A Kiss to Remember (16 page)

Laura opened her mouth, hoping to stop him before he confessed that he couldn’t abide her either.

He held up a hand to stay her. “Now, being a reasonable fellow, I
can
concur that a man’s soul might benefit from some spiritual instruction on a Sunday morning.” His expression softening, he glanced at the hearth, where the kitten sat grooming her whiskers with sylphlike grace. “I might even be convinced that certain members of the feline species, however much of a nuisance, can possess charms that are difficult to resist.”

He moved to kneel beside the ottoman, putting him at eye level with her. “But I cannot and will not be persuaded that I’m not the sort of man who would compromise his fiancée’s virtue. Because I can assure you that I’ve thought of little else since the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

Dazed, Laura gulped down the rest of the brandy. Nicholas gently removed the glass from her hand and rested it on the carpet.

“But you always—” she began.

He laid two fingers against the softness of her lips, effectively stilling them. “You’ve spent the past week telling me what I’m
supposed
to want. Now it’s my turn to show you what I
do
want.”

As he framed her face in his big, strong hands, she expected him to kiss her mouth. She did not expect him to kiss her eyelids, her temples, the freckled bridge of her nose. His breath fanned her face, as warm and intoxicating as the forbidden sweetness of the port. But as
he lowered his lips to hers, the fever that went curling through her veins had nothing to do with the brandy and everything to do with the liquid heat of his tongue tenderly laving her mouth.

Before Laura realized it, she was clutching his shirt-front and meeting each deepening thrust of his tongue with a hungry sweep of her own. She hardly recognized the fierce little creature who clung to him with such abandon. It was as if the prim and proper rector’s daughter had disappeared, leaving a shameless wanton in her place.

Perhaps this was the escalating nature of sin her papa had always warned her about. Failing to read your morning psalms led to lying and lying led to abducting strange gentlemen and abducting gentlemen led to kissing and kissing led to lust and lust led to … well, she wasn’t completely clear on where lust led, but if Nicholas didn’t stop nuzzling her ear in that tantalizing manner, she was certainly going to find out.

The seductive rasp of his voice startled her out of her dreamy daze. “Come away with me, Laura.”

“What did you say?” She leaned away from him to peer into his face, still clinging to his shirt.

He caught her upper arms in a fierce grip, his eyes as hot as his hands. “Come away with me! Right now. Why should we wait until next week to be married when we can leave for Gretna Green this very afternoon and be sharing a bed before this week is done?”

His words sent a delicious frisson down her spine, half terror and half anticipation. A shaky laugh escaped her. “You left out the part where you make me your wife.”

141

“Simply an oversight, I assure you.” He gazed down into her eyes with a curious mixture of tenderness and desperation. “Don’t make me wait any longer to make you mine. We’ve already wasted far too much time.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Laura muttered, burying her face in his shoulder.

This was a temptation she hadn’t anticipated. If she allowed him to sweep her off to Scotland in the heat of the moment for a runaway wedding not bound by the conventions of the English courts, there would be no more worries about forging a false name in the parish register, no more sleepless nights wondering if his memory was going to come flooding back before they took their vows.

But there would also be no more time to send Dower to London. No more time to make sure her fiancé’s heart wasn’t already pledged to another woman before she claimed it for her own.

Still, she was tempted. Tempted to seize both the man in her arms and the moment and run away to Gretna Green as countless brides before her had done.

They could be sharing a bed before the week was done.

Laura’s breath quickened as she envisioned a cozy chamber in a rustic inn. In Gretna Green, such a chamber would be intended for one purpose and one purpose only—seduction. There would be wine and cheese on the table, a fire crackling on the grate to ward off the chill in the damp Scottish air, a downy quilt turned back in invitation on the rough-hewn bedstead. And there would be Nicholas, eager to partake of the first delights of their love.

But he did not love her. She had only tricked him into believing he did. It was that realization more than any other that gave her the strength to shove herself from his arms. She rose and stood with her back to him, hugging back a shiver of shame.

Nicholas followed, catching her gently by the shoulders from behind. “I wanted you to run away
with
me,” he said softly, “not
from
me.”

