A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(27)

He wasn’t there.

It was the only way she could think to describe it. His body lay atop her, heavy as sacks of grain. She knew he was alive, from the way his heartbeat slammed against hers. But mentally, he wasn’t there. He was somewhere else. On some scorched, smoking battlefield, she imagined, where round objects falling from the sky had a great deal more destructive force than the average overripe melon.

She touched his face, just lightly. “Thorne? It’s all right. It was only a melon. I’m not hurt. Are you?”

His arms flexed, squeezing her until she winced with pain.

He forced a strange growl through his clenched teeth. The sound was inhuman. Each hair on her arms stood tall, as if to wave a tiny flag of surrender, and her pulse drummed in her ears. She was truly afraid now. For him, and for herself. She lay small and defenseless beneath him. If he’d mistaken her for the enemy on his phantom battlefield, he could do her true harm.

She caressed his face with trembling fingers, reaching to sweep the hair back from his brow. Between the velvet of his thick, soft hair and the wetness of the melon pulp, it felt like stroking a newborn foal. Tenderness swelled in her heart.

“All’s well. We’re unharmed. This is Rycliff Castle. Spindle Cove.” Kate tried to keep her voice low and steady, aiming to soothe them both. “You’re home. And it’s only me. Miss Taylor. Kate. I’m the music tutor, remember? I’m your . . . I’m a friend.”

His jaw tensed. And not in a friendly way.

She’d never been more aware of the brute power contained in a man’s body. If he wished, he could snap her in two. Though perhaps not very cleanly—which was all the more reason to avoid the experience, she thought. Somehow, she needed to remind him of his humanity. The gentleness these same bones and tendons and muscles could produce.

“I’m Miss Taylor,” she repeated. “Yesterday, you came to my rescue in Hastings. You brought me home on your horse. We stopped to take bread, and—and you kissed me. In a field of heather, just at sunset. I’ve tried so hard to forget it, but I’ve thought of little else since. Can you recall it?”

She brushed a thumb across his lips.

His mouth softened a little and a shaky exhalation rushed over her fingertips. She thought she glimpsed a spark of awareness returning to his eyes.

“Yes,” she said, encouraging him. “You’re well. We’re both safe. It’s only me.”

A shudder racked his body. He blinked hard, and his gaze began to focus on her face.

From his throat came a raspy, “Katie?”

She half sobbed with relief. “Yes. Yes, it’s me.”

He stared blankly at the melon pulp splattering her shoulder. “You’re hurt.”

“No. No, I’m fine. It’s not blood. The militiamen were adjusting Sir Lewis’s trebuchet, and there was a mishap. You took a melon for me.” She smiled, even though her lips trembled.

He trembled, too. All over.

He wasn’t so far away anymore—but he wasn’t quite home yet, either.

She raked her fingers through his hair, desperate to bridge that last divide. Perhaps she could have wriggled free of his grip now. But she couldn’t leave him wandering in that shadow world, with bombs and blood and whatever other unimaginable horrors it held.

“It’s safe now,” she whispered. “It’s safe to come back. I’m here.” She stretched her neck and pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’m here.”

She kissed his mouth again. Then again.

Each time their lips met, his mouth warmed a degree. She prayed his heart was warming back to life, too.

“Please,” she murmured. “Come back to me.”

And he did. Oh, he did.

The change in him was swift, abrupt. And it meant a complete inversion of her world.

Once again Kate found herself breathless, scarcely understanding what had happened. Last she’d known, she’d been pressing chaste kisses to his lips.

Now his tongue was in her mouth, and hers seemed to be partly in his. Her fingers were tangled in the sticky mess of his hair.

They were fused together. One creature. And all she could think was . . .

Sweet. He’s so sweet.

The sugar-musky tang of melon was everywhere. She kissed him with abandon, thirsty for more of it—and just so happy to know he was here again, and not worlds away. She still sensed all that raw, frightening power coiled in his body. Only now it wasn’t marshaled to the task of survival, but another instinctive, basic drive.

Desire.

“Katie,” he moaned again, pulling her closer still. Her br**sts flattened beneath his broad chest. As he kissed her deeply, his muscled firmness rubbed and chafed against her ni**les. The teasing sensation was unbearably exquisite. It drove her wild in her skin, made her forget everything.

His leg snaked between hers, pressing her thighs apart. When he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, his hips rocked against hers, setting off a cascade of unprecedented pleasure. She moaned, mindlessly craving more.

Then he stopped abruptly, gasping for breath. Raised his head. Swore.

And then Kate realized what she couldn’t have noticed, in her single-minded determination to bring him back from shadow and hold him skin close.

Everyone was watching them. Sir Lewis Finch. The entirety of the Spindle Cove militia. Oh, heavens . . . even the vicar. They’d all come running to track the melon’s trajectory. And they’d come upon her and Thorne, tangled on the ground. Kissing like lovers.