Desire. A maelstrom threatening to sweep everything away. Sense, honour, both gone, and reason fast fading. One floundering scrap of reason found a foothold, a touchstone.
Polly. This was Polly.
Somehow he broke the kiss, drew back a little, breathing hard. A little more reason surfaced. He shouldn’t be doing this. In a moment he might remember why not...
You’re the rector, for goodness’ sake!
That hit him like a bucket of icy water. He stared down at Polly, dazed. She looked dazed, too. And her lips were damp and swollen. Pink and ripe. Because he’d kissed her. Even as he looked, all the reasons he shouldn’t be kissing her closed in, accusing.
Surely only a complete blackguard kissed a defenceless girl like that? When all she had offered was a sort of sisterly peck on the cheek.
‘I...I have to go,’ he managed. Because God only knew, if he didn’t, where this would end. His gaze fell on the alcove holding Polly’s bed and gave him back the lie. He knew perfectly well where it could have ended. That, right there, in that shadowed alcove, was the natural end for such a kiss.
Somehow he forced his hand to withdraw from the fall of her hair, now tumbled around her shoulders. Had he done that? His fingers shook at the silken caress. With even more difficulty he dragged the other hand from her waist.
‘Polly,’ he whispered. Lord, had he only just seen her? Seen what was in front of him. ‘I’m—’
‘No.’ The luminous golden eyes pleaded. ‘Don’t apologise. Please, just...just pretend there is a little bit of mistletoe above us.’
Mistletoe? God help them both if he’d had that pagan incentive above him!
He was the rector and Polly had confided in him, turned to him for comfort. He swallowed, brutally aware of aching need. Wanting to cast discretion and propriety, not to mention his vows, to the four winds.
He forced himself to release her and stand up, away from the warmth that was Polly. But his eyes—his eyes remained on her face, lost, and somehow found. Until her gaze fell and scarlet mantled her cheeks.
‘I’ll...I’ll bid you goodnight, sir.’
Polly. Her name lay unspoken on his tongue like honey, as sweet and intimate as her mouth itself.
He swallowed. ‘Miss Woodrowe.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’ll bar the door behind me?’ What the hell would he do if she said no? Refuse to leave until she did?
‘Yes.’
Thank God.
‘Well. Ah, goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
Bonny bounded up from the hearth as he headed to the door. He made a mental note that dogs appeared to be very poor chaperons.
As Polly secured the door, she heard his steps retreating, crunching on the frosty street. With a groan, she leaned back against the door, feeling the bar digging into her back. Her heart still raced and her hands trembled.
She hadn’t known a kiss could be like that. Full of wonder and need and delight. She had let Tom kiss her once years ago. He had seemed to enjoy it, but she had thought it horrid. All hot breath and pawing at her breast. This had been quite different. This had been something joyous and right.
Right? What was she thinking? She’d kissed the rector! No doubt there would be a letter dismissing her from her post in the morning. And this time she’d deserve it. Never mind that she’d meant it as a mere peck on the cheek, a...a kiss of gratitude. It somehow hadn’t ended up that way. How on earth had she missed his cheek?
Because you wanted to miss it?
Because some wanton part of her had wanted to kiss him, had wanted to feel his arms strong about her.
Her cheeks burnt. At best he’d think her shockingly forward, at worst a depraved hussy...although he had been kissing her back. With a great deal of enthusiasm. She pushed that aside. In these matters, from Eve’s temptation of Adam on, it was always the woman’s fault. But how did you explain to a man—let alone a man of God—that it had all been a mistake, that you hadn’t really meant to kiss him at all? Or at least not like that. Not like a wanton. Especially when your heart was still pounding and you could still taste him, wine-dark and gentle, in your mouth. When your breasts ached from being pressed against him and your body remembered exactly where those big, careful hands had touched.
* * *
God in heaven!
Was that what St Paul meant about better to marry than burn? He’d always assumed that referred to the fires of hell, of sin. Or perhaps St Paul had truly considered physical love to be sinful.
Alex’s steps crunched through the frost towards the rectory, as his mind spun dizzily. He hadn’t known. Simply hadn’t known that a kiss could be like that. Like...like an explosion, a beginning and ending all in one.
Better to marry than burn...
‘Evening, Rector.’
‘Good evening, Davey.’ He managed a smile for Davey Fletcher. Prayed the blacksmith hadn’t seen which cottage he’d come out of.
‘That Miss Woodrowe’s a right pretty lass,’ said Fletcher cheerfully, patting Bonny as she nudged up to him.
Yes, well. Not all prayers were answered quite as one might like. He knew that.
Fletcher continued. ‘My boy, Caleb, reckons she’s real nice too, the way she manages all them young ’uns. Teaching them their ABCs an’ all.’ He nodded. ‘Good thing for this village, an’ don’t you think we’re not grateful to you and his lordship for doing it.’ He doffed his cap and went on his way, whistling.
Of course, Fletcher probably thought he’d just been discussing the children’s progress with Polly. As he should have been.
Instead, he’d been kissing her. And there was only one possible remedy for that. At least, there was only one remedy for him in this situation.
He’d somehow always expected the decision to marry—and the choice of a bride—to be a rational, logical process, just like everything else he’d done in his life. Naturally his wife would be a woman he liked and esteemed, someone he could be comfortable with. But tumbling head over heels in love?
Oh, he knew people fell in love. He’d watched it happen to Dominic and Pippa. It had not looked logical at all. Although perhaps that was just their confusion. The actual result had been perfectly logical. He’d seen that before they had. But still, he’d never thought that it would happen to him. Not like that. But it had. Like a thunderbolt. He dragged in a breath, steadied his thinking, reaching for the calm inner peace he relied on. Just because he’d fallen in love didn’t mean it wasn’t necessary to at least behave as though he was thinking rationally. More importantly, he needed to behave with honour.
He groaned. Kissing Polly Woodrowe out of her wits was not the action of an honourable man. Not when she had no one to protect her, to guard her reputation, or to advise her.
Of course it would be different if they were betrothed.
Very different.
Kissing her would be quite unexceptionable. As long as he made sure it stopped at kissing. What worried him was that ensuring that it did stop at kissing looked like being a problem. He was a clergyman, for heaven’s sake!
Apparently he was a man before he was a clergyman. A man who wanted a woman. A woman he liked, cared for and respected. Logically, and thank God he was actually