He’d caught Rose staring at him.
And not in any horrified way. No, far from it.
She’d been fascinated by something about his appearance.
She’d seemed drawn to him. And then she’d been embarrassed to be caught staring, which said a lot. She’d looked so pretty with her pinkened cheeks and flustered air.
It was the second time today he’d almost kissed her. Once at the foot of the stairs, when she was close enough for him to brush a loose strand of hair off her cheek. And then again right here in front of this mirror. Seeing how she looked at him. Almost inviting a kiss...
He’d thought about it, anyway.
He thought about it rather a lot.
If he had the chance again, he wasn’t going to let it pass by. That was for sure.
He wanted to give Rose time to adjust, to respect her needs and wants. His lady. And he was supposed to be her gent.
But perhaps one small kiss would be acceptable.
He knew now she wasn’t unaffected by him. That alone was enough to give him hope, when hope was wearing thin. She’d talked about doubts, and she’d talked about not expecting a love match. Worse, she’d talked about being practical. How he hated that word. When applied to marriage, anyway. To be honest, he saw now he’d overreacted. He’d feared she was having second thoughts. That she was about to change her mind and leave him before they ever really got started.
So that was what he’d heard in her words.
Looking back, she hadn’t said one word about leaving. She hadn’t mentioned booking a train ticket to take her away. In fact, she’d baked the most delicious bread he’d ever tasted—no small compliment—for him.
She’d run up here in a panic when she thought he’d hurt himself.
She’d pushed past any anxiety about being in his presence, in his room, and tended his cut. He could still feel the tantalizing soft presence of her body near his, the pressure of her hand through the towel against his cheek. She’d offered to shave him.
Maybe he should have let her.
Pride had stepped in the way—when he could have had her hovering close, taking tender care of him. Pride was pretty stupid sometimes.
Chapter 12
When Emmett walked down the attic stairs into the kitchen, Rose didn’t recognize him. Well, she recognized most everything about his person: the familiar flannel shirt and suspenders, the shape of his masculine frame, from his broad shoulders to his long legs. But his face…
His face was that of a handsome stranger.
He didn’t look like Emmett at all. The eyes, yes, the eyes were that same nice gray. The expression in them probing and expectant. But his face.
The strong smooth lines of his jaw. The shadow of a cleft in his chin. Subtle shadows too in his cheeks, which she strongly suspected formed the most attractive dimples when he smiled. Why ever would any man cover up such features?
Boston saw no problem with his master’s appearance and joyfully met him, tail swaying, as if Emmett had been gone for days.
“Hey, boy,” Emmett said once he reached the bottom of the stairs. He caressed the dog’s head with those long tapered fingers of his. His eyes weren’t on Boston though. They were fixed on Rose.
He still wore that air of anticipation. And confidence. He’d known all along what he looked like without a beard. Surely any number of women in his life, including his mother and any aunts and female cousins, had told him what a good-looking man he was. He had no reason to be uncertain of himself.
His cut was covered with a tiny strip of white plaster, the only sign that he’d hurt himself earlier.
Had he trimmed his hair too? He must have. It seemed much more...tame, like that of a man she might have passed on a city street. A man in a business suit, striding to his place of work. Perhaps not a banker, for his hair still seemed a mite longish, but respectable. And of course it was still that same rich mahogany shade.
Rose swallowed. As a woman, perhaps it wasn’t unnatural to feel a little conscious of her own appearance after being confronted with such a face. Had she thought to comb her hair? The curls had a way of turning unruly as the day went on. A fact her own mother lamented.
“You look so much younger,” Rose finally managed, her throat gone completely dry. They’d shared many details in their letters. He’d said he was twenty-eight. Clean-shaven, he looked several years younger, closer to her own twenty-two.
“Younger?” He frowned, obviously not expecting this response. He didn’t seem happy with what she’d intended as a compliment.
“If you hadn’t said in your letters that you were twenty-eight, I would have taken you for several years younger, perhaps twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five?”
“Easily.”
The frown was still there, a single small vertical line between his dark brows. She also noted faint lines at the corners of his eyes, perhaps from squinting into the sun. Attractive, really. Manly. They saved him from appearing boyish.
“It’s a compliment, Emmett,” she insisted.
“Is it?” He straightened and left Boston’s side, coming toward her.
Rose swallowed again. What was he at now?
He stopped in front of her. “And what do you think?”
“You can’t possibly expect me to say.” Rose resisted the urge to retreat a step. Why must he stand quite so close? He was so very tall when he was close like this, forcing her to tip her chin up to speak to him.
He smelled enticingly of sandalwood soap.
“Say what, Rose?” How she loved his pleasant baritone.
He was close enough to touch, if she’d wanted to. She could reach up right now and test the smoothness of his cheeks and jaw with her fingertips. A thought that sent a warm ripple of awareness over her.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Emmett took her smaller hand in his and brought it up to his face. He had no need to hold it in place against his cheek. Rose couldn’t move. Her eyelids fluttered shut, she was so struck by the pleasure of sensation. The smoothness of his skin.
