As carefully as she could, Carolly tried to open the window. No go. "Come on, you stupid piece of eighteenth century architecture. Open up!" Carolly tugged and pulled, pushed and rattled, nearly losing her balance half a dozen times, but the window refused to budge.
"Margaret . . . I mean Mags, wake up. I'm freezing out here."
"Crrook!" added the frog.
Carolly rapped on the window. "Please, please, wake up."
Nothing. And to her total frustration, the breeze increased, rattling panes up and down the house. If Margaret did hear something, she'd assume it was the weather.
Carolly knocked harder. "Come on, Mags. Any louder, and I'll have Miss Hornswooper on me. Or worse yet, your uncle—"
"Have you lost your mind!" James's stentorian tones rang out above the mournful sound of the wind.
Carolly spun around, flattening herself against the window as she tried to become invisible. She couldn't, of course—and even if she could, James wasn't the type to forget what he'd seen.
"Get back inside this instant!" he bellowed at her from below.
Carolly looked down to see James standing on the stone walkway, hands on his hips. He glared up at her. What a disaster! Not only had she failed to wake up Margaret, but she'd been caught, too. Carolly leaned forward, letting her frustration seep into her words. "Can't I do anything without you constantly interfering? Why don't you just go to bed like a normal person?"
"Good God, woman, get back against that window. Do you want to die?"
"I'm already dead!"
"Then be so good as to lie down in a grave and stop confusing the rest of us!"
Carolly was so startled by his unexpected humor that her bad mood evaporated. Or perhaps it had something to do with how handsome he looked. For the first time ever, she was seeing James in something less than formal attire. He'd pulled off his cravat, and his shirt front was slightly unbuttoned. Even his dark hair had been tossed by the wind until it curled in reckless disarray about his face. Add to that the loving touches of moonlight, and he looked something like a pirate from a romance novel.
It softened her heart to look at him, and she couldn't help but smile.
"Carolly, please."
She heard anguish in his voice, and she bit her lip in consternation. "Please what?"
"Get inside!"
"Oh." She glanced back at the window. "I can't," she told him. "The window's locked and Mags won't wake up. I've got to slide back to my room."
"You shall do no such thing! Do not move. I will open the window."
"No! You can't just barge into Mags's room. She'll never forgive me. Ten-year-olds are very sensitive about their privacy."
"Privacy? Do you mean to tell me you really crawled around to visit Margaret?" He took a deep breath. "Did you find the hallway impassable?”
Carolly chuckled. "Of course not. But I did promise to walk along the ledge to her window. She won't wake up, though. I had no idea she was such a deep sleeper."
"She is not. She sleeps across the hall."
Carolly stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded. "Oh," she said softly, glancing back inside at the dark room. "That's probably why this room looks so neat."
"It is also why the window's locked," he said dryly.
Carolly nodded. "Makes sense."
"I am glad something does. Now stay put. I shall be there directly."
"Wouldn't you rather just catch me as I fell into your arms?" she called. The romantic image had definite appeal.
"If you try, I shall let you plummet to your death."
"Hmmm." She eased down until she sat on the edge, her legs dangling over the precipice as if she were preparing to jump. "An interesting thought. Would you, the most honorable, chivalrous person I know, actually let me fall?"
"Without a doubt." And with that, he started toward the house.
Carolly felt something wriggling in her dress. "Wait!"
He stopped dead, then moved back to see her better. "Is there something wrong? I mean, other than the obvious."
"Uh." She paused. "Catch."
"What?"
She didn't give him time to object. "Just don't drop it, okay?" She hauled the hapless frog out of her pocket and as gently as possible let it drop.
"Croooak!"
"What the—?” He nabbed it neatly out of the air.
"Don't squeeze!"
"Ugh! This is a toad!"
Carolly leaned further out over the edge. "Really? I thought it was a frog. How can you tell the difference?"
"This type of toad gives off a noxious smelling poison when frightened." He glared up at her. "Like when it is dropped two stories."
