Temptation and Surrender (10 page)

T
hree days later, as she sat in the church and listened to Mr. Filing’s reading, Em was still congratulating herself on having successfully sent Jonas Tallent to the rightabout.

Since that fraught exchange in the inn doorway, she’d seen him, but only at a distance—across the tap or in the street. He’d made no attempt to catch her eye, or to speak with her, but she’d felt his gaze, dark and steady, on her whenever she was in his sight.

Which had occurred quite often; she’d hoped that given her trenchantly discouraging behavior, he would grow bored and lose interest, but she’d yet to see any sign of that. Indeed, it seemed that every time she turned around, he was there, his eyes on her.

The intensity of his gaze was unnerving, but if staring at her was all he did, she’d count her blessings.

He was in the church, but the Tallents had a family pew at the front, so she hadn’t had to endure the weight of his gaze throughout the service. He hadn’t turned and looked back at her—not once—for which, of course, she gave due thanks.

Reading ended, they all rose for a hymn. With comforting inexorability, the service moved through its customary stages, eventually ending with the benediction. Mr. Filing led the way outside. From the pew they’d occupied halfway down the aisle, she and her family joined the exodus slowly shuffling up the nave, falling in behind the first-pew families, who by custom were allowed to exit first.

In organizing the twins and setting them to walk before herself and Issy, Em had lost sight of Tallent’s dark head. As she didn’t feel the weight of his gaze on her back, she assumed he was ahead of her. With luck he would leave with his sister and her husband, and not linger to chat in the churchyard.

Reaching Mr. Filing, she gave him her hand, commended him on an excellent sermon—by which she meant short and to the point—then moved on to allow him to speak with Issy.

She paused on the last step to look around and discovered herself the object of a good many curious glances. Initially mystified—the locals had had the past week to get used to her—as she stepped down to the path and called the twins to order, she realized it was them, and Henry, too, following behind Issy, who were the true focus of attention.

When Mrs. Weatherspoon, claiming the prerogative of experience—she had more children than anyone could count—beckoned, Em whispered to the twins to stay close and behave, and accommodatingly approached to let the old lady examine them.

Luckily the twins adored adoration; as they looked like angels, most people could be counted on to croon and compliment, all of which they lapped up. Which in turn kept them on their best behavior. Unusually docile, they allowed Em to steer them around the surprisingly considerable congregation. People had traveled from outlying farms to attend the service. Many stopped her with a word of encouragement about the inn.

All in all, a pleasant half hour passed while they chatted in the sunshine. Eventually, noting that Mr. Filing and Issy were once again deep in conversation, Em drew back to stand beneath a tree at the edge of the graveyard with Henry and the twins, to wait for their sister.

“Can’t we go and get her?” Gert asked. “There’s a lovely capon for lunch and it might be getting cold.”

“Or overcooked,” Bea added, her eyes on Issy.

“Let’s just give her a little more time.” Em glanced at the pair chatting before the steps, and thought they looked quite charming, Issy with eyes downcast, Filing head bent as he spoke quietly to her. “She’s worked very hard all week on your lessons, and given up all of her time, so if she wants to spend a little of Sunday morning talking with Mr. Filing, it’s only fair that you wait.”

Silence greeted that suggestion. Em noted that the twins’ gazes remained on Filing and Issy.

She wasn’t entirely surprised when Gert eventually asked, “Is Issy sweet on Mr. Filing?”

“More importantly,” Bea said, demonstrating a fine grasp of the nuances of life, “is Mr. Filing sweet on Issy?”

Briefly Em wondered what she should say, then decided truth was the wisest course. “I think
both
are very likely, don’t you?”

The twins’ heads moved in an identical side-to-side waggle, indicating they weren’t quite sure, but they consented to wait without further protest.

Em was content to stand beneath the tree and let her mind wander.

When Jonas Tallent materialized at her elbow, it took a moment for her to realize he truly was there, that the sensations he engendered weren’t simply a product of her overactive memory.

She turned to him. “Mr. Tallent—a lovely morning, is it not?”

“Indeed, Miss Beauregard.” He caught her gaze, his own quizzical. “You seem to be in a brown study. Inventing new menus, perhaps?”

She would have narrowed her eyes at him and glared—this was what came of forgetting her resolution to avoid him at all costs and letting down her guard—but his gaze had shifted and lowered to the twins.