“I have no intention of doing either,” she replied, thankful he couldn’t see her face. “The minute we set out for Scotland together, my reputation would be in ruins.”

“I don’t mind,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her nape in a tingling caress. “As long as I’m the one doing the ruining.”

“But it’s not only ourselves we have to think of.”

His hands slowly fell away from her shoulders. “That’s exactly what I’m coming to fear.”

Chilled by his abrupt withdrawal, Laura turned to face him. “Don’t you see? If we elope, it will break everyone’s hearts. Cookie’s been working day and night on my dress and on whipping up the perfect batch of almond icing for the bride cake. Dower hasn’t set foot in a church since his own wedding, yet he’s promised to walk me down the aisle. Lottie has her little heart set on carrying my posy for me. And George”—she forced a smile—“well, if you eloped with his sister, George would feel compelled to call you out, and I simply can’t have you shooting my only brother.”

Nicholas’s reassuring smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I suppose you’re right. You’ve waited patiently for me for two years. Surely I can do you the same courtesy for two weeks. It was unfair of me to try to cheat
you out of the wedding every woman dreams of having.” He drew her against his chest, hiding his face from her as he gently stroked her hair. “If you’ll give me a chance to redeem myself, I promise I’ll see to it that you get everything you deserve.”

Laura stood frozen in the warmth of his arms, unable to tell him that was exactly what she feared.

Nicholas spent the next morning prowling the rolling hills surrounding Arden Manor. The sun beamed down from a crisp blue sky, warming his head and shoulders. A buoyant breeze sifted through his hair. He didn’t even have to worry about Dower’s surly countenance casting a thundercloud over the day. Laura had sent him off to London before dawn to search the livestock markets for another ram.

It was the sort of morning when a man should have no care for the past or the future, only the present. But still Nicholas found himself dwelling on yesterday, reliving the moment when Laura had shoved herself from his arms and stood shivering just out of his reach.

He’d spent most of the night trying to convince himself that he had only himself to blame. He could hardly reproach her for not wanting to be alone with him when he fell upon her like some sort of debauched pirate every time they were. Nor could he blame her for not surrendering to such a foolish, romantic notion as running off to Scotland just so he could take her to bed a few days earlier than scheduled.

She might have refused to run away with him, but that didn’t necessarily mean there was something—or someone—she was reluctant to leave behind.

Nicholas tried to shake away the ugly thought. Laura might be able to pretend affection for him, but he couldn’t accuse her of feigning the sweet sighs she breathed each time he took her into his arms or the melting softness of her mouth beneath his. He felt himself harden at the memory.

Desperate to distract himself from his licentious thoughts, Nicholas drew a calfskin-bound Greek Testament containing the Gospel of Mark from the pocket of his coat and began to read while he strolled. He had smuggled the book out of the manor’s library without Laura’s knowledge and was surprised to discover that he was as fluent in Greek as he was in English. He still hadn’t agreed to her mad scheme to make a country parson of him, but neither had he completely rejected it. After all, he would require some way to provide a living for his bride and her family. He might have lost his memory, but he hadn’t lost his pride.

He became so engrossed in the slim volume that he didn’t even realize something had gone whizzing past his nose until it embedded itself in the trunk of the alder he happened to be passing with a resounding
twang.

He halted and slowly turned his head to find an arrow still vibrating in the smooth bark. Wrenching it from the tree, he glanced around the meadow. Except for a lark trilling a soaring aria from the branches of a nearby hawthorn, it appeared to be deserted.

Or so he thought until he caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye.

Something was protruding from behind a faint rise in the land. Something that looked remarkably like a lopsided topknot of golden curls.

Slipping the book back into his pocket, he went
striding across the meadow. Propping one foot on the rise, he leaned over to peer into the hollow beyond.

“Would this, by any chance, belong to you?” he asked its occupant, holding out the arrow.

Lottie slowly emerged from her hiding place, clover in her hair and bow in hand. “It might. I’ve taken up archery, you know.” She shot him a frigid glance. “I find it to be so much more fulfilling than poetry.”

