“In a way, we’ve only just met.” He kept his tone light and teasing. “You might not find me to your taste.”
“True.” Mischief frolicked in the sea of her eyes.
The urge to take her in his arms and kiss her long and well surged inside, but she wasn’t ready for that and might not ever be.
With his fingers entwined in hers, he scooted up to sitting. He examined her hand, small but solid, her fingernails short and unpolished, and he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Mm?” Her voice hopped in a charming way.
“Someday, if you’re ever ready for me to kiss you, would you please tell me?”
She drew back, and her eyelashes fluttered.
He kissed her hand again. “I already know how I feel about you, but you just met me.”
She traced a tendon on the back of his hand. “Last week—” Her voice scratched, and she cleared her throat. “Fru Thorup said something, and you stopped her. I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but—well, maybe I do mean to.”
That touch of honesty moved him. She was no socialite to play coy games with, and she deserved honesty in return. “You’re asking if I love you. Yes. I love you very much.”
“Oh.” The sound fell out, soft and breathy.
“I’m sure you can appreciate how much I want to kiss you, so you need to call the shots, as you Yankees say. Please let me know if you’re ever ready, whether it’s weeks from now or months or—”
“Now?” Else’s gaze locked on him.
“Now? A ... kiss?”
She stuck out her chin in an adorably stubborn way. “You need it.”
He didn’t need it, but he wanted it. “I do?”
“You keep saying you aren’t good enough for me and you aren’t kind and noble, but I see it in you.” Determination firmed her gaze. “Maybe a kiss will prove it to you.”
“I ... doubt it, but it’s worth a try.” He flicked her half a smile.
Else gazed down, shy and hesitant.
Henrik leaned closer, waited for her to lift her chin, leaned closer still, waited for her lips to part, and then he met them in akiss light and slow and so beautiful it ached, only their lips and fingers touching, as if a full embrace would sully the moment.
Reluctantly, he pulled back.
Else’s eyelids rose as if from a dream. “My Henrik.”
His breath stopped. “Min elskede, you must never call me that. Call me Hemming. Don’t get in the habit of—”
She gave him a little kiss. “Just this once. And don’t call me ‘my beloved’ either. For the same reason.”
He groaned. She was right. They couldn’t afford the luxury of endearments.
Else stroked his cheek, and her face spoke more endearment than any word could. “Last week I said that when we kissed in the stairwell, I’d kissed Hemming, not you. Well, this time, I kissed Henrik.”
She had. And the thought overwhelmed him. He shut his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers. She had indeed.
30
COPENHAGEN
TUESDAY, AUGUST24, 1943
