“It wounds my pride,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning a little closer to her, his fingers resuming their twisting motion, gathering up more of the little curling tresses that framed her face, “that you always seem to have the upper hand. I thought you knew that.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other, the sounds of summer insects and birds and squirrels shaking the leaves in the branches above puncturing the warm air.
Mae found that her skin had begun to tingle; that she, too, was leaning forward, closer to him, tempted to reach out. To touch.
She cleared her throat and swallowed the impulse, sucking in a deep breath of sanity that passed over the sour-sweet remnants of lemon curd on her tongue. She knew she ought to pull back, to smack his hand away and reclaim her hair, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“We have an audience,” she informed him instead, flicking her eyes just over his shoulder to their gathered friends at the fig tree.
Surely observation would deter him, she reasoned. It always had before.
He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Always. There is always an audience, isn’t there?” he said, but did not move away from her, nor stop toying with the curl of her hair. “Maybe you’ll have to follow me home if we ever want a modicum of privacy.”
Her breath caught, her throat constricting around the suggestion. “Is that an invitation?” she managed, more rasp than whisper.
“Of course it is,” he answered, smooth and unruffled, his voice as silky as polished mahogany. “Or would you prefer I continue to pretend that I don’t want you?”
“No,” she breathed, a little stunned by his candor. “Not that. Not again.”
He bit his lip on another grin, his eyes scanning over her face. “So I was always transparent, then? To you and everyone else.”
She hesitated and then, very carefully, gave a little nod. “Yes.”
“Fine,” he said. “Then I will embrace transparency. Do not forget, though, that you asked for it.”
“I won’t forget,” she promised.
“Good.” His fingers dropped the curl, tracing down over the curve of her cheek. “But you aren’t coming home with me tonight either, are you?”
She blinked and shook her head. “No. Not yet.”
“Not yet,” he repeated. “But you will.”
She didn’t answer that because it was clear to both of them, even after he stepped away from her and walked away, whistling to himself, that it hadn’t been a question.
PART IV
SCOURING
CHAPTER 16
Roland felt oddly at ease in the aftermath of the Holy Comfort Church picnic, and it certainly wasn’t because of the church or the picnic.
Perhaps speaking plainly with Mae Casper had been a catharsis of a sort, even if it was certainly still falling short of the ultimate relief to be found in that particular matter. Either way, he found himself in a better mood and in significantly less pain at the site of his bullet graze as he started his day at the Clerkenwell Clinic the following morning.
It was likely unrelated that Dr. Ravi had the day off.
Certainly unrelated.
“Did you sleep here again?” he asked little Winston, who had been recruited into helping the Quaker marms plate their porridge. “If you don’t have the pox by now, you’re not going to get it.”
“I know,” Winston replied with a frown. “Dr. Bethel says I’m a mule.”
“Immune,” corrected one of the Quaker ladies.
“Well, maybe both,” Roland replied, tossing her a wink and grinning at the way she blushed. He stepped aside and let her usher Winston out of the room, laden with steaming bowls, to go up the stairs.
He emerged from the kitchenette to find Mae Casper pulling her apron on, her hair still visible in its crown braid with tiny little curls sprinkled around her brow before she tamed them under the wrap of her hair band. She looked up, blinking those dark eyes in surprise, and gave a soft little curve of the lips. “Well,” she said. “You’re here early today.”