"Oh." She watched in silence as he lowered the poor thing into a nearby bush; then she called: "He'll be all right there, won't he? I mean, I'd hate to have to tell Margaret that I'd killed her fr—her toad."
James carefully wiped his hands on a handkerchief. "I would think you might be more worried about whether I'm about to die from the poison."
She looked at him in surprise. "You're not serious, are you? You're not really poisoned." The idea of that made Carolly ill.
"No, I am hagridden by a woman determined to take me back to Bedlam with her."
She decided to ignore his rude comment, even though it hurt. He was surely just frustrated by her whimsical nature. But he needed to be loosened up. "Maybe you should go wash your hands just to be sure."
He sighed and looked back up at her. "I shall be there in a moment. Do not under any circumstance move from that location."
She smiled at his softened tone. "Take all the time you need."
He paused, mid-step. "I am quite serious, Carolly. Not an inch."
"I'm a stone statue."
"If only that were true. Then I could put you out in the garden with the toads and be done with it." Then he disappeared. A moment later, she heard him enter the house.
Carolly smiled and leaned back against the window pane behind her. She felt totally at ease now that she wouldn't have to cross the ivy back to her bedroom, not to mention sweetly reassured at the thought of James coming for her. Despite his gruff words, she knew he would do whatever he could to get her safely inside.
She sighed happily and let her eyes travel over the scenery. There was something ethereal about an English garden bathed in moonlight. She took a deep breath, drawing it all in: the smells, the sights, even the taste of the breeze. Then she closed her eyes and imagined herself with a lover, a handsome man with dark tousled hair who stole kisses from her beneath a silver-tipped bough.
It was enough to set even a dead woman's heart fluttering.
Then James was there, behind her, softly rapping on the glass to get her attention.
She turned and smiled. For a moment she believed her fantasy. For a desperate second, she looked at James with all the longing and secret passion she'd thought she'd buried long ago. What would it be like to love?
***
Inside, James stood transfixed. Never in his life had he seen anything so beautiful as the woman poised just outside the window. Her hair was a golden brown, but in the moonlight it became a halo of liquid honey and light. Her gown was gray, but the wind molded it to her curves, outlining her delicate frame, her sweet breasts.
Looking at her face, he gasped. Why had he not noticed her eyes before? They were a very dark blue with tiny gold flecks like fine grains of sand stirred up from the bottom of a deep pool.
He touched the thin pane separating them, and she mirrored his movement. Their fingers were separated by the cool glass, but a part of him knew he touched her, just as a part of her touched him.
"Hold tight," he warned, his voice thick with desire. "I shall open the window."
He waited until she had grabbed two fistfuls of ivy to anchor herself, then carefully, slowly, he pushed open the window. She arched backward to let it swing wide, and he forgot to breathe as he watched her hang out over the stone below.
"Give me your hand." Much to his surp
rise, she obeyed immediately, flattening up to the window as she peered through.
The sill came to just below her breasts, and, as she leaned in, the fabric pulled taut over her body. Her nipples were puckered from the cold, and he could feel his body respond to the sight.
"You'll have to help me," she breathed. "I'm afraid I'll slip if I try to jump on this ivy." She looked up at him, and his whole body throbbed with protective instinct.
"At least you have some sense," he commented. Making a swift decision, he stepped forward and grasped her ribcage just below her arms. Then he braced himself as best he could and pulled her in.
She felt so soft in his hands, so delicate. But there were muscles beneath her curves, muscles that held him while together they maneuvered her inside. She pressed against him, her breasts flush with his chest. He could smell the fresh scent of the heather outside mixed with the heady scent of her.
She had almost cleared the window, so he stepped backward to drag her across the opening. Then it happened. His bad knee gave out, and he stumbled as he tried to shift their weight completely to his other leg. The strain was too much, their balance too precarious.
He went down, and she tumbled on top of him.