One glance at their faces told her they were quite fascinated. Hardly surprising; he was unquestionably the most handsome gentleman there. It wasn’t just the cut of his London clothes that set him apart, but the faintly rakish aura that hung about him—as if he was safe on the outside, but not necessarily all the way through.

She supposed it was a case of like recognizing like that had him studying them, then commenting, “These are your angel-demons, I take it?”

“Indeed.” Briskly she made the introductions, not at all sure how the twins would respond.

But after curtsying correctly, Bea piped up, “We’re being very good at the moment.”

Gert nodded solemnly. “Like angels.” She fixed her blue gaze on his face. “You’re the one who took Em for a drive to somewhere—the one with the lovely horses.”

“Brown ones, prancing.” Her gaze on his face, Bea moved forward and brazenly slipped her hand into his much larger one. “It was a nice carriage, too.”

Knowing all too well where her angel-demons were leading, Em was about to step in and head them off, when realization struck. Very few gentlemen could cope with two bold ten-year-old girls.

Brazen herself, she raised her brows and turned to Henry. “What was that?”

He gave her a puzzled look, but said nothing as she shifted to his side—leaving Jonas Tallent to her half sisters’ tender mercies.

Jonas knew very well what she was up to, but while the prospect of dealing with the fair-haired twins made him inwardly quail, he wasn’t about to be driven off so easily.

He drew Bea around to stand beside Gert, then fixed them both with a direct look. “Yes, I own those very lovely horses—and the nice carriage—it’s a curricle, by the way—and if you’re both very good and behave yourselves while in my hearing, I’ll take you for a drive one day soon. Something like three weeks from now.”

From experience with his nephews, he knew children had a poor notion of the passage of time, and three weeks, while sounding not too far away, was in fact long enough for them to forget any agreement before it came to pass. While his nephews were younger, he assumed the twins, too, would soon forget any agreement with him.

Their blue eyes had grown wide. They exchanged quick glances.

A twin himself, he knew precisely what that meant. “Do we have an agreement, ladies?”

Bea, the talkative one, narrowed her eyes at him—just like her eldest sister. “How will we know if we’re behaving well enough? We can’t be good all the time.”

He fought to keep his lips straight and inclined his head in grave acceptance. “Very true. You’ll know you’re being good enough if I’m not frowning at you.”

They turned this over, communicating silently, then both looked at him and nodded. “Done,” Gert said. “In three weeks, then—after church.”

“Good.” Jonas glanced around and saw Issy approaching. “In that case, I’ll walk all you ladies back to the inn.”

Rejoining the group, Em heard that proposition and looked at the twins in shocked surprise.

Before she could say anything, Jonas took her arm. “Come, my innkeeper—let me walk you home.”

Issy merely smiled and took Henry’s arm; they set off, following the twins, already ranging ahead, roast capon on their minds.

Finding her arm wound with Jonas’s, Em had no real option but to let him steer her in her family’s wake. They were among the last to leave the churchyard; the common was almost empty as they set off down the slope.

Puzzled, she studied the twins. How had he…? Given it was the twins, she had to know. “What did you say to them?”

He chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. “I bribed them, of course.”

“With what, for heaven’s sake?”

“A drive in my curricle.”

She considered long and hard, but eventually informed him, “You do realize they’ll expect to handle the reins?”

“Over my dead body.”

“I suggest you don’t tell them in quite those words.”

E
m had avoided Jonas Tallent for three whole days, only, in a moment of weakness, to leave the way open for him to befriend the twins and earn points with Issy and Henry for gentlemanly courteousness in walking them home after church.

So she even more steadfastly avoided him for the next four days, hoping that would make him stop watching her like a hawk. She felt distinctly like a pigeon whenever he was about.

And
still
he kept watching her. Every time she turned around, it seemed he was there. The dark weight of his gaze was starting to feel familiar.

Luckily he couldn’t see her thoughts.

She spent the first four days of the following week plotting how to search the Ballyclose Manor cellar. Not, as she discovered, an easy task. During the day the house was a hive of activity; there’d be no chance to search at any time while the household was awake. Inventing some story and inveigling her way in might have worked—if she could concoct a story that would excuse her searching the cellar, and then successfully lie through her teeth, neither of which seemed at all likely. Which left searching while the household was asleep, which meant breaking into the cellar, presumably through the outer doors she’d spied, praying all the while that she wouldn’t get caught.

She’d be a nervous wreck.

