Hooked (10 page)

She probably should have let the darn thing fall off. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen her without it before. Clearly, she wasn't cut out to be the wearer of the latest fashion rage.

Her hat . . . the lovely satin straw braided number with wire frame and shirrings of taffeta silk, wings, and dashing rosettes, was drowned. Just as drowned as Meg herself. With each step she took, her shoes squeaked and sloshed.

But as Meg walked the narrow trail that wound around the lake, she thought perhaps it had been fate. Because even though the water hadn't been but four feet deep, he'd rescued her. His strong arms around her had felt wonderful as he'd pulled her out of the chilly water and brought her to shore.

She didn't want to go back to the rental dock. And in spite of their wet clothing, neither did Mr. Wilberforce. In fact, he kept staring at her. To the point
where she felt like she should have
insisted
they return to town even though she didn't want to go.

A true lady would have been mortified by the wet fabric clinging to her legs and outlining the shape of her bodice. But her self-consciousness wasn't enough to make her leave.

With teeth chattering and soggy hat in hand, Meg declared, “I know of a nice sunny spot where we can dry out.”

“Put my coat on,” Mr. Wilberforce insisted as he draped the wool coat over her shivering shoulders. His hot gaze swept across the column of her neck and to the delicate edge of her neckline; her skin burned in spite of the cool water running down her collarbone.

“Thank you.” The Allard-Lee & Co. coat smelled faintly of Mr. Wilberforce's cologne. Meg never realized just how comforting something like that could be. She'd never worn a man's coat before.

As Meg trudged along using her closed parasol as a walking stick, she wished Mr. Wilberforce would say something. He had been inexplicably quiet since her . . . accident.

With each step she took, she felt his gaze skimming over her. As if he were pondering just what kind of woman she was.
Or,
if she dared consider a shocking thought, wondering if he were looking at her in a way that no gentleman would consider.

The very idea pulled at her composure. She didn't want to dwell on such a thought because she didn't know how to cope with it. Instead, she kept her thoughts on a safer subject.

He must think her a feminine disaster. To her credit, she'd only had these little accidents since forcing herself to remember ladylike maneuvers. The old
Meg could run in a skirt without so much as a falter. Margaret had too many trappings: gloves, parasol, hat, silk-vested shoes with dainty heels that did more to trip than aid in walking.

“It's not much farther, Mr. Wilberforce,” Meg called over her shoulder, looking into his face.

A mistake. Her step faltered a little when she observed what he was doing.

His slow gaze traveled over the tender skin above her mouth. Then her mouth. Beneath his searing examination, a gasp parted her lips.

She really should have said they should go back . . .

But the very idea of spending the afternoon with him was too dazzling to forgo.

“I'm with you, Miss Brooks,” he replied in a soft drawl—as if he weren't doing anything at all other than walking.

“Yes . . . I see that.”

Meg faced forward and forced her thoughts to quit racing. She had to stop being so foolish. Remember who she was, wanted to be. The three Cs: cultured, civilized, charming.

Never mind about hot gazes and glances at her mouth as if he wanted to . . . well, enough of that She had to remain steadfast in her efforts to win a man over with her new and improved self.

Since she'd failed in the etiquette department, she decided to charm him with her knowledge of the local flora. Flowers she knew. She'd studied that particular chapter in her deportment book thinking it was one of the more interesting ones. Bouquets made up of ivy, snowdrops, and maiden's blush roses had their own language. The ivy signified friendliness, the snowdrops hope, and the roses secret love.

Ladies waited to be sent flowers with such sentimental messages. But, frankly, Meg preferred yellow daisies, which meant shared feelings. She longed to find a man who shared her same ideals without her having to change her appearance or thoughts.

Regardless, she'd received neither type of bouquet from a gentleman caller.

Meg spied a particularly vibrant patch of blue.

With the intent to point out her knowledge of local plant life, she abruptly ceased her steps—only to have Mr. Wilberforce slam into her and knock her off kilter.

He braced his hands on her shoulders to keep her from toppling into the wild sorrel that grew alongside the trail.

