11th Hour Rose

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  He leaned casually against the door jamb, his gaze wandering freely over her. Lilly flushed, knowing she must look a fright. A small smile quirked his mouth. “I came to see you,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” He raised the sheaf of her interview notes. “Your handwriting is atrocious. I cannot decipher it.”

  Lilly laughed. “I’m sure you could manage if the need arose.”

  “I thought you might help me go through them.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered innocently. “Oh, no, Marshal Langston, you made it perfectly clear that you do not need my help.”

  He shot her a dirty look. ”That isn’t quite what I said.”

  “I’m certain it is exactly what you said.” She motioned toward the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I—”

  “Lilly. Lilly, wait.”

  “I’m really very busy as you can see.” She gestured to her flour coated apron. “So if you don’t intend to wait for my father, I—”

  “At least let me apologize,” he said in a rush, taking a heady step toward her. “My behavior yesterday was rather high-handed.” He plucked a single daisy from the breast pocket within his vest, and smiled… one of those rare smiles that slipped past his stern exterior and hinted at his underlying good-humor. Lilly swallowed. A grin like that could charm a woman clear to her toes. “I never should have called you a thorn in my side,” he continued with a wink. It was terribly ill mannered of me.”

  So much for charming. “Yes, it was.” Lilly rolled her eyes, plucking the meager peace offering from his hand and spinning it between her thumb and forefinger. “Seeing as you went through the trouble of bringing a flower, I suppose you might stay for dinner while we go over the notes.”

  “Dinner?” His face visibly brightened. “An offer I can’t resist.”

  Laughing, she stepped away from the door. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Marshal Langston, and neither will a single flower for that matter.”

  “And who is to say I brought just one flower?”

  She twirled the bud before his face.

  “That is not a flower.”

  “Oh, it’s not, is it? It certainly looks like a flower, and it most definitely smells like a flower. If it is not a flower then what, pray tell, is it?”

  “That is an apology, and it is not my purpose for visiting this evening.”

  “It had better be your purpose for visiting, your behavior yesterday was deplorable.”

  “All right, fine, but it is only part of the reason I came.” From behind his back—Lilly hadn’t even realized he’d been hiding an arm—Davy pulled out an array of charmingly disordered wildflowers. Daisies, Black-eyed Susans, Indian Paint Brushes, and Queen Anne’s Lace. She loved Black-eyed Susans. “Happy birthday.”

  Lilly stopped short, glancing in surprise from the bouquet to his face. He knows it’s my birthday?

  “It is your birthday…?” He looked momentarily disconcerted, glancing to the flowers in his hand, and then back to her. “I heard mention of it and thought…”

  “Yes. It is my birthday.” A watery prick threatened at the back of her eyes. “I just can’t believe you brought me flowers. Wh-who told you of this?”

  “Your father said something a few days ago.” Davy held out the flowers.

  Graciously she stepped forward to accept the gift, her first true birthday present in years. Her father never forgot the day, but he was always so busy, and anything more than a passing, Happy birthday, Lil, had long since gone by the wayside. “Thank you,” she whispered, gazing down at the colorful arrangement. “I can’t imagine why you went to the trouble,” she blurted.

  He shrugged. “I wanted to.” His eyes grew soft, warm, in a way that turned her insides to mush. He reached out, stroking a thumb across her cheek. “Not that a pretty girl should ever need a reason to get flowers.”

  “I love them,” she said, quite beyond emotion. The simple gesture both reminded and soothed how lonely she was deep down. “Wildflowers are my favorite.” Perhaps the simple gift should not mean quite so much, but… she stepped forward and threw her arms about his neck. “Thank you, Davy. This means more than you could ever know.”

  At first he stiffened, but after a moment relaxed, slipping his arms around her waist. “You’re welcome,” he murmured into her hair. She moved to step out of the embrace, but his arms tightened, holding her against his rock hard chest. The whole of his body seemed to envelop her, even his shoulders curled around her in perfect accord with his arms until she felt warm and sheltered and perfectly fitted against him. His head dipped low to the curve of her neck, and her heart leapt clear into her mouth. “You smell good,” he murmured.

