Page 30 of Tremaine's True Love
O, An’ warl’y cares an’ war’ly men May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O!
“Burns goes on in that vein,” Mr. St. Michael said. “About how lovely and dear the ladies are, nature’s best work. Men are simply the practice model, while women have the greatest wisdom and so forth.”
“Those are frivolous sentiments?” To be sung to was precious, not frivolous at all. Maybe this was why Susannah was so susceptible to Mr. Nash’s recitations, because when a man offered exquisite verse, his gaze full of sincerity and sentiment, a lady was helpless not to listen.
Mr. St. Michael took Nita’s hand and resumed walking. They hadn’t bothered with gloves, and his grip was warm.
“Mr. Burns had rather a lot of dearies,” he said, his burr once again more in evidence.
While Nita had no one dear, other than her family. A gust of bitter wind blew down from the north, snowflakes slanting along it.
“Must you go, Mr. St. Michael?”
“I don’t like the look of those clouds either,” he said as they approached the stable, “but I’ll probably make London before the weather does anything serious. Will you grant me a favor, my lady?”
“Yes.” Nobody asked Nita for favors. They asked her to set bones, deliver babies, listen to their coughs, poultice their wounds, or—in the case of Nicholas—they ordered her to sit at home and stitch samplers.
“You don’t know what I’m about to ask.”
“I know you. You wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.” Nita also knew she’d miss Mr. St. Michael. He was not friendly, but he had somehow become her friend.
“Please see that this gets to the Chalmers household.” He passed Nita coins, a good ten pounds, a fortune to Addy and her children. “I’m not sure whether the best approach is to give it to the mother, so she knows she need not immediately return to her trade, or to give it to the child, Mary, so it won’t be wasted on gin. I’m delegating that decision to you.”
Nita slipped the coins into the pocket of her cape. “Some would say you’re condoning sin.” While Nita wanted to hug him.
“If feeding children and preventing them from freezing to death is sin, then I condemned myself to eternal hellfire ages ago, simply through the number of youths I employ to tend my flocks. My parents were quite wealthy, but they chose to guard their wealth rather than remain with their sons. Addy has not abandoned her offspring, though her children are one storm away from either death or the poorhouse, and I know not which is worse.”
“Thank you, regardless of the theology or your motivations.” Mr. St. Michael was kind, though he would not want that put into words.
He dropped Nita’s hand and signaled the groom to bring William out. “May I make a farewell to your Atlas, my lady?”
“Of course.” Despite her heavy cloak, Nita was chilled, and the barn would be relatively warm.
They walked into the stable, out of the wind but into near darkness. In warmer months, the hay port doors, windows, and cupola would be opened to let in light and air, but in winter, warmth was more important than light.
Atlas lifted his head over the half door, a mouthful of hay munched to oblivion as Nita and Mr. St. Michael approached.
“You need a more elegant mount,” Mr. St. Michael said. “Just as you need a silly evening of cards, a waltz or two, and more poetry. I had hoped to give you that.”
Nitaneededto kiss him. Tremaine St. Michael had offered her a rare glimpse of how male understanding could comfort and please, he’d offered her poetry, and he was leaving.
“Good-bye, Mr. St. Michael.”
Nita didn’t have to go up on her toes to kiss him, but she did have to stand tall. Despite the bitter wind outside, despite his lack of hat, scarf, or gloves, Mr. St. Michael’s lips were warm. He tasted of peppermint with a hint of ginger biscuit. Nita hadn’t planned more than to press her lips to his, but Mr. St. Michael was apparently willing to indulge her beyond those essentials.
His hands landed on her shoulders, gently but firmly, as he tucked her between himself and the wall of Atlas’s stall. He slid a hand into her hair, cradling the back of her head against his palm. Soon, he’d gallop off to Oxford, but the way he held Nita said, for the moment,shewasn’t going anywhere.
Well, neither would he. Nita wrapped an arm around Mr. St. Michael’s waist—blast all winter clothing to perdition—and sank a hand into his dark locks.
“I’ll miss—” she managed before his mouth settled over hers, and Nita’s worldly cares, her disgruntlement with her family, her concern for the Chalmers children, all went quite…tapsalteerie-o.
Kissing Tremaine St. Michael bore a resemblance to the onset of a fever. Weakness assailed Nita, from her middle outward, through her limbs, and then heat welled in its wake. He held her snugly—she would not fall—but she felt as if she were falling.
His kiss was a marvel of contradictions: solid male strength all around Nita and feather-soft caresses to her lips; dark frustration to be limited to a kiss and soaring satisfaction to have a kiss that transcended mere friendliness; utter glee to find that her advances were enthusiastically returned and plummeting sorrow because Mr. St. Michael’s horse awaited him in the stable yard.
He cupped Nita’s jaw as he traced kisses over her eyebrows, nose, and cheeks.
“You deserve more than a stolen kiss in the stable,” he whispered. “But if a stolen kiss is what you’ll take, then I hope this one was memorable.”
