And the Bride Wore Plaid by Karen Hawkins
He realized that her color was still high, and he wondered what she had been thinking. “I don’t believe I like being called ‘Captain.’”
“Oh.” Some of her smile faded.
“But you may call me ‘Admiral,’ if you’d like.” He made a magnanimous gesture. “Or ‘Admiral, sir,’ if it trips off your tongue any better.”
Laughter gurgled in her throat, and some of the tension left her face. “I hope you’re not pulling rank on me to get the largest apple tart.”
“All is fair in love and…tartdom.”
She giggled, and Devon found himself reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face.
She jerked back at his touch. Devon frowned. “You just had a strand of hair on your cheek.” His gaze narrowed. “You don’t trust easily, do you?”
Kat’s face heated, and she said with a slight touch of defensiveness, “I trust people. I trust Malcolm and Donald and Annie and Simon and Neal and, oh, all sorts of people.”
“Just not me.”
She bit her lip, wishing she knew what she did feel. Her instincts were at war with her head, and she wasn’t sure which to believe. Her head told her that Devon was a rake and just wanted a few moments of pleasure. That there was nothing but pain at the end of that road.
Meanwhile, her instincts told her that she could trust him, that he wouldn’t attempt to lure away her heart. That he’d been honest—painfully so—and didn’t deserve her mistrust.
The idea of sleeping with Devon wasn’t, in itself, a horrible thing. In fact, judging by the way her body reacted every time he was near, a few hours of mutual pleasure might be satisfying to them both. The very thought made her breasts ache as if he’d already touched them.
But even while she acknowledged the temptation that was Devon St. John, a thought clamored in the back of her mind. He would make love to her and then leave her. He had offered no more. Could she accept such a bargain?
Truly, Kat did not know. So instead of mulling it further, she bided her time. “Perhaps we should eat first and then discuss this…situation.”
His eyes darkened and for an instant, she thought he’d refuse. But then a smile glinted in his blue eyes. “A reprieve then. But only until we’ve eaten.”
Chapter 12
The worst part about dealing with the opposite sex, poor souls, is that they never seem to realize that even when we tell them that they are in control, they are not. Nothing would ever get done correctly, else.
Mrs. Compton to Madame Bennoit, at a fitting at Madame’s establishment on Bond Street
Kat was agonizingly aware of Devon throughout lunch. He, meanwhile, seemed the same as ever—talking and teasing and several times making her laugh at his nonsense. Only once did she catch him looking at her with an intense expression.
Just as they finished lunch, the clouds overhead darkened. The wind rose and the plaid blanket was puffed away while they were packing the remains of their lunch back into the saddlebag. Kat had to run to catch the blanket, laughing as she did so. The wind was quick and freeing, tugging her skirts and hair, blowing fresh and cool.
Her spirits began to lift even though a part of her still dreaded the upcoming conversation.
Devon put the blanket away, then looked up at the darkening sky. “I don’t know if we’re going to make it back to Kilkairn.”
She followed his gaze and agreed. It was looking dark, indeed. “There is a copse of woods where we can take shelter.”
He glanced at her with a lopsided grin that sent her heart spinning in place. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for a cottage like yours.”
“Far too much. All there is for shelter is a shed that was once used by the toll keeper. It has only three sides and probably leaks like a sieve.”
“Just my luck.” He untied the horses and led Lady to Kat. “Good thing I’m an admiral. We may have to swim home.”
She allowed him to help her into the saddle. He set her up without effort, then stood looking up at her, his hands still on her waist.
Kat grew uneasy under the intensity of his gaze. “What? Is my hair mussed?”
He grinned. “I was just thinking that the wind had made you look as if you’d just been thoroughly rolled in the hay, even if I’ve yet to touch you.”
But he had touched her. In many, many ways. In the weeks since Devon had arrived, Kat felt as if he’d awakened her. Brought her back to life after a long, lonely sleep.
The question was, if she allowed the relationship to go further, could she ever be satisfied to go back to the lonely sleep again, or would it be torturous to remember what she had and could no longer have?
Her smile must have faltered, for he removed his hands and said a little harshly, “Come. It’s about to pour. Where is this shelter?”
She waited for him to mount and then took the lead, directing them back down the path to where the shed was almost completely obscured by a copse of trees and brush.
Just as they reached the shed, the heavens opened and rain came down in buckets. Devon slid off Thunder as soon as they reached the shelter, then helped Kat down. She was already drenched and could barely see for the sheets of rain.
He took Lady’s reins, then pushed Kat gently toward the shed and yelled that he would be there soon. Kat stumbled forward, the water obscuring her vision. She could barely decipher the outline of the shed.
The old building was small and damp, but the roof wasn’t as bad as she’d thought, leaking in only two or three places.
She hugged herself, shivering a little at the cold. The breeze, which had felt so good before the rain, now seemed chilly and unwelcoming. She looked around the shed to see if perhaps there was enough wood to make a fire, then decided that if she attempted to start one, the entire place might catch aflame.
Devon appeared, wet to the bone, something tucked beneath his coat. He wiped the water from his face and glanced around. “It will do.”
