When the music ceased, she was immediately claimed by another. And then another. Fraser watched, content to watch, content to bide his time.
* * *
Rosalind was aware of him watching as she was whirled and spun around the confined space. Out of place among the villagers, he was tall, and had about him an air of authority. He was well-built too. While neither wiry nor brawny, there could be no doubting the muscle under that coat. A rather well-cut coat it was too. He had a rugged face, tanned, with a vicious scar the shape of a crescent moon curving across his cheek. The skin was new there, pulled tight and painful looking. He had dark hair, slightly longer than was the fashion. Meeting his gaze, she encountered a pair of grey eyes. Lines crinkled at their corners. Too much sun, or too much something. She flushed and looked away, concentrated on not tripping, on keeping up, but every time she snatched another glance their eyes met.
As she changed partners again, Rosalind wondered why he did not ask her to dance. She could ask him, she told herself. She had done so, audaciously, before. A wager, that had been, at some high-society ball. She couldn’t remember the man in question. This man would not be so easy to forget. It was that which stopped her from asking. She sneaked another look at him as she passed, and he smiled at her. Sort of smiled, anyway. Though she hadn’t meant to, she found herself meeting his gaze yet again. He was—compelling. Perspiration prickled the small of her back. Why didn’t he just ask her to dance?
Then the music paused, and he stepped forward at last. ‘My turn, I think,’ he said, and caught her in his arms as the fiddlers started up again, surprising them both at how quickly he moved them out of reach of her astonished partner. Perversely, she was irritated at not having refused him. ‘You were rather rude to that young man,’ Rosalind said breathlessly. ‘We were not finished our dance.’
‘Then he should have put up more of a fight.’
‘You did not give him much of a chance, and I wouldn’t care to bet against you if he did.’ She’d been right about the muscles. There was no reason for that to excite her, but it did. She wondered what they would feel like flexing beneath his bare skin, and was astonished to find herself wondering, horrified to feel herself flushing. ‘What are you doing here? You are not one of the villagers, that is for certain.’
‘I could say the same of you.’
He held her lightly but firmly. Close enough for their legs to brush, for her to feel the heat of his body. Not too close, but enough for her to wish it was, which was most unlike her. ‘Do I detect a northern accent?’ she asked.
‘Aye, I’m from Scotland, though I’ve not been back for a long time. I didn’t think it was noticeable.’
‘I like it. You’ve been in the army.’ It was a statement rather than a question. With that scar, that authoritative bearing, those eyes that saw everything, had seen everything, there could be no other explanation.
He nodded.
‘You are on your way home then?’ Rosalind probed.
He did not contradict her. ‘And you?’
‘I am visiting friends.’
‘Who did not see fit to accompany you tonight?’
‘No.’ Rosalind’s hackles rose at the implied criticism. ‘I am six-and-twenty years old, and perfectly capable of taking care of myself.’
‘In other words, I am to mind my own business.’
She smiled. ‘I came here to escape.’
She half expected him to ask why. She was half relieved, half disappointed when he did not. Not that she could have answered. Or wished to. ‘That makes two of us,’ he said instead, surprising her.
She had to work very hard not to ask what he was escaping from. The music came to a stop. She did not want it to stop. She did not want to dance with anyone else. She didn’t want his hand to let go of her waist.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here before I have to fight for you,’ he said, ushering her through the door of the taproom as if he had read her mind. ‘It’s Fraser, incidentally. In case you wanted to know.’
His smile was like his eyes. Warm, and yet reserved. A hard kind of smile. He had a tiny dimple on his chin. She shrugged, trying for nonchalant, though she suspected she failed. Her heart was beating too fast. From the dancing, that would be. ‘It’s Rosalind,’ she replied, ‘in case you were interested.’
‘Oh, I am,’ he said softly. ‘I’d have thought that was perfectly obvious. Just Rosalind?’
‘Just Fraser?’ she countered.
‘Just so,’ he replied with another of those hard smiles. He pulled her through the doorway of the inn, snatching her cloak from the peg as they passed, leading her out into the night. The children were huddled asleep like a litter of puppies against the hayrick. The braziers were starting to die down. The village street was deserted.
What happened now? Rosalind wondered, but did not ask, for she did not really want to have to deal with the answer, nor, more particularly, to make any decisions to counter whatever he had in mind. So she allowed herself to be led farther into the night, away from the main street of the village towards the path she had walked earlier. ‘It is so dark here in the country compared to the city,’ she said, gazing up at the sky. ‘but it is a—a softer dark, don’t you think?’
‘Comforting rather than threatening,’ Fraser replied. His smile was fleeting but complicit too. ‘No one can see us, you mean. And no one will know.’
It was exactly what she’d meant. It was exactly how she felt, as if her actions, whatever her actions turned out to be, were not her own. In the city, the dark was always edged with danger. In the city, such a dark was threatening. In the city, her own lust for excitement, her desire to push at boundaries, was always laced with caution coupled with a reserve she feared she would never overcome. Her inheritance, she thought of it. Here in the country, the night was like a comforting blanket.
As they reached the edge of the Castonbury woods and stood in the shelter of a huge tree, Rosalind felt none of the trepidation that had kept her teetering on the brink of the indiscretions for which she was unfairly reputed. ‘No one will know,’ she agreed softly as she allowed the angled trunk of the tree to support her. ‘In this night, on this night, we could be anyone.’
Fraser leaned in closer. ‘Anyone? Oh, no, I don’t think so. I don’t want anyone here but you.’
The bark of the tree was knobbly against her back. Her hair caught in it. Her heart was pounding erratically. The only thing she was afraid of was that he would not kiss her. And he was hesitating. Seeking reassurance, she realised. So different from all those others. ‘Not anyone,’ she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him against her. ‘Only you. Just you.’
She was rewarded with the heat of his body against hers, his breath on her cheek, then his mouth on hers as he repeated her words. ‘Only you. Just you.’ And finally, he kissed her.
Chapter Two
Rosalind had been kissed many times. Chaste, dry kisses from her husband, a fleeting prelude to the doing of their marital duty. Bartholomew feared pleasure even more than he feared God, and had therefore ensured that for both of them it was a matter rather of enduring than enjoying. Since he died, and Rosalind embarked upon her wanton widowhood, she had been kissed passionately, ardently, sloppily, half-heartedly and even cruelly. Some had been more pleasant than others, but she had never been able to switch