by Nichole Van
She looked at his outstretched hand, wariness evident.
“I shall keep you safe. Trust me, Jasmine.”
She locked eyes with him, pools of summer blue, and pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, worrying it with her teeth.
The entire process drawing his eyes down to her mouth, which really was the last thing this situation needed.
Not noticing his noticing, thank goodness, Jasmine nodded her head and set her drawing stuff on a nearby concrete ledge. With a determined lift of her chin, she placed her hand in his, bracing a foot against the stirrup.
That was his spunky girl.
Timothy refused to consider why he tended to use possessive pronouns when thinking about her. This entire episode of his life would seem like an extraordinary dream once he returned home. Miss Jasmine Fleury relegated to nothing more than a bittersweet memory.
But for now . . .
Effortlessly, Timothy pulled her up to straddle the horse before him, her back to his chest. Seated in front of him, she was so short her head fit neatly into his shoulder.
She let out a breathless giggle, clutching the pommel tightly.
“I have you.” Timothy wrapped his arms tightly around her, tucking her back against his body. Breathing in the heady scent of her.
Horseback riding with a woman. It was the oldest romantic situation in the book. A way to cuddle and hold your lady-love without risking impropriety.
Well . . . not too much. He was holding her scandalously, deliciously close.
He closed his eyes and leaned into her, around her, relishing the soothing familiarity of being seated on a horse, of holding a beautiful woman in his arms.
Ah.
Tension flowed from his body. She clearly felt it too, as she relaxed back into him. Head nestled into his shoulder, angling her body and face toward his.
“Helping me adjust to being up this high?” she murmured.
Yes. That’s what this was.
“Of course. I promised you could trust me. I know what I am about.”
She chuckled. “Of that, Lord Linwood, I have no doubt.” Her blue eyes caught the sunlight, quickening his breathing. She did that thing with her bottom lip again, pulling it between her teeth.
Did she not realize the motion practically begged him to kiss her?
Soft. So soft.
All of her.
His arms flexed, determined to gather her another fraction of an inch closer. She just felt so . . . alive in his arms. So right.
The contact between them went from warm to electric in the space of a heartbeat.
His heart pounded in his chest. Surely she could hear it.
Did she understand she was about two seconds away from being kissed senseless? All she had to do was raise her face just a fraction of an inch in invitation . . .
And then she did just that. Lifted her head.
Hallelujah!
He bent down—
Only to have her twist further toward him and place a hand against his chest.
“Are you sure you want to go there?” she asked, her breath a gentle puff against lips.
He was a man holding a beautiful woman. Of course he wanted to go there.
Did the woman understand men at all?
It was only natural.
And he wasn’t precisely betrothed to anyone. Yet. So he could indulge himself. If she thought gazing at him with those soulful eyes so wide and open was a deterrent—
His head dipped again.
Her hand stayed him. “Because I know you’re under a lot of stress right now, and I want you to really think about what you want. Not to mention you’re going to have to see me every other minute for the foreseeable future. So if this gets awkward . . .”
He paused.
Blast.
She did have an excellent point.
Clever, kind, vibrant and intelligent.
Usually a good combination . . .
She patted his chest and turned fully forward, hands back on the pommel.
“Tell you what, Timothy. You think about it and, if you still want to kiss and cuddle, let me know. We can talk about it.”
He froze.
Talk about it? What man ever wanted to talk about it?
Is this how kissing worked in the twenty-first century? A couple politely discussed the ramifications of the kiss before embarking on it?
And where was the fun in that?
He hated feeling like he was fumbling in the dark for a flint and steel, scrambling to strike a spark so he could see—
“C’mon, big guy.” She patted his knee. “Let’s just ride.”
Jasmine’s knees were shaking by the time Timothy dropped her back in front of the large barn. He hadn’t done anything more than just walk her around the stable yard, but it had been enough.
She was still trying to decide if the knee shaking was the result of merely riding the horse or the lingering shock of being held against Timothy’s chest while riding said horse.
Timothy’s decidedly muscled, broad, warm chest.
Yep. The whole thing was definitely going into her Most Swoon-Worthy moments. Assuming she would ever swoon. Or actually maintained such a list.
Though with one Timothy, Lord Linwood around, she probably should start.
Without his rules and snooty demeanor, the man was now proving dangerous to her peace of mind for an entirely different reason.
She leaned against the fence, balancing her sketch pad against the rails, content to watch Timothy move through the steeplechase course.
What was it about the sight of a handsome man in tight breeches effortlessly riding a thoroughbred horse that made a woman’s heart skip a beat?
Granted, the description sort of provided the answer, didn’t it?
Timothy sat the horse like it was an extension of himself. Which, to his purview, it probably was. An activity as common to his everyday life as eating and breathing. Even to her untrained eye, she could clearly see the difference between his seat and those of the other riders.
