Unraveled (Turner #3)(48)

Smite looked away from her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to let Ghost loose.”

“Please.”

He leaned down and fumbled with the lead. The knot wasn’t difficult, but he lingered over it. From the corner of his vision he could see her hands, encased in delicate lace gloves. They clenched once and then relaxed. Once Ghost was freed, he walked about the entry, sniffed idly at Miranda, and then curled up on the floor where he could keep an eye on his master.

She watched him. “Would you care for supper,” she asked, “or…”

“Or would I prefer to slake another appetite?”

She colored at that.

“Are you sore?” he asked bluntly.

That pink flush grew until it encompassed the skin of her neck. “I…I could manage. If you wanted.”

“There’s no need to be so damned solicitous of me.” He reached up and loosened his cravat. “You sound as if you have to do everything I wish.”

“Isn’t—” She paused, shook her head. “I had rather assumed that’s what you were paying me to do.”

“Yes,” Smite said. “You’ve nailed it precisely. I wanted you for your docile nature.”

He remembered too late that she might not be used to his peculiar brand of sarcasm. But Miranda, thankfully, gave him a canny smile.

“I care about what you want,” he said awkwardly.

“Then come here and greet me properly.” She curled her index finger at him.

He drifted over to stand before her. She watched him with a little smile on her face, and he found himself leaning into her, setting his palm against her face. She smelt of something subtly sweet and calming—mint, maybe, or chamomile. His tangled insides unclenched.

Oh, hell. This was bad—worse than lust, worse than intimacy. He’d missed her. He wasn’t used to missing anyone.

But he traced his fingertips down her cheekbone, followed the curve of her jaw until he touched her chin. He tipped up her face to his, and then he kissed her.

Her lips were soft and welcoming. Kissing was different with real intimacy present. He didn’t have to think about where she was putting her hands; he knew she’d not touch his face. He could lose himself completely in the taste of her, the scent of her. The feel of her body, melting into his.

It was the first time he’d kissed a woman without feeling wary.

And then her stomach growled. He pulled away.

“I’m starving,” she said apologetically. “There’s roast pheasant. I’ve been smelling it the entire afternoon. Did you know I’ve never had pheasant?”

“Good. We’ll eat, then.”

Her cheeks pinked. “I asked them to lay the covers in the bedchamber. It’s not the usual arrangement, but—”

“Usual arrangement.” He met her eyes. “I don’t have usual arrangements, Miranda. I just have you.”

If she heard what he’d betrayed there, she let no sign of it show. Instead, she took his arm and they walked slowly up the stairs.

A small table before the window had been set for an intimate meal. From this high, they had an extraordinary view of the city. Evening was coming, and Bristol was doused in the hard reds and dusky pinks of sunset. Streetlamps sprang to life like glowing jewels. At the base of the hill, the graceful arches of the Bristol Cathedral were scarcely visible. Beyond it, a forest of masts from the Floating Harbour disappeared into the oncoming gloom.

He seated Miranda, and then sank into the chair across from hers. Cucumber soup came first. She chattered away about her day, asked him questions about his. She knew what spoon to reach for.

After they’d exchanged a few sentences and the soup had been cleared, he set his hand atop hers. “You didn’t grow up in the bad part of Bristol,” he remarked.

She slanted a glance at him.

“In fact,” he continued, “I’m not sure you were raised in the bad part of anywhere. The finishing-school accent is quite convincing. I would say you have a hint of Oxford in your tone. And your manners are flawless.”

“I should be convincing,” she said. “I’ve been practicing since I was a child.” She put a bite of pheasant into her mouth and closed her eyes.

“Good?”

She chewed thoughtfully and then swallowed. “It tastes like chicken. I feel disappointed.”

He tried again. “So you were raised in a family that spoke the King’s English and used proper etiquette. Just like me. How did you end up alone in Bristol?”

As he spoke, he took a small plate from the table and filled it with scraps of pheasant. She made no comment when he set this on the floor for Ghost.

“My parents were always terribly busy. During the day, they handed off care of me to the rest of the troupe. Everyone had a hand in my upbringing, but I was mostly raised by Jasper and Jonas. Jasper was from Yorkshire, and he was our lead actor. He was very handsome, very debonair and very good with accents. The ladies were constantly showering him with flowers. He taught me to read so that I could help him practice his lines.”

“I can’t believe a Yorkshire man taught you your accent.”

“No. That was Jonas. Jonas was… He wasn’t an actor, actually. He helped us put together our scenery, moved heavy boxes, that sort of thing.” She frowned, and chewed more pheasant. “He also argued with Papa about what the plays really meant.”