Lord of Deception, стр. 14
“It can wait.”
When he took her by one shoulder to hold her steady, she closed her eyes, tilting her head back, and tried to ignore the stinging. The gardener’s hand was gentle, the cold water soothing as he dabbed at the cuts on her forehead and cheek.
“Forgive me—I must remove your coif to cleanse the cuts where the bird’s feet caught in your hair.”
She nodded slightly, and he smoothed her hair back to daub water along her hairline. She could feel his breath on her face as he concentrated on his task, smell the male musk of his body, and the hint of woodsmoke that suffused his clothing. This was the closest she’d ever been to a man, except when dancing, and Kit’s proximity was anything but calming.
She kept her eyes tight shut, afraid to look into the handsome, sun-browned face so close to her own. This close, there was a heady temptation to touch, to taste. What if she looked into his eyes and saw invitation there? As she had when she’d caught him in the passageway?
His fingertips grazed her cheek, but it not in a place she’d been hurt. Next, he traced a finger across her lower lip. Her heart cartwheeled.
“What are you doing?” She looked into eyes so dark, they were almost black.
“Just wiping a speck of blood from your lips.” His voice sounded strained.
“Oh.” She flicked out her tongue and licked her lips, drawing his gaze to her mouth.
“My lady. Forgive me—I cannot help myself.”
His hand slid inside her ruff, caressing her neck, as he tilted his head towards hers. There was plenty of time to move away, to deny him a kiss. But her mind was filled with what Kate had said about this man’s prowess, and even though she knew Kate had no proof, she half-hoped it was true. To receive one’s first kiss from a man purported to be an expert in the art was too tempting altogether.
His lips moved softly over hers—a kiss of gentle persuasion, not passion. But there was promise in the heat of his lips, the touch of his hand on her neck, firing her blood until she was dizzy and breathless, her soul begging him for more. She sighed her disappointment when he tore his lips away.
“I’m sorry, my lady—I’ve done you a great wrong.”
Her eyes flickered open. Kit had sat back on his heels, his cheekbones ruddy, his breathing rapid. There was anger in his expression, more palpable than the remorse he’d expressed.
“If you would have me flogged, I shall understand it, as it is no less than I deserve. I cannot undo that kiss, and if I remain in your presence, I may steal another—you are too much temptation for a lusty fellow like me.” He knotted his hands together and looked away. “It is best I leave Selwood and not offend your sight again. There’s no need to have me dismissed. I shall see out the week, collect my wages and be gone by the time you leave for Norfolk.”
The man seemed as shocked by his behavior as she was by her own. She wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter, that she would treasure her first kiss forever, even if it was only delivered by an amorous gardener. But there was too much pride in her.
When her voice came out, it sounded high and unnatural. “We will speak no more of this.” She rose unsteadily from the stool, waving away his hand. “You have your own injuries to attend to. Thank you for attempting to heal mine.”
She burst out of the shed into merciless sunlight, exposing her guilt, which must be written all over her face. How fortunate that everyone was out hawking—she could slink back to her chamber without having to answer awkward questions.
How very commanding Kit had been when she’d had her accident! He’d shown no fear of a skittish horse or a distressed falcon, and he’d commanded the groom as if the boy were his own servant. He’d commanded her, too, and she’d obeyed, meek as a lamb. No servant she’d ever met had such aplomb.
Alys pulled to a halt in the courtyard, feet frozen to the ground. It all became clear now—she hadn’t been kissed by a servant. She’d been kissed by one of her own kind—a nobleman masquerading as a gardener.
So now that she knew the truth, what was she going to do about it?
Chapter Thirteen
Kit had run out of curses. He’d called himself every name he could think of for having given in to temptation. Yet, with her head tilted back, her eyes trustingly closed, and her luxuriant black hair cloaking her shoulders, Alys had looked as if awaiting a lover’s kiss. He knew, having touched it, that her hair was like sun-warmed satin. He’d wondered what her skin would feel like, and the fragile petals of her mouth. How could any man resist such allure?
At least he’d kissed her tenderly, schooling his body to thoughts of gentleness, not passion. He’d been surprised by her complacency—it was not what he’d expected from the very proper Mistress Barchard. The idea that she might be concealing a passionate nature and untried desires fired his blood.
His mouth twisted as he yanked up another handful of cleaver plants. They dragged at his skin, stinging him, but he needed the pain, needed some outlet for his anger. Ripping up pernicious weeds was the best he could come up with at short notice.
“A splendid morning’s chase, was it not?”
Kit froze at the sound of feet crunching on gravel. Richard Avery’s voice. Was the hour so late? He’d lost track of time. Instinct kicked in and, although the voice had come from the other side of a thick rank of box plants, he threw himself down and rolled into the lee of the hedge, pulling the heap of dead cleavers over him.
“It was indeed.” Sir Thomas Kirlham.