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He gave her a sidelong stare, thinking over her explanation. She seemed to know what she was doing and her efforts weren't misguided. He liked lemon syrup on his pancakes. Knowing what she was up to greatly relieved him and gave him the reassurance he needed for what he had to say next.
Amid the buzz of grasshoppers, John asked, "What's your word worth to you?"
Isabel's violet eyes unflinchingly measured him. "Everything. My word is everything."
John eased back in the saddle. "Then we'll keep them at your place if you give me your word you won't take off with them."
"I give you my word."
"So, then, are you in?" Slowly she replied, "I'm in." "Partners," he said.
"Partners," she agreed, extending her hand. John took the offering and they sealed the deal with a handshake.
* * *
Chapter Three
Isabel drifted awake to the chitter of finches and a warm shaft of sunshine that spilled across her bed. Snug and drowsy, she didn't feel like getting up. Eyes still closed, she relived the dream that clung to the edges of her sleepy mind.
John Wolcott had been kissing her.
And she'd been kissing him back.
Rolling from her side, Isabel put her arm over her forehead. Dreams of such a passionate nature hadn't snuck up on her in longer than she could remember—and never as vivid a one as she'd had about John's mouth covering hers. It was as if he'd actually been kissing her. Her lips tingled even now. .
With a lift of her hand, she ran her fingertips over the seam of her mouth. A kiss as tender and light as the breeze… that's how it had started. Then it turned to an intensity that sent spirals of ecstacy through her.
Reckless abandon, that's what it had been.
How could she? Even in a dream?
He was a good-for-nothing, a serenader to full moons—not the kind of man she wanted.
Isabel became aware of a tinny sound that didn't belong outside her window. Her heartbeat faltered. Sitting up and flipping her braid behind her, she grabbed the tiny derringer she kept in a bedside drawer. The gun wasn't very powerful, but it was enough to persuade any intruder to think twice about trespassing or harming her.
Not bothering to slip into her wrapper, she crept onto the porch and walked to the side of the house, pistol raised. She paused when she saw John.
He was watering the last lemon tree with her metal bucket. All the other trees had sloppy wet pools at the bases of their trunks. He must
have been at this for hours. Why hadn't she heard him before?
Her mind had been too occupied with thoughts of kissing him… that's why.
Lifting his head, John spied her. The sides of his mouth curved down. "I didn't think you'd stoop this low."
Nonplused, she murmured, "What…?"
"Shoot me and take the berries for your own."
"I'd never do that." Indignation laced her reply. Isabel gazed at the gun, then at John. She lowered the pistol to her side. "I heard a noise. I didn't know it was you out here."
"Somebody had to get these trees watered if we're going to get an early start over to Rigby Glen. Half the damn morning's been wasted."
Embarrassment clutched Isabel. She normally did rise early. It still was early, by the looks of the sun. Usually she'd have been up by this hour and already had half her trees watered. That John had gone out of his way to help her… it just… well, the gesture flustered her. She didn't know what to make of him.
She caught him eyeing her nightgown with a smoldering stare. To be precise, he was eyeing the thin muslin covering her legs as the rays of sunlight poured through it left the fabric as transparent as white poppy petals.
"I'll get ready," she said and turned toward the house, unable to rid herself of the longing that gnawed inside her. With a single gaze, John made her feel like she ought to be in his arms.
