by Tanya Wilde
You tolerate or you do not tolerate. You indulge or you do not indulge. You enjoy or you do not enjoy. You desire or you do not desire. And if you do all of the above, you are smitten; if you don’t, you are not.
It was as simple as that.
Only, he did tolerate her company well enough, which was a rarity for his solitary self. In fact, he didn’t just tolerate her; he indulged her whimsical ways, and he bloody enjoyed doing it. He enjoyed her. Hell, he desired her. That was evident from his nearly constant arousal. Which left him to conclude that he was well and truly smitten with Holly Middleton.
Sweet Lord.
The revelation struck him hard.
He desired a chit that believed in fairy tales and magical things.
If Josephine could see me now.
Admittedly, Holly’s notions of fairy tales and love had given him pause, but they did not leave a taste of horror in his mouth—not as they would have a year ago, perhaps. And, as her lifelong crusade to find Prince Charming had not sent a frisson of fear into his heart, and nor had learning that she had kissed half a village, he must be just as bloody mad as she was. Which, he decided in a moment of clear reflection, he bloody likely was.
Brahm pressed his lips together in a grim line, glancing out the window again. They could be stuck together for days. How did a man go about living with a woman who was not his sister but also not his wife? Not that Brahm would know how to live with a wife, either. He had no bloody idea what he was doing.
He ought to leave.
He ought to brave the winds and downpour until he reached the village, where he could stay until the storm passed.
But an uncomfortable tightness seized his heart at the thought.
Holly had entirely turned his world inside out. Which didn’t sit well with him, but he couldn’t ignore it, either.
A decision regarding Holly Middleton had to be made. That much, at least, remained clear.
Would he stay when the storm passed, or would he go? The logical answer was to leave when the rain did. It was safest. But would it be so remiss if he delayed his return? Continued to inhale the very air she occupied? Endure the soft ring of her laughter day in and day out? Stare into those dreamy, hypnotizing blue eyes at every opportunity for the rest of his life?
Blast it all to hell!
No.
He couldn’t.
Absolutely not.
Not without marrying her. And given that she had just run from one wedding, it was unlikely she’d dash into another.
What Brahm needed was to go out for a long ride to settle his worn nerves. Once on his horse, open fields spread before him, wind whipping through his hair, he would be able to think straight. But since he couldn’t go for a ride, he’d find another distraction.
Straightening his shoulders with grim purpose, he marched toward the kitchen. Unfortunately, they would be weathering this storm on bread, cheese, some fruit, and a bit of almonds. The food, however, should be enough to last. But first, a strong cup of coffee would go a long way in improving his mood.
Brahm had never developed a taste for the weak flavor of tea. In fact, it quite literally made him shudder whenever it passed his lips.
Rummaging through the cupboards, he found no coffee. He did, however, find some cocoa beans.
“Close enough,” he muttered to himself.
How different could it be from brewing coffee? A bit, he guessed. Though he did once read an article on the art of creating a delicious cup of hot cocoa in the London Times.
Grind the cocoa beans.
Hunt for some spice.
He gave a shout of approval when he found cinnamon and vanilla.
Crush a few of their dwindling almonds.
Explore for some chilies and add to the mixture.
After crushing the ingredients together, preparing the desired paste, and bringing it all to boil in a pot of steamy water, Brahm stood back with a triumphant grin. He’d managed to make hot chocolate.
“You should stir that,” a soft, slightly amused voice murmured from the door.
Brahm’s pulse leaped. The fruity zest of her scent reached him even before he’d fully turned around.
Holly stood in the threshold, looking edible in the same soft, pale yellow day dress she’d worn yesterday. Her eyes darted over the glorified mess on the table where he’d been working.
Brahm.
Damn that purr of his name. Would it never leave his brain?
“How long have you been standing there?” he demanded. His words were rudely spoken and blasted out harshly. He hadn’t meant them to be, but she unsettled him as no other woman ever had. He was edging near his breaking point.
Little Miss Daylight, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed by his lack of warmth. A soft smile curved her lips. “Long enough to discover you are not an entirely sour beast.”
He snorted and turned away in search of a wooden spoon to froth the mixture.
“I’m ravenous,” she continued, wading into the kitchen, invading his space and claiming his air.
“We don’t have much,” he confessed, “but it will be enough to outlast the storm.”
Then she suddenly appeared beside him, leaning over his pot of hot chocolate and inhaling deeply.
“Oh! It smells delicious!”
Brahm grunted. Not as appetizing as you.
Their eyes found each other, and he stilled, waiting for the familiar clench of his gut, the rapid start-up of his heart. He watched, spellbound, as she reached up and brushed a finger over his cheek, her brows puckered in thought.
Bloody hell.
“You have gathered quite some dust,” she murmured.
“It’s from the cocoa beans.” His voice sounded raspy. Too raspy.
Restless, he took a step back, and her arm fell to her side. She said nothing, only took hold of the spoon, which he had abandoned, and started to stir.
“Perhaps we should go on a picnic,” she suggested.
A what?