Worse, it seemed that in this—actually laying hands on the treasure—she would be acting alone. She’d always assumed she’d have Issy beside her, or more to the point, watching her back, but Issy was spending what little free time she had with Mr. Filing—and there was no way on earth Em was going to interfere.

If Issy had a chance at happiness with the curate—at a future Em herself had had to lay aside—then she would do all she could to foster the romance; she would place no hurdle in her sister’s path.

With the difficulties attendant on searching the Ballyclose cellar mounting, she decided that before she embarked on any wild and dangerous scheme—something her Colyton soul would all too happily do—she needed to be completely and absolutely certain that Ballyclose Manor was indeed the “house of the highest” referred to in their rhyme.

On Friday morning, as soon as she’d seen the inn’s increasingly regular daily schedule set in motion, she gathered the three books she’d borrowed and headed for Colyton Manor. She’d combed through the three tomes, but other than a passing mention of Ballyclose, and a minor reference to the Grange, there was nothing in them regarding the houses of the village that had existed in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, when the rhyme had come into being.

The “house of the highest” would be the house of the highest member of village society at that time, not necessarily now. Hence it might not be Ballyclose Manor—and she had to be sure.

Walking up the road past the cottages, she reached the low stone wall that bordered the manor’s front garden. The garden was unusually lush, bursting with plants of all kinds—roses, lavender, honeysuckle, and countless flowering shrubs and creepers flung together in a glorious palette of color and scent.

The garden gate, set centrally, directly before the front door, was overhung by an arched trellis on which a climbing rose rioted, large apricot blooms bobbing in the light breeze. Unlatching the gate, she went in; closing it, she paused, breathing in the perfumes of the garden, then determinedly continued to the front door.

The butler, Bristleford, answered her knock. She waited in the hall while he went to ascertain if his mistress was receiving.

Em glanced around, checking for any evidence of a male visitor, but she doubted her nemesis would be about so early; his clothes screamed London—she assumed he was accustomed to London ways.

“Miss Beauregard.” Phyllida Cynster appeared at the back of the hall. She smiled. “Please come and join us in the parlor.”

Smiling in return, Em went forward. “I’ve brought back these books.” She handed the volumes to Phyllida.

“Did you find the information you were seeking?” Taking the books, Phyllida stood back, waving Em past her into the parlor.

“I learned a little more,” Em temporized, “but I’m still curious about the village’s past, and that of the various houses round about, and the major families.” She halted just inside the parlor, surprised to see Phyllida’s husband, Lucifer Cynster, sprawled on the sofa with two little boys clambering over him.

He didn’t seem to mind in the least, but restrained his sons enough to smile and half-bow. “Good morning, Miss Beauregard. I hope you don’t mind joining us en famille.”

She returned his smile. “No, not at all.” One of the boys wriggled free, rushed across the rug, and grasped her hand.

Perhaps five years old, he shook it wildly. “I’m Aidan.”

“And I’m Evan,” came in a wail from the other, younger imp, still in his father’s clutches.

Smile widening, Em looked down into dark blue eyes sparkling with life and mischief. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Aidan.” She looked across the room. “And Evan, too.”

“Now the courtesies have been observed,” Phyllida said, “perhaps we can allow Miss Beauregard to sit.” She waved Em to the heavily cushioned window seat.

Em crossed the room and sat. Aidan escorted her, waited gravely until she settled her skirts, then hitched himself up to sit beside her. She wasn’t surprised when Evan quit his father’s side to join them; he clambered up to sit on her other side, then slid one chubby hand into one of hers.

Phyllida saw and would have spoken, but Em caught her eye and, smiling, shook her head. “It’s quite all right. I’m accustomed to children.”

She’d missed seeing the twins at this age, and had always regretted it.

Lucifer Cynster sat up from his sprawl, assuming a more conventional pose. He was, Em judged, in his mid-thirties, a tall, vigorous man with black hair and the dark blue eyes his sons had inherited. He was, in her opinion, the second most handsome man in the village, and, like Jonas Tallent, a palpable aura of not-entirely-civilized male clung to his deceptively elegant shoulders.

“Phyllida mentioned,” he said, “that you were interested in the history of the village.”

Em nodded. “I make it a point to learn the history of each village in which I manage an inn. I’m particularly interested in the architecture of bygone days. It’s a hobby of sorts—it fills the time and I often discover useful things.”

