Kenna noted the shadow in Marcus’s eyes, the deep lines that ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth. So much pain. She wondered if he’d spoken about it to anyone else, and decided it was unlikely. Never had she met a man more given to holding himself away from others.
What should she say in this rare moment where he shared something he cared about? While she was struggling to find the words, Marcus’s stomach rumbled.
“I’m famished,” he said shortly. “I dinna suppose there’s food in this empty house?”
And just like that, the rare moment was over. It was probably for the best; she couldn’t afford any additional emotions when it came to this man. Naturally I’m intrigued by his noble actions, and admire him for them. But that doesn’t change anything.
She picked up her cloak from the floor and shook it out. “The larder is well stocked, so we should be able to find some breakfast.” She put on the cloak for warmth and glanced at his bandage. It was still in place, and only a small stain of blood had seeped through. Other than looking pale, he was almost back to normal—which in his case meant dark, restless, and achingly handsome.
It really wasn’t fair. After all these years, he still had the power to make her skin warm with just a glance. No other man had ever made her feel that way.
“Since you put on your cloak, I take it this is the only room with a fire.”
“Yes. And I’m very proud of that fire. It took me almost an hour to light it.”
Amusement warmed his gray eyes. “In other words, it took you an hour to find the flint box. If there is food in the larder, then the fire was likely already laid.”
She smiled. “Yes, but I’ve had to keep it going.”
“You did verrah well. The room is decently warm, considering the temperature it must be outside.” His gaze brushed over her. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Everything—finding this cottage, walking me here, bandaging my head, starting the fire. All of it.”
He had the longest lashes of any man she knew, and they emphasized the hard line of his nose and mouth. She sighed as she looked at his mouth. Even when he was asleep, it had seemed bold and uncompromising. And he was both.
He picked up his coat from the settee and shrugged into it. “Where is this kitchen?”
“This way.” She led the way through a door at one end of the room, carefully closing it behind them. She shivered in the cold hall and led the way to a set of stone stairs. “Careful,” she called over her shoulder. “The ceiling is low.”
He ducked under the low doorframe and followed her down the narrow steps into the kitchen.
“It’s small, but there’s every kind of food imaginable,” she said.
There were apples in a wooden bowl on a low table, and he took one and polished it on his sleeve. “Would you like one?”
“No, thank you.”
He took a bite, his gaze flickering about the room. “I see no dust, but no one was here when we arrived?”
“It was empty.”
“And the door? Was it locked?”
She shrugged. “Yes, but I was able to undo it with a hairpin. It only took a moment.”
He sent her an amused glance. “Remind me to install extra padlocks on my house.”
“I can open those, too. You wouldn’t believe how much damage a woman with a strong hairpin can do.”
He laughed, and the low, deep sound curled around her and banished some of the chill. “This is quite a neat little residence,” she said, looking around. “There is a larder and a pantry as well, which surprised me, given the small size of the cottage.”
“Someone has a cook.” He eyed the shiny line of pots and pans that hung along one wall. “This must be Stormont’s hunting box.”
She shook her head. “I’ve been to Stormont’s hunting box. It’s quite large, and he always has servants stationed there during hunting season. But we’re still on Stormont’s land, so . . .” She looked around. “I just don’t know what this is.”
“Whatever it is, I’m glad you found it.”
“It was sheer luck,” she admitted. “As I was helping you to your feet after the accident, I noticed a path leading off the trail. We followed it here and I was never more glad to see a cottage in my life.” She went into the larder and began peering at the full shelves, selecting a pot of jam, a loaf of bread wrapped in waxed paper, and a tin of tea. She carried the goods back into the kitchen and placed them on a long table.
Marcus was lighting a fire in the large wood stove and she tried not to be irritated that, after just a few moments of effort, flames were already licking at the wood.
He picked up the kettle and filled it at a pump, then carried it back to the stove.
She looked about for a knife and saw one in a bowl. As she reached for it, her heavy skirts tugged at her wrist, so she removed the loop and let her skirts fall to the floor.
His dark gaze flickered over her. “We must find you more comfortable clothes.”
She grimaced. “The long skirt is annoying, but hopefully I won’t be wearing it much longer. Surely someone will find us today.”
He glanced out the window, where the snow was piled halfway up the glass, but said nothing.
She fought a sigh, turning her attention to the task at hand. She unwrapped the bread, the crusty scent rising through the air. “At least we won’t starve to death.”
“Thank goodness.” The kettle on the budding fire, Marcus returned to the table, where she was preparing to cut the loaf into slices.
“It’s odd that Stormont’s never mentioned this cottage,” she said idly, pulling her cloak closer about her to ward off the chill.
Marcus looked at her. “Why would Stormont bother to tell you aboot this house or any other?”
Because he wishes to marry me. There was no reason she shouldn’t say the words, yet she knew instinctively that Marcus didn’t like the viscount, and for some reason, that mattered. “The viscount is a friend of my father’s. I’ve grown to know him over the last year.”
Marcus’s gaze flickered to her and she thought he was about to say something, but he just opened the pot of jam and placed a spoon beside it. “Were there any cheeses in the pantry?”
