Make Her Wish Come True Collection. Ann Lethbridge
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The heat in Mr Royston’s expression had been annoyance at being thwarted.
When it came to women, it was her experience that men wanted everything their own way. Women were simply bargaining chips in their games of power. And when things did not go as planned, they turned unpleasant and vindictive. As her brother had, when she refused her first offer of marriage. He’d painted a pretty ugly picture of her future as his dependant. And as her husband had, when he discovered that even an earl could not guarantee his precious son the entry into polite society he wanted. No woman should trust a man to use his power wisely.
As a widow, she had the freedom to make her own decisions, to choose her own course of action. And she had managed very nicely, too.
She peered into the bottom of the tin pot standing in hot water over the fire in the little lean-to stable the girls had come to call her potting shed. Enough wax remained for a few small moulded candles and then her supply would be finished.
‘Good afternoon,’ a beautifully modulated male voice said.
She jumped and turned around. ‘Mr Royston?’
Looming. Over her. Her recollections had not played her false. In this small space, the man was disconcertingly tall and uncomfortably wide across the shoulders. He made her feel small, almost dainty. A most disconcerting sensation. He stared around him with obvious curiosity. While his face was too rugged to be called handsome in the common way, she was once again struck silly by his fierce manly beauty. She was also surprised to discover that the eyes she’d thought dark were a striking shade of emerald. Her stomach gave a jolt.
She bristled against the strange reaction. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Are you ready?’
Her glance flew to the clock on the mantel. It wanted two minutes to two. Dash it, she had lost track of the hours. She had promised the girls she would return to the cottage well before the appointed time of their outing. ‘I won’t be but a moment. We will meet you in the lane.’ Not exactly polite, but she was a single female and did not want any misunderstandings.
He ignored her hint, strolling around like a predator looking for prey, or the representative of a landlord looking for signs of neglect. Hands behind his back, he stared at the racks of candles suspended above his head. ‘So those are your hives in the lower meadow.’
Not a question. ‘Sir Josiah gave me permission.’ Oh, dear sweet periwinkles, if the new owner refused permission to use the field, she would need a new home for her bees. No easy matter, when he owned all of the land within walking distance. ‘I paid for the privilege in candles and honey. He thought the bees helpful for his orchards.’
Royston met her gaze with a frown. ‘Are these for your own use?’
As if she could afford such luxury. She lifted her chin. ‘Mr Driver sells the remainder of the candles and honey at the market in town.’
‘Hmm.’ He gave her a considering look. ‘Should we be going?’
She blinked at his rapid change of topic and brusque tone. ‘First I must remove the pot from the hearth and bank the fire.’
‘Allow me.’
Before she could protest, he had intruded himself between her and the fire and swung the crane clear of the dying embers.
Silently she handed him the rag she used as a pot holder.
‘Where do you want it?’ he asked, lifting the container with ease.
‘Outside to cool. I will deal with it later.’
He despatched the task quickly, while she untied her apron. Only to discover the tapes had become knotted somewhere in the small of her back.
After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped closer and once again she was aware of his impressive height and breadth. ‘Can I help?’ He pulled off his gloves to reveal large male hands, elegant hands, and not at all work roughened, like hers. A gentleman’s gentleman did not engage in rough work like gardening and candle-making.
She must either give him her permission or she must cut the ties and be forced to mend them later. She turned her back. ‘Thank you.’
Warmth radiated from him as his fingers busied at her back. Her insides fluttered each time his hands brushed against her gown. She forced herself to stand passively while he teased at the knot.
‘There,’ he said, stepping back.
She turned with a smile. ‘Thank you.’ Her breath caught in her throat at the intensity of his gaze. A veiled glance that took in not only her face, but her full length. Most men were usually intimidated by her height, but not this one apparently and her skin tingled with female awareness.
Brilliant green eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Do you need help taking it off?’
Oh, mercy, she was standing here like some besotted schoolgirl instead of a widowed lady of a certain age. She slipped the apron strings over her head, only to have him take it from her hand.
He leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers. A whisper of a kiss that had fire racing up her face to her hair line and her feet stumbling backwards.
He caught her upper arms in those strong capable hands with a smile that dazzled.
Her heart fluttered wildly. Her hand went to her throat.
‘Steady, Mrs Melford,’ he said, his voice deep and rich with laughter. ‘We don’t want you tumbling into the fire.’ He released her the moment he ascertained she had her feet firmly beneath her.
As firm as they were going to be around this man, since her knees were still misbehaving after his kiss. ‘Mr Royston…’ she began severely. ‘You are not to take such liberties with my person. Indeed—’
He glanced upwards and she followed his gaze.
Saints preserve her, she’d been standing beneath a beribboned bouquet of mistletoe. So that was why the girls had been giggling when she caught them coming out of her shed this morning. Lucy must have climbed on a chair to tie it to the beam. Naughty girl.
He reached up and plucked a berry as tradition demanded, tucking it into his inside breast pocket.
Heavens, the man was wonderfully tall. The wind taken quite from her sails, she fought for words. ‘You will await me outside, sir,’ she said in her best reproving-the-children voice.
He bowed. ‘Certainly, ma’am.’
The moment he closed the door she sank down onto the stool and propped her forehead on her hand. What was wrong with her? Was she really so lonely, so needful of male company she would fall for the first man to give her so winsome a smile? She should never have accepted his offer to escort them.
She took a deep breath, damped down the fire and went outside. He wasn’t, thank heavens, standing outside her back door expecting her to invite him into her cottage. It would only need a villager passing by on the way to Padminton, their nearest town, for the same sort of gossip that had occurred when someone spotted Sir Josiah leaving her cottage to spring up all over again. She hurried indoors.
Adam swallowed a rueful laugh. Those little girls had caught him nicely when he knocked on the front door. He should have known the prim and starchy Mrs Melford would not have been part of a game to extract a kiss under the mistletoe. She hadn’t even known it was there. And yet he couldn’t regret the sweet contact of his lips with hers, the lovely scent of her, warm beeswax and roses. It was like summer on a wintery day.
He should apologise, but likely it would only make things worse. Besides, he did not feel sorry. Not the least little bit. He felt more aroused than he had for a very long time. Still, he had no business flirting with a respectable widow. One slip and he’d find himself being marched to the altar by her or by some ambitious relative.
Not that he suspected Mrs Melford of being some scheming chit on the hunt for a husband. Quite the opposite. She wasn’t worldly enough to have deliberately stood