“It has to,” she answered, offering a smile. A slight shiver wracked her as she spoke.
Devon pulled the picnic blanket from beneath his coat and handed it to her. “Here. Take off your jacket and put this over you. It’s fairly dry and will keep you warmer than that wet wool.”
Her teeth were beginning to chatter, so she took off the jacket and the bedraggled white scarf. After looking around, she hung them both on a stray nail. “I wish there was more furniture. Some chairs, at least.”
She turned to take the blanket from Devon when she saw his gaze on her chest. She looked down and winced. The rain had soaked her white linen shirt and her chemise all the way to her skin. The cloth clung to her, revealing far more than she’d intended.
Devon thought he’d never seen a more beautiful sight. Common sense told him that Kat would have beautiful breasts, but the large, full mounds revealed by her wet shirt far exceeded even his lustful imagination.
He was awash with the desire to see them, taste them, cup them in his hands. “We must have our talk,” he said, wincing a little when his voice made the words seem harsh.
She colored, almost snatching the blanket from his hands and wrapping it around her. “So talk.”
He wiped water from his neck, pulling off his own wet coat and loosening his cravat. “Let’s sit.” He searched through the ruined remains of the shed, finding a chair with a broken bottom and a bucket that, turned upside down, could be used as a stool. He placed the chair against the driest wall and put a board across the broken seat, then overturned the bucket and made a companion chair. “After you, m’lady.”
Kat took the chair, sitting primly on the edge of her seat. Whether it was because she was anxious or because the rain had wet her hair until it was slicked back from her forehead, her eyes seemed unusually wide.
“Well,” he said, sitting on the bucket bench and raking a hand through his own hair. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had a more awkward situation. But then, I’ve never desired to talk about having a relationship before.”
S
“No. They pretty much all just…happened. Mutual consent, as it were.” Most of the women he’d had relationships with hadn’t expected or wanted conversation. They’d wanted jewels, admiration, and his attention, all the while thriving on the hope that once he’d sampled their charms, he’d become so enamored that he’d desire something more—like marriage.
That never happened, of course. The more they wanted, the less he wished to give.
Kat was different. She didn’t ask for or expect anything his former loves had craved and demanded. And it made him want to do more for her.
It was a new and perplexing feeling. Added to that was his decision to be truthful at all costs. For the first time in his life, he was enjoying a relationship based on simple truth—he didn’t feel pressured to utter platitudes and inane compliments. Nor did Kat seem to want to hear false pledges of undying love. He knew that while the truth was sometimes difficult to express, Kat wouldn’t accept anything less.
He glanced at her now, noting that she was thoroughly covered, the blanket clamped about her throat and hiding her wet clothing. “Kat, I’m not very good at talking about things. I’m a man of action. But for you, I’ll try.”
She nodded, her eyes warm in the silvered light. “I know.”
Devon slid the bucket directly beside her chair, then reached over and pulled her to him.
She stiffened.
“You’re cold. The least I can do is keep you warm.”
She relaxed a little, glancing up at him through eyelashes that were spiked with wetness. “If that’s all you’re going to do.”
“Until you say otherwise, it is.”
They sat there, listening to the rain, their bodies gradually growing warmer. Devon rested his cheek against her hair, the faint scent of lavender drifting through the air. He always associated that scent with Kat now. Lovely and light, it seemed just like her.
Kat sighed and moved, her shoulder rubbing against his chest. Devon’s body reacted immediately. God, but she was a lovely woman. A lovely person.
The tension between them that had begun at lunch grew with each passing moment. The longer they sat together, his arm about her, her head resting against his cheek, the more insistent the urge became.
Devon lifted a strand of her hair and pressed his mouth to the tress. Wet, it curled about his fingers, clung in a way he wished Kat would. “At least your hair likes me.”
She blinked at him, a quiver of humor curling her lips. “I never said I didn’t like you.”
“Yes, but you haven’t said you did. I take that as a bad sign.”
She turned and, to his surprise, trailed her lips across his cheek. It was an innocent touch, though his reaction was anything but.
He almost gasped. “If you don’t wish me to touch you, you’ll have to forgo little demonstrations like that.”
Her brows rose. “Just a kiss on the cheek?”
“Any kiss, anywhere. They are maddening and make me want to pull you into my lap and savor you correctly.”
For an instant, heat flared in her eyes, but then her lashes slid down to hide her reaction. “I have a puzzle to solve.”
The soft words lingered in the air.
“Oh?”
“If I agree to take this relationship to a more physical level, what guarantee will I have that it won’t hurt when you leave?” She sighed, the sound sweet in the rain-wet air. “My mind and my body are at war over the answer.”
He drew her hair over his lips, savoring the silken stroke. “Sometimes the body is more truthful and uncomplicated than the mind.”
“And sometimes what seems an honest and truthful response is no more than a thoughtless reaction that would happen in a variety of other circumstances. For example, the way you might jerk away if a bee were to fly close by, or how you’d react if an ember from the fire landed near your foot.”
He smiled. “Has anyone ever told you that you think too much?”
