“Apologies, I said that like it was an ancient curse. Mummies and poltergeists might climb out of the upholstery.” He released his breath in a rough exhale. “There’s a story that goes with it, an unpleasant one, as you must have guessed. It involves my father.”
Something about the way he said the words made Marigold shiver, and Archie glanced over towards the still-open doors overlooking the gardens. “C’mon, the fire’s warm.”
His hand brushed the base of her spine as they weaved through the tables with the few lingering men lost to their intense card games. A gentle touch, as though his instincts told him to protect her. As though she was deserving of his care.
He stopped before the fireplace and held out his hands over the low flames as though warming them, then turned to face her, dropping his palm from her back. Mere inches separated their bodies, and yet they didn’t touch. Marigold needed the space, the knowledge she could still protect herself, but she had started to forget why she required such safeguarding when the moment of contact had been so reassuring. But despite the nearly constant need to guard her safety over the last decade, something about this man allowed her to lower her defenses. “T-tell me about the b-b-beets,” she whispered, and his exhale shuddered, bringing his chest in tight proximity to hers.
“My father couldn’t wait to get the farm from my grandda, Mum’s father,” he said. “Always boasted he would run it better, easier. Make more money.” His chuckle lacked humor. “It won’t surprise you to know most men don’t go into farming to become wealthy. But my father refused to let his dream of riches die in the fields and tried everything to make a quick quid.”
Marigold sensed the space between them growing smaller, her need to comfort him intensifying. Her fingertips ached with it, and she balled them into fists at her side.
Comforting her boys had always been an exercise in restraint. Reggie never welcomed her touch, words and gestures of affection disappearing into him like sand tossed into the sea, neverto be returned. Matthew crashed into her arms, a wave of love that knocked the wind from her lungs before rushing away again, leaving her staggering.
But Archie was different, her attention and kind words returned a hundredfold, and she could see herself drowning in him.
“My sisters and Mum started taking in sewing and laundry to fund his schemes, not to mention their chores around the farm. He hated having only one son, let alone one too damned honest to lie for him.”
“Archie…” she whispered. Crimson splotches had bloomed on his cheeks, and she moved closer still before she tugged the glove from her right hand and lifted her palm, let it fall to his chest over his heart. Her pulse thundered, waiting for him to push her away, to reject her care and concern.
He put his hand over hers.
His head lowered until the coarse hair of his beard brushed her temple, his warm, whisky-scented breath disturbing the fine hairs along her forehead. “Right, the sugar beets.” Another humorless chuckle. “He’d heard from a farmer in the midlands about how they were the next cash crop in the Mediterranean, would soon replace sugar cane. He thought he would be the first to grow it in northern England.” Archie leaned closer and inhaled, as though he needed her comfort as sustenance, her strength as his.
“The climate was far too damp and cold, and the damn things sucked all the nutrients out of the soil. We had all those blasted wee little beets that tasted like shite, couldn’t grow anything elsefor over a year, so we had to eat them to survive. So yes, I hated those bloody beets.”
Her other hand snaked between them until both palms pressed to his firm chest, his brow against hers, their breath mingling. She shouldn’t be touching this man, a near-stranger, but nothing would make her neglect him when he needed her comfort. A raw, broken laugh fell from his lips as he pulled away from her, ran one hand through his golden curls, and groaned. “Lord, what an arse I’ve been. I never meant to take our conversation this way—”
“Neither d-did I,” she interrupted, for what she was certain was the first time in her life. “I only wondered if you hated sp-spinach or cabbage.”
He laughed openly then, cupping her cheek and tracing his thumb over her cheekbone. She liked that touch very much, wanted to savor and explore it, discover the texture of his skin against hers, the whorls of his fingertips, the bumps of his knuckles, the dips of his palm and wrist. “I like spinach, but I despise cabbage.”
“I hate cabbage as well. And your father.”
Archie brought his forehead back to hers, and she was certain he would kiss her. Instead, he held her gaze, the intensity of his blue eyes mesmerizing, intoxicating. “So do I. If he hadn’t disappeared a decade ago, we could tell him together.”
He pulled away from her so quickly she almost stumbled, but his hand was at her waist, keeping her stable. A part of her cried out in alarm; how easily she’d accepted his protection, had put her trust in a man she hardly knew. Her instincts around men had been so horribly wrong before.
“Areyou ready for your next question?”
Marigold blinked several times in rapid succession. “What d-did you say?”
He cuffed the back of his neck, his cheeks blooming pink once more. “We’ve established that we’re horrid at conversing like normal people, yeah? I don’t even know your last name—” her stomach plummeted, “—but you know about my trimmer of a father, and I can recall… perhaps a dozen types of bees.” She giggled, and he grinned. “And I rather like that. Don’t tell me I’ve ruined things by whinging about my father when I should have been whinging about vegetables.”
“No.” She grabbed his hand—who was this brazen woman whotoucheda man? “You’ve ruined nothing.”
“Thank God.” He laced his bulky, sun-bronzed digits between her pale, slim ones, then screwed his expression into one of deep contemplation. “Are you ready for your question?”
Was it possible for her to never leave this night? Could she stay in this bubble of joy forever? “Yes, I am.”
With a mischievous grin, he turned and tugged her to the wall adjacent to the dining room where an indecent buffet had been laid, a feast fit for not one, but two drunken rugby teams. Their backs against the wall, he leaned around her and pointed. His scent, a heady mix of leather and bergamot, bewitched her, left her dizzier than any ale or whisky could.
“If you were forced to eat an entire tray of one thing on that table, what would you it be?”
“The caramels.”
“You don’t need to think about it?”
“Not at all.” She smirked. At least, she thought it was a smirk. Marigold wasn’t certain she’d effectively smirked before. “I’d eat that t-t-tray without an incentive.”
