A flood of heat threatened to overwhelm her. Her body, an archive of desire, remembered everything.
At last, she gathered herself to speak.
“Felicité must be delighted,” she said softly, letting him see where her eyes lingered.
His tone was of resignation, acceptance of what had failed to yield fruit. “I thought she might consider staying in Scotland, but it appears I’m not a good judge of women.”
He hesitated.
“What I’m offering isn’t enough to tempt her, although she did sample at her leisure,” said Hamish wryly. “She’s currently on a grand tour of the European capitals. She’s in no haste to be wed, or so I believe.”
“In some ways that’s very sensible of her,” admitted Ophelia, with a sudden rush of happiness. “The ‘not-marrying’ part and planning to enjoy herself; of that, I must confess I approve.”
“You’ll soon be off then I take it? The Comte has gone to his villa on the Riviera; he tells me you’re always welcome,” Hamish added archly.
“That’s tempting,” she answered, unable to resist the mischief of it. “However, I’ve become rather devoted to the glen, and the loch, and to the mountains. Nature has its charms. Also, I’ve grown very fond of everyone here… even Hector.”
Hamish’s eyes held her fast, filled not only with the heat of desire but with tenderness. In the long silence between them she felt his uncertainty. At last, he spoke.
“Could you be fond of me?”
In answer, she kicked off her shoes, rolled down her stockings and tucked up her muslin dress, leaving her legs bare, feeling Hamish look upon their length. She paddled out, through the reeds, almost losing her balance in the slippery mud. She put down her hands to steady herself then pushed a lock of hair from her face, leaving a streak of pondweed slime. She advanced, carefully, through the water, until she almost faced him.
She cast down her eyes, fearful suddenly of meeting his, willing her heart to calm itself. When she raised them, she found that Hamish had moved considerably closer and had lowered his face to hers. He licked his thumb to wipe away the smear on her cheek.
“Why is it that you only want to kiss me when I’m covered in filth?” she asked.
He took that as an invitation.
About Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Emmanuelle de Maupassant lives with her husband (maker of tea and fruit cake) and her hairy pudding terrier (connoisseur of squeaky toys and bacon treats).
She is best known for her ‘Noire’ series: named by Stylist Magazine as among the sexiest reads of 2015. Her latest work, a feast of the unsettling and the erotic, is Cautionary Tales, inspired by Russian folklore and superstitions.
Website: www.emmanuelledemaupassant.com
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