Page 13 of The Hellion and the Captain (Scandals and Scores #2)

Chapter Eleven

“ S o, this is it,” Rhys said, looking around him as Emmaline stared at him in turn.

He stood in the middle of her sacred space, this field that had become her place of solace, inspiration, and comfort.

Somehow, oddly, he belonged.

“This is it,” she said, holding her arms open as she turned in a circle.

She had thought that when he promised to mentor her one-on-one, it was just an errant comment, that he wouldn’t have any additional time between his responsibilities to the club and the bank.

It appeared she had been wrong. The day after their impromptu meeting at Lily and Colin’s, a note had appeared at her house asking if she would be available to meet the next evening.

Due to the players’ working schedules, the club practiced twice a week—usually Saturday mornings if they didn’t have a game, and then one evening during the week.

Which, Rhys told her, gave them plenty of other evenings to work on her strength and stamina .

When she wrote back, asking if he could meet her in the clearing near her house, her note complete with a map, she was surprised when he readily accepted without a word of complaint.

She hadn’t been prepared for how it would feel to have him standing in this space that had become so special to her.

She tried to hide her emotion as she faced him, hands on her hips, legs spread in a ready stance.

She was dressed similarly to him, in knee-length knickerbockers, woolen stockings to her knees, heavy leather boots, and a collared cotton shirt, although his was one in faded club colors of maroon and cream.

She had still bound her breasts, although not as tightly as usual, for today was solely for support and not disguise.

She had also dispensed with the cap, instead pinning her plait tightly to her head.

She waited for him to pass her the ball sitting next to him, but he only stood there in his usual stance, arms crossed over his chest.

“I thought we were practicing,” she called out, and he shook his head. It was only when his rare smile appeared that she knew she was in trouble.

“We start with running,” he said, and she wrinkled her nose, already regretting this decision.

He slowly ran toward her, coming to a stop beside her.

“This clearing is perfect,” he said. “Ten times between the big oak over there and the smaller ash on this side.”

Emmaline followed his finger from one side to the other.

“That must be over 200 yards.”

“I would guess that’s correct.”

“But—”

He looked at her and arched an eyebrow. She swallowed her complaint.

“Very well.”

She took off at a slow run to last for the entire ten crossings, and she had gone but a few steps when he was beside her, keeping pace.

“What are you doing?” she said, not yet losing her breath.

“Running with you.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” He grinned.

“Because you don’t need to!”

“I enjoy it.”

She looked at him with such undisguised surprise and horror that he laughed out loud. He had a loud, hearty laugh, and she realized she had never heard it before.

It was beautiful. And she decided right there that she wanted to hear it more often.

“I’ve never met anyone who runs out of enjoyment.”

“Then you haven’t met the right people.”

“Apparently not,” she panted out, right before she lost her ability to talk.

While Rhys matched her speed, having him next to her, step for step, caused her to want to run harder, faster.

He didn’t push her, nor ask her to say or do anything else; he just allowed her to continue to work, pumping her arms and moving one foot at a time as he silently supported her.

When she finally finished, he clapped his hands twice, but before she could stop to rest, he had her working on her strength, kicking the ball over and over again, before he directed her to one more set of runs, only this time, he made her sprint to one side, stop to rest, and then sprint to another.

Emmaline thought she was going to be sick for a moment, but she composed herself, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

She collapsed to the ground, arms and legs spread wide in the grass as she stared up at the sky, which was melting into soft pastels as dusk descended. She was slick with sweat, her cheeks heated, heart pounding hard, but she was… fulfilled. Proud of herself .

She didn’t move or say anything, even when he lay beside her, not touching, his gaze also on the sky above, where the last golden streaks of sun clung to the edges of retreating clouds, turning them into a fiery rose-gold.

“Do you see it?” she asked as her breath finally returned to its normal rhythm, although there was still a catch that had nothing to do with her exertion.

“See what?”

“There,” she said, pointing to the sky. “The first star of the night. I love this time of day. It’s as though twilight is wrapping the world in calm, for just a few minutes as the sun sets and the moon and stars emerge.”

He turned his head in the grass to look at her, and she did the same, their gazes connecting.

His eyes were a stormy blue that she could get lost in forever, and she wondered if she had destroyed any chance of more stolen moments.

“Rhys?”

“Yes?”

His voice was deep, husky, stirring something deep in her soul. “Before you found out that I was Emmett, you and I – as Emmaline, that is – we… connected.”

“We did.”

“Has that connection disappeared?”

He paused, his gaze returning to the darkening sky above them.

“It’s not gone, Emmaline,” he said so softly that she almost didn’t hear him. “But I don’t know that it would be a good idea for you and me to be… close.”

“Why not?”

He turned toward her, his eyes twinkling. “You don’t let up, do you?”

“I do not. ”

His lips twitched, the hint of a smile playing at the corners. “I admire that about you, even if it drives me mad.”

Emmaline’s heart fluttered at his words. Admiration. From Rhys Lockwood, that was high praise indeed. She propped herself on one elbow, studying his face in the fading light. “Is that the only thing you admire about me?”

Rhys mirrored her position, bringing them closer together.

She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the scent of grass and exertion and something uniquely him filling her senses.

“Far from it,” he murmured, his gaze drifting down to her lips before returning to meet her eyes.

“Your determination, your spirit, your skill.” He shrugged. “Try not to let it swell your head.”

Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat. Despite his teasing words, how he looked at her sent shivers down her spine, and she didn’t think she was imagining the delicious tension building between them.

“Rhys,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of her cheek. “There are so many reasons I should keep myself away from you. Your father is an earl, for one. That should be reason enough to scare me away.”

“My mother wasn’t noble.”

“I know, but she was at least from a respectable family. I come from nothing.”

“Which makes the fact that you have made such an incredible life for yourself that much more admirable.”

He dropped his hand as he snorted and turned his gaze away.

“I have created opportunities for myself, sure. But my life is far from incredible.”

“Why would you say that? ”

“Because I am alone. I work in the bank, play football a few times a week, and that’s it.”

“I am sure that is not due to lack of feminine interest.”

He smirked. “Are you jealous?”

“Of whom?”

He sighed. “There is no one, not really. There has been interest, but I have never found someone who… fit.”

“No?” she said, lifting a brow, wondering if it could ever be possible that she might be that woman. But then why was he pushing her away?

“If anything were to happen between us, Emmaline,” he said, reading her thoughts, “it would make things difficult when we were together as part of the team. When you are Emmett. I would be watching you on the field. Making sure you were safe and uninjured. How would it look if I spent all my time defending my teammate?”

“It would make you a good captain.”

“No,” he said swiftly. “It would make me a terrible captain, because it would mean I was putting my own concerns ahead of the team.”

“But?” she said, hearing it at the end of his sentence, even if he hadn’t voiced it.

“But I find myself unable to resist you, Emmaline Whitmore. No matter how much I tell myself I should.”

Rhys was still staring at her, eyes dark and intent, as if memorizing every line of her face in the dying lavender light. The stretch of silence between them vibrated like a drawn bowstring. Then, all at once, he closed the distance.

At first it was almost tentative—a brush of his lips against hers, the barest whisper of a question.

But Emmaline had been waiting for that moment for what felt like eternity, and she answered without hesitation.

She leaned into his kiss, parting her lips to him, her hand reaching up instinctively to find the nape of his neck.

Her fingers tangled in the damp curls at his hairline, pulling him closer, deepening the contact.

Rhys groaned—an involuntary, guttural sound that resonated in her chest as much as his own.

The world around them retreated, the grass and the dusk and the cries of distant birds lost to the roaring in her ears.

His arm came around her waist, strong enough to remind her of her own smallness, careful enough that she felt safe inside it.

He pressed her back into the grass, never breaking the kiss, their mouths fitting more perfectly than either could have imagined.

She could taste the salt of sweat on his upper lip, could feel the growing urgency in his hands as he cupped her cheek, the calluses rough and tender at once.

Still, for as ravenous as the kiss became—with his tongue parting her lips and hers responding in kind—there was a startling gentleness in every motion.

He touched her as if she was made of something rare and irreplaceable.

Her other hand—she was only dimly aware of it—clutched at his shirtfront, wrinkling the maroon and cream cotton into a fist. She was drunk on him, on the scent of grass and earth and the raw, masculine note that lingered between his jaw and shoulder.

She wanted more, needed more, and the hunger of it was like nothing she had ever experienced.

Rhys shifted, rolling to brace his weight on one elbow so he did not crush her.

Their bodies pressed together along their entire length.

She felt each rapid rise and fall of his chest, the pounding of his heart a wild echo of her own.

Her legs, still trembling from their exertion, tangled with his beneath the worn wool of her stockings.

For an endless, perfect instant, nothing existed but the two of them and the slow burn of their kiss, the shudder of their lungs, the impossible fact that they were finally—finally—touching without pretense or restraint.

The sky above was a sweep of indigo bruised with the last glowing pink, and the first star of evening burned overhead as witness to their collision.

Rhys broke the kiss first, though his reluctance was palpable. He rested his forehead against hers, noses brushing, breath mingling in the cooling air. His hands slid up her arms to her shoulders, holding her as if he feared she might vanish if he let go.

Emmaline forced herself to open her eyes, meeting his stormy gaze at close range. His lips were parted, his cheeks flushed, but there was something wounded and uncertain beneath the surface.

Her own heart thudded against her ribs, loud enough she wondered if he could hear it.

"Rhys," she whispered, the only word she could manage.

He closed his eyes again, as if in pain. "Emmaline," he rasped, the sound raw and reverent. "We can't... I shouldn't have..."

“Shh,” she soothed, pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t overthink it, Rhys. Just let yourself feel for once.”

He captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm before lacing their fingers together. “You’re going to be the death of me, woman,” he growled, but there was no heat behind his words, only fond exasperation.

Emmaline grinned back at him. “But what a way to go, hmm?”

Rhys chuckled, the sound warm and rich in the twilight air.

“I think our next practice should be somewhere a little more… public.”

“You want an audience?”

“I want a reason to prevent me from kissing you again.”

“Was it really that bad?”

She was joking, but when his hard gaze caught hers, all of the humor washed away, leaving only raw desire behind .

“You know the answer to that.”

“That was the best kiss of my life,” she said, pausing as she looked down at her hands. “I probably shouldn’t say that.”

“You speak your truth,” he said. “With one exception.”

“I might have been posing as Emmett, but I was living my truth more on that football field than anywhere else.”

He leaned over, looking her deeply in the eyes. “Make no mistake, Emmaline. That kiss meant just as much to me.”

She raised her brows as he finished his thought.

“Which is entirely the problem.”