Page 48 of To Bed the Bride
He shrugged. “Perhaps it was the way I was raised. I have an obligation to the family name. I’m expected to be better than average.”
She didn’t know what to say to that.
“Perhaps it’s because my parents are dead.”
“So are mine,” she said.
“Any brothers or sisters?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I have a sister who’s married and lives in Edinburgh with her husband and two children.”
He shouldn’t divulge any more about himself. She didn’t want a connection to him. She didn’t want to feel compassion or even curiosity. All of those would be dangerous emotions to have around Logan McKnight. She already felt closer to him than she should.
She should have remained silent. She shouldn’t have offered any information about herself, but she found herself talking.
“I was born at Hearthmere,” she said. “My mother died three days after my birth. My father raised me, at least until I was eleven. When he died, my uncle and his family came to live with me.”
She didn’t think her uncle had been very prosperous in Edinburgh. The terms of her father’s will were that her uncle and his family could live at Hearthmere until Eleanor turned eighteen. At that time it would be her decision whether her uncle’s family remained.
That decision, however, had been taken away from her. At the age of seventeen her uncle had died. Deborah lost no time in returning to London, taking her two children and Eleanor with her.
She told Logan an abbreviated version of her history. When she was done, he only shook his head.
“What does that mean?” she asked. “Are you disgusted? Annoyed? Disbelieving? I don’t know what it means when you just shake your head like that. That’s why we have words, Logan. Or should I just whistle to you?”
His laugh startled her.
“I understand why you became London Eleanor, but I think I prefer the Scottish version better.”
She frowned at him. He reached over and hugged her, surprising her again. He really shouldn’t touch her and he most definitely shouldn’t hug her.
“We shouldn’t be here together,” she said.
He nodded. “I shouldn’t be so close to you now.”
“No, you shouldn’t. Are you really going to try to avoid me?”
“I’d be a fool not to.”
She didn’t want him to disappear, which was a bit of idiocy on her part. He had no role in her life. He was right; her family wouldn’t understand their relationship. She wasn’t entirely certain she understood.
He lured her as no one else ever had. He tempted her to do things she’d never thought of doing. She wanted him to kiss her again except this time she didn’t want a quick, teasing kiss. This kiss should be slower, softer, longer. She would remember it for the rest of her life. Or perhaps she would recall her own daring, walking with Logan in a shadowed wood.
She placed one hand against his jacket, close to his heart. She really shouldn’t touch him any more than he should reach out and place his hand at the small of her back, gently guiding her forward. They were almost embracing, the pose of a couple ready to kiss.
If they were in Scotland she wouldn’t feel a frisson of alarm. They weren’t in Scotland, however, but in a public park in London. Anyone could see them. Anyone would remark about their closeness and the fact that neither one of them drew away.
She should recall that she was engaged.
Yet nothing mattered but looking into Logan’s eyes, keeping his gaze as he placed his other arm around her, fully embracing her.
She didn’t say a word of protest as he bent his head. Nor did she move away when he kissed her, his arms pulling her even closer. For a matter of seconds, perhaps minutes, she lost her sense of self, the apartness she’d felt for years.
Her hands grabbed his jacket, holding on as her knees nearly buckled. Her heartbeat escalated; her breathing grew tight. Blood heated and pounded as her skin warmed. She wanted to be closer, for this feeling to continue, to never end. He was no longer a stranger or quite a friend. Instead, he was more than that. She couldn’t explain it to anyone, even as the kiss ended and he stepped back.
She, too, stepped away, her gaze on the ground and not on him. How could she possibly meet his eyes? She should be ashamed of her actions instead of hungering for something that lay just beyond her knowledge. She’d heard of passion before as well as desire. Some of the books in Hearthmere’s library had not been geared toward history, politics, religion, or animal husbandry. Some had been poetry where lovers extolled the virtues of being with their heart’s desire. Or novels where women longed for knights or gave their hearts to men of strength and courage.
