Page 22 of A Rugged Beauty
But she heard what he didn't say. If they had traveled with a wagon train, how had they ended up out here alone?
"We'll follow the river," he said. “If there are other travelers, they’ll want water for their livestock.”
The fire flickered, casting shadows against the trees across the clearing.
"While you were hunting firewood, I caught some more fish. Put them on a makeshift stringer down in the water. We'll have food until we find the next place to camp."
“Clever.”
His chest expanded beneath her at her faint praise.
"We'll be all right," he said.
But was there a way to be sure of it?
He must have sensed her doubt, because he rested his jaw atop her head.
This was the closest they'd been physically. It felt necessary, because of the chilly air. She was certainly warmer, tucked against him like this, than she'd been under a blanket of boughs. And he seemed to have no reservations about having her close.
"Do you... do you really think we're married?" she whispered.
They must be. Surely they must be in order to end up together out here in the wild. A stranger wouldn't have been swept into the river with her, would he? Had their wagon been lost? Their belongings? Questions swirled.
He didn't shift away, but she felt the stillness in him.
"I had another memory," he said softly. "Only a partial one. A fancy dress, like someone would wear at a wedding. A clutch of flowers. It felt... real."
A knot in her belly loosened and butterflies took flight. She was married to H. Somehow, it felt right.
The awareness had crackled between them all day. It was there when he glanced up as she dumped her load of sticks and twigs. The cut of her eyes to him, the way she couldn't ignore where he was as she'd readied for bed and climbed into the shelter.
It was a relief, somehow, to acknowledge it.
Her heart took flight as she tipped her head toward him. He shifted slightly and lifted his head. Now they were face to face. His hand clasped her shoulder.
She reached up to touch his jaw. The stubble scratched her sensitive palm. His dark eyes appraised her, waiting patiently for her next movement.
"How can it be possible that I don't recognize this face," she whispered. “But that my heart recognizes yours?"
Her fingertips grazed his cheek, his temple. He closed his eyes as she ran her fingers down the bridge of his nose, then gently past his lips to his chin. His eyes flashed open and he let loose a low groan, as if he couldn't hold it in any longer. His hand moved from her shoulder to cup her jaw, and he leaned forward.
"Tell me if you don't want this," he whispered fiercely.
Her only answer was to tip her face up so her lips brushed his.
That gentle, barely-there touch wasn't enough. For either of them.
His hand slipped to the back of her neck, fingers tunneling into her hair, to tug her closer. His lips slanted over hers, warm and tender.
Maybe it was the fear uncoiling inside her, that his embrace felt like a safe place to hide, but she leaned into his claiming kiss.
It felt as if the first time she’d experienced such a kiss. It must be because of the memory loss, it had to be, if they were married. And yet this felt like the very first kiss. Like anticipation—had he been thinking about her all day? The way she had been thinking about him?
Like hope.
Like home.
A loud pop from the fire and he pulled back reluctantly. His eyes roamed her face as he tucked a dislodged tress of hair behind her ear from where it had fallen in her eyes.
