"Why do you plan to 'see to it' that you don't kiss me? You want to kiss me but you're holding yourself back?"
His jaw dropped in shock. "Where do you get these ideas!"
"From the way you look at me."
"I don't look at you at all!"
"Now, that's a bald-faced lie," Esme said unequivocally. "You watch me every day in the store when I'm tightening my stockings."
The blush that stained his cheeks was understandable, but she suspected it was caused by fury, not embarrassment. "Any woman who displays herself in such a wanton fashion can't complain if a man takes a look!"
"I didn't say I was complaining," Esme corrected as she walked toward him. "I like feeling your eyes on me. It makes me go all tender inside, and I feel kind of dangerous."
"You are dangerous!" Cleav cursed under his breath.
Esme's reply was a self-satisfied smile.
Turning away from her, Cleav forced himself to continue his work. He felt her presence. She was humming lightly. The cheery tune irritated him further. He would ignore her. It was the only way. He could feel his heart pounding and the blood rushing through his veins as if he'd run a half mile straight up the mountain.
It wasn't as if kissing Esme Crabb was an unthinkable idea. In fact, that very thought had already occurred to him on numerous occasions in the last week. He remembered all too clearly the sweet, clean smell of her hair as she sat so close. And the vivid memory of her shapely, stocking-covered calf held before him almost dared his inspection. If that wasn't disturbing enough, more than one night his sleep had been bedeviled by the hot remembrance of that one shocking moment when the crux of his body had fitted itself so intimately against hers.
Cleav finished feeding the brooders and catwalked between the male and female ponds to the larger, deeper pool on the far side. Here the year-old trout were being fattened, he didn't stop to feed these fish by hand but simply scattered the meat across the top of the water like a farmer sowing seed.
Glancing back, he saw that Esme was still following him like a shadow, and he gave a sigh of disgust.
He wanted her; there was no use in denying that. But a man couldn't always just take what he wanted.
As he watched her navigate the catwalk, the slight breeze pressed her skirt, unencumbered by the usual requisite of a half-dozen petticoats, closely against her long slim legs and thighs.
Momentarily a little devil on Cleav's shoulder whispered, “Why not have her?" Even the most civilized of gentlemen sowed a share of wild oats before settling down. She made no secret of wanting him, and he was bound by no vows or even promises. It could be mutually beneficial to both of them. A bit of illicit pleasure for him; she might even enjoy it herself, and maybe a small gift when they parted? Then his thoughts took off. Some cash money could sure come in handy for her. Maybe she could buy herself some new clothes or he could help her set herself up in a little business of some kind. He'd already seen she had a good head for it.
That bit of nonsensical thinking riled his conscience. What type of business could a ruined woman set up for herself in this town? he was forced to ask himself angrily. He swore at his own lack of scruples.
Esme Crabb was a decent woman. She had spent her whole life struggling to take care of her family. What she needed was a good, steady, hardworking husband to take care of her. And she would never find one by being the storekeeper's fancy piece.
And it was not as if such an arrangement could be kept secret. If he so much as pinched her fanny, every man, woman, and child in Vader would know it. The two of them were already the talk of the town when nothing had happened at all!
She came up behind him, and he turned to look at her. She wasn't a beauty like Sophrona, but she was pretty in her own way. Her face was suntanned and ordinary, but her features were agreeable. The curves of her bosom and hip were not stunning, but they were distinctly feminine. And her legs ... a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. It was a good thing propriety said limbs should be covered, else Miss Esme's legs could cause a riot.
She smiled back at him, so naively, so foolishly full of hope.
Oh, how he wanted to feel those legs wrapped around his waist. Clinging, grasping, begging for pleasure from his body. A man would sacrifice a lot for that. But not everything. Cleav desired her. That was certain. He even liked her, or he would if she weren't always in his hair. But he didn't desire to marry her.
And a gentleman would protect a lady's virtue, even when the lady wasn't so keen on protecting it herself.
"You want to feed the fish?" he asked finally. His smile was the warmest and most welcoming Esme had seen from him in days.
Her eyes widened with delight, and a blush reddened her cheeks. Clearly, she recalled her last opportunity at the task with pleasure. "Yes, I'd like that very much." Her words were an uncharacteristically gentle whisper.
The sweet sincerity of her words nearly made Cleav discard his current plan to simply make her a friend and settle for the former, less savory option. But determinedly he hardened his heart.
"Good," he answered and handed her the bucket. "Just scatter the meat on the top of the water, and the fish will get it."
At her startled expression he continued. "The table trout aren't tame enough to hand-feed. And besides, you wouldn't want to get to know somebody you might be cutting up for the frying skillet." He looked up at the sun. "There's a world of things I need to be doing at the store."
"But—" Esme's vague protest went ignored.
"Be sure to rinse the bucket good and then carry all of the equipment back to the meat house," he said as he turned to go.