  What? She didn’t quite manage to whisper aloud.

  “You smell of baked apples,” his deep voice thickened against her ear like smooth maple syrup. “I like it.” She trembled through to the tips of her toes as he released her from his arms and shifted back slightly. “You are also adorable covered from head to toe in baking flour. I had always thought you fetching in blue, but something about the flour is so much more, hmm…” Gentle fingers brushed the line of her jaw and throat, presumably sweeping a dusting of the flour away. Her heart began to tap an erratic cadence. “I can’t rightly describe it, but this is better than blue.”

  Pretty, adorable, fetching… In blue no less, blue was her favorite color. And he thought she smelled good?

  Was he teasing her? He must be teasing, because the alternative was… Dear God, is he flirting with me?

  He’d never actually flirted with her before. They often exchanged witty remarks, but the flirting totally disarmed any defensive wit she may have mustered. And how long had she been standing here staring dumbly into his wickedly handsome face? A second? Two? Perhaps a minute?

  Heat blazed through her so swiftly she was sure a crimson blush fairly bubbled upon her skin. She should say something; something clever or cutting; something that would knock him back on his heels; something that would prove to him—as much as herself—that she was not affected by his flattery. But that ship had likely sailed the moment she’d thrown herself into his arms. And, moreover, somewhere in her middle, right in the vicinity of her heart, his flattery and soft eyes felt so good. It awoke desires that had been slumbering inside her for some time now.

  “Mmm.” He leaned into her hair. “Apple pie? Did you bake pies today?”

  “I should think that’s obvious.” She leapt away from his heady proximity, and turned quickly into the hallway, struggling for composure. She needed to make sense of the confusing state of her emotions. “But you’re to stay out of the pies. They’re for the Harvest Festival tomorrow.”

  “Oh, but Lilly, apple is my favorite.” He followed her into the kitchen, eyeballing the pies. “Couldn’t I try just one? Test them for tomorrow?”

  Lilly threw him a daggered glare, and began clearing the table.

  “We could eat one for your birthday,” he pressed.

  “You can eat one tomorrow at the contest.” She placed the flowers in a tall vase before wiping the remaining flour and sugar from the table, and setting the bouquet at the center. She motioned for Davy to sit at the clean spot.

  He looked rather adorably grumpy at the prospect of not being allowed a slice of fresh pie, and she suppressed an amused smile. “Do excuse the mess,” she said, continuing to replace the baking supplies. If Lavinia hadn’t been so intent on match-making where there was no match to be made Lilly would have had some help with the baking mess. “We’ll go over the notes after I’ve cleaned up a bit and we’ve finished dinner.”

  He didn’t immediately sit. “Why are you baking a dozen pies and cooking dinner on your birthday?”

  “It’s just another day, Davy. At my age there is nothing special about it.”

  * * *

  Davy hesitated. Something in Lilly’s words, her voice, those huge crystal blue eyes, slammed him full in the chest. She breezed this off as any other day, and yet, when he’d given
her the flowers, she’d looked as though he had given her the world. It broke his heart to think a bouquet of wildflowers had reduced the little spitfire near to tears. He’d grown up in a home where birthdays never went unnoticed. Even now his grandmother put on a grand show for every family birthday. Suddenly he knew the strongest desire to show her what that felt like. He wanted to do something worthy of giving her the world.

  Lilly shucked the flour coated apron and lifted a fresh one from the back of the door. He quickly strode forward, snaring the apron from her hands. “You shouldn’t be cooking on your birthday. Let me fix dinner for you.”

  She blinked in obvious surprise. “That’s not necessary.” She tugged on the apron. He refused to relinquish it. She laughed as he steered her to a vacant chair. “Do you even know how to cook?”

  “Lilly, you wound me. I’ve been a widower for eight years.”

  “That may be, but you were a soldier most of your adult life. Lord only knows what you’d consider edible.”

