Recklessly Yours (50 page)

Just someone looking for a book, she supposed with a sigh. Another knock sounded, and she opened the door. A tall figure ducked in the doorway.

“Willow . . . er . . . that is . . . Miss Sutherland, I am pleased to find you in.”

Her mouth dropped open. Had she summoned him here with her fanciful thoughts and painful regrets? Was he even here, or had her yearnings conjured those dark blue eyes and broad shoulders, and those hands . . . the hands that had once unsettled her, but which she had come to realize were the outward manifestation of the secret pain he'd lived with most of his life. Holly had explained Thaddeus Ashworth's cruelty toward his second son, how he'd held a little boy's hands over an open fire to teach him . . . what? That children should not be curious? Should not be mischievous? The thought of it brought tears to burn the backs of Willow's eyes.

As if his heart ached as much as hers, he held one of those dear hands to his coat front. “Miss Sutherland, may I step inside?”

She blinked the moisture from her eyes. “Oh, yes. Do forgive me. I'm just so . . . so surprised to see you here. I had not heard that you were in London.”

“I arrived this afternoon.” His footsteps thumped solidly on the floorboards, and his formidable presence filled the little shop. Willow suddenly found herself laboring for breath, as if Bryce Ashworth had sucked the oxygen from the room.

“Are you here on business?” she asked, pushing the words out hoarsely.

He shook his head, for a moment saying nothing, merely regarding her with an expression that seemed so unfamiliar on his typically serious features. It was an expression she couldn't decipher. Was he amused? Had he learned a secret about her? Had he come merely to gape?

“Do you perhaps seek a particular book?” She gestured to the shelves surrounding them.

Again he shook his head, that enigmatic expression deepening, his eyes piercing the evening shadows. Finally, his chest swelled and his shoulders lifted. When they dropped back into their hard, straight line, he said, “I came to see you, Miss Sutherland. And to bring you something you left behind at Masterfield Park.”

“Left behind?” Wondering what it could be, she closed her eyes a moment to think back.

“I was going to ask you to do that.”

Her eyes popped back open. “Do what?”

“Close your eyes. Please do so again.”

“Why?”

“Please, Miss Sutherland.”

“Oh. Very well.” It was all she could do not to peek, especially when she heard him step closer, felt the heat of his skin against her cheek, heard the soft wisp of clothing being drawn aside. Good heavens! She found herself panting for breath, yearning, needing . . .

“Put out your hands.”

“Pardon?”

“Your hands, Miss Sutherland. Or, if I may, Willow,” he added with a soft rumble, as if her name were some reverent, fragile thing to be spoken in hushed murmurs. She did as he asked, holding her hands out, palms up. Her fingers trembled. Her heart pattered.

“There,” he whispered, and something warm and furry squirmed in her hold.

“Oh, my!” Willow opened her eyes to behold a golden-striped kitten curled in a wispy ball between her hands, its sweet little face tilted up at her. One eye blinked, and a tiny pink tongue shot out for a taste of Willow's fingertip. “Oh . . . oh, how delightful!”

She raised her gaze to Bryce's eager expression. “Now that they are old enough to leave their mama, I took the liberty of selecting this one for you.” He smiled a little self-consciously. “You see, she reminded me of you, all golden and sweet and ladylike, but with a spark of spirit I doubt many people recognize.”

Willow's throat tightened. “You are so very correct,” she whispered. “Most people don't see it.”

“I do. I have from the first.” He leaned closer, bringing his masculine heat to scramble her senses. He reached out a scarred finger to stroke the kitten's tiny head. “Do you like her?”

“Oh . . .” She brought the kitten to her lips and kissed the top of its silky head exactly where Bryce had touched it. Then she nudged its nose with her own. “I positively love her. Kittens are my favorite things. How did you know?”

“One has only to look at you, Willow, to see the obvious.”

“I cannot thank you enough.” Not for the kitten, and not for his ability to see what other people missed. How tired she had grown of always being the most proper sister, the patient sister. The sister who always smiled, rarely complained, and never, ever experienced adventures of her own. Nestling the kitten between her belly and the crook of her arm, she reached out the other hand to him. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you so very much.”

“Bryce. I insist.” He took her hand in his own, gently at first, and then with a tug drew her to him. With their bodies touching and their hearts practically pounding in unison, he held her chin in place and kissed her soundly, as she had never been kissed before, as she had dreamed of being kissed—by him and only him—these many weeks.

When he lifted his lips from hers, her elation was such that she couldn't help grinning up at him, nor could he seem to stop himself from grinning back. Their sudden laughter startled the kitten, who dug her sharp little claws into Willow's sleeve.

“Ouch!” Still laughing, she removed her free hand from Bryce's steady shoulder and hugged his darling gift to her bosom. “Bryce, will you stay for tea and help me name her?”

“I did so hope you'd ask.”

And just like that, Willow's own adventure began.

Her Majesty's Secret Servants Series

 

The Blackheath Moor Series