Page 50 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
Flora’s eyes widened a little, but she nodded. “Come, even if there is no news—I won’t sleep otherwise.”
A smile of longing passed between them, before James reluctantly helped her up into the gig. His hands lingered at her waist a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed—long enough to brand the moment into his memory—before he forced himself to let her go.
He stood for a moment, watching the gig disappear into the black night. Only when Flora was lost to sight did he turn back to the clamour within The Ring, her gift of rosemary pressed close against his heart.
The search turned up nothing. Henderson had vanished so completely that James worried they had been incorrect to guess that the lad would not skip town.
By the time the last lantern was extinguished in Plumpton, James’s patience had frayed to breaking. Every lane, every byway had been scoured; still there was no trace of the butcher’s apprentice. After a few fruitless hours, Crabb called the search off until daybreak—much to the relief of Mr Marrowbone, who had been hinting that the search should be called off almost since it started.
“And by daybreak, you mean eleven-ish?” the constable clarified, as the group began to disperse.
“I’ll be at your door with the first rays of sun, Marrowbone,” Crabb replied, dryly amused. He turned to James then, “Would you like to stay at Crabb Hall? I can have one of the rooms readied.”
“I had best return to my own lodgings,” James demurred. It wasn’t a lie, exactly—only an omission. Before his head touched the pillow at The King’s Head, he would be calling on Flora.
He waited for the others to depart before he swung into the saddle and turned his horse toward Brackenfield. His ride was assisted by the helpful light of the three-quarter moon, and anticipation kept him warm against the frosty night. Each breath rose in a pale plume before him, but he hardly felt the cold; the thought of Flora—waiting, perhaps even worrying—spurred him on faster.
At last, Brackenfield rose before him, silent but not asleep. A candle glowed at one of the lower windows and, as James dismounted in the yard, the front door clicked open.
“You came,” Flora whispered out into the night.
“I said I would,” James called quietly, as he finished tying off his horse. He strode over to her then and she ushered him inside.
“There’s the remnants of a fire in the parlour room,” she whispered, leading him to a cosy room that adjoined the entrance hall.
Once inside, she began to fuss and fret, offering him tea and biscuits, and a chance to warm his boots by the hearth.
James smiled faintly at her fluttering hands and earnest concern for his comfort.
“I will not tarry,” he answered, acknowledging the slightly clandestine nature of his call. “I wanted only to see that you are safe. And, I had hoped to be able to inform you that Henderson had been apprehended, but alas he remains at large.”
“I regret that such a lovely evening ended in such calamity,” Flora sighed, hugging her arms around herself to warm up.
“As do I,” James agreed somberly, before boldly adding. “Though my biggest regret is that we did not have a chance to waltz.”
They stood a heartbeat in silence, the air between them charged. Then Flora, half-nervous, half-bold, teased lightly, “If only we had some musicians, then we could put the wrong to right.”
“Who needs musicians?” James raised a brow, his pulse quickening. “I am quite the accomplished hummer, I’ll have you know.”
She gave a peal of laughter at his impression of Mrs Mifford, and James thought he would happily make a fool of himself a thousand times over to hear it again.
“Come then,” he said, extending his hand. “Humour me, Miss Bridges.”
He drew her gently into the centre of the room, one hand finding the small of her back, the other clasping hers as though it belonged to him.
Then, low and steady, he began to hum The Duke of Kent’s Waltz. The tune was rougher for being hummed rather than played, but Flora’s eyes widened in delight all the same.
They began to move—awkwardly at first, but soon they found a slow, gentle rhythm. The world outside the little parlour faded; James knew only Flora, the heat of her body against his, her soft lavender scent, and her big dark eyes gazing up at him.
His humming faltered as he felt his resolve begin to buckle. Every nerve in him screamed to lower his mouth to hers, to claim her lips at last.
Desire warred with discipline, until at last James bent—resting his forehead against hers.
“Flora,” he whispered, his voice raw with need.
“James,” she breathed with a tentative smile, as she spoke his name aloud for the first time.
That single word undid him. His hand at her back pulled her closer still, until no space remained between them. His head dipped, and his lips claimed hers in a kiss that began softly—tentative, gentle—but grew deeper, fiercer with every passing heartbeat.
