It was only then that Bran noticed they’d reached a narrowing of the trail from opposing overgrown hawthornshrubs. Artemis tried angling around to find the offending branch, but to no avail.
“Here,” said Bran, dropping Little Lady’s lead and stepping around Artemis. “Allow me.”
In a matter of seconds, he’d picked the muslin of her dress free from the offending thorn.
She began to move away and immediately stopped. “There seems to be one more.” She attempted to look over her shoulder. “It’s just out of reach …”
“Don’t move, or you’ll ruin the cloth,” he said.
It was nothing to pull the thorn free from her purple wool spencer. Yet, though she was free, he found that his hand couldn’t quite take its leave of her. Light fingertips brushed down the back of her arm,slowly, and she went still in the specific way of someone whose breath had caught in their lungs.
From her profile, he saw her eyes had closed, as if her entire being were concentrated upon where his hand touched her through layers of fabric. His gaze lowered to the patch of skin between the collar of her spencer and the exposed nape of her neck. Without thought, he shifted forward and pressed his mouth to that sweet, delicate skin. Beneath his lips, her pulse beat out a hard throb, and she angled her head to grant him further exploratory access. The press of his mouth formed an intention as his hands slid down to her waist and firmed, impelling her body to turn.
Then she was gathered in his arms, her arms in turn twined around his neck. Her dark eyes, bright with longing and desire, met his in the uncertain instant before she lifted onto her toes and pressed her lips to his, and Bran was completely pulled under, intoxicated—by her scent … her feel … the very fact of her—and he understood something of vital importance.
This kiss wasn’t a remnant of the past.
It stood on its own two feet, this kiss.
It was about the here and now.
As if a corner had been turned, and they stood at the beginning of something new and uncharted.
A sudden, forceful bark erupted from Bathsheba.
Bran knew that bark.
Someone was approaching.
Startled brown eyes met his in the split of a second before she jumped back, her hand reaching up to tuck an errant tendril behind her ear. “Artemis,” he began, as another, “Artemis!” sliced through the air from the not-too-far distance.
She swiveled around in time to greet her bosom friend, Lady Beatrix. “Beatrix,” she said, still breathless from their kiss.
“Lady Beatrix,” said Bran, measured.
The lady’s gaze bounced between him and Artemis, knowledge shining in her eyes. The woman was married to a man thetonknew as Lord Devil. She would apprehend and not be shocked by what he and Artemis had clearly been getting up to.
To Artemis, she said, “I thought you could use an extra hand with the donkey.” Her gaze flicked toward Bran. “But it seems you found one.”
“Oh,” said Artemis, falsely bright, “how very thoughtful of you.”
Several beats of silence, awkward and implacable, loped past.
Bran cleared his throat. “It’s very well that you happened along, Lady Beatrix.”
Her eyebrows lifted to skeptical heights. “Oh?”
Artemis’s brow gathered.
“I must see how my sister is faring.” He angled forward in a shallow bow. “Lady Beatrix.” He shifted and bowed again. “Lady Artemis.”
Their gazes locked, and though it was for less time than a second hand could tick from one to the next, he read thoroughbewilderment in those dark brown depths, and something else, too—gathering resolve.
Before she could open her mouth to protest his departure, he pivoted on his heel, gave Little Lady a stroke of the mane, and began retracing his steps down the path, knowing full well he was going the wrong way—his sister was at Somerton—and also knowing full well Artemis and Lady Beatrix knew it, too.
But he figured if he kept walking, slowly, he would eventually happen upon a cold pond to jump into.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
