Heart of the Cotswolds - England

Chapter 2-3

Now, instead of weaving, as the floor had done that night, the old limestone wall seemed to be floating on a gentle sea.

Of course, she wouldn’t even be here in England if her career hadn’t—

She didn’t want to think about that.

“Tell me something. Anything!” Jane desperately needed a distraction from the morass of her thoughts.

“I screwed up our operation.”

“No you didn’t. You were magnilliquent. Manifiquent. Magnificent,” she finally wrapped her tongue around it. He’d protected her at every turn—her staunch, dusty champion in the red racing tie. Maybe it was a magic tie, because none of it should have worked, but on Aaron it had. They’d survived.

“I forgot to tell the waiter to bring forks along with the cake.”

Jane looked down at the plate that seemed to glow in the moonlight. The two massive slices of cake nearly filled it to the gold-trimmed rim—real gold, she’d wager—but there were no forks to be seen.

Today was so thoroughly not the day she’d been expecting. The horrors of her sister throughout the preparation and ceremony, the unexpectedness of finding a White Knight with a Vermont accent in the dim corner of an English pub, Debbie’s multiple forays at Aaron throughout the endless evening (and her utter failure at taking him away from Jane—major happy dance), and the copious amounts of alcohol.

She herself wasn’t what she was expecting either. With each passing hour, Jane had shed another piece of Debbie’s ability to affect her mood until she was practically giddy.

“That’s not me at all.”

“What isn’t?”

“Practically giddy. I’m big on the practical part. Always had that down. Giddy? That’s like new territory.” She always hated it when people used “like” that way. Thankfully she was too drunk to hate herself at the moment.

Aaron nodded in the moonlight as if she was making perfect sense. Or as if he already knew that giddy wasn’t really her, but more like, dunno, someone else.

She broke off a big bite of the cake with her fingers and bit down on it. Frosting caught on her fingers and lips.

“Yum,” she managed around the mouthful. “Dark chocolate with cherry jam and cream cheese frosting. My sister always hires the best caterers when someone else is paying.”

Aaron broke off a small piece and snapped it down neatly between clean white teeth that shone in the night. “It’s good.”

“You can’t tell from that little bit.” She broke off a huge piece and aimed it at him. When he opened his mouth to protest, she shoved it in. Icing smeared his nose, cheeks, and chin as she struggled to correct her aim. She finally managed to land it properly.

Aaron managed a “Mmgrumph” as he attempted to wrestle it down without losing half of it down his front.

“Don’t mess up Hal’s tie,” she wiped at the white frosting dotting his nose and chin and then licked it off her fingers. It took several tries to get it all.

“I’m trying to be good here,” Aaron’s voice was deep and dangerous once he could speak again.

“Why? About what?”

He merely snarled and looked away.

“You’re so…” she didn’t have the right word for it, “…male.”

“Meaning what?”

What did she mean? He was her White Knight. Staunch and artful. By siding with the Earl of Evenston and his first son whose name had escaped her again—though she still remembered Aaron (Aaron)—none of the others had dared to mess with them. Even Debbie had finally backed off after one particularly pithy look from her new father-in-law. Her new husband might be wealthy, but one glance at the manor house said where the real money and the power of this family resided.

Aaron’s looks had grown on Jane during the long evening. Through her near permanent attachment to his elbow, she’d felt not only his muscles, but his mood until she could tell when he was hesitant (rarely) or decisive (pretty much all the time), ready to move (he seemed permanently poised for action) or momentarily relaxed (almost never). She slipped her hand about his arm again and wondered at the strange tension that had been there, especially for the latter half of the evening.

He was trying to be good, huh? Well, she was pretty b****y sick of being good. Being bad sounded like a good thing right at the moment.

She searched around for the champagne glass she’d brought with her but couldn’t spot it. Aaron had one propped on the wall to his other side. No, he had two. How had her glass gotten way over there?

Leaning across to reach for it, Jane could feel the warmth of him in the cool night.

When her chest brushed his, he cursed softly, “b****y hell.”

“Careful with that. The B-word over here—”

Suddenly those strong arms of his were wrapped around her, pulling her body hard against his. There wasn’t a thing tentative about his kiss, rich with chocolate, cherry, and cream cheese.

If her seat on the wall had been floating before, it was suddenly a rocket ride upward. England, the Cotswolds, the wedding, all fell away until there was only the heat of his kiss crushing against her lips.

Someone moaned. Jane was fairly sure it was her. No one had ever kissed her that way: so powerful, so self-assured, so full of need—for her!

One moment she was in the best kiss that had ever happened to womankind and the next she was sitting alone on the wall watching the back of a man as he strode away.

He didn’t go past ten paces.

But they were hard, pounding strides that seemed to punch his anger into the ground.

He jolted to a halt with a sharp hiss of anger that seemed to shatter the night.

She took his glass of champagne and slammed it back.

Spotting hers in her other hand, she emptied that one as well.

Rejection. She was not ready to deal with one more moment of that.

Aaron should just leave. He should just walk away.

But his hip had finally given up on hiding his limp and he couldn’t stop the hiss of pain. The pain and the stupidity. He’d kissed her. The beautiful, drunk, and obviously hurt woman that he’d committed to protect—he’d failed to protect her from him.

The guys in his US Army unit had always teased him about being so square about women. But during his tenure with the British SAS, he’d fit right in.

Sure, there were always blokes who treated women as if they all were fast and easy. But most of the Brits were soldiers who knew what was proper.

“Proper” did not include kissing a drunk woman simply because she was being vulnerable. Nor running his hand down the side of her perfect breast, past her waist, and onto the delicious swell of her hip. Her chiffon and lace dress hid none of her heat or softness. And proper definitely didn’t include how close he’d just come to pulling down the long, side zipper and tossing her n***d onto the grass.

He watched the stars—Vega was up, Cygnus the Swan was rising—until he had himself together. At least somewhat together. Then he turned to face her. He’d apologize, even if he wouldn’t mean it. Women like Jane weren’t for broken men like him, but he didn’t want her one bit less for all of that.

She had lain down atop the wall, every perfect curve accented by her dress shimmering in the moonlight, shifting and reflecting the light with each breath—the Faerie Queen indeed. A horse sighed in its sleep as it shifted in the nearby stables. A thin trail of music sounded from the wedding, sounding as if it was coming from miles away.

He knew he was hopelessly befuddled. Not drunk. He hadn’t dared risk that, needing his wits in that crowd. But Jane Tully made him think serious thoughts. The kind of thoughts that weren’t his to think.

“Well, you can’t leave her on the b****y wall all night.”

“Careful with that B-word…” her voice was a whisper on the night that trailed off into the darkness. Her eyes remained closed.

He staggered back to the wall, limping hard now that his hip had given up.

“Can’t sleep here, my queen. Where are you staying? I’ll walk you there.” I’ll limp you there and hope that you’re too drunk and it’s too dark to notice.

She waved a hand vaguely toward the manor house, then tucked it back under her cheek.

“b****y hell,” he whistled out softly.

She didn’t respond this time.

He couldn’t return her to that den of vipers, especially not drunk on a wedding night.

“Come along, Queen Jane,” he took her hand and tugged her to her feet.

Instead of taking his arm, she slid up against his side with her arm around his waist. She fit like—

Don’t go there, lad.

His attempts to disengage her failed, so he finally slid his arm around her waist and led her back up the path through the woods.

He’d managed to avoid the dancing earlier, partly because of his aching hip and partly because he didn’t dare the risk of holding her close.

Now they walked as close as lovers, moving slowly and, courtesy of his sore hip and bad knee, arrhythmically along the moonlit path.