Caught in a Cornish Scandal Eleanor Webster (new books to read .TXT) 📖

The horse had shattered its leg and was shot. Her mother had fallen apart, broken by the loss of husband and son in such quick succession.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sam said, reaching for her hand.

She accepted his offer. She felt the warmth of his fingers and the comfort of human connection. Loneliness—out of the full gamut of human emotion, loneliness was the sentiment with which she had the greatest familiarity. And duty.

Since her father’s financial losses, she’d tried to help her father, her mother, Tom, Lil, even Flora. If willpower could have kept them safe, they’d still be alive. But willpower was not enough. Her parents were too broken, her brother too reckless and her sister too young.

The firelight flickered. Outside, she heard a bird’s call and wondered if it was getting close to dawn. They should leave once there was sufficient light. And yet, she was reluctant to move. It was warm under Sam’s jacket, pressed close to the fire. She was conscious of his body, the size of him, which was both comforting and something else. She was peculiarly conscious of the present, as though past and future had slid into unimportance.

Indeed, there was an intimacy in this moment with him which was both disconcerting and reassuring.

She looked at his strong features, dimly lit by the firelight. His lips lifted in a smile.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I was only thinking that this felt...nice.’

The touch of his hand changed from comfort to an awareness, a tingling sensitivity and a feeling of being more alive. It felt as though every particle of her body, every inch if her skin had an added vibrancy.

Indeed, everything within the tiny bare cabin felt so completely different from the rest of her life, as if it was a separate moment, stolen in time. It stood out in brilliant, stark relief.

What would it be like, she wondered, to throw duty to the wind? To forget about the ‘what ifs’? To forget about Mr Edmunds with his five children and the snuff stains liberally splattered across his too-tight waistcoat? To allow herself to inch closer to this man, to run her fingers across the stubble of his cheek, to feel the muscles in his shoulders?

‘You know,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I wouldn’t have survived the moor without you.’

‘You wouldn’t have survived the sea without me either.’

He laughed. ‘I suppose I should be glad you decided to smuggle.’

‘Indeed, you should be grateful for ever.’

‘You know, I have never met anyone like you. I feel as though I have been living in a grey world that has turned multi-coloured overnight.’

‘I never knew you were a poet.’

‘A poet? Now you insult me. Musician, maybe, but never a poet.’

‘And what is wrong with a poet?’ She raised herself on one elbow. He was quite close, inches away from her. His eyes were intently dark and his lips well shaped and sensitive.

‘Aren’t they dreadfully foppish? More cravat than person?’

‘And musicians aren’t?’

‘Not nearly as bad. More person and less cravat.’

She giggled. ‘I wouldn’t know. Cornish sea towns aren’t known for poets or musicians.’ She touched his cravat, twisting the cloth through her fingers with a rustle of silk.

They were not touching and yet she was very aware of him and the proximity of his body. ‘I’m afraid this won’t get you admitted into anything.’

‘You mock my cravat? You do realise that an elegant cravat is the pride of every gentleman?’

She met his gaze and felt the rapid-fire thumping of her heart. ‘I am sure it was elegant once,’ she said, conscious of her uneven breath, as though she had been running.

They were so close she could hear the rustle of his shirt as he lifted his hand, touching her hair and gently tucking a stray strand behind her ear. Very slowly, he traced her jaw. The skimming touch of his thumb made her catch her breath.

He was so close that she could see the tiny crease on the left side of his cheek from that lop-sided dimple and the firm line of his lips slightly lifted in a smile.

Very slowly, he pulled her nearer to him, touching her lips with his own. The kiss was soft and gentle, a fleeting thing, and yet she felt it through every part of her body. It made her heart beat like a wild thing. It made her breath quicken and a feeling that was both shivery, but also searing, flashed through her. She’d never felt this. Or anything like this. Her every sense was filled by him. She heard nothing except his inhalation and the rustle of straw with his movement. She felt nothing except the warmth of his hand, cupping her chin, his lips warm against her own.

‘You are very beautiful,’ he murmured.

Never before had Millie Lansdowne felt beautiful, but in this moment, and with this man, she felt beautiful.

Sam looked down at Millie’s flushed countenance. Her eyes were a dark, intense blue—a mesmerising blue—her lips were parted, glistening with moisture and her shirt had fallen open, showing a creamy expanse of skin.

The place, the moment, the woman seemed stripped of all pretence, innocent of all lies or subterfuge.

A desperate, raw neediness grew in him. He wanted to pull her close, to feel her, to tangle his hands through her wild hair, drown himself in her eyes and satiate himself with the touch of her skin and lips. This moment had an intensity that made past and future inconsequential.

Her lips parted with a soft gasp as her hands reached up, touching his cheek and the line of his jaw. There was an exploratory innocence about her. He felt the graze of her fingers, as she touched his neck, his shoulders and muscles. This lack of sophistication also excited.

His kiss deepened. He felt her arch towards him. He felt the softness of her breasts pressing against him. He wanted this woman. He wanted this alluring, fascinating female with an almost adolescent urgency.

But he was not an adolescent any longer.

He forced himself to still,