Phyllida had left the books Em had returned on the low table in front of the sofa. Lucifer reached out and angled them so he could read the spines. “There are more books here—more informative than these—on Colyton village. I’ll look some out for you before you leave.” He looked up and met her eyes, smiled charmingly. “But first, how are you finding Colyton in the present day?”

“Very comfortable.” Em released Evan’s hand as he drew it away and slid off the seat to the floor. “Everyone’s been so friendly—it’s been easy to settle in.”

“Yes, well, after Juggs, you and your brood are a welcome relief.” Phyllida made an all-encompassing gesture. “I can’t begin to tell you how awful the inn had become. After his wife died—and that was more than eight years ago—Juggs lost all interest, but the inn was all he knew, so he stayed.”

“And stayed.” Lucifer took up the tale. “No amount of hinting of fresh fields and new enterprises could stir a spark in his breast—and believe me, we all tried. His death, untimely though it was, was a release for him, and a new lease of life for the inn and the village.” His charming smile warmed Em. “Which is why we’re all so pleased with the way you’re revitalizing the place.”

“Getting Hilda and her girls back was a stroke of luck,” Em said. “Without them—and Edgar Hills and John Ostler—finding my feet, let alone getting things moving, would have taken much longer.”

Phyllida smiled. “But it’s plain you hail from the country yourself—or at least understand its ways.”

Definitely a leading question.

Luckily Evan appeared at Em’s knee, giving her an excuse to avoid answering. He’d brought her a wooden toy, one for pulling along on wooden wheels. From the corner of her eye, she saw Phyllida open her mouth, then hesitate; with one hand, she signaled all was well. Eyes wide, she carefully took the toy. “Is it your favorite?”

When Evan nodded—big nods—she examined it. “It’s very nice.” She held it out to him. “Why don’t you show me how it works?”

Delighted, he did, marching back and forth across the polished floor.

Nothing loath, Aidan slipped from Em’s other side, fetched his own favorite toy—two wooden soldiers—showed them to her, then once she’d shown her appreciation, settled to play on the rug at her feet.

Em couldn’t help but smile. Looking up, she met Phyllida’s gaze. “I remember Henry at this age.”

Phyllida smiled back in a moment of complete understanding.

All three adults sat smiling fondly at the boys for a further minute, then Em sighed. “I really must be going.” She rose. “When one manages an inn, one never knows what might eventuate hour to hour.”

Lucifer and Phyllida rose, too. “We used to have many more travelers using the inn.” Phyllida walked with Em to the parlor door.

“So I heard,” Em replied. “I’m hoping to lure them back with Hilda’s cooking and clean, comfortable beds. I’ve started planning what needs to be done to get the rooms up to scratch. I’ll be speaking with your brother shortly on that score.” Once she had a sufficiently long list of topics to ensure any meeting remained strictly business.

They stepped into the hall, Lucifer behind them.

“I’ll find some other books on the village for you.” As they walked up the hall, he gestured to left and right, inviting her to look.

Curious, she did, and through the open doors saw shelves in every room, even in the dining room.

“As you can see,” he continued, “the collection is extensive, and while the volumes are organized by subject, books on history, on architecture, and on gardening, for example, are all in different places, and yet all might deal with, or include, sections relevant to Colyton. So to glean all the information we have, you’ll need to work your way through all the likely groupings. For instance, the books you’ve already seen are from the drawing room and therefore about social aspects, rather than history per se.”

Her smile felt a trifle tight. “As my interest is purely a hobby, luckily there’s no rush.”

But she wanted to find the treasure sooner rather than later.

Lucifer nodded. “In that case, let’s see what we can find among the history and architecture books—they’re in here.”

He led the way into what was plainly the library, the room to the left of the front door. After a moment of watching him work his way along the packed shelves, Phyllida excused herself, farewelled Em, and returned to her sons.

Five minutes later, Lucifer piled four books into Em’s arms. “These all have something about Colyton in them.”

“Thank you.” She stacked the books, then tucked them under her arm.

With elegant grace, Lucifer escorted her to the front door. She reiterated her thanks, then, content if still impatient, walked briskly back up the front path, through the gate onto the road, and headed back to the inn.

Lucifer stood in the doorway and watched her go. When the cottages cut her off from sight, he shut the door, then ambled back to the parlor. His sons greeted him with demands to join their game. He nodded. “In a minute.”

Phyllida had sat on the sofa and pulled up a basket of the boys’ never-ending mending; halting beside her, he met her gaze as she glanced up and raised her brows.

