Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,83

a good thing as Nash desperately wanted to touch her.

“I’m afraid that’s not enough time,” Nash said. “I would be happy to host next year.”

“Oh, you are being too modest,” Rowden said, clapping a hand on Nash’s shoulder hard enough to rattle Nash’s bones. He gripped Nash tightly, and Nash had to struggle not to flinch. “The grounds will absolutely be ready. Miss Howard, would you let the vicar know that it would be Mr. Pope’s honor to host the autumn festival this year?”

There was a measurable pause. “Of course,” she said, her voice full of skepticism. Clearly, she knew Nash was being strong-armed, literally, into hosting. “I will speak with him this evening,” she said. “Good day.”

“She’s walking away,” Rowden muttered.

Nash knew this, and he knew he should allow her to go.

“Do something,” Rowden muttered. “Or you’ll regret it.”

“Miss Howard!” Nash called.

“Yes?” she answered, sounding slightly farther away.

“Might we drive you back to the vicarage in the carriage?”

“That’s the idea,” Rowden said.

“It’s not a long walk,” she said. “I can manage.”

So much for his idea, Nash thought.

“Surely you don’t want to get dust on your new dress,” Rowden said, sounding so completely unlike himself that Nash would have questioned the speaker was his friend if he hadn’t been standing beside him. Rowden smacked Nash’s shoulder.

“I really must insist,” Nash said.

“Very well.” Pru didn’t sound annoyed, exactly. She sounded confused and wary. Nash couldn’t blame her. He was confused himself. Why could he not allow her to walk away?

“We’ll have to stop in at the store another day,” Rowden said, no doubt for the benefit of their audience. “Come, Miss Howard.”

Nash imagined he was taking her arm, but instead he yanked Nash forward and locked her hand on his arm. The feel of her warmth beside him was like coming home to a cozy chamber after being out in the freezing rain. He instantly relaxed, the eyes of the villagers not mattering quite so much. He could manage the whispers and stares with her at his side. He leaned closer to her, catching a hint of her scent, mixed with something new. It must be the fabric of her dress. She hadn’t worn it enough for it to soak up her fragrance. Nash could remember burying his nose in her hair that night they’d spent together, wanting to drown every one of his senses in her.

“Why are you doing this?” she hissed, sounding as though she were speaking out of the corner of her mouth.

“Seeing you to the vicarage seems like the gentlemanly thing to do,” he said, knowing full well that was not at all what she meant.

“Don’t be obtuse.”

Nash had always been anything but obtuse, but he felt incredibly dull-witted at the moment. All of his life he had sought to keep hidden, to use surprise to his advantage. As long as he kept his head down and his aim steady, he was safe. But Pru would pull him out into the open. And if he didn’t control his feelings for her now, she would paint an enormous target on his chest. Without his only defense, his sight, he was even more exposed and vulnerable.

Nash had always prided himself on making split second decisions—fire or hold fire. Kill or stand down. The few times he had made the wrong decision—when he’d fired at a child or an unarmed woman—he had known, even in the instant he pulled the trigger, that he’d made a mistake. It was as though his mind screamed no and his body acted anyway. The experience of losing control of his actions for that instant had been jarring, all the more so because of the regret and guilt he’d felt afterward.

He felt that way now. His mind told him no, but his body acted without him. His hand covered Pru’s, and he pulled her slightly closer. “I’ve missed you,” he said. He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t know why he said it. Yes, he’d missed her, but she didn’t need to know that. It didn’t change anything to tell her. She wasn’t safe with him, and when his father sent him to the asylum, her association with him would only hurt her reputation. She couldn’t afford that. She was the daughter of poor missionaries who had foisted her on a vicar. A charity case.

A true gentleman would let her go.

And he would, Nash told himself. He just needed one more minute with her. One more hour. One more day.

One more night.

“You’ve missed me?”

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