He easily jumped his mount over higher and higher railed fences, testing the animal’s agility and strength, smoothly maintaining his own balance and center of gravity.
Confident. Graceful.
So utterly in his element, oozing this masculine power. The strong English lord who commanded men, who bore responsibilities she could only begin to fathom. He just looked like Someone Important.
It was that charisma of his. That sense of power. Of authority.
That was how things were with Timothy.
Like him. Hate him. Whatever.
But you couldn’t ignore him. He demanded attention. As if the force of his personality held its own gravity, sucking everyone and everything into his orbit.
Heaven knew, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
And judging from the glances and outright stares he received, she wasn’t the only one. Wait? Was that woman over there videoing him?
Sheesh.
A tiny thread of pride filtered through her.
This was the man who had come within an inch of kissing her barely an hour ago. For the second time.
Not that she was counting or anything.
(Who was she kidding? She was totally counting. C’mon, a girl had to count stuff like this. He was a gorgeous, dynamic lord who rode a horse like a centaur . . . Hello? Romantic fantasy much? Who wouldn’t want to kiss that?)
A huge part of her regretted that she’d stopped him. Man, she had been seated in front of him on a horse, for heaven’s sake. Like a damsel in distress.
Gah. She totally should have just gone for it.
But the Concerned Mother part of her recognized he was emotionally vulnerable right now and that kissing would probably just exacerbate the situation. (Which, by the way, should she really use the word mother in conjunction with kissing? It seemed wrong . . .)
So she had made the right choice.
But obviously not the funnest. Or the most memorable.
She should
totally get a medal for taking one for the team like this.
Remember that one time when I could have made out with a nineteenth century lord—on horseback, mind you—but I didn’t because his entire world view had collapsed? He was trying to rebuild his internal sense of self, and I didn’t want to mess with his head, so I said, No. Cause I’m just noble like that . . .
Granted, if he gave it some thought and decided he wanted to take her up on the offer . . .
She most certainly didn’t have it in her to say No a third time. A smart girl knew her limits.
He rode closer to where she stood, allowing her to study him. His profile taciturn as ever, but she now knew his eyes went soft and gentle when he was concerned. Twinkled a little more when he was amused. Narrowed when he thought hard about something.
Nothing about him was monolithic, she realized. His hair, though dark, had glints of red in the sun, turning it more dark brown than black. And even though it was barely past noon, he already had hints of a five o’clock shadow creeping in.
So maybe he never fully smiled or frowned. But he still clearly felt all those emotions. You just had to know how to read him.
He nodded to her as he rode past, breaking into a gallop, body moving effortlessly with his mount.
Bing-bing.
Her phone. She pulled it out from her pocket.
Text from Cobra. At last!
Necklace definitely on you at scene of accident. Noted in the police report.
She gasped. A hand instantly at her mouth, feet hopping in joy.
hurrah that’s fantastic
Unconsciously, her hand drifted from her mouth to the necklace around her neck. It was hers. Truly and definitely belonged to her.
So odd to think the pendant with its knot-work design was actually something from her past. Surely it would lead her to her real parents.
“Whatever is the matter?” Timothy’s voice cut in. He rode up, leaning toward her, sounding almost . . . concerned. “I noticed you jumping from across the field.”
She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and hug the stuffing out of him.
“The necklace was found on me at the accident. It’s something from my past life. And Rita can’t have it now no matter what!”
He blinked and then nodded. “That is most excellent news.”
That’s it? That’s all she got?
She pursed her lips. “Please tell me you’re jumping for joy on the inside?”
A pause.
“I am ecstatic.” Total deadpan.
The sad part? He probably was.
Figured.
A couple seconds, and then Cobra’s reply:
Discovering you were wearing a small trinket the night of the accident is hardly a break-through, Miss Fleury.
She deflated.
“Dude. He’s such a kill-joy.”
it’s better than nothing, she texted in reply.
We’ll see. For now, I have no other leads. Could you send me detailed photos of the pendant? Manufacturers’ marks, that sort of thing.
sure but I can tell you right now there are none
just some faint tool marks nothing else
A pause and then—
You said it was gold?
it is gold been wearing it enough years to know that
That was true. Anything fake would have rubbed off by now, but the knot-work still shone bright and new.
All gold would have at minimum a stamp indicating what kind of gold it is, 14k, 24k, etc.
nope nothing like that
Well, send me photos anyway. As detailed as you can make them. There’s gotta be something there.
Jasmine tucked her phone back into her pocket.
“I take it Cobra did not have anything useful to say.” Timothy’s tone was kind as he leaned toward her.
“No. Not really. He just confirmed that I was wearing the necklace when I was found. There are no other hints.”
But at least she had something she knew belonged to her—as much as she could know anything.
“I have faith more information will surface.” He nodded his head toward the pendant. “Someone somewhere at some time gave you a valuable gold charm. That is not the act of an uncaring individual.”