“What does Jonas think of his innkeeper’s interest in village history?”

Phyllida was unsurprised by the question. “He thinks she’s searching for something. The last time I spoke with him, he thought it was something to do with—possibly something at—Ballyclose.” She studied his face. “What do you think?”

Lucifer’s expression had grown serious. “I think he’s right in that she’s searching for something in one or more of the major houses. I noted she said ‘houses’ before ‘families,’ when most would list those things in reverse, and then there was the mention of architecture.”

Phyllida frowned, her gaze still locked on his face. “Do you think she’s…well, a thief or something of that nature? Should we warn Cedric?”

Lucifer’s expression eased. Lips curving, he shook his head. “Unnecessary, I’m sure—whatever Miss Emily Beauregard is, she’s no thief.”

“Jonas doesn’t think so, either.”

“Shrewd of him,” Lucifer dryly replied. “Not many thieves go on the hunt with a large and very visible family in tow—much less organize for their brother to get lessons from the local curate.”

Phyllida watched as he strolled to where their sons played, then subsided onto the ground, rearranging his long limbs, to join them. After a moment, she said, “I’m glad of that—I quite like her.”

Lucifer nodded, already distracted by his sons’ demands. “There’s some mystery there—Jonas is right about that—and she is looking for something. Doubtless we’ll learn the truth in time.”

E
m hurried back to the inn, slipped inside, and went quickly upstairs to her rooms. To her relief, she met no nosy gentlemen along the way. Setting the books on the dresser, she sent up a prayer that somewhere in one of the four she would find a clear answer as to whether Ballyclose was indeed the house she sought.

Her fingers lingered on the topmost book; she was tempted to sit down then and there and start looking through it, but she was an innkeeper now, and even if her duties were largely managerial, she still felt it important that she be downstairs—in her office, if not the common room or kitchen—simply by her presence keeping all on track.

If her staff had questions, she should be there for them to ask.

Going into her bedroom, now made rather more cheery with a chintz bedspread she’d found in one of the linen closets, she set her reticule down on the dressing table. She shook out her skirts, smoothed them down, then peered at her reflection in the mirror.

“Drat!” She poked at the curls that had sprung loose from the knot she’d anchored at the back of her head. Soft and wavy, the curls made a delicate frame for her face—to her mind only adding to the unfortunate image of a soft, delicate, not to say fragile female. That wasn’t her at all; it certainly wasn’t the image she wanted to present.

She grimaced at her reflection. “No time.” Besides, ten minutes after she redid the knot, the curls would only spring free again.

Turning, she went downstairs. After casting an approving eye over the ladies’ side of the common room, now infinitely cleaner and neater with lace doilies on every polished low table and cushions on most of the chairs, she cast a cursory glance over the tap—she could count on Edgar to keep that area respectably clean—then wended her way through the dining area, considering anew the trestle tables and benches.

Refinishing, followed by a good wax, would work wonders. She’d have to convince her employer that the cost would be worth it, but there was transparently a need for somewhere the locals could come for a good meal.

Entering the kitchen, she sniffed, and sighed with pleasure. No need to ask if everything was in hand, not with Hilda in charge. She paused to compliment the older woman, then check through her list of required supplies. List in hand, she headed for her office.

“In truth, sir, I’ve no notion where she’s gone, but she did say she’d be back shortly.”

Em halted just before the opening to the hallway leading to her office; that had been Edgar speaking from behind the bar. It might be any man asking for her, but no doubt Jonas Tallent was now up and about—and as usual dogging her heels.

Stepping into the shadowed hall, she looked to her right, along the bar, and confirmed that it was indeed her nemesis propped against the counter, quizzing Edgar, who was setting out clean glasses, ready for the lunchtime trade.

Tallent was frowning. “How long ago did she leave?”

“Couldn’t say exactly.”

She must have moved—or perhaps he sensed her exasperation; his gaze swung her way, then he straightened.

Em narrowed her eyes in a fiery glare, then turned and went into her office.

She rounded her desk, deeming it wise to put furniture between them. She sat and pretended to be studying her list while working to keep the lid on her temper—he was her employer and she needed this job. Searching for the treasure would be a lot more problematic if she had to pursue some other line of employment, and where would the others stay while she did? Being the Red Bells’ innkeeper-manager suited her to a T—and just because Jonas Tallent was a blessed nuisance was no reason to put her position at risk.