  “Ah, yes.” He chuckled. “Army rations. If anything good can be said for mealy hard tack and beans it would be that I have developed an iron constitution.”

  A tinkle of truly heartwarming laughter bubbled from her. “Which is probably why you think you can cook.”

  “Touché, Lilly, touché. “Regardless…” He rubbed both palms together. “Where should I begin?”

  “Actually, dinner is nearly finished.” She motioned to the pot simmering on the stove. “I was just going to slice some fresh vegetables.”

  “Allow me.” He drew a knife from the drawer and turned to the wooden cutting slab on the counter.

  “Very well,” she acquiesced granting him a small, playful smile. She stood and ambled to the stove.

  “Would you sit? I am trying to do something nice for you.”

  “You… being nice? Should I be worried?”

  He threw her an exasperated look—which she returned in full measure—and still refused to sit. Lilly sashayed to the stove and lifted the lid on the chicken stew, letting the aroma waft freely through the kitchen. It smelled delicious. Certainly better than anything he’d have scrounged at his own bachelor lodgings. Davy lifted a knife and reached for the basket of vegetables she had waiting on the counter. He lifted a plump tomato.

  “How was your day?” she asked congenially.

  Davy paused for a moment, casting her a sidelong glance. “As well as can be expected,” he replied, taking advantage of her turned back to allow his gaze to linger over her for a moment longer than he ought. She was really quite delectable, disheveled from her day of baking. Red kissed, golden tendrils dripped from her simple bun, gently framing her face and neck, lending a softer look to her typically prim exterior. A rather graceful neck… his eyes drifted lower, across the elegant set of her slender shoulders and down the arch of her waist—he could probably fit his palms all the way around. He gulped, suddenly disconcerted.

  He could still feel her in his arms. Her weight, her warmth… those arms looped around his shoulders… her body pressed against his… He jerked his eyes away from her, quickly stopping the dangerous train of thoughts.

  A book sitting on a chair beside the wall caught his eye. “You’re reading Shakespeare?”

  She glanced up. “Oh, yes, Othello. Have you read it?”

  Smoothly he quoted, “Then must you speak of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.”

  “Spoken like a true connoisseur. Do you read much Shakespeare?”

  “No, but an instructor of mine at West Point had an annoying habit of quoting lines from the more famous plays. Especially the tragedies.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I’m not overly fond of tragedies.”

  “Oh?”

  ”I prefer satire. One of Shakespeare’s works I have always liked is Taming of the Shrew.”

  Lilly flashed him a self-deprecating grin. “And I would be the shrew.”

  Surprised at how she took his meaning, Davy didn’t readily respond.

  “I’d not have thought of that particular work as your favorite,” she continued congenially. “You seem a bit too serious for satire.”

  “Serious?” He laughed. “Not I, Miss Lilly. You see,” he drawled, tossing her a teasing wink, “I find life quite tragic enough without reading tragedy for entertainment. I dearly love to laugh.”

  “Yes, well, I wish you’d do it more,” she quipped.

  The comment struck him into silence. Something in her words pierced straight through the heart, and while it didn’t necessarily hurt, the statement bothered him because she was right. He hadn’t laughed in a very long time. How strange that his good humor had so suddenly resurfaced.

  “You’re right,” he said after a moment. “I don’t laugh enough anymore.” He dropped the tomato slices onto a waiting plate and turned, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms casually. “Given the wear of that volume I’d say you read it quite a bit. Which is your favorite play?”

  “Romeo and Juliet,” she said without hesitation. “I must have read it one-hundred times.”

  He feigned outrage and clasped a hand over his heart. “A more torturous tale of love and loss has surely never been told. Not to mention that Romeo is without doubt the most fickle hero in history.”

  “Fickle?” Lilly snorted. “How so?”

  “At the start of the play the man is madly in love with one woman, what is her name again?”

  “Rosaline.”

  “Yes, Rosaline, that’s it. And upon sneaking into the Capulet’s ball he catches but one glimpse of the fair Juliet and falls madly in love with her.” David shook his head. “Fickle.”