Brahm cast a scowl her way. He would rather not dignify her ludicrous suggestion with a reply.
“I thought maybe the library would be an excellent spot,” she continued happily, stirring the hot chocolate.
“You want to picnic in the house?” Brahm would never understand her.
She glanced at him and rewarded him with a smile. The air left his lungs.
“Why not? There isn’t much else to do.”
Right, but picnics were intimate. They were things that lovers did, that courting couples did.
A refusal hovered on his lips, but what rolled out was a snappish “Fine.”
“Marvelous!” she exclaimed, performing a little jump up and down. “I do so love to picnic!”
Brahm groaned in reply. What the hell had he just agreed to? He could not, however, extinguish her excitement just because he loathed spending his time in fanciful diversions. He could just see how the conversation would go.
What is not to like? She’d ask. And he’d reply with an irascible retort along the lines of, Sitting on the ground while my ass becomes numb, eating stale bread and talking about what an outstanding day it is for having a picnic in a library. And then he’d ruin her fun.
Brahm shut the curtain on his sour thoughts when her gaze narrowed on him.
“If you’d rather not—” she started to say, but he interrupted her. “I said it was fine,” he barked out, and then in a gentler tone, managed, “I’ll gather a basket.”
“And I’ll gather a tea set for the hot chocolate.”
He nodded and was about to set out to do just that when she began humming a merry tune.
He snuck a sidelong glance at her. She simply did not react to his boorish ways as a regular lady would. Not that he would ever admit to being that boorish, though his sister forever complained about it. But the fact of the matter was that Holly Middleton simply accepted people as they came, warts and all. And Brahm had a big bloody wart in regard to his attitude. Holly seemed to cast a calming
influence over him. Damn strange, that.
His pulse raced when he recalled once again that the duke wanted her to marry his brother, some young buck who might very well hold no regard for her happiness. Which would eventually steal the bright tone from her voice.
Of course, at first, she would be accepting, as was her nature, but after a time, years even, a vacant look would no doubt replace the spark, and a cynical stretch would curve her once impish lips.
Brahm had seen it happen often enough to chits like her. Had glimpsed what a careless partner could accomplish. It was why, to some extent, he had steered clear of the marriage mart. As a man with a churlish temper and a profoundly protective nature, Brahm had never wanted to be the cause of his wife’s unhappiness. Which was why he had to pick wisely.
Now he found himself dead center in a situation in which he could no longer form any clear lines to separate honorable intentions from desirable ones. Guileless and starry-eyed, Holly Middleton seemed to receive him as a whole, embracing his good along with his gruffness.
And that was quite dangerous indeed.
Chapter 14
Holly paused in the act of arranging a quilt she had discovered in one of the rooms to cast a sidelong glance at Brahm. His expression was pained, as though he had stubbed his toe against a bureau and was trying to be a man about it.
She hid a smile. Nothing would make him anything less than a hard, testy, browbeating male in the eyes of the world, but she saw more to him. He possessed a solid strength about him. His sense of honor extended to his determination to never dishonor a lady. His he-man behavior was just his protectiveness shining through. Besides, she rather liked his brooding ways. It was a terribly romantic trait, after all.
Brahm was, in many ways, the champion she’d always dreamed of, especially when it came to how he’d saved her from the duke. Honestly, Holly was not overly worried about the duke. Yes, the man made a formidable enemy, but Willow stood by his side. The fact remained that her sister was an ally. And she had faith that her sister would prove a challenge to the duke, too.
“Did you sleep well?” Brahm asked, interrupting her musings. There was a curious note in his voice.
Her gaze flicked to his. “Yes, thank you. I slept like a dream.”
He appeared amused by her words. “Dreams do not sleep.”
“True, but if I had slept terribly, then I would say, ‘I slept like a nightmare.’”
“Interesting reference. Do you know that you talk in your sleep?” he murmured, his voice deceptively low.
Holly stilled, her heart dropping into her stomach.
Oh, yes, she knew.
When they were young, her sisters had complained endlessly about the same thing. And, apparently, when she did talk in her sleep, she only ever talked about her latest love interest. They forever whined that they did not wish to know that John Braggart had the biggest cinnamon eyes or that Charleston Jordan had good strong arms to sweep her up into his embrace. They also told her they would rather not know that she had a childhood crush on a pirate, one she had read about in a book.
Mortification stained her cheeks.
The last thing she wanted to do was make Brahm wary with her ramblings . . . about him.
She turned to face him, admiring the vast expanse of his chest, his sharp jawline, and his thick brows set in his strong face. He also possessed big hands.
What if she had said something about those large hands gripping her waist? Or that his strong legs could easily carry her up any stairs?
Then Holly suddenly recalled that she had glimpsed him naked. What if she had remarked on his manhood?
Dear Lord, what if she had said something to the extent of, My, my, what magnificent virility you possess!
Holly’s ears burned. She racked her mind to recall what she had dreamed of last night. She could never know what she had said, but her dreams could usually give her some clue. Which meant, in this case, she could have uttered any number of things, like troll-duke or kissing under the midnight sky.