There was, of course, the curious question of why his attention even from a distance so annoyed, irritated, and unnerved her, but that was another issue entirely.

He filled the doorway all but literally. She watched him from beneath her lashes, but pretended not to notice he was there.

Lounging against the frame, he considered her. “I’ve been looking for you. Where have you been?”

She looked up, raised her brows haughtily. “I wasn’t aware of any appointment. As to where I’ve been, as I’ve told you too many times to count, my affairs are none of your concern.”

He sighed. “You may as well tell me—it’ll save me asking around the village.”

The words “You wouldn’t dare!” were on her lips, but as she stared into his eyes, they died. He would, indeed, ask around—the fiend.

Exasperated, irritated, and oddly unnerved, she stood. “If you must know, I returned those books I borrowed from your sister.”

“I see.”

“Indeed, and now, if you’re satisfied…” She stopped, recalling their earlier discussion using that word.

He smiled—wolfishly. “Not yet.”

She glared, then marched determinedly around the desk. “If you don’t mind, I have work to do.” She brandished her list at him.

Amused, but knowing better than to show it—she resembled nothing so much as an irate sparrow—Jonas stepped back so she could exit the office. He fell in behind her as she stormed toward the kitchen. “Did you learn anything from the books?”

“No.” Her steps faltered. She paused, then, head rising, amended as she marched forward again, “That is, the books were about local history, so I learned more about that.”

“But not about what you wanted to learn?”

She turned down a narrow service corridor, barely more than an alcove, halted before a stout wooden door on the right, reached for the latch, then turned her head and sent him a scorching glare. “Mr. Tallent—”

“Jonas.”

Her eyes couldn’t get any narrower; her breasts rose beneath her olive green walking dress as she dragged in a huge breath. “What I might—or might not—be searching for is none of your affair.”

Lifting the latch, she hauled open the door and disappeared behind it.

Reaching out, Jonas caught the edge—not that she tried to slam it shut. Curious, he edged around the door—open, it almost blocked the corridor—and looked into the tiny storeroom beyond.

It was the spirits cellar. His sparrow was industriously checking the small tuns and bottles while pretending he wasn’t there.

Did she really think he’d simply go away?

Then again, he had patiently allowed her a week to get used to the notion of him always being around—in the transparently vain hope that she would learn to trust him enough to tell him what
he
wanted to know.

Namely what
she
wanted to know.

Clearly it was time to try a different strategy.

He stepped into the storeroom, leaving the door wide; they needed light and it was unlikely anyone else would come this way, not with the crowd flooding into the common room demanding pies for lunch.

The room was barely ten feet deep. Standing just inside the door, he watched her checking her list against the stock on the shelves.

In silence she worked her way further into the room. When she was at the end of the narrow aisle, he stepped down it. “You’re wrong, you know.”

She continued her cataloging and didn’t immediately react, but then she threw him a frowning sideways glance. “Wrong about what?”

He halted beside her, blocking the aisle. “Wrong in thinking I’ll go away if you ignore me.”

She made a frustrated sound and swung to face him. “Just because I’m your innkeeper doesn’t mean you’re…” She waved both hands. “In any way
responsible
for me.”

He frowned. “I don’t feel responsible for you.” He felt faintly disgusted and let it show. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I’m attracted to you—I thought I’d made that plain. Helping ladies they’re attracted to is what gentlemen like me do.”

Eyes locked on his, she hauled in a huge breath. Tensely said, “It’s also equally and undeniably true that just because I’m your innkeeper doesn’t mean I’ll welcome your attentions.”

He blinked, then caught her gaze. “You don’t welcome my attentions?” When she didn’t immediately reply, he clarified, “You didn’t welcome my attentions the last time we kissed?”

Her lips primmed. She lifted her chin. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“I see.” His eyes narrowing, he studied hers, then softly said, “You’re a terrible liar.”

She blushed. “I’m not lying!”

She was, through her teeth. Why, he had no idea, but he’d reached the end of what little patience he possessed. He sighed, reached out, hauled her into his arms—and kissed her again.

Her lips softened under his, instantly responsive. Realizing, she tried to retreat, tried to hold back, but all resistance lasted less than a heartbeat, then she was with him again, all warm, honeyed sweetness and unalloyed enticement.

If this wasn’t welcome, he didn’t know what was.

He did know he hungered for it, and her, craved the sweetness of her mouth, of her innocent freshness.