She opened her eyes to find him observing her, waiting for something. She’d already revealed too much, she was sure.
“It’s a good face,” she said primly, teasing him a bit, if only to cover for her own discomposure. “As you know.”
She would have liked to have snatched her hand safely away and stepped back—found somewhere far more comfortable to stand. Like Maine. Where everything in her world had felt familiar and certain. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to pull away. She explored his face, his jaw, the side of his neck. So warm. Smooth skin over cords of muscle. That fascinating spot at the base of his throat. Warmed honey slipping through her veins. Lovely.
But something like fire had lit behind Emmett’s gaze, and Rose realized she’d strayed from a simple exploration of his face to something too familiar.
“I’m sorry.” She drew back, intending to drop her hand to her side, but she was suddenly encircled in Emmett’s arms. Brought closer. Her face tipped up.
He leaned down.
She moistened her lips. There was nothing to say.
Was he going to kiss her here? Now, in the kitchen?
Perhaps he caught himself—just as she had when she’d drawn her hand away from his neck—for he simply released her and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I apologize, Rose.”
“For what?” she asked faintly.
“I—well, I thought to kiss you. And perhaps it’s too early for that.”
“Is it?”
“Isn’t it?” A spark of interest.
“Well, I don’t know.” An inadequate reply, but the only one that came to mind. She was quite flustered.
“If you’re planning to leave me, Rose—if you’re planning to pack your things back on a train and leave me—then, yes, it’s too early for that.” There was a vulnerability exposed by Emmett’s words that touched Rose to the core. He wasn’t quite as confident as he seemed.
At l
east not in her.
“I—I’m not planning to leave you.” Rose looked all about the simply decorated kitchen…at Boston, who was eyeing them with lazy interest…anywhere but at Emmett.
“So you want to marry me?”
“I can’t say.” Rose faltered, for he began rubbing the back of his neck again, frustrated, angry even. “Please don’t make me say just yet.”
“When, Rose?”
“It’s only been a day. Surely we need longer than a day.”
“I don’t. I never have. I thought it was all decided before you even boarded the train. That’s what I thought.”
He kept her picture over his heart. Perhaps even now he had it in the pocket of his shirt.
How could he be so sure of himself, of her? That they would indeed make a lifetime together? She’d thought it so simple when she’d left Maine behind. She was going to be practical. That word again, the one Emmett seemed to dislike so much.
“I’m not planning to leave,” she assured him.
“But you’re not convinced you’ll stay?”
“I’m not unconvinced.”
He winced slightly. She’d meant it to sound more hopeful than that. Not watered-down words. He deserved more.
“Tell me when, Rose. Just give me some idea.”
“A week?” she proffered, but even as she said it, she second-guessed her words.
Did she truly need a full week? Could she imagine a life without Emmett now—or even lovable shaggy Boston? She didn’t even like the idea of waiting a week for that kiss she’d missed a moment ago. It felt much like an unfulfilled need. One she hadn’t realized she possessed until now. So much for being practical, Rose.
About half an hour later, Emmett left the house with Rose. Immediately, the sharp bite of the wind hit him full force. He had to quickly wrap his scarf around his face. The rough wool fibers felt prickly and irritated his freshly shaved skin. An irony he didn’t miss.
The whole scarf, wrapped around his face, felt strangely close as well, as if he’d lost a layer of protection when he lost his beard.
He supposed he had.
But it hadn’t taken long to become accustomed to a beard. It wouldn’t take long to get used to it being gone. However, shaving on what was likely the coldest day in fifty years hadn’t been the wisest choice.
Emmett held Rose’s hand as they hiked up the road in snowshoes, helping her balance.
She pitched sharply left, catching herself, laughing.
Emmett pitched as well, tethered together as they were by their gloved hands. It was easy enough to regain his balance though. He didn’t even have to think about it. His weight shifted in the right direction automatically, from years of practice. He held tight and slowed their stride.
Rose was doing quite well. He was impressed, both by her agility and with her general willingness to go along.
She looked over at him and continued to smile. Her eyes were sparkling with an almost girlish delight. Her cheeks whipped to a rosy pink above a pink and white herringbone scarf. She looked young and free, despite the bitter temperature, despite that rather ominous thick black coat she was wearing over her day dress and winter boots. It came clear down to her hem and nearly up to her ears with that rolled-over cowl neck collar.
He hoped it was as warm as it looked.
Right before they’d left, she’d dug the coat out of one of her trunks, one that seemed squashed down, filled with clothing.
When she’d come, she’d intended to stay—that had been his thought as he watched her. All those clothes. And her other trunks too, seemingly packed full with everything she owned. Dragging all that with her to Colorado. Clear across the country.
No matter what she chose in a week, he could be sure she’d come here fully prepared to marry him when she’d left the East Coast.
This was likely going to be the longest week of his life.
Emmett moved to pick up their pace again.
“Stop!” Rose called to him over the wind, laughing. Breathless. “Just a moment. Please.”