“I think so, yes. On a shelf by the door.”
He disappeared into the small room, and she cut the bread as well as she could. When Marcus returned, he looked at the hunks of bread and stifled a laugh.
Her cheeks heated. “The knife is dull.”
He set the cloth bag containing cheese on the table and held out a hand. “Give me that knife.”
She bit back a sigh but gave it to him. “You’ll see what I mean. The blade is—”
He cut a perfect slice of bread, placed it on a small plate, and shoved it toward her. “Eat. I dinna suppose you know how to cook.”
“Of course I don’t know how to cook. Do you?” she threw out in challenge.
To her surprise, he smirked. “Aye. I’d make us some stew for our supper, but I doubt there will be a need. Someone will come before that.”
“You can cook?”
“A few things. I’ve traveled a lot, and it wasna always Grillon’s Hotel.”
At the mention of one of the best hotels in London, she found herself hungrier than ever. “I ate there once,” she said. “The chef . . . oh my, such glorious pork roast.” She looked down at her bread and jam. “Perhaps we should talk about something else.”
“Like how we’re going to handle the scandal of being alone overnight in this cottage?”
Stormont must be furious, she decided, a flicker of hope warming her. Now, not even Father could save that proposal—and she couldn’t be sorry. Yes, people would talk, and some would drop her from their invitation list, but she really didn’t care. This would stop Father’s pressure to accept the viscount’s unwelcome offer, too.
Marcus was watching her, a question in his eyes.
She shrugged. “It’ll be fine, whatever happens.”
/>
“You’ll be ruined.”
“I’m almost thirty and a widow. I wouldn’t mind receiving fewer invitations. I find it more and more onerous to go into public, anyway.”
He looked surprised. “You used to enjoy plays and such. At least, you did when nae enthralled with a new book.”
“I used to play with dolls, too,” she replied dryly. “I would be quite happy to be left alone with my garden, books, and friends.”
“You could lose some friends from this.”
“Not real ones.” She watched him take a bite, his even teeth closing over the jam-slathered bread. Instantly, she had a memory from long ago when, in the heat of passion, he’d gently raked his teeth over her nipples, driving her mad with desire and—
She put down her bread, her heart pounding against her throat. “I’ll see if the water is ready.” She hurried to the stove and pretended to check the heat.
“It will take a while,” he warned. “The water from the pump was icy cold. I’m surprised it hadna frozen.”
“Of course.” With nothing left to do, she returned to the table.
Marcus picked up a small towel hanging from the side of the table and handed it to her. “You have jam on your chin.”
She swiped at it. Wonderful. I’m remembering times I shouldn’t be, and he’s thinking about what a mess I look. And he’s right; my clothes are horribly wrinkled, my hair is falling down, and now there’s jam smeared on my—
“You missed it.”
She wiped her chin again and the towel came away sticky. “There. Thank you.”
He shook his head. “There’s still a smudge left. Give me the towel.”
“No, no. I can—”
“Bloody hell, can you nae let me even wipe off some jam withoot arguing? You are the most contentious woman I’ve ever met.”
She had to swallow a heated retort. Perhaps he was right. He was just trying to help. With her lips folded tightly over her own protests, she handed him the towel.
He took her arm and pulled her closer, and then wiped her chin. As he did, his eyes met hers, and time froze.
She’d always loved his eyes. Almost slumberous in heaviness, they seduced with each glance. A deep gray like a stormy ocean, his emotions lurked in their depths. It took a cautious fisherwoman to extract their secrets, and at one time, Kenna had been able to do that. Now, though, she knew him so little that she didn’t even dare guess what he felt.
“The towel isna removing the jam.” Marcus’s voice had deepened.
She couldn’t look away. “No?”
“Nae. Shall I find something that will?”
Did he mean . . . She couldn’t even finish the thought. Instead, she nodded mutely.
He dropped the towel and slipped an arm about her waist, pulling her to him. Her body fit his as if she’d never left him, softening to fit his harder planes.
With his free hand he tilted her face to his, and then he bent to place a kiss on her chin.
Tremors of awareness crashed through her as his warm lips touched her chin . . . and all thought fled.
She slipped her arms about his neck and drew his mouth to hers, seeking and desiring. She wanted him; she’d always wanted him. And now she had him here, alone, no one watching, no one condemning. She kissed him deeply, opening to him, teasing his tongue with hers.
His hands tightened about her and with a single move, he lifted her to the table, pushing her legs apart with his knee even as he moved his kisses from her lips to her chin, lingering where the jam had been. Every touch of his lips sent her senses careening madly, made her shiver with need, with desire. It had been so long. Too long. She had wanted this since she first saw him in Stormont’s sitting room.
But there will be consequences, some uncooperative part of her whispered. Dire ones.
I don’t care, she responded fiercely, as she gripped Marcus’s coat and pulled him closer. I want this. Now. While I can.
She tightened her knees about his hips and arched against him, welcoming him, urging him forward, begging for more.
