Page 40 of His Spirited Lady
“Well thought out,” Drake said. “What shall we label it?”
As they worked out the details, Amelia went to the still room. The copper monsters she loved hulked in the darkness, waiting for her to return. She tapped the edge of a mash tub, and the hollow thump echoed through the quiet room. It was a blessing, the quiet, after all the useless commotion of the past few days.
The scent of drying wheat, of home, drifted down from the loft and enveloped her like a blanket.
“There you are.” Richard’s quiet words doubled the warmth. “Drake is anxious for us to be away before the driver returns.”
Now that she was here, she didn’t want to leave. “He’d never let someone else in.”
“Our horses will be difficult to hide, especially yours. Everyone in the village will recognize her.”
This driver wouldn’t be from the village. Drake would have hired him in Ipswich or Cornwall, wherever the ship had docked. “Without me on her, Molly is just another gray horse.”
“With an expensive saddle,” Richard countered as he took her hand. “As much as I like watching you work, we must go.”
His hand was gentle, as were his words, but his profile was stern. “I don’t agree with much Miss Allen says, but I have to confess she and I share an opinion about the pomade in your hair.”
“You two have discussed my hair?” She didn’t need to see his face to know he was smiling.
“Not discussed, exactly. She mentioned how dashing you’d appeared with your wild hair tossed by the winds in the Channel.” The comment had made Amelia recall her first encounter with Richard. “And I have to agree. You look much more yourself when your hair is curly.”
“I see.” His thumb stroked the top of her knuckles, sending sparks up through her wrist with every bump. “What else has she spoken of?”
“She never fails to goad me about having kissed you, which is as inappropriate as it is irritating.”
“Irritating?” His rumbly voice was as warm as his fingers curving around hers.
On one vacation, in Calais, she and her parents had been forced to stop at a posting inn to avoid the rain. As it had been a downpour, they’d chosen staying dry over being fashionable. The fire was warm and the food was tasty, even if the crowd was more working class. Amelia had enjoyed watching everyone, until two women had begun squabbling over the same man. Harsh words had quickly escalated to slaps and hair-pulling. Father had whisked her out before anything else had happened, and he’d refused to explain what had happened. All he’d said was that one day she’d understand.
Amelia desperately wanted to pull Fiona Allen’s hair.
“It is very boring to sit, smile, and drink tea. All I can do is nod and say ‘Yes, he is quite dashing. Of course I was totally swept away. Certainly he takes my breath every time—’”
“I see your point,” Richard said. “Why not try using that magnificent imagination of yours? Take a kiss you’ve had and plop me in the proper spot.”
“Oh, I don’t think that would work at all.” She could almost hear his eyebrows rise. “It wasn’t an encounter where you’d want to be plopped.”
“Anencounter?” He faced her. “You said you were familiar with kissing.”
“Well, Iamfamiliar with it, and since he almost chipped my tooth, itwasmemorable.”
Richard’s dry laugh teased her ears even as his boot slid along hers, as though he was searching for firm footing on a dark path. “I agree. I don’t want to be plopped into that scenario.”
His features were visible now. His lashes low over his eyes, his lips curved in a half smile. His fingers slid up her neck and under her hair. His nose brushed her brow as his breath coaxed her eyes closed, leaving her to feel his slow trek to her mouth. His nose brushing hers, his lips sweeping from her ear down her cheek. By the time he reached her lips, she was trembling.
It was a sweet pressure, encouraging her to shape her mouth to his, to cling to it until he pulled away. His fingers stroked the curve of her neck.
“Breathe,chéri.”
When Amelia obeyed, he returned to her mouth and swept his tongue over her lips in a wet plea that she answered.
Richard’s groan rumbled over her teeth as his tongue slid against hers. He tasted of wine and whiskey and of something darker that urged her to do the same as he. She tangled her tongue with his, tested the firmness of his lips, felt him smile.
“Ahem.” The deep cough came from neither of them.
Richard stopped kissing her but kept her shielded from the lantern light in the room. His eyes stayed on hers as he spoke. “Fletcher?”
“Yes. You two are out of time.” He left the lantern as he closed the door.
