Her mind was one churning jumble of confusion and contradiction—just as her actions had been a few weeks ago.
She released the breath. “Only if you can promise there will be no snakes,” she said, opening her eyes.
“If I see one,” he said, “I will pick it up and hold it a safe distance from you before warning you.”
She laughed. Oh, how could she possiblynotdo so when his eyes smiled at her as they did now?
They walked onward, not talking. But it was a strangely companionable silence. The air was really quite warm. The sun was beaming down from a clear sky. There was a bit of a breeze. Perhaps it would blow away that stupid gossip. And it really was stupid. She did not understand now why she had not simply laughed at Mrs. Piper at the time and ignored all the rest of it during the past few days.
Perhaps, indeed, it was already blowing over. Mrs. Bartlett had appeared at her back door quite early this morning with two muffins fresh from her oven. They could have walked home together from church yesterday, she had told Lydia, but Mrs. Tavernor had already disappeared by the time she herself got outside. It was being said that Mrs. Tavernor’s mother had once been a dear friend of Lady Riverdale, who was now Lady Dorchester, of course, though Mrs. Bartlett still thought of her as Lady Riverdale because that was what she had been when she lived here for so many years. But … was it true?
The warm muffins had been an olive branch, Lydia had understood. Owed entirely to the bogus story Lady Dorchester was spreading rather than to any faith in Lydia’s good character. Even so … Well, an olive branch was an olive branch.
Snowball’s lead had somehow got wrapped about her own legs, and Harry stopped walking to disentangle it. When he stood up again and they walked on, her hand was no longer drawn through his arm, Lydia noticed. It was in his ungloved hand, and their fingers were laced with each other’s. She made no move to draw her hand free, and she said nothing. But this felt very … intimate. Almost affectionate.
They walked in silence again toward the trees and the path that led in among them.
Eighteen
Harry had occasionally thought about having a proper wilderness walk back here, something with a grotto and follies, lookout points where there was something to look out upon, flowering shrubs, perhaps even a viewing tower, since the woods back here were not on enough of an elevation to provide any awe-inspiring vistas over the surrounding countryside.
But then he would come here and find that he liked the unspoiled beauty and seclusion of it all just as it was. The branches of the trees met overhead in places and bathed the rough path in a soft, verdant glow while not completely obliterating the sky. Sounds were muted here, except for birdsong, which seemed magnified. There was always a distinctive smell of greenery and soil. And while for most of the year the predominant color was green, at present there were carpets of bluebells among the trees. He always felt a million miles from civilization when he came here. Far from battle and slaughter and mayhem. And nightmares. And the annoying feeling that so often assailed him these days that he ought todosomething with his life. He did not have todoanything here. He could justbe.
Perhaps that was the best and most enduring of lessons one could learn from life.
The gardeners did a decent job of keeping the path clear of the inevitable debris caused by changing seasons, of removing large stones that popped to the surface from time to time as though from nowhere to trip the unwary, of clipping back low-hanging branches and undergrowth that forever tried to encroach upon the path.
Lydia’s dog found a lot here to be sniffed at and yipped at. There were plants to be smelled and tree trunks to be marked and all sorts of rustlings and snapping of twigs as unseen wildlife went about its business. And since they were in no hurry, Harry stopped every time Snowball did. He was still holding Lydia’s hand. He had taken it in his almost without thinking after he had disentangled the dog’s lead a while ago. And she had not pulled it away. After a few moments he had laced his fingers with hers. It felt natural for her to be with him here, as though their friendship had somehow grown in the weeks since they had officially put an end to it.
They had not spoken for several minutes, another sign, surely, that theywerefriends at least. He felt no discomfort with the silence between them and could feel none in her. Only a heightened awareness.
Danger time, he warned himself. But perhaps it was already too late. No. Itwasalready too late. But he did not have to act upon personal feelings, did he?
Snowball was yipping at a robin that had dared to land on a tree branch just overhead in order to sing a little song. It stopped and flew away, perhaps to find a more appreciative audience elsewhere. The dog gave the edge of the path a good sniff before moving on, her nose still to the ground. Not that her nose was ever far from the ground, of course, her legs being so short they were almost nonexistent. She looked for all the world like a snowball rolling along the path, attached bizarrely to a lead.
Harry turned his head to smile at Lydia and realized how close to each other the narrowness of the path had forced them. Their arms were straight at their sides, their fingers entwined. Their shoulders touched. Her face was partially shaded beneath the brim of her bonnet. But a shaft of sunlight slanted across her nose and mouth—that lovely wide, inviting mouth he had noticed as soon as he started to notice her at all. Her eyes were gazing directly into his own.
He kissed her.
And she kissed him back.
Both of them with closed mouths. As though they were nothing more than friends.
But did friends kiss each other on the mouth?
He glanced around before backing her against the trunk of a tree on her side of the path and looping the dog’s lead over a low branch. He set his hands against the trunk on either side of Lydia’s head and leaned his body against hers. She closed her eyes briefly, and he both saw and felt her inhale slowly. She made no attempt to push him away.
“Lydia,” he murmured.
And he closed his eyes and found her mouth with his own—open this time. He slid one arm about her shoulders and the other around her waist, and moved his tongue over her lips until she parted them and he could touch the soft, moist flesh within and reach his tongue into her mouth when she opened it.
He had never been in love before. He had thought he was a few times in the long-ago past. He had had women, especially during his military years. He had liked and respected them all, without exception. But it had never been love.
Not like this. At some time in the last month or so, when he was not paying attention, or perhaps on that one particular night when hehad been, she had become all in all to him. The woman he wanted above all others. The reason for his restless depression during the past few weeks, when he had avoided passing her cottage and going to church or anywhere else she might be while all the time she had been gone.
“Lydia,” he murmured again against her lips.
Her arms were about him. Her body was pressed to his, all the way down to their knees. She was slim, pliant, warm, lovely, and he throbbed and yearned for her. He moved one hand down behind her hips to press her more firmly against his erection.