Beneath his breath he said, “Miss Brooks, you sorely tempt me.”

Turning her head, she whispered, “I do?” Her heart beat so fast, she could barely put a coherent sentence together—short as it might have been.

This close, his eyes were defining shades of summer green and the gold hues of fall sunsets. Breathing became an effort, collected thoughts became a struggle.

The weight of his hands on her shoulders felt deliciously strong and protective. “You're a very enchanting woman and any man fortunate enough to hold you in his arms would be hard-pressed not to take advantage of the situation.” Mr. Wilberforce lowered his face over hers. “Did you stop because you want me to kiss you?”

Meg sucked in her breath. No man had
ever
asked her that. Not even Harold. Not that she had ever been kissed by him. Not that she wanted to be. “It hadn't been my intention . . . but if you want—”

She got no further. His lips came softly over hers and he kissed her startled mouth. Catching her up in his arms, he brought her close to his chest and deepened the kiss. He kept her snugly against him, and she began to relax. Until he traced the seam of her mouth. Such an intimacy . . . it left her reeling.

“Miss Brooks,” he spoke against her lips, “have you ever been kissed before?”

She shivered; he held her tighter. “Yes, of course.” The lie came easily enough.

“Then you don't mind if we kiss some more,” he said after a spell.

And kiss her he did. Slow. Thoughtful. Kisses that left desire racing through her. His touch was a delicious sensation she had never imagined possible. Her fingers came to rest lightly on his shoulders—her hat nearly dropping from her grasp; she needed the support or else she would have . . . swooned. Like a real lady in a fit of the vapors. Completely unlike her. She'd thought such a thing ridiculous. And yet . . .

“I need to sit down,” she said in a rush. “I find I'm feeling quite . . . quite unlike myself.”

“You feel quite nice to me.” His words melted her senses. She might have fainted dead away but she stubbornly refused to miss a second of this bewitching moment.

Pulling her thoughts together, she willed herself to gain a clear head. In order to do so, she had to talk. Talk about anything. The weather. The sky and lake. The flowers.

“I was going to show you that meadow of blue camas when I stopped,” she blurted. “Doesn't that look like a puddle of water? But it's not. That bit of yellow beside it, that's marsh buttercup; it has yellow
petals. And over there is false Solomon's-seal, and . . . and right here is trout lily. In spite of its name, it doesn't smell like a dead fish. Although I wouldn't be sending a person whom I harbored a token of affection for a bouquet of trout lily. The more suitable choice would be . . . would be . . .” She lost her train of thought when he stared at her like that. His mouth offering a little comma of a smile as if he thought she were a true beauty. “Oh, never mind.”

At that, he half-laughed—as if he didn't want to but couldn't help it. A rich and warm sound that provoked shivers up her arms and across the nape of her neck where his delicious coat caressed her bare skin.

“You were going to show me a place where we could sit in the sun.” He released her—she missed him immediately—and she instantly chilled as air circulated around her wet clothing.

Meg gripped the edges of her hat so tightly she nearly broke the braiding. “Yes. It's where the tributary of Evergreen Creek runs right into the lake. Beside it is a quaint meadow, where all around, the timber has fallen to keep the spot nice and bright with sun.”

Meg moved forward, rather automatically. She heard Mr. Wilberforce follow behind her.

The meadow came into view and Meg stepped over a decaying tree. Off to the right, came the sound of water as it trickled from the creek, flowing over rocks and sun-bleached boulders. A blue jay sat atop one of the tree stumps with a nut in its mouth, then flapped its wings and flew away.

Finding the perfect fallen pine amid the ground blanket of grape ferns and leafy maidenhair, Meg selected a tree and sat down. Her skirts clung to her legs. She laid her hat on the rough trunk of the
lodgepole. Then she folded her fingers together and rested them in her lap. She would have done something with her hair if she could have managed without being dreadfully obvious. Instead the dark copper length dripped down her back.

