Page 51 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
Flora swayed against him, answering his urgency with her own, her hands rising to circle his neck. The taste of her, the feel of her pressed to him, lit a fire that he knew would never extinguish.
It was too much. Too perfect. And if he did not stop now, he would not stop at all.
With a groan, James tore his mouth from hers, his breath ragged. He pressed his brow to hers once more, eyes squeezed shut as though sheer will might cool the storm raging inside him.
“Forgive me,” he whispered hoarsely, appalled by his lack of restraint.
Flora tipped her head back just enough to look at him, her dark eyes wide, her lips still softly parted from their kiss.
“Forgive you for what?” she asked, the confusion in her tone making her seem all the more unbearably sweet.
“My intentions toward you had become most dishonourable,” James admitted with a low, rueful smile, echoing her earlier teasing.
She flushed so prettily that his resolve trembled all over again. Before it could shatter entirely, he forced himself to step back, his hand falling reluctantly from her waist.
“I must return to the inn,” he said gently, though every word pained him. “I will call at your grandmother’s tomorrow—after the search.”
She nodded quietly, her fingers rising almost unconsciously to brush her still-swollen lips. The sight undid him. With a groan, James reached for her again, capturing her mouth in a softer, lingering kiss, his hand sweeping her hair tenderly back from her face.
“Until tomorrow, Miss Bridges,” he murmured at last, the words edged with a sigh as he forced himself to let her go.
“Goodnight, Captain,” Flora whispered, her voice as tremulous as his own.
James lingered a heartbeat longer, drinking in the sight of her, then, with a last bow, he turned and strode out into the chill night. The cold air did little to quench the feverish longing still coursing through his blood.
He mounted quickly, gave the reins a flick, and set off back toward Plumpton—wondering if he might wake Edward and ask him to prepare him a cold bath. Only when the rhythmic stride of his horse had eaten up a mile of road did it strike him—he had left without asking the one question that had burned on his tongue all night.
He had not asked Flora Bridges to be his wife.
Tomorrow, he vowed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AFTER A NIGHTof broken, restless sleep, Flora had arisen early—greeted by a bleary-eyed Helen—and decided to take herself straight to her grandmother’s to wait for Captain Thorne to call.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that she was wearing a hole in the rug at her grandmother’s instead of her own parlour, Flora realised that location was not the issue—it was impatience.
She wanted to see the captain—James—again. Not just to hear whether Henderson had been found, but to assure herself that he was real and not merely a handsome dream her mind had conjured.
“For pity’s sake, child, sit down,” Mrs Bridges groaned from her chair, pulling her shawl tight. “You’ve near scuffed my rug bald.”
Flora halted mid-stride, guilty, then promptly shifted to fiddling with the curtain tassels.
Her grandmother snorted. “That’s no improvement.”
“I cannot sit,” Flora admitted, turning back to the window for what must have been the dozenth time. “What if he comes and I miss him?”
“You’d have to be deaf as well as blind to miss a man on horseback, and as far as I’m aware you’re neither—you’re just daft.” Mrs Bridges muttered. Then, softening, she added, “Would you like me to brew you a nostrum? I’m certain your nerves are suffering after witnessing poor Mrs Pinnock’s fall.”
“Poor Mrs Pinnock is likely a murderess,” Flora reminded her grandmother.
“I can’t credit it,” Mrs Bridges furrowed her brow in confusion. “She spent an age admiring my roses when she called. A woman who delights in flowers can hardly be all bad.”
Flora gave a faint smile at that, but the words barely registered. Her thoughts had already drifted away again—to the tall, broad-shouldered captain who had promised he would come.
“You stay there and I’ll brew you up something,” Mrs Bridges continued, when Flora failed to reply. “You’re looking a touch pale on top of your restlessness—a nice valerian tisane will sort you.”
“I’ll smell like wet boots all day if I drink that,” Flora protested, roused from her day dreams by the horrifying prospect of scaring Captain Thorne away with wretched breath. “I think what I have is not an ailment but a build up of energy. I’ll expend it on a walk into the village—do you need anything from Mr McDowell’s?”
