Part 23 (1/2)
”Doubts? No. Nothing like that.”
”You were thinking about us. About our kisses. What to do. Is it too much? Is it too little? I see your face, Roza, and I know.”
Good G.o.d, he can read my mind.
”You think too much.” He reached out to capture the edges of her cloak, pulling her toward him. ”I see it in your eyes all of the time-doubt this, doubt that, question this, question that.”
Did she do that? Should she stop? Was it bad that she didn't wish to live an unexamined life? Perhaps- He laughed softly. ”See? You are doing it now.”
”I suppose I do worry about things. Don't you?”
”At times. But never with you.” He looked surprised he'd admitted such a thing, but he quickly recovered. ”Under normal circ.u.mstances, I would let time settle the questions in your mind, but we do not have time, we two.”
Bronwyn found it hard to swallow. ”You . . . you will be leaving soon.”
”A week maybe, but not much longer. Too soon, Roza. So when I see that frown in your eyes, I know I must say something.”
”You don't need to say a thing; this was never meant to last. It's merely a flirtation.” That's all it is, a very potent, very heady flirtation. One I will miss dearly. The realization caught her by surprise, and her heart ached with it.
”Do not look so, Roza.” He tugged her closer. ”You must fight those voices.”
”Which voices?”
”The little ones that whisper in the night that you should not trust me, should not be with me-do not let them claim you. We will vanquish them with kisses and laughter, living in the moment like the Romany. No one is happier than they.”
She shook her head. ”But we Scots are the opposite. While your Romany can pack up and move on if things are not as they like, the Scots dig into rocky hillsides and build stone castles so they may stay for centuries. Living in the moment feels wrong. It is against my blood.”
His lashes obscured his expression as he ran his finger down her cheek. ”You Scots do love your castles.”
She s.h.i.+vered at his touch. ”We plan for winters, because we must. And since meeting you, I've realized that I must plan for mine.”
He slipped his arms around her as he smiled into her eyes. ”You are far from your winter years, Roza. Today, we have suns.h.i.+ne, soft gra.s.s to cus.h.i.+on us, books to read, and . . . other pleasurable things.”
She fought the lure of his words. He's supposed to desire me unto madness-not the other way around. I cannot forget that.
Yet when he bent to kiss her, she instantly lifted on her toes to meet him, her eyes closed as his mouth descended on her and- He pulled back.
She opened her eyes.
He sniffed.
Ah! The rosemary! Holding her breath, she waited.
He sniffed again. ”Is it an herb, nyet?”
She nodded, smiling shyly. ”Rosemary.”
”The cook at Tulloch puts it in turtle soup.”
Her smile faltered. She smelled like a turtle? Not a fragrant loaf of bread, but a turtle? ”Surely you've smelled it in some other dishes, too. Bread, perhaps?”
He shook his head.
”In a delicious stew, then? Something savory and warm?”
He released her cloak. ”In my country, we throw rosemary onto graves.”
She just looked at him, appalled.
”That seems odd to you, nyet? Rosemary keeps fresh the . . . How do you say-?” He tapped his forehead. ”Thoughts about times no longer here.”
”Memories?”
”Da! Rosemary keeps fresh the memories of the dead.”
Lovely. She smelled like a turtle and the grave.
”Why do you smell of rosemary?” he asked.
”Oh. I was helping Mrs. Pitcairn in the kitchen. She was grinding rosemary to brush on a loaf of bread and, ah, I must have spilled some on my gown.” She stepped away from him, hoping he couldn't see her heated cheeks. ”Perhaps we should read for a while.” Bronwyn gathered her cloak and sat, scooting to one side to make room for him.
He joined her, sitting too close, his thigh pressed against hers, which felt far too good. ”Alexsey, the rosemary . . . it won't bother you?”
”I like the rosemary. You smell like the forest.”
She brightened. That was much better. Now, whenever he walked in the woods, he would think of her. Of course, he'd also think about her whenever he ate turtle soup or attended a funeral, which wasn't ideal, but it was better than nothing. Not bad for a pinch of herb.
He s.h.i.+fted, his broad shoulder against her arm.
”I'm sorry. Do you need more room?”
A wicked light warmed his gaze. ”With you, I always want more-especially kisses.”
She found herself looking at his mouth, wis.h.i.+ng-No. Not yet. She s.h.i.+fted away. ”Perhaps after we've read a bit.”
”When you decide you wish for a kiss, just tell me. I will wait.” He leaned against the tree and looked around. The leaves played in the breeze as the stream bubbled by. The three dogs slept in the sun, leaves tumbling by. ”I like this. I cannot read at Tulloch. It has grown much too noisy.”
”I'm surprised you couldn't find an empty room somewhere. The castle is huge.”
”Empty, I could find. Quiet, nyet. Someone suggested a talent show for those who do not hunt. Many of the guests must secretly believe they are professional quality singers, and they have been practicing all week. Loudly.”
She couldn't help laughing. ”I take it none of them are good.”
”Their caterwauling has given me a headache.”
Her smile slipped. ”I thought you liked singing.”
”Good singing, da, but this-” He slid her a look before shrugging. ”This is such a peaceful place, we should sit quietly and let nature sing for us.”
”That sounds lovely.” She decided not to read too much into his comment, and settled back against the tree to read.