“Yes, for you know perfectly well I am a respectable widow—”
“Oh, we needn’ttellanyone, if that’s what you’re worried about—”
She gave him a severe look. “I told you, I have no desire to put myself under the thumb of any man, ever again.”
“But it wasn’t mythumbI was thinking of.” He said it with such a wicked, laughing look she was hard put to know what to say. So she turned on her heel and walked off.
It took her several minutes of marching along as fast as her legs could carry her before she was able to think at all, let alone think of an appropriately crushing, yet dignified response. His words, along with that laughing smile in his eyes, were a pure invitation to sin. She snorted, remembering the session in the stables.
Nothingpureabout it!
She could hear him coming up behind her on the path. She quickened her pace. His didn’t seem to alter, and yet he still gained on her. It wasn’t fair that he should have such long, strong legs and hers should be short and rounded. The only way to escape him would be to run, but she wouldn’t put it past him to run after her. The wretch probably would enjoy chasing her.
A small voice inside her suggested timidly that she might find it exciting, too. She ruthlessly squashed it.
She deliberately slowed her pace and stopped to stare earnestly at a flower. She had no idea what it was; she’d never been any good at botany, but he needn’t know that.
He stopped beside her and waited. She felt the warm wash of his gaze flow over her. And ignored it. She stared hard at the flower. He bent and peered at it over her shoulder.
“Fascinating,” she murmured, trying not to be aware of the proximity of his big, masculine body.
“Utterly,” he agreed fervently. “Something special, do you think?”
She frowned thoughtfully over the small, blue-flowered plant. “It could well be,” she said, hoping he was no botanist.
“It definitely could be,” he agreed. “If only creeping charley was not regarded as a weed in England.” He paused a moment, then added, “Shall I get someone to pull it out before it spreads, or would you rather paint it or press it in your Weeds of England scrapbook?”
She continued the walk in dignified silence. He strolled along beside her.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” he said chattily.
She didn’t respond.
“Getting to know each other like this,” he continued unabashed. “Breathing the morning air. Learning about your fascination with English weeds…and your fear of thumbs.”
“You know perfectly well what I meant by not wanting to be under the thumb. My entire life has been spent under the rule of two extremely autocratic men—first my father and then my husband. Now, I have had my first ever taste of freedom, and nothing—no man—could ever taste sweeter than that.”
“Is that a challenge?” he said softly.
“No! Do not be so frivolous.”
“I wasn’t,” he said in a meek voice, but his eyes were dancing.
It was the color, she thought irrelevantly. She’d never seen such blue, blue eyes. Like sunlight sparkling on the sea. Another thing that wasn’t fair. Men shouldn’t be allowed to have eyes like that.
They walked on and, as they turned a corner, the house came into view again. Thank goodness, Callie thought. She might have been walking on a firm graveled path, but it had felt as though she’d been negotiating a marsh, full of traps for the unwary.
He was a very dangerous man! She glanced at him and found him watching her.
“I’m so relieved,” he told her.
Callie could not imagine what he was talking about. “Relieved?”
“That you don’t dislike my thumbs. I think they’re quite nice thumbs—for thumbs, that is. Don’t you think?” He spread his hands out for her to inspect, and though it was clearly ridiculous, she couldn’t help glancing at his hands.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She gave them a second critical look and sniffed. “All I can see is that your thumbs are rather large,” she said in a quelling voice.
