She would do anything for that.
She trembled, remembering she had felt the same, years ago, also in a carriage. She would do anything.
And then he stopped. Not abruptly, but gently. He kissed her face with great tenderness and their bodies were apart, but the tension between them still hummed.
She did not want him to leave her side, but surely, she was headed in the very same direction that had caused her such anguish before. She thought her ardor should be quieted for a moment. Banked, like a fire.
But when she suggested that they stop kissing, she could feel his body stiffen.
“Just for now,” she said.
She looked at his face and his look of anguish was transformed into such a grin of relief that his dimples had dimples.
She reached up to put the tip of her pinky in one of his dimples. It fit perfectly. Then she did the same on the other cheek.
“I have not seen your dimples in a few days. I have missed them.”
He took her hands and kissed the back of each one.
“The dimples will always appear on yer command. Ye need only say ‘Open, Sesame.’”
And then a startled look in his eyes. He put her hands down.
“I apologize, Miss Lovelock. Ye asked for nae more kissing, and I kissed yer hands quite without meaning to.”
His politeness was so sweet. But would he beg forgiveness for everything? Surely, he knew that she wanted him to take liberties with her? That she wanted his attentions. He did not need to apologize for that.
“I think,” she said, smiling, wanting to encourage him, “that hand kissing is allowed.”
He picked up her hands again and began to pepper her palms and her fingers and her knuckles with tiny, dry kisses.
“Within reason.” She laughed.
“Ah,” he said and paused for a moment, but did not move her hands from his lips, “that is the problem. I think I have nae reason when it comes to ye.”
If Alasdair only knew how little reason she had as well.
“Then you will have to sit across from me!” And as he obediently went to move, she clasped his arm and kept him in his seat. “But I will be so cold, Dr. Andrews.”
“Then,” he said. “I suppose I had better stay here.”
And he put his arm around her again and shecouriedor nestled into him, keeping her head bent down so that she would not be tempted to reach up with her lips and kiss him again. And although the insulated contact with his body, he in his thick wool coat and she in hers, did not arouse her as the kisses to her mouth had, it was wonderfully comforting.
She felt safe.
She had not felt that way for a long time. Even before she had left England, she had felt unsafe to herself. Wild. First, wanting him and his love beyond all reason. Then foolishly wanting anything that had to do with love. But now, in his arms, knowing he was here and he did want her, she felt nothing but peace.
She had not known how badly she wanted this feeling. And so she cried a little privately, in his arms, and hoped he would not know.
He only knew that the kissing was not over. The kissing would return and, for now, that was enough. That and that he could sit next to her and hold her down in the carriage seat so she did not jounce—a notion that two days ago had seemed fantastical and out of reach and now seemed perfectly natural.
She fit into his side as if she had been made for it.
He certainly felt like he had been made for holding her. Dauntless Arabella, in his arms. And the removal of the excitement of kissing let his mind wander to that which he had been pushing away since their first kiss. When should he let her know his intentions? That he wanted to hold her like this forever?
Not yet, he decided. Tomorrow. If she only wanted kissing and nothing else, if she wanted no part of his heart, let him have this one day of happiness.
He was delaying again. But only a day, he told himself. Did he not deserve a day of joy?
