Page 94 of Laird of Flint
What she wanted, she could not have. Deep beneath the roiling waves of this sensual sea, she recognized that tragic truth.
Even now, though she felt far from the earthly plane, as if they floated together in heaven, she knew it could not last. No matter how much she wanted the feeling to go on. And on. And on.
And that was made painfully clear when she heard the distant voice of the laird addressing the clan. “’Tis sundown. Shall we return home?”
They broke from the kiss abruptly. Reluctantly. While lust still smoldered in their eyes.
How could it be sundown already? Surely they’d only begun to kiss. And she still felt full of light and warmth.
But as lovely as their embrace had been, duty descended on her like the dampening shadow of night.
She quickly adjusted her hair, praying it wasn’t too out of sorts.
He quickly adjusted his braies.
“Forgive me, my lady. I should not have…” he said, leaving the rest open-ended, as if he wished to apologize for everything.
“Left me so unrequited?” she asked.
He blinked in surprise.
“I’ll forgive ye this once,” she told him breathlessly. “But I expect ourconversationto continue in the comin’ days.”
It was a brazen thing to say, she knew. But Hew made her feel brazen. And fearless. And brilliant. He made her feel like she didn’t have to guard her words. Like she could speak her mind. And her heart.
For once, he was left speechless. Which rather pleased her.
Before she rounded the corner to join her father, she whispered to Hew, “I think ye should perhaps surrender your dreams o’ becomin’ a monk.”
The walk back to Dunlop seemed miles shorter. Her step was so light and her mood so pleasant, she felt like she walked on air.
Indeed, as she carried her lit candle along the path, she had to remind herself that All Souls Day was a somber occasion. That perhaps she should be reflecting on those who had passed. Not grinning from ear to ear, obsessing over the man riding at the back of the clan on her palfrey. The Man She Loved.
Hew frowned in self-disgust.
Carenza didn’t love him.
And if he’d only controlled himself as he intended, if he’d only maintained his honor and refused her kiss, she’d realize that.
Now she’d never know it was lust and not love that lured her. It was the hunger of her body, not the hunger of her heart.
She was too young, too innocent to realize that.
But he wasn’t. He should have turned his head. Refused her.
It was what a gentleman of restraint and patience would have done. Hew, however, had never been able to act like a gentleman. He’d always let his passions take the reins. Sung Li, his aunt’s teacher, called himBaozhu,saying he was as volatile as the fireworks from the Orient. Quick to ignite. Quick to explode. And quick to extinguish.
That volatility was what had earned him so many broken hearts. And this time he’d wanted so badly not to make a mess of things. He’d wanted to go slowly. To be her friend first. Her confidant. Her champion.
Later, when he knew her heart belonged to him, he would show her a measure of physical affection. Then he would kiss her. Take her hand. Hold her in a fond embrace.
But nay, he’d let impatience get the best of him. Again.
Now he feared her interest was only infatuation. After all, desire was new and fresh and exciting for her. Lust was a dish of delicious sweets she’d never sampled before. And she’d naturally imagine herself in love with any man who brought her such sweets.
But she would tire of them eventually. They all did. When there was nothing substantial beneath the honeyed exterior—no affection in the kiss, no cherishing in the caress, no heart in the embrace—what was once sweet would seem empty and ordinary.
He didn’t want that to happen with Carenza. He cared for her too much. If she broke his heart, it would destroy him. Then he might as well join the holy order, for he would be unfit to be any woman’s husband.
