real.”
Which started to allay her hesitation—until he spoke again. “I want you for my wife. I want you to mother my children.”
“You rush ahead of yourself.” Of me.
“I care naught. I want—”
“Merrrrow.”
Anne looked down. Beatrice didn’t just announce her presence, approach and weave her willowy length around his ankles—though she did, twice.
Nay, Anne’s normally distant feline launched herself straight up his pantaloons, his through-the-teeth hiss unmistakable when her claws gouged through fabric and skin.
But instead of shouting Damn cat! and kicking her off, he scooped up and cradled Beatrice as though she were precious. His hand supporting her hindquarters, her head and front paws resting in the crook of his elbow as he kept her tucked against his chest, his truncated arm resting lightly on her side. “Hello, sweetheart. And who might you be?”
Anne’s heart cracked wide. “But you don’t like cats.”
“You are wrong there.” She watched his strong fingers thread back and forth through Beatrice’s white and grey fur, the simple action keeping her in thrall. Her and her usually timid cat both. “Always have I held felines with affection. Ever since a prolific family of mice invaded my bedchamber when I was a lad and left undesired doodles everywhere, and Mr. Cheese Pot came to the rescue.”
“Cheese Pot?”
She laughed until she choked. Laughed again, and then came to her senses when she realized how loudly her sweet kitty was purring.
“This is Beatrice.” Anne scratched the short fur between the cat’s ears, delighted when Beatrice closed her eyes and purred even louder.
“Beatrice? Like her mama, then? And a good soldier to a lady, but what is she to a lord?”
“Did you just misquote Shakespeare at me?”
“I did indeed.”
He thought she and her cat favored the spirited heroine in Much Ado About Nothing?
“Neither of us are anything like her,” Anne answered. “I’m surprised you would think so. To hear Mother speak of it, I am rather complacent, if truth be told.”
He barked a laugh. “You? Complacent? Not hardly. Not the argumentative female I have known since she tore into my hide during a blizzard.”
She was the calmest one in her family. Always had been. Against Mother’s hysterics over Harriet’s constant foibles, Harriet herself, not to mention Papa indulging her whims, Anne had always considered herself… Well, the boring, tepid Larchmont. “I believe you are mistaken.”
“And you suffer delusions.” He shifted as Beatrice tried to turn around upon her one-armed perch. “So tell me of your Bea… When she isn’t mutilating houseguests and their attire, how does she please herself?”
“Mostly by hiding under furniture unless she’s chasing dinner. Much like your Mr. Cheese Pot, she rather fancies mice but prefers grasshoppers. Expect to find them in your bed, sometimes still alive.”
“My bed?” He eyed her from beneath raised brows, now stroking the underside of Bea’s chin as the cat had climbed up his chest and wound herself around his shoulders, to Anne’s wonderment. “Or yours?”
“For shame.” She might have protested, but she fairly glowed inside. He liked cats. He thought her lively.
And argumentative, lest you become complacent and forget—
She shook off the marvel of the past few seconds. “That sort of talk I shall invite after more kisses and more time.”
“And I shall be delighted to give you both.”
