Claiming His Defiant Miss. Bronwyn Scott
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of birth and class and social status, something she had argued didn’t matter...until the end when it suddenly had. Liam said nothing. He reached for her basket and she raised a brow as if to say ‘now you choose to play the gentleman?’ They finished her errands in terse silence and made their way to where Charon was tethered. He cupped his hands, ready to toss her up. But May hesitated.
‘C’mon, May.’ He gave her a grin, daring her, even though it broke his personal promise to remain objective. She was just a job these days. But if that was true, why did he keep tempting himself with pleasurable reminders that it hadn’t always been this way. ‘Surely you remember how well we rode together?’
‘I remember,’ May said tersely, her chin set stubbornly. He could see she wanted to refuse, but she put her foot in his hands and hauled herself up anyway, refusing to be outdared. Liam wisely made no comment and swung up behind her.
* * *
She hated how he could do that. How did he know? Of all the memories she had of him, how was it he could hone in on one of her favourites? May felt him settle into the saddle, his strong legs encasing her in the vee of his thighs. She should have argued to ride behind him. Then she’d be the one wrapping arms around his waist. Now he was the one doing the wrapping with his one arm about her as he held the reins, his thighs about her, her body drawn against him, back to chest, buttocks to groin. Riding before him was far too intimate, although once she’d revelled in stealing such intimacy. It had been her first taste of a man. She didn’t want to remember. She pulled her shawl more tightly about her. It had been summer then, a day far warmer than this chilly November afternoon...
‘Faster!’ she had cried, throwing her arms wide and lifting her face to the sun as they raced across the meadow, Liam’s arm tight about her as the dark stallion surged beneath them.
‘Hold on, May!’ Liam’s voice warned in her ear, but she didn’t care. She was safe with him. He would never let her fall. She had a fast horse beneath her and Liam Casek mounted behind her, what more did she need? This was heaven.
At the edge of the meadow where the flat run gave out to a copse of tall oaks, Liam swung down and held his arms up for her, his hands strong and steady at her waist. May knew what she wanted. She’d barely touched the ground before she grabbed him by the hand, dragging him into the little woods behind her, but it was he who pressed her against the trunk of a sturdy oak and kissed her, hard and open-mouthed, his body pressed to hers, pulsing with life.
She’d not imagined a kiss could be so full-bodied, that it could make a person feel immortal, as though they could take on the world, do anything. Now that she knew, she wanted to feel that way again and again. Her arms were about his neck, holding him close, her hands in his long dark hair, the hair her father hated and had offered to have his valet cut. She was glad Liam had refused. She loved Liam’s hair, loved dragging her hands through it, anchoring her fingers in it as he took her mouth.
His hips moved against her in honest suggestion, the hardness of him evident through breeches and skirts. There was no reason to hide anything they felt from one another, not their feelings, not their bodies. They were one in this burning, consuming passion that made life so much brighter—that brought the edges of slow, lazy summer days into sharper relief. Her hand dropped between them to the source of his hardness, tracing it through his breeches, cupping it in her hand until he groaned.
‘If you keep that up, May, you’ll bring me off in my trousers.’ His mouth was at her neck, his breath coming hard between his words.
She was powerful and coy in her response. ‘I’d like to do that.’ She laughed. He bit her neck in playful retaliation and she yelped.
‘And I’d like to bite you some more, but we don’t dare leave any marks your father will see,’ Liam cautioned with a wicked smile before stealing a short kiss from her lips. ‘One more kiss, May, and then we have to go. The others will be looking for us.’ Only Preston had seen them slip away from the picnic. Her father had settled into a post-picnic nap and her mother and the neighbour’s wife had wandered down to the lake.
‘Only one more?’ Her arms were back around his neck, her tone teasing and light. ‘Make it a good one, then.’ She cocked her head, her tone slightly more serious. ‘Or maybe I should? This time, let me kiss you.’
Liam gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I thought that’s what you had been doing.’
She dropped half-lidded eyes to his mouth. ‘You know what I mean. Let me start it this time. I want to kiss you.’ She brushed her mouth across his, slowly at first, letting her tongue trace the contours of his lips, coaxing his mouth to open. They’d got much better at this since that first kiss in the stables. She liked this slow, languorous kissing as much as she liked the heated madness of the others, the sensual exploration of being in his mouth, of tasting the sweet remnants of lemonade on his tongue. She let her mouth say all the things she didn’t have words for yet in this new heady world of Liam Casek and stolen kisses. Forbidden kisses.
May was not oblivious. If there was one blight in May’s perfect world it was that this had to be hidden. Her father could never know about this. He tolerated Preston bringing this friend along. He even understood this was an opportunity to do some good for a young man with potential who’d been born into poverty. However, he would never condone that young man kissing his daughter, no matter how much potential he had and heaven forbid he find out his daughter had put her hand on an Irishman. She was meant for far greater men...
In retrospect, the beginning had been quite nearly the end as well. Maybe there had never been any hope, their passion ill fated from the start, only they’d been too naïve to see it. But for a while the illusion had been nice. More than nice. There were still nights when she lay awake, wanting to feel that way again, free and immortal, even knowing those feelings were part of an illusion, part of something unsustainable. In the end, he had left her.
Liam brought the horse to a halt in front of the cottage and leapt off, taking her perfunctorily by the waist to help her down. There was no boyish exuberance on his part and there was no grabbing of his hand and dragging him off for a kiss on hers, further proof the wounds they’d given one another had been deep and lasting.
‘I need to check on Beatrice and get supper started or we won’t eat until nine o’clock,’ May excused herself and hurried inside. Those wounds would never go away. They were scabbed over, a thick outer layer of protection. But scabs could be picked, if they weren’t careful, and those wounds could be exposed. The wisest course of action here would be to tread carefully. The afternoon had shown her that much.
Being close to him had conjured up memories best left undisturbed and, oh, how easily they’d been conjured! It was as if they lay just beneath the surface instead of buried deep down. May tied on her apron and reached determinedly for the round of bread dough. She gave it a thorough punch and began kneading. If she was going to survive the next two months, avoidance would be her best policy.
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