met Mr. Ruthven, she could tell him how busy she was and let him go. Let him trail after her for half an hour. He’d soon tire of the exercise.
The stairs turned and as she reached the landing, Rhona glanced down on the black-and-white tiled hall.
A trail of muddy footprints marred the perfect squares. Mr. Ruthven knew better than that. She kept shoes and slippers in the garden room so visitors could remove their muddy boots before they came in.
But the figure standing there was broader than Ruthven’s tall, slender form. This man’s shoulders filled out his brown coat in an uncompromising way, as Mr. Ruthven had never managed. As the visitor took off his greatcoat, she had time to take in the powerful form, the way his muscles flexed under the cloth of his gray wool riding coat. A fine coat, too, despite its plainness, the fabric bearing the sheen of a close weave, following the form beneath.
She knew who it was. Her stomach somersaulted.
He turned and hung the greatcoat on a peg, and then took off his hat and hung it above, as if he knew this place well. Then he stilled as if he sensed her presence, although as soon as she’d seen him, she’d remained still.
Awareness thrummed through her as he stood there, unmoving.
She spoke his name. “Frederick?”
Turning, sending his coat skirts spinning around him, he opened his arms. Without another thought, Rhona flung herself down the stairs and into them.
His arms closed around her as if he would never let her go, and she lifted her face for his kiss. He bent to her.
That firm, full mouth, the feel of his arms holding her safe sent Rhona hurtling back, years disappearing as their lips melded, caressed and stroked. Her arms went about his waist, under his coat, his waistcoat buttons pressing so hard against her they could leave marks. She wore her soft stays today, so her womanly armor was flimsy, no protection at all.
He licked into her, his taste melting the space between them, her carefully built-up resistance to the most painful of memories. She would give her soul for more of this, for this never to stop. Here, in his arms, she was complete, as she’d always been.
His groan reverberated down her throat, enhancing her response, as if he were deep within her, living there.
A chill crept down her spine, a foreboding. Of course, he lived there. He always had.
They could have stood there, kissing and touching all day except that one of them came to their senses, and remembered that life existed outside their conjoined mouths, their bodies pressed closely together.
She pushed against his shoulders. It was like trying to move padded iron. The padding did nothing to hide the power of the muscles beneath. Easing away, she forced a laugh, tried to make things light. “You didn’t have those muscles when you left.”
His hold on her loosened. He gazed at her, deep blue eyes clouded with passion. Rhona forced herself not to dive straight back into their power. Although over ten years has passed since she last saw him, it could have been yesterday. Memories she’d suppressed for years rose up to torture her anew.
“I’ve come home. I’m done with active service.” His gaze remained steady, but tension tightened the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes.
Why would the army not want him? Or had he made the decision to leave? They were in the middle of a war. Why would they let an officer of his experience go?
Every day, Frederick appeared in her life in one form or another. Places in the house where he’d kissed her, or talked to her. Grief died, or so they said, but hers had never done so. Sucking in a deep breath to bolster her determination, she stepped back.
With shaking fingers, she smoothed her practical gown of dark cloth, shook her plain linen apron to put herself to rights. Lifting her hand to her head, she found her cap in disarray, and she tugged it. A hairpin tinkled to the floor. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of her reaction to him.
He tucked her hand through his arm. “Come. Order tea and we’ll talk like two civilized humans for a while. But I can’t promise not to fall on you like a starving man at the least provocation. Because I am, you know.” He leaned in, murmured in her ear, the hot breath tickling the rim. “Starving. For you.”
She did her