Freedom Forever (Southern Romance 3)

“Mr. Thompson.”

“Miss Dalton, you are as radiant as always.” He looked outside at the still day. “Perhaps we might walk outside? I have been shut indoors too much, of late. That is, of course, if it pleases you, ma’am.” That last was directed to Millicent.

“Of course you may go.” The woman found a smile from somewhere. Whatever she thought, deep in her heart, she knew this was an advantageous match for Cecelia. She was nothing but polite to Abraham, though he took liberties with his courting.

As always, Abraham waited until they had walked for some time before he spoke. The day was still, and so the cold did not so easily sink into their bones. Cecelia wore the green cloak he liked so well, hoping that he would think her pink cheeks were a blush of pleasure at his presence, not from working outside like a servant.

“Cecelia,” he said finally, and she felt the shiver of anticipation that always came with these conversations.

“Yes, Abraham?”

He always waited for her to speak, and he liked it when she said his name. In a way, it made her sad to know already how to put him in a good humor—which words to use, how to smile at him. It was as if he was a puzzle, and she had figured him out. Except, of course, for what she knew was coming.

“Will you let me kiss you today?”

He always asked it, and Cecelia always, properly, refused him. She was a God-fearing woman, she told him sometimes. Other times, she only smiled and let him kiss her hand, her lips parting in surprise at the intimate brush of lips against her skin. Once, he had turned her hand over and planted a kiss on the inside of her wrist, seeming to savor her shocked gasp.

What he made of it, she could not say. He wanted her to say yes, she was not a fool. He wanted kisses, and he wanted more than that as well. But he enjoyed it when she said no to him, as if it lit his blood on fire to hear the word no. As if she was a challenge to be figured out. And as if he approved, for he knew as much as she did that they should not be kissing, not when they were not betrothed. The fact that other young couples did so, they both pretended not to know; they hide behind propriety, and it excited him as much as it stoked his frustration. Cecelia, walking carefully along the knife edge she had always known existed, but never experienced, felt a heady rush of...

What was it? What, truly, could she call it?

It made her feel alive, in this house of ghosts and tears. It made her feel as if she was flesh and blood and living now, not just waiting for a messenger that might either bring them all back to life or shatter them into dust. She felt as if she was living in a doll house where time never passed, waiting for life to resume again. Abraham, urgent and with his pulse beating quickly at his throat, was alive and wanting the future.

So she smiled and watched desire kindle in his eyes, and she lowered her lashes demurely and looked away while his hand found hers under her cloak.

“No,” she said softly, nipping at her lip in the way she knew he liked, and he took a deep, shuddering breath.

“You must let me.” He sometimes said this, and always his voice sounded thick.

When

she looked up, she saw a hint of red in his eyes. His breath smelled of ale, she thought. But those eyes were as blue as they had ever been, and as intent. His fingers squeezed around her own.

“Mr. Thompson, it would not be proper at all.” She kept her voice light, for she knew he liked smiles and blushes and sideways glances.

“Do not tell me I must wait. How long will you keep me in agony?”

“Agony?” This was new, and she felt herself smile. There were only so many times one could repeat the same words before they became boring.

“I am on fire for you, Cecelia. I think of you day and night. You are locked away in your tower, and I must have you or I will go mad.”

“It is only the first stirrings of spring,” Cecelia told him lightly. “You are not mad at all, Mr. Thompson, only bored of winter and seeking distraction.”

“No,” he said roughly, and before she could protest, before she could draw away, he crushed her into his arms and his lips came down on hers.

Cecelia felt herself pushing against his chest, and he groaned as he overpowered her, holding her close effortlessly. She could feel him pressing against her, and his lips moved urgently.

“Mr. Thompson!” She pushed him away at last, flushed, breathing hard—and knowing, beyond all doubt, that he had chosen to release her. Her heart was pounding, like she was a rabbit in a snare.

“You cannot blame me,” he told her, his own chest heaving. “Not when you look so beautiful, Miss Dalton. Not when you are perfection. I could...”

“I beg you, have a care for my virtue!”

Her words rang with panic to her own ears, but the word virtue was enough. He stopped and bowed, then knelt on the ground.

“Miss Dalton, forgive me. I was overcome. I will be your most respectful admirer if you will only let me continue to see you. Say you will not refuse my visits.”

“I...of course not,” Cecelia found words from somewhere. She looked to where smoke curled from the chimney. “But I am very cold. Perhaps we could go in now.”