Page 7 of Twelve Drummers Drumming

The man’s eyes were dark, darker than she had ever seen before, yet there seemed to be such a depth and a fierceness to them. As though a spark of lightning had pulsed through them and into her. Jemima’s hand involuntarily moved from her side to her chest as she felt her heart race.

The drummers were somehow louder, now matching the odd and uncomfortable beating of her heart.

She had never felt this strange feeling before, but she knew enough about the world to give it its rightful name: desire.

She desired him. Jemima’s mouth was dry, her heart still thumping wildly, but her instinct to reach out and touch the soldier was rising in her chest.

She had to be close to him. It did not make any sense. One look. Their eyes had met on a street populated by hundreds.

It did not matter. Something had occurred between them, something she did not understand but could no longer ignore.

The soldier’s eyes widened as if he, too, was aware of the strangeness of the feeling which had just swept between them—confusion and lust all mingled into a strange concoction that was certainly making her lightheaded.

His mouth opened as if he was about to speak to her, yet no words came out.

Jemima willed her feet to move, commanded them silently to remove herself from her present position, yet closer and closer the gentleman came, and there was absolutely no change in her location. If she did not move within the next few seconds, then she was going to be mowed down by a military march!

Despite the strangeness of the feeling between them, and despite what appeared to be a complete inability of her body to obey even the simplest of commands, Jemima was suddenly able to take a short step backward. It was a miracle she did not step onto anyone’s toes as the crowd gathered was quite substantial.

Thankfully, however, no toes were mangled, and Jemima breathed a sigh of relief.

She looked up once more at the gentleman with the crutch and gasped when she realized just how close he now was. If she reached out her hand, if she just extended her fingers, she would be able to touch him, would feel the roughness of his skin…

His gaze had not returned to its deadpan stare ahead of him. Now he was so close to her, Jemima realized he was in quite real danger of losing his balance.

The soldier stumbled, and before Jemima knew what was happening, he was lying across her, the two of them in a heap on the ground.

Chapter Three

“Blast you, youcouldn’t just move over?”

The soldier’s words were brusque and harsh and spoken close to her ear as they lay disheveled on the ground. It was wet beneath her, and Jemima could feel the damp seeping into her gown.

He was incredibly close, closer than she could ever have imagined. Closer than any gentleman had ever been to her. He was lying on top of her—in public.

A brass button scraped across her cheek, and as she tried to take a deep breath, she took in his scent—deep, musky, and with a hint of something that could only be gunpowder.

She had not mistaken herself minutes earlier. It was desire coursing through her veins. His masculine scent, his weight upon her, in the most intimate of circumstances…

Jemima felt a warmth spread through her that she had never felt before. But she had to speak. She could not merely lie here!

“I do apologize,” she said in a low voice, all breath knocked out of her by the fall.

Strong hands reached down each side of her, and the weight on her chest suddenly lifted as the soldier attempted to push himself upright.

Her view now cleared, Jemima suddenly realized half of the street seemed to be peering at her. She could already hear some of the murmurs.

“Straight down he fell, by Jove!”

“It was almost as if she wanted him to fall on her!”

“What a harlot…in only a gown, in this weather!”

She certainly regretted her rash decision to push Arabella away, pelisse and all, now she was lying on the damp ground with mud splattered about her.

Despite the soldier’s best efforts to remove himself from her and stand upright, it was clear he could not without some assistance. Jemima saw his crutch, fallen just out of reach of where she lay. He was muttering curses under his breath as he sat painfully on his haunches, stretching out a hand in the hope of being able to reach it.

“I can reach it for—” Jemima attempted to say. It was the least she could do, after all. What had possessed her to stand in the way of the soldier? Why had her feet not moved?

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