Page 60 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
“Interesting.” Rye drank down the water and craned his neck. “Potent for what exactly?”
“Healing illness, protecting against nightmares; predicting the future, even.” Hurriedly, she relieved him of his glass, setting both on the little seat under the window.
She happened to know that the ancient Greeks had gathered mistletoe as well—for their festival of Saturnalia and for marriage ceremonies—because of its association with fertility, but she wasn’t about to discuss that.
He reached up, plucking one white berry off the sprig.
“You shouldn’t; it’s unlucky just to pull them off. The only way to remedy it is to…” She paused, suddenly embarrassed. She’d been about to—almost had—invited him to kiss her!
“What’s that, Miss Abernathy?” He bent down, so that his lips almost brushed her ear. “Is there somethin’ else I need to know?”
It was bad of him,he knew, teasing her like this, but it was too darn fun to resist.
He’d been a perfect gentleman, just as he’d promised, but there was a time for a man to show a woman what he was feeling—regardless of propriety.
And he’d been waiting all day for this, watching that sweet mouth of hers as she explained a hundred and one things he could barely see the reason for. It was all to make other people feel comfortable, she’d said, as well as setting an example—but he couldn’t see the tenant farmers caring if he knew which fork was right for eating fish, or how he should be handling his napkin.
There was something else he did care about, and that was letting her know she was the best thing to have happened to him since he’d landed in this goddam place. He’d no idea if she’d been kissed before. It was hard to tell. She was all sorts of feisty but innocent with it: the way her face lit up when she laughed, and how the blush came roaring every time he brushed his fingers against hers.
But there was something mischievous, too—and not altogether ladylike, for someone who was supposed to be a teacher of etiquette.
As to whether she wanted him to kiss her, there was only one way to find out and that was to take the initiative. He’d cup his palm to that peach of a cheek and graze his lips against hers—going gently, of course.
She’d have the chance to get all indignant and stop him, if that was what she wanted. He only hoped he’d read the signs right, for once he started kissing her, he’d an idea it was going to be damn hard to stop.
They were already standing near hip to hip, so it was easy as pie to slide an arm back around her waist.
He surprised her alright, going by the gasp she gave as he pulled her in, but he’d been right about her being ready for kissing.
He let their lips touch just a little, to get acquainted, and she sighed right into his mouth. Tugging those petal-soft lips with his own, he had her arching into him. And, when he ran his tongue inside, she opened right up. She wasn’t fighting him and she wasn’t prickly. She was pliant and willing and pressing close.
She was trembling in all the right ways and kissing him back as if it were the only thing she wanted.
There was nothing about Miss Ursula Abernathy that was telling him to stop. On the contrary; she was waving a big old flag emblazoned with the word “go”.
Deepening the kiss, he remembered what it had felt like to lie beside her all night, to feel her warmth and listen to her breathing. That scent of hers, too—talcum powder and roses, and a little hint of something musky.
He groaned with the pleasure of it and clasped her tighter, thinking about the whole damn sweetness of what she was offering.
A woman didn’t melt like this unless she wanted a man to make love to her.
Yes, sir.
Miss Abernathy might talk of propriety but she was brimful of passion—and he was the lucky man to have discovered it before she even realized the fact herself.
Chapter Twelve
Early-evening, 16th December
All night,she’d tossed in her bed, thinking about Rye Dalreagh.
Thinking about that head-spinningly delicious kiss, and how good it had felt, being embraced by all that manliness.
She was pretty certain that one, if not both, of his hands had somehow ended up cupping her bottom. There may even have been a moment in which he’d pushed his thigh between hers and, rather than slapping his face, she’d let him do it!
To top it all, she knew she’d pulled out the back of his shirt—with the sole intent of laying hands on his bare skin.
She was a hussy!
