"Here we are," she said lightly as she set the tray on the bench. "All this talk is sure to parch a man's throat."
Unable to stop himself, Cleav glanced up and then wished he hadn't. Esme's I-told-you-so expression was triumphant. Cleav vowed to strangle the infuriating young woman at the very first opportunity.
For a moment he considered informing his companion of their overhead observer but quickly rejected the idea. He could never satisfactorily explain the young woman's presence in the Tewksburys' maple tree. And even if he'd had no care for the irritating little ragamuffin's feelings, Esme Crabb was fast becoming a sore subject between himself and Sophrona.
Sophrona filled his glass with the cool, sweet liquid, and Cleav forced himself to keep his eyes on her face. She was pale and pretty, polished and polite. But Cleav's thoughts continued to stray to the slim, bare legs that he knew were so decadently displayed in the tree above him.
He fixed his eyes on the warm smile of the lady at his side, attentively listening to her soft-toned chatter. He would not look up, he would not . . .
"If, of course, the serpent were some other type of animal," Sophrona continued on her former train of conversation. "Then it would be logical that such an extinct species could have actually had the gift of speech."
Cleav nodded woodenly in agreement. While before he'd tried to participate in the conversation, now his thoughts were fixed on how dull the esoteric theological discussion must sound to Esme. Certainly Miss Crabb was no expert on the affairs of the heart, but he wondered if he did seem terribly dull in comparison with the wild hill boys like Armon Hightower. This thought pricked at him.
Hightower and his like expected, and undoubtedly received, more than an occasional stolen kiss from the young women they courted. In that respect, he was certain Esme was right. It was more fun not to be a gentleman. But being a gentleman was Cleav's intent, and had always been, even if it meant going without kisses from Miss Sophrona and enduring the taunting of Esme Crabb.
Still, Cleav thought as he watched Sophrona's pouty, pale peach lips speak of the Garden of Eden, a man—even a gentleman—deserved a bit of lovespark.
In his mind he could almost hear Esme laughing at him. Was Sophrona laughing, too? Did she, as Esme suggested, long to be kissed? Was she disappointed with his chivalrous behavior? Frustrated with his highest regard?
Through his thoughts once more, the image of long, naked limbs wrapped around thick brown bark tortured him. He shifted his position carefully, disguising his very ungentlemanly reaction from both the woman at his side and the one that dangled like a sinful temptation above him. As Sophrona moved the serving tray to a small table, Cleav made a furtive glance up through the leaves. Esme had sat up, her back against the strong tree trunk, one foot rested on the limb, her leg bent saucily at the knee. The other leg hung casually, her bare pink toes wiggling naughtily not ten yards above him.
His eyes unerringly followed the long line of naked limb upward. Those legs, those beautiful hill-girl legs, were sleekly muscled from innumerable trips up the mountain and lightly sprinkled with color from the occasional and forbidden forays into the warm Tennessee sunshine. Those legs tantalized and teased him, and he followed their length like a hound at a coon running. Oh, how they tempted him, taunted him…
At last his visual wanderings led to her face, which sported a mocking grin. He was hot with desire, and she was laughing at him. To add insult to injury, she opened her mouth widely and patted it lightly in a mock yawn.
Boring, the gesture implied. Polite, prissy, proper, and boring. Cleav could hear her opinion as if she had shouted it.
Hastily returning his attention to Sophrona, he wondered if she thought the same. Was his courtesy and consideration a source of amusement? Did she long for the unbridled passions of rude hill boys? Worst of all, did she pick Bible discussions because she thought him stiff and unromantic?
His passions were just as ardent, just as consuming as any hill boy's. Was he being penalized for his control? His honor? Would another man, being offered the constant temptation of Esme Crabb, not succumb? Would another man, sitting on an isolated bench with Sophrona Tewksbury, steal a kiss?
By God, Esme was right to laugh at him. He must seem a peculiarly spiritless beau. Well, she wanted to spy on him! He'd give her something to see that would wipe that derisive grin right off her smudgy, freckled face!
Sophrona ceased her chatter in midsentence and stared at him, her large eyes startled. "Why are you looking at me that way?" she asked.
Without looking up Cleav could still see the long expanse of feminine nakedness that dangled so enticingly out of his reach. Before him the pale, pouty lips of Sophrona Tewksbury were accessible. And the soft, lush amplitude of her shapely bosom could so easily be pressed against him.
There was no gentlemanly reticence in Cleav's action. Turning his head slightly to one side, he pulled Sophrona into his arms for a plundering kiss. For a moment the young woman's shock stunned her into complacency, and Cleav took full advantage. Parting her lips with his tongue, he sought the essence of her mouth. His arms tightened around her, flattening her abundant feminine flesh against his chest. He could feel the tiny points of her nipples, and it fired him to moan against her lips and rub his own hard muscled chest against the softness of her own.
In the darkness behind his eyes the pale, bare legs still lured him, and he deepened the kiss to dispel the image. He would exorcise this troublesome demon. He would lose himself in the sweet-smelling warmth of the body in his arms.
Willing himself into oblivion, at first he chose not to hear the murmurs of protest forced against his mouth. Passion, he assured himself. A moment later Sophrona was clearly struggling in his grasp, and he could delude himself no longer. He released her.
As she pulled away from him, her eyes were wide in shock, and her short, uneven breathing had her bosom bouncing before him.
"How could you?" Her question held as much hurt as anger.
"Sophrona, I—"
He wasn't allowed to finish. Miss Tewksbury, instructed in the art of dealing with cads and mashers, brought her right hand up sharply and cracked it full-force, open palm against Cleav's cheek.
His ears ringing, Cleav barely heard her furious "Good day, Mr. Rhy!" as she stomped away in fury.
Cleav sat still as a stone until he heard the backdoor slam. Rising to his feet with all the dignity he could muster, he, too, began to walk away at a clipped pace.
"Cleavis?" he heard the taunting tree temptress call to him. Ignoring her, he kept walking. She had seen it all. Now she really had something to laugh about!
Esme was startledby the unexpected turn of events. He had kissed Sophrona. And what a kiss! Esme's own face was a blistering red, and her heart could not have been pounding more loudly if she had been one of the principals. It was a wonderful kiss, full of passion and spontaneity.