Lord, she was pretty with her pink cheeks, and that pink fabric framing her face. Wild dark curls escaping from under her black winter bonnet.
He should have kissed her.
In a week from now, if she said, “No, I don’t wish to stay,” she wasn’t going to want to kiss him then. Even if they did share a kiss, it wouldn’t be the same. It would be a kiss to say goodbye. It wouldn’t be what he’d imagined, a kiss that left them breathless and wanting.
Just looking at her, so breathless and flushed, made him want to pull her into his arms.
She held a hand to her side, leaning over to put pressure there.
“Do you have a stitch?” he asked. Maybe he’d pushed her too hard for her first trek on snowshoes. He had a long stride, and hers was much shorter.
“Oh…no,” she said, pausing to inhale through her scarf. Laughing again, as if this were all absurd and fun. He hadn’t expected her to be such a delight on snowshoes, if he were being honest with himself. In fact, he’d been rather distant toward her since their conversation in the kitchen.
“I just need to catch my breath a bit,” she added.
How he wished to make her lose her breath completely and forget about time or anything else for the length of an impossibly long kiss.
He couldn’t get it out of his mind.
“I can’t believe how cold it is!” she gasped, straightening. The wind whipped around them, casting up clouds of snow. She shivered and tucked her chin into the cowl neck of her coat.
“We should keep moving. It’s not far now.” They needed the steady exertion of treading along. Step after step. Stopping for too long would only cause the warmth of their bodies to cool. Especially in this wind.
“All right.” She swung her hand in his, gamely. “I’m ready.”
She seemed a different person. As if some shadow of darkness had been hanging over her until now. It was as if he were seeing the true Rose. Not simply a beauty in a photo, but a young woman full of life and fun. And future. It only served to make him love her more. When he should have been protecting his own poor heart.
What he’d thought was love before had only been the beginning. There seemed to be so much more to explore.
Unless she chose to say goodbye instead of “I do.”
I should have just kissed her.
At least he would have had that one kiss to remember.
Chapter 13
Rose held tightly to Emmett’s hand as they trudged along atop a sea of snow. With each stride she sank in a little and had to pull her feet up and out of the depressions. Over and over. Her heavy skirts getting in the way. It required all her effort and attention. All the while the wind whirled around them, snatching at the ends of her scarf and sneaking into her cuffs.
It seemed amazing to think there was a road underneath them and not a wide river going uphill, with a few houses and storefronts dotted along its banks. The trees sparkled with ice in the bright sunlight. The sky seemed more intensely blue. With the jagged Rocky Mountains in the distance. So pretty.
If not for the wind capturing one’s breath.
If not for one thought circling her mind with each step, over and over.
If only he had kissed me.
If only she hadn’t muddled things up with all her rashly spoken words, bumbling along as she did when she was nervous. She could have had her first kiss by now.
Perhaps she was late in life coming to it, but she’d wanted to wait. She’d had her share of dances and walks along the village lane with some young man at her elbow. She could have had a string of kisses too. But she hadn’t encouraged it, wanting to wait until the right man came along.
Until Emmett. With any hope. Her intended. But now she’d gone and muddled things.
She’d muddled things with a man who had seemed quite determined to love her despite the way she’d vacillated and hurt his feelings. Not in any deliberate way, far from it. She wished with al
l her heart she’d been able to jump in with both feet and proclaim her undying affection. That just wasn’t who she was.
Truth was, it never had been.
Truth was, she’d never been all that practical either. She’d been the dreamer growing up. The artist in the family. Walking along the beach in her bare feet, picking up driftwood. Carving fanciful little creatures. Preferring hours of quiet by herself to the excited bustle of a local house party. A little shy around company, at times, but lively in her own way.
It seemed she’d been a different girl back then.
Being out here in the snow, haphazardly bumbling along in these waffle shoes, feeling oh-so foolish and alive, was making her laugh. And it felt marvelous to laugh again.
If only Emmett wasn’t so subdued. He’d been quiet as he’d laced the snowshoes onto her boots back at the house. He’d barely smiled at all when she’d waddled around his storeroom like a duck. It would’ve been the perfect opportunity for him to laugh and say some little joke to lighten things, but he hadn’t.
It was a wonder she was enjoying their trek as much as she was. She’d told herself worrying about what Emmett thought would only make her stumble more, so she’d set herself to the task of simply trying her best.
Her feeling of enjoyment slipped a little as they approached a two-story house, wider than Emmett’s, with a porch running across the front. Presumably there were steps up to the porch, but with the deep drifts, they were able to walk straight up to the door.
The front door didn’t look as if it had been opened since the storm began. No snow had been cleared. Perhaps Emmett was right to be concerned. Glancing in one of the windows, Rose saw no signs of movement within either.
“This is Claire’s place,” he called to Rose through his scarf. Even though they were side by side, he had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind.
Who was this widow—Claire—to Emmett that he spoke her first name so casually?
Sweet Briar Rose Page 8