Nicholas’s lips twitched as her dart hit home. “But far more hazardous for your audience.”

“I just took up the sport,” she protested. “I’m not a very good shot yet.”

“Where’s your target?”

“Over there.” She gestured vaguely toward a distant clump of trees in the opposite direction of where he had been strolling.

Nicholas lifted one eyebrow. “My, you are a bad shot, aren’t you?” He took the bow from her, surprised by how natural it felt in his hands. “Have you any chalk?”

Although her round little face lost none of its contrariness, she began to dig through the pockets of her pinafore. He waited patiently while she sifted through a dozen hair ribbons, an assortment of rocks and twigs, two stale teacakes, and a small brown toad, before finally locating a worn-down stub of chalk.

She watched, trying not to appear interested, as he marched back to the alder and drew four concentric circles on its trunk. He returned to Lottie, knelt behind her, and carefully fitted the bow to her grip.

“Steady,” he murmured, guiding her through the motions of nocking the arrow and taking aim.

The arrow took wing, sailing across the meadow to
strike the alder soundly within the boundaries of the innermost circle.

Straightening, Nicholas ruffled her curls and gave her a lazy smile. “Choose something to aim for, Goldilocks, and you’ll hit your target every time.”

Drawing the book from his pocket, he continued on his way, not realizing that he’d left Lottie at a loss for words for the first time in her young life.

When George entered the kitchen the next day, shaking the rain from an afternoon shower out of his hair, Cookie was nowhere in sight. Instead, he found Lottie standing on a footstool beside the table, beating a batch of almond icing with fierce concentration. Flour smudged her round cheeks and a fluffy gray cat crouched beside the earthenware bowl, pretending disdain.

Watching her pound the hapless ingredients into a stiff froth, George cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t know why you’ve taken up the bow and arrow when you could just whip someone to death with that spoon.”

He waited until she’d turned away to retrieve a pinch of cinnamon from a china saucer before swiping his finger around the rim of the bowl.

It was halfway to his mouth when Lottie turned back and cried, “George, no!”

George froze. He looked at her, then back at the bowl, feeling the color drain from his face. He accepted the rag she handed him, wiping every trace of the icing from his skin.

Shooting the door to the dining room a nervous look, he whispered, “What in the devil do you think
you’re doing? I thought you weren’t going to kill him until
after
the wedding.”

“I’ve no intention of killing him,” she whispered back. “I’m just going to make him mildly ill. It’s the only way I can check my dosages.”

“But if he gets sick after he eats this, won’t he suspect that you’ve poisoned him?”

“Of course not. He has no idea we’d wish to do him harm. He’ll simply think I’m a dreadful cook.” Her face taut with determination, she added another pinch of the stuff George had believed to be cinnamon to the bowl. “The sugar and the almonds together should mask the bitterness of the toadstools.”

George swallowed, beginning to feel mildly ill himself. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Lottie slammed the spoon down, sending the cat careening from the table. “He’s left me no choice! Can’t you see what he’s doing by pretending to be good and kind instead of mean and hateful? How could any girl be expected to resist his soft words and those winning smiles of his?”

George frowned, caught off guard by her vehemence. “We are talking about Laura here, aren’t we?”

Ramming the spoon back into the bowl, Lottie resumed her grim battle with the icing. “Of course we’re talking about Laura. Do you want things to go back to the way they were before he came or do you want him to steal her away from us the same way he stole my kitten? Because if he does, I can promise you, we’ll never get her back.”

George might have argued further had he not seen a single teardrop roll off of Lottie’s pointed little chin and
drip into the bowl. The almonds might hide the taste of the toadstools, but no sugar was sweet enough to mask the bitterness of his sister’s tears.

Lottie hesitated in the doorway of the drawing room, observing her quarry. Nicholas was sprawled in a leather wing chair, his stocking feet propped on the ottoman. A fire snapped and crackled on the grate in a cozy counterpoint to the rhythm of the rain beating against the windowpanes. The lamplight cast a rosy hue over the classical beauty of his profile.