Page 25

“Didn’t you blindfold me?” he asked, knowing perfectly well that she had.

Remembering exactly the way her hand had felt in his, firm and warm, as he, eyes covered by his own kerchief, followed the sound of her breathless laughter.

She had pulled him along through her father’s house, one of his arms outstretched, stumbling over the lintel and getting caught in the curtains at the French doors.

Her whispered “Come on!” had washed over him, excitement and desire skating over his skin.

“I did, didn’t I?” she said, slightly aghast. “How terribly forward of me.”

He watched her for a moment, the very last of the day’s light slanting through the loose waves of her hair, and tried to think of a response that didn’t reveal too much of himself. Nothing came.

“Hmm,” she said slowly, her chin puckering in remembrance.

“Regardless, it was a cake for the ages.” He tried to make his voice light, casual.

Tried not to reveal that he remembered everything about that day.

How, that afternoon, inside the estate house, still holding his hand tightly, she had stopped suddenly, and blindfolded, he had tumbled against her.

The warm solidity of her back against his chest a pleasant shock that drew him up sharply.

That close, he had felt the hard ridge of her corset pushing against his ribs with every breath she took, the muslin of her shirtwaist thin and filmy.

Her bottom, full and rounded even under her heavy walking skirt, had fit snuggly against his groin.

He had wanted to wrap his arms around her, pull her even more tightly against him, drop his head to inhale the fresh air scent of her hair.

Instead, they had both stepped away from each other at the same time, and the loss of her warm curves against him had been like a gust of winter air.

Ophelia had made a startled noise in her throat and made to drop his hand, but he had laced his fingers with hers and asked, his voice strangely loud to his own ears, for the promised cake.

Her shoulder bumped his and dislodged him from his memories.

A silvery heat radiated across his skin at the contact and he hardly heard what she was saying.

“For the ages indeed ... it was a disaster. I was so excited to give it to you, and by the time we got there, it had almost slid to the floor. Good thing you were likely hungry from the day’s work and none too picky,” she said, and her mouth curved in a secret smile, his favourite, where one corner of her plush top lip lifted against an uneven incisor.

“I remember it looking a little unstable,” Silas said, trying to recover his equanimity by forcing himself to remember the most lopsided, ill-conceived cake he had ever seen.

It had careened wildly on the cake stand, looking for all the world as though it wanted to throw itself off the plate onto the floor.

The layers had been uneven, and thick rivulets of raspberry jam were leaking through the patchy whipped cream spread over its surface.

He recalled the single taper listing on top, its small flame wavering in the breeze from the open door.

“I loved that you had thought to make it, though,” he said.

“I used to think of food from home when I was at the front, and that cake was one of the things that always came to mind.”

She blushed and ducked her head, a pleased smile on her lips. “What else?”

“Oh, um, let’s see ... tea, hot and black, my mother’s bread slathered with cold butter, snap peas from the vine, oh, Christmas cake stuffed with candied fruit.

” He looked down at her, face tilted up, taking in his list. He felt embarrassed suddenly, perhaps he was gluttonous to admit he had thought so often of food.

But it had felt like home to think of those things, mostly because when he thought of them, he thought of the people he had shared them with, the places they had sat, the conversations they had had.

The scarred oak dining table in his family’s kitchen, squashed onto a settee with his brother on Christmas morning, the garden behind his childhood home.

“I don’t suppose it was only the food that you were missing,” Ophelia said quietly, and his heart somersaulted with relief. She understood. She had heard what he had fumblingly expressed.

“No, indeed ... I missed home so God damn much,” Silas said fervently, the words scraping his throat.

Ophelia nodded and reached to open the gate.

Without his noticing, they had made their way back to the farm lane.

He didn’t want to go in and didn’t know how to prolong their parting.

Before he could think of anything intelligent to say, Ophelia slipped through the gate, and his hand shot out to catch hers.

They stood frozen like that for a second, then Ophelia glanced down at their hands and slid hers from his.

His heart plummeted before he realized she was turning and moving toward him.

She paused for an instant, took a shaky breath, and then lifting her chin slightly, she brushed her lips gently over his.

It was more breath than kiss, but he felt the warm, dry press of her mouth to his, and his mind reeled.

She stilled as if to draw back, so he slid his hands gently down her arms and ducked his head.

He waited, hardly breathing, for her decision.

When she leaned into his hands and found his mouth again, he thought he might die of relief.

Her lips were more firm this time and Ophelia pressed them first to the bow of his top lip, then to the corner of his mouth, opening hers to sip at his bottom lip, gentle and persistent.

He felt the warmth of her breath feather across his lips, then her voice, hushed and breathless, in the space between their mouths.

“Is this okay?”

He nodded and felt his hands flex on her biceps.

He didn’t dare allow more of his body to touch hers, didn’t know if he could withstand the hunger that rose up in him.

Her lips were wreaking havoc on his again, and something embarrassingly like a growl escaped him when he felt the firm tip of her tongue dart out against the seam of his lips.

Ophelia smiled against his mouth and he pulled back.

“Christ,” he breathed.

Ophelia laughed shakily. “I’m sorry to be so bold. I’ve wondered about kissing you for ever so long,” she said.

“And?” He wanted to feel nonchalant about her answer, but his chest was tight and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

Ophelia touched her lips gently as if testing for difference.

Silas felt his cock twitch with interest at the sight of her long fingers pressing the kiss-damp flesh.

She hummed with pleasure or happiness or some combination, and the sound went straight to his groin.

He felt ridiculous and giddy, electricity skating over his skin, pulling his mouth into a wild grin.

“We should—” they both began.

“Go in,” he said, reluctantly.

“Do this again,” Ophelia said at the same moment, her eyes crinkling with an impish smile.

“Oh, I ... uh, yes please,” said Silas, scrambling for words.

“Yes to both then,” she said, nodding her head as she pushed through the gate toward the farmhouse. Silas followed behind, dazed, wondering how he’d ever fall asleep that night.