Holly shook her head to clear her mind. It was a moot point to deliberate over what she might have said when she could just ask him directly, however humiliating.
Inhaling a deep breath, she pushed out a strangled reply. “What did I say?”
He settled crossed-legged on the quilt, and she followed suit, arranging her skirts around her knees effortlessly, while he, no doubt, took note of her molten cheeks.
“You spoke my name.”
A breath of relief tore from her lungs.
His name did not warrant too much mortification. It was, however, extremely telling, should he wish to reflect on the matter.
“I had a dream about you,” Holly confessed after a moment, setting out the bread.
He took the steamy chocolate she handed him, his eyes never leaving hers as she brought her mug up to her lips. Her admission seemed to take him aback. It was more than mere surprise, though, for his lower jaw and neck flushed, and he went completely still.
Emerald eyes burned into hers with a tangible intensity. “You dreamed about me?”
Holly gave a shaky nod, gripping her hot mug to keep her hands from trembling.
“What did you dream?” he asked.
“Oh, this and that,” she murmured, offering him a small smile before taking a sip of her drink, which she promptly expelled back into the mug in the most unladylike manner.
“Mother Mary!” Holly exclaimed. “What did you add to this drink?”
He glanced down at his cup with a frown, sniffing it. “Whatever I could find.” His brows drew together as he took a sip and then grimaced.
“Perhaps if we add a touch of sugar it will lighten the taste? I can go retrieve some?”
His eyes narrowed on her. “First, tell me what you dreamed.”
“I cannot do that,” she murmured, dabbing at the bit of hot chocolate that had not landed back in her cup, hoping he would leave well enough alone.
But Brahm would not be distracted so easily. “Tell me,” he urged.
Her lips parted and shut again. How could she admit her steamy dreams to him? And it had been another delicious dream, not one she could ever confess. She might, however, admit to one small detail of her dream, even if only to test the waters with a tiny ripple. But dare she? What would he make of it? As simple as the act was, it would reveal so much of her desires.
“You kissed me,” she finally admitted, not meeting his gaze.
The words hovered between them just as the storm clouds above their haven did. Wild. Unpredictable. Tempestuous.
“I kissed you?” He sounded oddly stunned.
Her gaze lifted to his.
Holly bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at his astonished expression; only she bit down too hard and grimaced. Once again he noticed and misunderstood the action.
“I see you are horrified by the prospect.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “That is, I meant it was pleasant enough.”
“Pleasant? That is how you would describe my kiss?”
He sounded so offended that Holly bit down on her lip. “How would you describe it, then?”
“It wasn’t my dream, so how would I know?”
“Well, you have kissed women before, have you not? How did they find it? As I’ve kissed my share of boys, I know my kisses are enjoyable, to say the least. And yours were. Enjoyable, that is. In my dream. Is enjoyable better than pleasant? Though, of course, compared to the rest of the dream—” her words died on her lips when she saw his eyes spark to life.
Holly was rambling, she knew, but being the subject of his hot regard had her floundering for words. How had she ever thought to tell him would be a good idea?
“There was more than kissing in your dream?”
Her gaze locked with his shocked one. Do not say anything else!
He appeared to be well and truly unsettled by the prospect. Already the color in his cheeks had deepened, burning down his throat and disappearing b
eneath his shirt. That was another thing Holly admired about him. He wore his emotions on his sleeve. Any other man would have hidden his reaction, schooled his features to a blank mask. But not Brahm.
“What did you dream?”
There was the flicker of complete knowing in his gaze that made Holly tear her eyes away from him and glance at their picnic spread.
She had always used this defense mechanism: whenever you wished to avoid a dangerous or unwanted topic, stuff something edible in your mouth, take a sip of a drink, or, if all else failed, descend into a coughing fit.
Holly snatched up a slice of cheese to delay any reply. But before she could part her lips, his hand manacled her wrist, his head lowering to hers.
“What did you dream?” Every inch of his focus fixed on her then, and Holly felt his words right down to her bones.
Your hands lifted my skirts.
You touched me, trailing your fingers from my feet up to my thigh.
She would not say it. It was out of the question.
“A lady does not kiss and tell.”
His lips twitched. “You told me about the kiss,” he pointed out. “Might as well tell me the rest of the dream.”
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “A kiss is a kiss.”
He leaned forward until his lips were bare inches away from hers. “Yet a dream is not just a dream.”
Oh! Chocolate tinged his breath. And his eyes blazed with heat.
“What else could it be?” she whispered, dazed by the effect he had on her.
“That I have yet to discover.” He paused, his expression painful. “Or perhaps your dream is to kiss every damn man in the kingdom to find your prince.”
“I only have the urge to kiss one man.”
Her confession stretched between them, the moment creating a distracting pull, drawing them together one breath at a time. It was impossible to tell what existed beyond the blaze Holly saw in Brahm’s eyes.
“You are a dangerous woman, Holly Middleton.”
Dangerous.
A thrill of excitement rippled down her spine. No one had ever referred to her as such. Silly, yes, outspoken, and often even irrational, but never anything as tantalizing as dangerous.