Mr. Wilberforce took a seat beside her, the cuffs of his trousers hiking a good five inches above his ankles. My goodness . . . he was shrinking. That was to say, his wool pants were from the dousing they'd received. Meg bit her lower lip. She was the Queen of Wool Shrinkage. Even when she used that guaranteed no shrink wool soap from Sears & Roebuck.

She hoped he wouldn't notice. Things were going so well.

“Is this what you'd call high?” Mr. Wilberforce asked.

Meg swallowed and glanced at his shortened trousers. “They're not all that high. Why, I'll bet you could let the hem down and nobody would ever be able to tell what happened. I'd offer to do that for you, but I think you'd be much better off with a professional.”

He gave her a sideways stare. “I was referring to the stream,” he clarified. With a flicker of a frown, he took a glimpse of his worsted trousers. “I know that my pants have become abbreviated. And I thought about tossing you back into the lake because of it.”

If he hadn't grinned when he said it, she would have feared he'd been serious. She smiled along with him.

“Do you fly-fish, Miss Brooks?” he asked.

“I did when I was younger.”

“Not anymore?”

“Well . . . nothing I would admit to.”

He lifted a brow. “You're good at it?”

She didn't want to admit she was an excellent fly caster. Better than her brother, Wayne. In fact, better
than most men in Harmony. Surely Mr. Wilberforce wouldn't find a woman interested in fishing very appealing. She should play down that part of her past. After all, she hadn't taken up her rod and reel for weeks now.

“Not all that good,” she replied at length. “How about you? Do you think you have a chance at winning?”

“It depends on the competition. Do you know any of this year's contestants? Are they worth my worrying over?”

She watched his lips move as he spoke and it took her a moment to digest what he asked. With a half shake of her head, she thought about his question.

She knew a few of them. Sloppy casters. And that Ham Beauregarde. He was a real show off. Meg's shoulders slightly slumped as she thought over Mr. Wilberforce's question. She almost forgot herself and plopped her elbows on both knees and rested her chin in her palms. She did her best thinking that way.

The words of Mrs. Wolcott's deportment book came flooding back to Meg. She should use due discretion when on a topic that could wound a man's ego. “Well, I'm sure you'll see them practicing and you can form your own opinions.” She plunged ahead with, “Yes, Mr. Wilberforce, the stream is high.”

“Is the Evergreen the only creek to run into Fish Lake?”

“There are a few smaller tributaries, but they mostly trickle. They don't run in the way the Evergreen does.”

“So this is the main waterway that feeds the lake fish.”

“Yes.”

“Any hatcheries around here?”

“One. In Waverly.”

Mr. Wilberforce nodded, as if he were happy about that. How could he go from kissing her to talking about fish? She could hardly keep her mind on what he was saying. She kept reliving that kiss . . .

“What kind of fish do they raise?”

Fish?
What was so fascinating about them?

With an inward shrug, Meg replied, “Brown trout. That's the second commonest trout in the state. It's the same fish you'll find in Fish Lake or anyplace else around here. Although rainbows are more prominent.”

“Go on.”

Imagine that . . . he was actually listening to her as if he were hinged on her every word. “Well, rainbows are smaller than steelhead, brighter in color, and they have larger scales. They take a strike with hardly any coaxing.”

“So it's the most rainbows caught in the contest that makes a winner?”

“The judges count any fish.”

“Tell me all about how a contestant chooses a spot from which to fish.”

“Well, it's by lottery. Everyone puts their name in a hat and they're pulled one by one. The first picked, picks the first spot and so on.”

“So you can pick which spot you're going to fish—in advance?”

“Yes. Two days in advance. So you can get to know the water.”

Mr. Wilberforce said in his deep voice, “This subject is so fascinating, Miss Brooks. You have me enchanted.”

“I do?” So much for another stolen kiss.

“Of course. Your knowledge of fish is remarkable.”

Remarkable?
She didn't think knowing the difference between rainbow and steelhead was all that remarkable. But if he wanted to think she was fascinating and enchanting and remarkable, she would let him. “You're too kind.”

“And you're too modest. You haven't once bragged about your brother winning the contest last year. Mr. Farley told me.”