by CJ Archer
***
Susanna dismissed Bessie from her bedchamber and watched her leave through the adjoining parlor where Holt was laying a blanket over the mattress he'd carried in moments before. Hendricks wasn't so easy to remove. He hovered in the doorway, a stern expression giving his wrinkles extra depth.
"Good night, Hendricks," she said. "You may go now."
But it was Holt who walked out. "Forgot the pillow," he said, heading to the guest bedchamber.
Hendricks crossed his arms. "I'll wait here awhile, m'lady. Just until he's asleep."
She sighed. "Hendricks, it's all right. Mr. Holt has proved himself trustworthy. If he wanted to harm me, he'd have done so when we were alone in the garden."
"I'm not worried about him harming you," he muttered.
Nor was she. She suspected she was in more danger of being seduced than harmed.
She squeezed his arm. "Go now. Blow out the lamps on the landing on your way down."
He didn’t move for several beats, but eventually he bid her good night, followed by a loud huff directed at Holt as they passed on the landing.
"Should I be worried that he'll stab me in my sleep?" Holt asked, throwing the pillow onto the mattress then squaring up to her. Goodness, he was tall and solid. The muscles in his upper arms bulged beneath his shirt sleeves and his shoulders were so wide.
"I would lend you some of the old family armor for protection, but I'm afraid you'll find it uncomfortable for sleeping."
"Such unexpected kindness, thank you."
"Unexpected? I'll have you know I've been very kind to you so far. I gave you a job despite your lack of skill with orange trees and your impertinence, I allowed you to pull out my weeds, and I've let you sleep on my floor on the best guest mattress."
"It is a good mattress," he said, taking a step toward her in a move that reminded her of a predator stalking its prey. Deliberate. Stealthy. Primal.
Her housecoat suddenly felt too tight across her chest.
"And the rushes smell nice," she said, somewhat pathetically. She should move away. Should get out of his presence before she was sucked in.
Too late.
"Speaking of nice smelling things..." He breathed deeply.
"Are you sniffing me, Mr. Holt?"
"I prefer to think of it as drawing in the scent of you. Is that the orange blossoms I can smell?"
"Yes. I sometimes add dried ones to my bathing water."
"Interesting," he murmured, not sounding in the least bit interested. He took another step closer so that he was mere inches away, and regarded her with smoky, half-hooded eyes. "Delicious."
"I, uh... Pardon? What's delicious? The oranges?" Good lord, thinking had just become the most difficult activity. Thinking and breathing, quickly followed by talking. Those three things were greatly over-rated in her book. Much better to touch. And taste.
"I've never tasted oranges." His voice whispered across her skin, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake in the form of goosebumps.
"You should," she heard herself say. This brazen woman was not her, did not sound like her, could not be her. Not after everything she'd learned from her two husbands and swearing off men forever.
And yet...and yet...
He lifted his hand to her face but did not touch her. His fingers hovered near her cheek, as if he were too afraid to put skin on skin, as if he were unsure whether he wanted to set off the avalanche of emotions that would inevitably follow.
It wasn't clear who moved the fraction required to close the gap. Perhaps she leaned in, or he stretched his fingers. His touch sent a shock through her body, made every part of her hum with awareness of him, of his masculinity, his power and beauty. She'd thought he had an innocent, boyish look about him when they first met, but not now. Now she'd wager there was nothing innocent on his mind.
There was nothing innocent on hers either.
No matter how wrong, how foolish, she had to keep going. Had to. She could no more stop what was about to happen than she could hold back that avalanche with her bare hands. In the back of her mind, way back in a dark, cramped corner, she knew they were making a mistake. But there was no chance of that thought escaping its prison when he touched her with such delicacy and looked at her like she was something wondrous. Like he could see past her face and right into her heart.
His thumb brushed along her jaw to the corner of her mouth. His other hand cupped her cheek.
Then he kissed her. Softly, carefully, as if she were a skittish deer and he was afraid of startling her. She wasn't in the least startled. She was alive and on fire, utterly aware of every part of her body and of the nearness of his. She reached up and did something she'd wanted to do ever since he'd walked into her life—wrapped her fingers as far around his arms as they could go and relished the ripple of muscle and sinew.
Deep down, a knot unraveled inside her.
Then he broke the kiss.
No!
He groaned and stepped back, dropped into a crouch, and busied himself with the blanket. Then she heard it too. Footsteps coming up the stairs. She pulled her housecoat closer and scrambled to gather up her scattered wits to greet the servant who thought she needed rescuing.
It was Bessie, holding two cups in one hand and a candle in the other. She paused in the doorway and her jaw went slack as she regarded Susanna first then Holt. Her eyes widened and the cups tilted at a dangerous angle.
"I brought you both warm milk," she said. "I...we...we thought you might like some." She held out the cups. Susanna took hers, but Holt didn't look up from his task. Bessie set his cup down on a table near the door. "Is there anything else, m'lady?"
Susanna shook her head. She didn't quite trust her voice, and so Bessie left without hearing a word of thanks. When her footsteps had finally faded, Holt stopped his fussing. He turned and regarded her over his shoulder. She'd expected to see the remnants of smoldering desire in his eyes but instead his expression deadened her heartbeat. He looked like a hunted man.
Somehow, she found her voice. "We shouldn't have." It hurt to say the words, and they almost stuck in her throat, but she forced them out. It had to be said. Now that the first reckless flush of passion had faded and her mind was working again, the foolishness of their kiss became apparent. It had unleashed things inside her that should forever remain bound.
"I know," he said, heavily. He was still crouching, one hand on the rushes for balance.
"It was a mistake."
The incline of his head was so small she almost missed it. "I know."
She held her cup to her chest with both hands and returned to her bedchamber. As the door clicked closed behind her, she wondered what had happened to turn Orlando Holt from predator to prey in mere moments.