Page 63 of A Dare too Far

Jane’s gaze flicked to the cottage windows. “The curate should be at the church. He usually is in the mornings. I partly suspect Sir Peter knows this. The curate hates him in his garden.”

George inspected the fence. It went all the way round the house without a single gap. “How does he get in?”

“Only Sir Peter knows. Drives the curate mad.” She whipped the gate open and strode through. “Hello, Sir Peter.”

The pig did not even look up. It did not stir a single muscle.

Jane knelt by him. “He’s still breathing.”

“Excellent. I’d have to call off the dare, otherwise. Kissing a live pig is one thing, but a dead pig—”

“Is preferred. Bacon.”

George barked a laugh. “Do not speak so callously around Sir Peter. You’ll terrify him.”

The pig must have heard its name. He flipped from his side onto his belly and turned a beady-eyed, yet curiously soulful gaze to Jane.

Jane reached out and patted his head. “You don’t look too dirty. A bit of dust from the garden but not too bad.”

George leaned against the gate. Jane was adorable, bent near the pig, patting his head like it was a dog. She leaned a little away from it, her nose wrinkled.

Oh God. She didn’t truly wish to do this. He sighed. And he wouldn’t make her.

“Jane, you can have the damned pastry, pig kiss or not. I’m sorry.”

She looked over her shoulder at him and grinned, wide and clear as the sky above them.

“Jane, you truly do not have to—”

She kissed the pig, a quick peck to the top of his head, then she scratched behind his ear. “Who’s a good piggy? Sir Peter is, that’s right.” She stood and marched to George, throwing the gate open and stopping right before him, inches from his body. She smiled up at him and wove her hands behind his neck.

“And now,” she said, in a whisper full of seduction and mischief, “I’m going to kissyou.” She pressed her lips full against his own. And who cared what she’d just kissed because she was kissing him now. He molded his hands to her back and pressed her gentle curves to all his own hard places, to hell with his self-imposed, no-touching rule. She’d initiated it, and a gentleman did not say no to a lady.

Except…

He broke the kiss.

She looked up, blinking, startled.

He pulled a pig hair from his mouth and wiped it on his coat. “Ew.”

She clapped a hand to mouth, but laughter already spilled forth. She collapsed against him, her body wracking with mirth. He laughed, too, so hard he gasped for breath.

“Ahem.Ahem. AHEM.”

Jane and George bounced apart from one another.

The curate tapped his foot, glaring at them. “You’re blocking my gate.”

Jane skittered away from the gate. “Oh, my apologies. We did not mean—”

“We’ll just be off.” George wove his arm through Jane’s and pulled her down the street.

They laughed, arm in arm all the way to the inn where the cart with the Christmas baskets waited for them.

George let Jane laden his arms with as many baskets as he could carry, smirking at her over the top of a giant red ribbon. “Well, have we survived?”

“Very much so. But I do not think this escapade counts.” Jane took a basket in each hand and sauntered down the street. “It was not dangerous at all. Let’s begin with the inn, yes?”