Chapter Five
Marcus deepened the kiss, reveling in the feelings of both the familiar and the new, of Kenna’s rounder curves sliding under his seeking hands; of her scent, the memory of which had teased him mercilessly in the years since they’d parted ways; of the taste of her lips, which were softer and yet more demanding than any others. He slid his hand down her hips to her knee, and on to her boot-covered ankle, pushing aside her light wool chemise so that he could cup her bare calf in his palm. Her calf just fit his hand and he reveled in the warmth of her skin under his fingertips.
She was succulent, delicious, making him hungry for more even as he greedily tasted. Kenna stirred against him, restless and urging. He slid his hand higher up her leg, curving his fingers about her knee as he trailed a line of kisses from her jaw to the delicate hollows of her neck.
Shivering, Kenna shifted to grasp his arm, and as she did so, the long skirt of her riding habit tugged under his foot. It was a faint tug, barely distracting. But it acted like cold water upon his reactions. They hadn’t come to this cottage to enjoy a flirtation. No, they’d been madly dashing to her father’s house, hoping for assistance to rectify an error—an error he was responsible for, one that could impact her life in the worst of ways.
It could impact his, as well, if he made the error of caring for her again. She had walked away from their love and never once looked back. And if there was one thing Marcus didn’t wish to repeat, it was being the one who loved the most. It would be sheer madness to torment himself so again.
But here they were, alone together, protected from the curious gazes of society, friends, and families, and once again irresistibly drawn into one another’s arms. But it’s not real, he told himself. What happens here, in this isolated cottage, far away from our responsibilities and concerns, is far from reality. It is illusion, fragile and unreal, and it will end just as painfully as the last time.
Unless . . . unless he could find a way to kiss her, yet keep from falling in love with her again. He pulled back and cupped her face, looking into her eyes. Deep brown and slumberous with sensuality, they held secrets he ached to know.
Could he be with this woman and still protect his heart?
It wasn’t impossible. He’d done it before with many other women. He could do it now.
Couldn’t he?
No.
The word whispered deep in his mind, as loud as a shout. Not with Kenna.
Heart burning, he dropped his hands and stepped back, away from temptation, away from madness. “Kenna, this canna be.” He shook his head. “Nae again.”
She blinked, obviously stunned, her skirts draped over her spread knees, her lips damp and swollen from his kisses, her hair yet more disordered. The coat of her riding habit hung partially off one shoulder, and she looked like what she was—an almost ravished woman. Her gaze was hazy, as if passion still muddled her thinking, disbelieving that he’d left her.
He’d never seen a more beautiful woman. One step, and he’d be back in her arms. One. Step. As if to rescue him from the inevitable, the kettle whistled loudly, its sound discordant and shrill. His hands ached from emptiness, so he curled them into fists and turned to the demanding kettle. “I’ll make the tea.”
Bemused at Marcus’s sudden abandonment, his words as cold as ice water, Kenna found herself alone, her heated skin rapidly chilling, especially the burning trail left by his lips.
Feeling almost ill, she straightened her cloak and tugged her skirts back into place, then slid off the table and moved to the other side. She rubbed her arms, aware anew of the chilliness that permeated the room. What had just happened? She’d opened to him, shared with him, offered herself freely, and he’d walked away.
Again.
She pressed her lips into a tight line, fighting hot tears. In her entire life, she’d never felt so achingly alone. It was as if she’d been given a glimpse of something special, something to be
treasured, something that lifted her soul . . . only to have it ripped out of her arms with neither warning nor care.
Marcus placed two mugs near the kettle, the crockery rattling on the small slate-topped table. Without sparing her so much as a glance, he opened the tin holding the tea. Soon, the fragrant scent of bergamot lifted through the air. “I dinna suppose you saw any milk in the larder?”
Ah yes, he always took his tea with milk. She’d almost forgotten that. Glad he hadn’t looked at her, she swiped her eyes with her sleeve. “No, although I daresay there’s an icehouse out back. If it’s halfway as well stocked as the larder, there should be milk.”
“I’ll be damned if I traipse into that snow for nae more than a splash of milk; I’ll do withoot.”
She nodded, wondering miserably what she should say to make it seem as if their kiss had held no meaning for her, either. But no words came, because the kiss had meant something to her . . . She only wished she knew what.
Marcus searched through the line of tins sitting upon a shelf until he found the sugar. He carried the tin and the two mugs to the table, where Kenna leaned. “Here.” He dipped a spoon inside the tin of sugar and placed a heaping spoonful into her mug, stirring it once before he slid it across the table in her direction.
He remembers how I take my tea. It was a small thing. Tiny, really. But the fact that he’d remembered, added to the fact that his hand shook the faintest bit and caused him to spill some of the sugar beside the mug, soothed her embarrassment. She wasn’t the only one affected by their embrace.
The realization made her sigh in deep, sudden relief. He is affected just as much as I am; he just hides it better.
She wasn’t sure why it mattered, but it did. A lot. Now able to breathe more normally, she picked up her mug of tea and held it in both hands, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Thank you for the tea.” Her voice was husky even to her own ears.