She tilted her head to one side, her wet hair now more red than gold. “No.”
“Then they were only being polite.”
Her lips quivered with a smile, but she ruthlessly repressed it. “I don’t believe it is possible to think too much.”
“Hm. Would you care to put that statement to a test?”
Her wariness grew. “What kind of test?”
“We try a kiss while you are thinking…” He lowered his mouth to her cheek and whispered, “And a kiss while you are not.”
Her skin was not the creamy white of most debutantes, but a luminous pink. He brushed his fingertips along the line of her cheek. “Sometimes, thoughts can stop us from experiencing the moment we’re in. They can block feeling, emotion, energy, even pleasure.”
“All by thinking?”
“All by thinking.”
“I’m surprised anyone bothers to think at all, then,” she said in a slightly acid tone, though her lashes fluttered on her cheeks.
He smiled. If he merely listened to her words, he’d quit this seduction now, before it had really begun. But though she stoutly refused to give in to his verbal blandishments, she was not immune to him physically. If he could just show her that they were meant to touch, meant to be together. Not forever of course, but for this moment. “Well? Care to test your theory?”
She shrugged. “I suppose we might as well. We can’t leave until this rain quits.” She leaned back against his arm. “Go ahead, kiss me.”
He started to lower his mouth to hers, but then stopped. “Is this the thinking kiss or the nonthinking kiss?”
“I am not going to tell you. I don’t want you using any tricks to win your point.”
“Very well. But you have to be honest with me about which kiss was which.”
“You’ll trust me?”
“With my soul.”
Her face pinkened.
He didn’t give her time to think that through. He tipped her face to him and kissed her. He put into the kiss all his longings, all his desires. Everything.
She was limp in his arms when he finished. The blanket had slipped and she was panting heavily, drawing his gaze once again to her nearly visible breasts.
“Ready for the next one?”
She held out a hand. “No. I’ve already proven my point. That was the thinking kiss and I was reciting the names of all the kings and queens of Scotland all the while. I never made it past the twelfth century.” She pressed a hand to her throat. “Thinking most definitely does not interfere with feeling.”
He had to laugh. “I think you need the next kiss, too. Just to make certain.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and he could see she was wavering. “Just one more kiss.” He bent toward her, his lips a whisper away.
“I can’t,” she gasped, pulling away. “No more, please.” She looked at him, her green eyes sparkling with sudden tears. “I beg of you,” she whispered. “No more.”
Devon loosened his hold. “Kat, I don’t understand—”
She shook her head, the gesture dislodging a tear. It fell from her eye and clung to her cheek. “I—I am not a fool, you know. I can see what you’re doing. You are trying to seduce me.”
He pursed his lips. “Yes, I am. That is what happens when there is an attraction, such as the one we have.”
“I know. I am no innocent.”
He chuckled. “I would beg to differ.”
“Devon, I am no innocent.” This time she said the words firmly.
“Ah,” he said, realizing what she meant.
A grimace of anguish passed over her face. “I have made mistakes.”
“We all have, sweet,” Devon said. He wanted this woman. Wanted her more than any other woman he’d ever known.
The problem was that if he succeeded in seducing her, he might damage the part of her he admired the most—her spirit.
Devon was not selfish. Not intentionally, anyway. And he knew from the conversations they’d had that Kat was not a wom
He sighed, rubbing his neck. His desire was subsiding, but only slightly. He wanted Kat in his bed, but not at the cost of her pride. “In no way do I wish to harm you.”
A bitter smile touched her lips. “I’ve heard that before.”
“But not from me. When I tell you something, I mean it. And I expect you to do the same for me.”
Kat swallowed the lump of emotion that threatened to close her throat. Devon’s black hair fell over his brow, his blue eyes never left her face. He’d discarded his jacket, and his black breeches hugged his narrow hips and outlined his muscular thighs. Her gaze traveled over him to where his throat was exposed. His cravat was undone and hung loosely about his neck, his shirt untied. A faint edge of chest hair showed in the opening, and she was assailed with the desire to touch it, to thread her fingers through it and feel the crispness of the tight black curls. God, but he was beautiful. Beautiful and…listening to her. Asking her what she thought, what she needed.
In that instant, she knew why he was different from Stephen. Stephen had swept her off her feet with smooth words and urgent hands. And she, feeling gauche and ugly after being paraded through cold receiving room after cold receiving room, had lapped it up like a starved cat.
Devon had the same passion as Stephen, but Devon had something more. Perhaps it was patience. Perhaps it was caring. Whatever it was, it had him sitting beside her, his arm offering warmth and nothing more, his head bent attentively, his eyes on hers.
In all the times she and Stephen had met, never once did she remember him looking at her with such a serious expression, or waiting to hear what she thought about anything. She wondered that she’d never before realized that.
Funny how one’s expectations at seventeen were so very small. Then, years later, those same expectations transformed into a list of required virtues so long that she sometimes feared the man she wanted to meet did not exist.
She didn’t want just passion, though that was part of it. She also wanted someone to talk to, someone who would listen, someone who would laugh with her and share himself the same way she wanted to share herself.