The thought caught in her throat. “Thank you. That is a very . . . kind observation.”
Yes. There had to be a person who had missed the little girl with the expensive pendant.
He studied her for a moment, hands resting across his pommel. “What is that saying you like? Don’t confuse your path with your destination. Just because it’s stormy now, doesn’t mean you aren’t headed for sunshine? Remember that.”
“Right back at you, big guy.”
With a cocky raised eyebrow, he saluted her and whirled his horse, riding off at a gallop.
The view just as excellent going as coming.
Chapter 18
A byroad off the A465
Herefordshire
April 14, 2015
You’re driving too fast”—pause—“again.”
“Madam, I most certainly am not.”
“Are too.”
“I have completed adequate student driving hours and, need I remind you, this vehicle is a precision piece of German engineering. Besides which, it is equipped with Drive Assist Plus. An alarm will sound if I get too close—”
“You spend waaaaay too much time on BMW’s website—”
“The car wishes to go fast. I am merely being politely compliant.”
Jasmine tucked her right foot under her bottom, forcefully sitting on it. It reeeeeeally wanted to brake, but seeing as Timothy was driving . . .
Well, Timothy driving was the problem.
Though she now had definitive proof that an obsession for powerful cars and offensive driving was somehow hardwired into men’s DNA.
He had learned far too quickly. The whole clutching and shifting thing should have thrown him for longer than ninety minutes. In the interest of public safety, James had made him study and pass an online test covering driving rules. After which, Timothy spent several days as a student driver with her on empty back roads.
None of which had phased Lord Linwood. He had passed it all with flying colors. A complete natural.
But, she was starting to realize, he was a genius when it came to mechanical things, in general.
Like bona fide, freakishly, how-the-hell-did-you-do-that smart.
The garbage disposal had jammed and bam. Timothy was there with his phone and tool box. An hour later, she heard the thing purring like a kitten.
He had pulled the entire mechanism apart, diagnosed the problem. (His explanation: A kernel of popcorn caught between the shredder and motor gasket housing . . . she had just nodded and taken his word for it.) He had the entire thing reassembled in less time than it took for her to shower and get dressed.
And like riding a horse or writing in that fancy calligraphy of his, he made it all look so easy.
Though, he had made no more mention of their second almost-kiss. Clearly he had thought about it and decided it was . . . ill-advised, as he would say.
Which was . . . good. It was good. It was a good choice for them both. She had to agree.
Smart. Careful. No need to make things more complicated than they already were—
And if she kept telling herself that, maybe one day she would believe it.
Why hadn’t she kissed him when she had the chance?
It was just . . . he was actually sorta okay company, now that he no longer had all those rules to fixate on.
Scratch that. Fantastic company.
Intelligent. Observant. Nerdy. Dry-witted and sarcastic, but then, who wasn’t?
They spent hours chatting every evening, her laughing so hard she had snorted a toxic amount of Pepsi at one point. Him . . . surely laughing super-duper hard on the inside—though she never got more than an extra-sparkly eye twinkle on the outside. Not that she minded really.
Why did he have
to do the whole sexy, aristocratic brooding thing so well?
Each morning, he would spend a couple hours in the stables-turned-garage behind Duir Cottage working out aggression with Marc’s punching bag. Or he would head over to the stables and go for a bruising ride. The exercise seemingly calmed him, made him ready to tackle the day.
And then he would clean, bless his sweet little heart. The kitchen, the bathrooms, all her incessant messes. He had even discovered the washing machine. She had come downstairs that morning to find all the kitchen linens neatly laundered and folded according to color, the pantry meticulously organized, every can label turned outward, arranged from chicken noodle to vegemite. He had already alphabetized all her sticky note sayings and organized them on the wall opposite the kitchen island.
If he ever decided to give up lording, he could totally have a career as a domestic HGTV maven. Martha Stewart-esque. Still dripping condescension but with the addition of a posh accent and chiseled abs. Guaranteed must-see-TV.
For her part, Jasmine continued to sketch the mural. The figures were coming together nicely, but she needed something more specific for the background. Hence today’s excursion down to Wales, trying again for Caerleon.
No more word from Cobra about the pendant, but it had continued to show up in her dreams.
Trees. Fog rolling in.
Hurry. She needed to hurry. They were waiting for her.
She sprinted forward. A golden tendril curved around her ankles in greeting and then spooled off into the fog. Pleading, urging her on.
In the distance, she could hear a fountain, water chiming. The giddy laughter of a young girl.
Oh, if only they would wait for her! She needed to reach the courtyard.
The shimmery ribbons swirled. Whirling, spinning. Twining into a dara knot, criss-crossed.
Pulsing, waiting.
Jasmine shook her head. Why did the tendrils keep forming a dara knot in her dreams? Why the sense of urgency? Was it a message of some kind? Or just her poor, overworked brain wanting so desperately for the pendant to be the link to her family?