Wanted: Mail-Order Mistress. Deborah Hale

      They drove on in silence for a while, privately contemplating the lush, untamed grandeur. Only when the road wound higher, bringing the town and the sea back into view did Simon venture to speak again. “The Malays call this Forbidden Hill. They say their kings of long ago are buried here.”

      “Does that other hill have a name too?” Bethan pointed towards a slightly lower rise to the north.

      Simon nodded. “Selegi Hill, which I’m told means something to do with spears. Captain Flynn and his family live there. He is the harbour-master.”

      “Harbour-master?” Bethan sounded more intrigued by that than tales of ancient Malay kings. “Does he have any children Rosalia’s age? Do you ever go there to visit?”

      Her questions struck Simon as a trifle odd, but then again Bethan had proven herself an unusual young woman. “The captain does have children—a stepdaughter who’s almost grown and an infant daughter. He has a son Rosalia’s age. Ah-Sam used to take her to visit until the boy was sent to live with relatives in England.”

      “A child that age sent so far away from his family?” Bethan fairly trembled with outrage. “How could his parents do such a terrible thing?”

      “They didn’t have much choice, I’m afraid,” Simon replied. “His elder brother died and the climate did not agree with him. Surely the child is better off in England than lying in the cemetery.”

      Bethan did not seem convinced.

      In an effort to distract her, Simon began to point out other sights of interest. “Over there is the dhobi village. They are the Indian laundry folk who wash clothes on the banks of the Kallang River and down there in Bras Basah stream. They have raised the task almost to a science. It amazes me how they get all the laundry back to its proper owners without ever losing a single scrap of linen. I wish I could keep as good an account of Vindicara’s inventory.”

      His distraction seemed to work.

      Bethan’s frown eased and she surveyed the view from the top of the hill with interest. “I can see your house and your godown by the river. My, what a lot of ships there are at anchor.”

      By now they had reached the hilltop. Simon stopped the gharry some distance away from the tall signal flagpole and hurried around to help Bethan out. He did not release her hand when she had alighted, but tucked it into the crook of his elbow and led her towards the best lookout spot. He was gratified when she betrayed no hesitation in taking his arm. He hoped it meant she was growing more comfortable around him and not simply that she was too fascinated by the vast number of ships to notice.

      “Do many of the crews come ashore?” she asked.

      Simon shook his head. “Only the odd few. There isn’t a great deal for them to do. Very little of our food is grown here, so Singapore is not the best port for provisioning.” He sensed her dissatisfaction with his answer. “Why do you ask?”

      “No reason.” The bright, carefree tone she affected struck a false note. “I’m interested in everything about the place, that’s all. Tell me, what’s that cluster of buildings over there near the shore?”

      Simon recognised an evasion when he heard one, though he could not fathom why she felt it necessary. “That’s the Sultan’s istana. A palace of sorts.”

      A melodious trill of her laughter made him forget his niggling suspicions. “Living just up the road from a sultan’s palace, am I? What would the folks back in Llanaled make of that, I wonder?”

      He turned towards her, gazing down into her eyes. They reminded him of a Lancashire meadow swathed in springtime mist. “If those people have any sense, they’ll say you belong in a palace, showered with the best of everything.”

      “If any of them could see your house, they’d think it was a palace.” She lowered her gaze briefly, only to look up at him again through the delicate fringe of her eyelashes.

      Was that an invitation to kiss her? It made Simon incapable of resisting his inclination. The best he could manage was to proceed slowly so as not to alarm her. That took every scrap of will-power he possessed.

      Closer and closer he leaned, watching for any sign of reluctance, which he hoped would not come. Bethan had ample time to evade his kiss or fend him off with some remark about the view. But she did not speak or move, except the slightest quiver of her lips as his whispered over them.

      Ever since their first evening together, the memory of her kiss, her scent and the feel of her in his arms had clung to Simon. By day they distracted him from his work and by night they invaded his dreams. Though they made a pleasant change from the nightmares that sometimes plagued him, they were a sweet torment, whetting his hunger for her to an even sharper pitch.

      Now the glancing brush against her warm, pliant lips unleashed a tempest of urgent desire within him. Simon clung tight to Bethan’s hands in case the temptation to take further liberties overwhelmed him.

      He was fighting so hard to control his hands that he had no will-power to spare for his lips. Bethan’s kiss tasted like sweet cider to a man parched with thirst. How could he imbibe it by slow, cautious sips when he longed to quaff it in great, lusty draughts?

      His lips ranged over hers and she responded with natural, innocent desire that only made him want her more. When her lips parted, he slid his tongue between them, immersing himself in the delights of her soft, sweet mouth even as he strove to ignore the hungry ache of arousal they inflamed.

      Then suddenly Bethan tensed and jerked away from him.

      Silently cursing himself, Simon struggled to regain his composure. He’d intended to maintain tight control of his desires, to tempt Bethan without frightening her. It vexed him to realise how relentlessly she tested his self-restraint. His flash of frustrated anger sought an outlet.

      The low murmur of voices jolted Bethan out of the dark, lucious depths of Simon’s kiss.