A Lily Among Thorns(48)

She clung to him for long moments, as if she were still Miss Jeeves. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of almonds. She pressed into his embrace, reminding him all too clearly of what it had been like earlier, in his room.

Afraid that in her tangle of emotions she would try to stage an encore of the earlier scene—and that this time he wouldn’t be able to resist—he moved away, holding her not quite at arm’s length to examine her face. A little to his surprise, it wasn’t tearstained, but it was lost and heartbroken and a number of other adjectives that Solomon didn’t like at all.

“You know what you need?”

She shook her head, her eyes large and dark in the candlelight. “Do you?”

“Cartwheels.”

She scoffed weakly, but didn’t protest when he put an arm around her waist and drew her back into the main part of the tunnel.

“Come on, this is perfect! Here, I’ll hold your robe for you—I don’t want you to trip.”

“But I’ll be cold,” she protested.

“You’ll warm up fast.” He held out his hand.

Obediently—and if anything could have told him how deeply miserable she was, it was that word, obediently, used in connection with Serena—she removed the robe and handed it to him. She stood there in her shift, shivering a little.

“Have you ever done one before?”

That spurred her into action. She spun away, took a few quick steps forward, and turned a long line of perfect cartwheels down the center of the tunnel.

He sat down on the steps and watched her spin back, bare feet and arms and long white legs flashing out of the darkness into the candlelight. She stopped a few yards from the stairs. Flushed with exertion, she pulled her shift quickly to rights—but not before he saw one dusky aureole. Oh God.

“Do—” He cleared his throat. “Do you feel better?”

She smiled at him, still panting. “I do, actually. I feel lighter.”

“Good, I’ll fetch the strawberries. Here’s your robe.” He shoved it quickly into her hands and fled back under the stairs.

They ate the strawberries sitting on the stairs. He was uncomfortably aware of her nearness, and tried not to watch her put the strawberries in her mouth, or to think about what else she would have put in her mouth if he hadn’t had scruples.

When the strawberries were all gone Serena said with a sigh, “I suppose we should be getting back to bed.”

“Just a little longer? I don’t feel like sleeping just yet.”

“It’s late.”

“I know.” He looked down and rubbed at a strawberry stain on his finger. At least it didn’t clash with the splotches of black. “Last night, I had one of those dreams about Elijah again. I—just stay a little longer.”

He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “Would you like me to stay all night?”

He looked askance at her.

“In an entirely platonic way, of course.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. I’m not too keen on my own bed right now either.”

He hesitated, as if there were any chance of his saying no. Serena in his bed. Waking up in the night and hearing her breathing, feeling her warmth. It would be torture, but he wanted it. Apparently, so did she. “Would you?”

“I never back out on a deal.”

Serena was not amused when she woke early the next morning to find herself lying next to an angelically slumbering Solomon, her nose pressed into his side and her arm flung across his chest. She sat up. In the morning light, his freckles were sprinkled across his face like gold dust.

Lord, what a stupid thing to think. She rubbed at her eyes.

Last night had gone all wrong. She had merely planned to seduce him, to get him to beg her to stay the night. True, she hadn’t expected the experience to be unpleasant—quite the opposite. But she had planned to remain firmly in control.

Instead, the instant he gave in and kissed her, she’d forgotten all her skill and plans, lost in a wave of sensation, unable to do anything but pant and moan and—God, had she really?—rub herself against him like a cat in heat.

Her attempt to take back control had been disastrous. When he had recoiled, she’d thought she would die. When he’d said, I’m not interested in strange women, that awful ruined feeling from when she was eighteen had risen up and drowned her. Whore, she’d thought. He’s too good for you, and he knows it. For a second she’d hated him with the same sullen contempt she’d felt the first time she’d seen him. And Solomon—bizarre, wonderful Solomon—had yet again only wanted something more honest from her.