Of the promise, more subtle, as she pressed closer, as her lips firmed and she returned the kiss without restraint.

Knew, as he gathered her into his arms, that he was already addicted.

Em knew—absolutely and with unimpaired clarity—that she shouldn’t be doing this. That just because his lips were hungry didn’t mean she had to feed them. Returning his kiss, kissing him back with even just a smidgen of the eagerness bubbling inside her was not just unwise, but the definition of counterproductive.

He would only pursue her all the more doggedly. She knew it—knew she should pull back, wrench free of his encirling arms, and put space between them—but instead of moving back, away from him, she pressed forward into the kiss.

A kiss she simply couldn’t do without.

A kiss that somehow meant something to her, on a different plane she’d yet to understand.

With his lips on hers and his arms around her, the world melted away and she was safe and cared for.

When he kissed her, she understood why he wanted to protect her—sensed through the kiss that he wanted her in a possessive way, so protecting something he wanted as his was logical, rational.

Little else about the kiss, and all it made her feel, was either of those things. His lips had firmed, and parted hers; his tongue found hers and stroked, caressed, languid and slow. Her head reeled, her attention locked on the subtle communion of lips and tongue as he explored and claimed.

The sensations he evoked beckoned, lured, tempted her to explore, too, to seek more, learn more…

He angled his head and deepened the kiss. She feathered her fingers into his dark hair, lightly clutched…realized she must have raised one hand and burrowed her fingers into the dark, surprisingly silky mass.

Realized he was drawing her further, not just into the kiss but beyond…

Instinct stirred, raised its head. Looked around, assessed, then prodded. Sharply.

She lingered for an instant more, savoring the heat of his mouth, the seductive stroke of his tongue against hers, then drew back. Drew her hand from his hair, rested it on his broad shoulder.

Gathered her resolution, broke from the kiss, and pushed back in his arms.

He let her move away, but the aisle was only so wide; they were still far too close when her eyes locked on his. If she didn’t look at his eyes, she would focus on his mouth instead, and she knew where that would lead, yet at such close quarters she felt mesmerized by his dark gaze.

“Are you going to tell me the truth?”

His low, gravelly, shockingly private tone slipped into her mind, slid around her shields, and tempted…

She blinked, mentally fought free of his sorcerous hold. Lips setting, she shook her head. Decisively. “I’m not telling you what I’m searching for—you don’t need to know. I assure you it’s nothing illicit.”

Finding her list still clutched in one hand, feeling the other still tingling with the sensations of stroking his hair, she dragged in a breath and forced herself to turn away.

To step away, out of his arms toward the door.

Then she remembered, but kept walking and spoke over her shoulder. “And I’m
not
seeking your attentions, either.”

“No need,” he growled, following close behind her. “They’re yours regardless. Anytime, anywhere.”

She humphed as she stepped out of the storeroom into the corridor. “You shouldn’t kiss me, not when I’ve said I don’t want you to. That’s not gentlemanly behavior—and you are, first and last, a gentleman.”

Grasping the door, she waited for him to join her so she could close the storeroom.

He stepped into the corridor, and stopped. The look in his eyes, fixed on her face, was the epitome of exacerbated male frustration. “If you want to discourage me, you can’t go around flinging down gauntlets and not expect me to pick them up.”

“Gauntlets?” She let cynical disbelief color her tone. “What gauntlets?” Greatly daring, she planted one palm on his chest and shoved him sideways.

Stepping out of the doorway, he answered, “
We’ll see about that?
Not to mention”—he waved back into the storeroom—“kissing me like a houri and then telling me you aren’t seeking my attentions. If that’s not a gauntlet—a challenge—I don’t know what is.”

“A
challenge
?” Closing the door, she turned to stare at him, then shook her head and faced forward. “Nonsense.” She started down the corridor, back to the safety of the more inhabited areas of the inn. As she emerged into the hall, she scoffed, “Gauntlets. Really! Men get such strange ideas.”

Jonas halted, watched her bustle to the swinging door into the kitchen, push past it and through. As the door swung closed, hiding her from view, he shook his head in abject disbelief. If she thought he’d simply give up and go away—desist and disappear—when she kissed him like that, her ideas were a great deal more strange than any he’d ever had.

Still shaking his head, he turned back to the tap. A pint and one of Hilda’s delicious pies, and then he’d give his mind to devising the best way to educate his innkeeper as to the reality—his reality—of the situation between them.