She might have banged her head, but he held her solidly against his chest. She might have braced herself with her hands, stopping their rolling tumble, but he pinned her against him and allowed their movement to carry him over on top of her. They ended with his hips and most of his weight to one side, with his bad leg and his arms resting firmly atop her.
"Why, James," she teased. "This is all so sudden." But her smile faded when he did not respond. Just moments before he had been fantasizing about capturing her beneath him; now fate had literally placed her there. He was not about to lose this opportunity.
Supporting himself on his elbow, he looked at her, enjoying the fresh blush of her cheeks and the sparkling clarity of her eyes. He had to touch her. He'd been denying himself too long. And she seemed willing. Using his free hand, he touched her face, gently brushing a curl away from her eyes. Her skin felt soft, like angel down, surrounded by short gossamer strands of spun gold.
"What a crime to crop your hair so short."
"What?" Her response was breathy and almost inaudible, and he felt it pass his cheek on a whisper of air.
"The poets say a woman's hair is her crowning glory. Who cut yours so short?" He played with it, drawing the silky stands over his fingers, delighting in the feel of each lock as it tickled the back of his hand.
She tried to pull away, but he would not release her. Not before he had explored the smooth planes of her face. Not until he had tasted the ruby bow of her lips. But as he leaned forward, he felt her skin flush with new heat. Looking down, he witnessed her enchanting blush.
"Carolly?” he whispered.
"In one of my past incarnations, I had to pass myself off as a boy. It was a bloody mess trying to get all that hair into a cap, so I cut it off. I've kept it short ever since."
He felt his eyes widen in shock. Though his attention had been focused on her face, he could not deny the exquisite feel of her left breast pressed intimately against his chest, its point a tiny pebble of heat. Lower down he felt the yielding indent of her waist before the hard flare of her hipbone.
"How could anyone mistake you for a boy?" he asked, his voice already thick with desire.
Her blush deepened, and he decided he liked the idea that he could affect her. "I, uh, I didn't do it often and not for very long."
"I should say not." He let his fingers pull away from her hair to trail across her soft cheek and gently caress her full lips. "Your curves are decidedly feminine."
He would kiss her now. He knew it with a profound sense of inevitability. No force on earth would prevent him. And so he lowered his head to touch his mouth to hers, but she shifted beneath him, her long body sensitizing his with her every movement.
"Uh, James. I think you better get off now." Her voice remained breathy, and he could hear the regret in her voice. She wanted his kiss as much as he wanted to give it. And yet, inherent modesty forced her to twist her hips away from him, to push at his shoulders. She could not know that her very movements inflamed him all the more.
He pressed his bad knee downward to hold her steady. God, to feel a woman beneath him again, warm and lovely and aching for his touch. She moaned slightly, a desperate, hungry sound of both surrender and desire. All he required for completion was motion, so he lowered his head and at last touched his lips to hers.
Lord, she tasted sweet. Innocence and wonder were pale descriptions of his feelings at their first tentative touch. He felt Carolly's mouth tremble beneath his, even as her entire body seemed to soften, surrounding him in heat and beauty.
"I can't do this," she whispered. But her mouth clung to his, her hands trailed upwards to stroke his arms, his back.
"It's just a kiss," he lied. "One, single, sweet . . ." His lips descended again, and this time he opened her mouth with his tongue, exploring deeper. He felt his blood surge as he began to take control, his mouth slanting more fully over hers, his body angling between her thighs, opening her to his touch, encouraging her surrender.
He went too fast. He knew it and so did she, and he felt her stiffen beneath him. "No!" she cried. "I can't!" Then she tried to shove him away. But he was too heavy, his bulk too much for her slender frame.
He shifted, twisting to remove his weight from her. But as he did so, she jostled him and his bad leg strained to support his weight. Suddenly it slipped, slamming him down onto the hard wood floor with just enough force in just the right place to completely immobilize him. Pain sliced through his limb like a hot nail had been driven deep through his kneecap.
"Lie still," he gasped, his voice harsh. He tried to lift himself up, but his muscles locked up and her every breath jostled him further, bringing fresh waves of torment.