  “Oh, Davy…” She sighed in exasperation. “There is so much more to the story than that.”

  “Is there? I should think the opening paragraph sums up the whole of the play. How does the thing start? Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, then there’s something about ancient grudge and new mutiny. A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life. Take their life! Will Shakespeare was good enough to tell us the end of the tale before we even take time to delve into it. I tell you, Lilly, anyone with half their wits should shut the book right then and there.”

  She laughed. “Aside from your rather egregious misquotation of the play, I must say you have quite the flare for the dramatic. Tell me,” she pegged him with a pointed stare, “why did you read it if you knew you wouldn’t like it?”

  “I never quit anything I start.” He took a small step forward feeling strangely drawn to her. “Now you tell me, just how egregious was my misquotation?”

  “Very.” A smile rolled across the perfect arches of her lips toying animatedly with the corners of her mouth. “And I still maintain the tale is not just about the love and loss of two star cross’d lovers.”

  He leaned forward squinting playfully just inches from her eyes, eyes of such crystal blue intelligence he wondered that he’d never stopped to look before. “State your case.”

  “Very well, Marshal Langston. The story is about the hate between the houses of Capulet and Montague and how said hatred led to the untimely demise of their children.”

  Watching her face light with such animation as she defended the play, he could not help but be intrigued. It occurred to him suddenly that for all the time he’d spent with Lilly, he rarely took the time to enjoy her company, actually talk with her. He liked talking to her.

  “The moral of the story is— Ouch! Oh, dear!”

  The metal pot lid clattered to the floor.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” David stepped forward instantly.

  “I burned myself,” she mumbled around the finger she’d stuck into her mouth.

  “Let me see.” He captured her wrist and slid his hands along her palm and fingers until he reached the injured digit. “I suppose it’s my fault for distracting you. In the future I shall refrain from discussing Shakespeare while we make dinner. Oh, my,” he said a bit more seriously, turning her hand over but not releas
ing it. “I think that is going to blister.” Without a thought he lifted the injured finger and pressed it quickly to his lips.

  “Better?” he asked quietly, eyes softly smoldering into hers.

  “Uh, huh,” she murmured, her lips, so perfectly pink, parted ever so slightly. He knew the immense satisfaction of flustering her in an entirely new way.

  With a pang, which quite nearly stole his breath away, David realized they were ambling about the kitchen like an old married couple. He stood smiling easily into her wide luminous eyes, fingers twined with hers, and the sensation was so perfectly pleasant he ached. The simple act of taking her hand and kissing the injured finger had been the most natural thing in the world. He’d not even thought as he’d done it. Cocking his head to the side he could not help but note the way her hair—not quite curly, but slightly more than wavy—sprung loose from the prim pins she used to contain it. He liked her hair this way. Messy. Suddenly he longed to pull the pins from her hair and allow it to tumble loose down her back and shoulders. Had he ever seen her hair down before? He must have… funny he couldn’t remember. Funnier still he so desired to see it.

  Desired? Lilly?

  Not hardly.

  And yet, gazing into her face he had no idea why he was still standing quite so close to her except that in this moment, in this place, with her he felt completely at home. A sense of home he had not known since childhood—before even his wife—flushed through his veins and he didn’t want to step away from her.

  * * *

  Lilly’s heart performed a little flip.

  He’d kissed her finger!

  His palms slid along the sensitive flesh of her hands and her skin tingled so acutely she scarcely remembered the sting of the burn. Her hand looked so tiny encased in his large calloused palms that she was mesmerized, unable to form a coherent thought much less words. She flicked her gaze upward and her heart stumbled and nearly stopped. Davy’s smoldering eyes roamed over hers. No one had smoldered over her before—at least not in quite some time, and certainly not with eyes more captivating. The crisp blue was so intense no words or color on the earth could be compared to describe it. Transfixed, Lilly stared up into his unwavering gaze surprised to find the staid, condescending wall ever present in his expression slipping away.