She gave him her hands; he drew her to her feet, then led her to where a beaten path followed the meandering stream. They strolled along; she ambled beside him, sometim
es ahead of him, furling her parasol when it limited her view of his face. Demon was grateful-the parasol had prevented him from watching her-any of her. They saw a mother duck with a gaggle of tiny ducklings, all paddling furiously in her wake; Flick pointed and exclaimed, and smiled delightedly. A sleek trout broke the rippling surface, chasing a fat fly; a kingfisher swooped out of the shade, dazzling them with his brilliant plumage. Flick grabbed his arm in her excitement, then sighed as the bird flew on down the stream.
"There's a bronze dragonfly."
"Where?" She searched the banks.
"Over there." He leaned close; she leaned closer still, following his pointing finger to where the dragonfly hovered above a patch of reeds. Engrossed, she drew in a breath and held it; he did the same.
The scent of her washed through him, sweet, fresh-quite unlike the cloying perfumes to which he was accustomed, to which he was immune. Her fragrance was light, airy; it reminded him of lavender and appleblossom, the essence of spring.
"Ah." The dragonfly darted away, and she exhaled.
His head swam.
She turned to him; they were so close that her skirts brushed his boots. If she took another deep breath, her breasts would touch his coat. His nearness surprised her; she looked up, eyes widening, lips parting on a silent gasp as her breath seized. Her eyes met his-for one fleeting instant, pure awareness invested the soft blue. Then puzzlement seeped in.
He saw it, but had too much to do holding his own desires in check to attempt a distraction. For the last hours, he'd delighted in her-in her innocence, in the fragile beauty of a female untouched, unawakened. He'd seen, sensed, her first glimmerings of consciousness-of him, of herself, of their inherent sensuality.
Sensuality was a quality he'd lived with daily for ten years and more; experiencing it anew, through her innocent eyes, had heightened his own far-from-innocent desires.
Her eyes held his; about them, the pulse of burgeoning spring hummed and throbbed. He felt it in his bones, in his blood. In his loins.
She felt it, too, but she didn't know what it meant. When he said nothing, she relaxed, just a little, and smiled, tentatively yet without the slightest fear. "Perhaps we'd better head back."
He held her gaze for an instant, then forced himself to nod. "Perhaps we had."
His voice had deepened; she threw him another, slightly questioning look. Ignoring it, he took her hand and turned her back along the path.
By the time they regained the swath of green, Flick's puzzlement had grown. Absentmindedly, she helped him fold the rug, then, picking up her parasol, followed him to the curricle.
After stowing the basket and rug, he returned to where she waited by the curricle's side, her frowning gaze fixed on the grass where they'd lain. She looked up as he halted beside her. She said nothing, but her frown was etched in her eyes. He saw it, and read her unvoiced questions with ease.
He had a very good idea what she was feeling-the disconcerting uncertainty, the nervous confusion. She was so open, so trusting, that she thought nothing of showing her vulnerability to him. He knew all the questions crowding her mind-the questions she couldn't begin to formulate.
He knew the answers, too.
She waited, her eyes on his, clearly hoping for some hint as to what it was she sensed. Her stance was both a demand and a plea-a clear wish to know.
Her face was tilted up to him; her tapered chin was firm. Her full lips, tinted delicate rose, beckoned. The soft blue of her eyes, clouded by the first flush of desire, promised heaven and more.
If he'd stopped to think, he would never have risked it, but the web of her innocence held him, compelled him-assured him this was simple, straightforward, uncomplicated.
His eyes locked with hers, he slowly lifted one hand and gently framed her jaw. Her breath caught; deliberately, still moving with mesmerizing slowness, he brushed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. The contact shook her-and him; he instinctively tightened his hold on his demons. Their gazes held, hers unwaveringly curious.
He drew in a shallow breath and slowly lowered his head, giving her plenty of time to balk. Other than tightening her grip on her parasol, she moved not at all. Her gaze dropped to his lips; she sucked in a breath, only to have it tangle in her throat. Her lashes fluttered, then lowered; her eyes shut on a sigh as his lips touched hers.
It was the most delicate kiss he could remember sharing-a communion of lips, nothing more. Hers were soft, as delicate as they looked, intensely feminine. He brushed them once, twice, then covered them, increasing the pressure only slightly, aware to his bones of her youth.
He was about to draw back, to bring the light caress to an end, when her lips moved beneath his-in clear response, artless, untutored. Enthralling.
She kissed him back-gently, tentatively-her question as clear as it had been in her eyes.
Without thought, he responded, the hand framing her jaw tightening, holding her face steady as he shifted closer, angling his head as he deepened the kiss.
Her lips parted under his.
Just a little-just enough for him to taste her. He ran the tip of his tongue over her lower lip, caressing the soft flesh within, then briefly stroked her tongue, teasing her senses, already taut, quiveringly tight.