Unfortunately, she thought he was continuing to take advantage of her. "Get off, James."
"I cannot."
"Then let me help you." She abruptly shifted her leg out from under him, unwittingly wrenching his knee again as she did.
"Caroaiiiiiiee!"
"James?" She tried to sit up, and he obliged her by rolling backwards, nearly fainting from the shooting bolts of anguish.
"My knee," he managed to gasp.
"Oh, God, you really are hurt. What happened?”
"I injured my knee . . . in Spain." Shallow, panting breaths kept the worst of the pain at bay.
"Oh, Lord," Carolly moaned. "That's why we fell down. You have a bad knee!"
He opened his eyes, trying to keep his breathing steady. "I apologize for accosting . . ." His words faded as fresh waves of agony punished him. Nevertheless, he forced himself to roll onto his side, intending to stand up and apologize for his heinous actions in the proper manner. His leg did not cooperate. "Damn," he grunted.
"What are you doing? Lie still!"
"I should not have done that," he responded through clenched teeth.
"What can I do?" She was frantically looking about the room. Suddenly, she jumped up and grabbed a pillow from the bed. "You shouldn't have pulled me in the window. I could have made it myself."
"I have insulted you," he began again, but she wasn't listening. Instead, she focused on sliding the pillow beneath his knee.
At last she said, "It's God's way of punishing you, you know. For being so macho." She stood again, reaching into the bed curtains for another pillow.
He shook his head. "It is the Lord's way of telling me I should not kiss lunatics," he snapped.
She was lifting his head, intending to slide the second pillow beneath, but she froze at his words. He watched her eyes, and he saw them grow glittery as they filled with tears. "Oh God, you're right. Oh, James, I'm so sorry." She set his head down on the pillow. "I won't let it happen again."
"What are you talking about?" The pain was subsiding into an aching throb of misery, and the whole experience had
made him curt and irritable. "You should be demanding my apologies," he said.
"Shhh. Don't try to talk."
"Damn, woman, I—"
"I said, shut up!"
He stared at her, torn between shock at her tone and amusement that she was trying to keep him silent because of a knee injury. But then she leaned over him and brushed a lock of hair from his brow, and he forgot everything. He gazed into the deep swirling pools of her eyes.
"I'm well aware that in your culture a woman is responsible for her own virtue," she said.
Her words took a while to reach his brain, but when they did, they made him furious. He jerked away from her touch and glared at her. "Do not be ridiculous. I tried to take advantage of you, and I most heartily beg your forgiveness for such reprehens—"
"Shhh." She pressed her fingers against his lips, but he shook them off.
"I will not be quiet. I was in the midst of begging—"
"My forgiveness. I know." Then she dropped her hand into her lap and regarded him silently. He tried to shift to see her expression more clearly, but a sharp pain in his knee kept him still. When he finally could see her, he wondered at the strange expression on her face. She seemed remote, as if she were afraid he would see too much of her thoughts. Compared to the openness he usually felt with her, her current lack of expression was like a bucket of ice water in the face.
"What has happened?” he asked. "What are you thinking?”
"James," she began, speaking slowly as though carefully weighing her words. "Do you often force yourself on unwilling servant girls or unprotected guests?”
He stiffened in outrage. "Of course not!"
"Then, I was your first?"
"Madame, this conversation is highly improper!"
"So is trying to force yourself on me," she responded tartly. "Now answer my question."
He lifted his head off the floor, but she pushed him back onto the pillow. "I was not forcing you," he snapped. "You only needed to say no!"
"So, which is it, James? Am I responsible for my own actions or not? If you weren't forcing me, then I must have been willing. And it was just a kiss."
"But—"
"I was willing, James." Her eyes darkened. "It's been so long. And for the first time in forever, I felt . . ." She gestured vaguely with her hand. "Womanly." She touched his cheek. "Alive." Her fingers trailed longingly over his lips. "I let myself get carried away. I'm so sorry. It won't happen again."
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