His mouth opened against hers, and she tasted rain and heat and the low sound he made in the back of his throat when she pulled him in. His thumb traced the line of her jaw. Her back arched off the stone.
She kissed him back without thinking, clumsy and desperate and nothing like the careful woman she had trained herself to be. His teeth grazed her lower lip again, and her knees trembled.
She stopped breathing entirely. The sensible part won out.
One servant. One pair of curious eyes behind the windows. That was all it would take to ruin them both.
She gently pushed him back, and he stopped instantly. Mouth gone. Hand gone. He took a full step back before she knew what was happening.
Two feet apart. Both breathing hard. Rain dripping off the walls.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough and low. Eyes still dark. His hand was clenched at his side.
“You should be,” she managed, though the words came out soft.
“We should go back,” he said.
“Yes,” she uttered, though her feet did not move.
Neither of them moved. Then he held out his hand. Palm up. Scars catching the grey light.
She looked at it. Thought about the ton. The twenty men inside. Gordon, who had grabbed her hand at the altar and used it to chain her.
“Ye didn’t seem so worried about touching me a few moments ago,” Edward noted.
“That was a moment of weakness,” Valeria replied, squaring her shoulders. “And we are not allowed to talk about it. Ever again.”
“On the contrary, I believe we must talk about it, now that we are to be man and wife.”
“What?!” She stared at him, mouth hanging open.
“Ye must admit that even if we didn’t desire one another–”
“I don’t! I certainly dislike you… very much!”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Lust has nothing to do with whether ye like a person. But other than that…” He went on as if she were not glaring at him. “Ye cannot deny that all those cowards who left ye to fend for yerself just because they didn’t know what to do with a soaked woman could never win yer game.”
She opened her mouth to argue. Closed it. Something about his words niggled at her, some double meaning she could not quite catch, but that clearly amused him because his smirk had turned almost boyish.
She was tired and cold.
He was right. Not about lust. She would die denying it. But the rest. Not one of those men had come for her. They went inside at the first drop. The only man who had come was the one the whole country was afraid of.
He had carried her through a storm. Given her his coat. Played riddles with her. Stopped kissing her the instant she pushed him back. Put bread on her plate without asking. Turned his back while she loosened her corset.
The men inside could not find her in the garden.
“I suppose you’re right,” she acquiesced. It tasted like vinegar. “I hate that you’re right.”
“Most people do.”
“That does not make it better.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
She looked at him. Rain dripping from his hair. Mud on his boots. He looked like he had been dragged through a ditch, which, in a manner of speaking, he had. She probably looked worse.
“What would it look like?” she asked. “If I said yes. What would a marriage to you actually look like?”
