“Mary!” Clarice admonished, although she’d been thinking the same thing herself before anxiety had distracted her.
He sneezed yet again, seeming to shake the cottage walls. “My apologies. It’s just—” Another explosion had Clarice reaching for her daughter. She had half a mind to run for the door.
Looking sheepish, Cameron buried his nose in a handkerchief. “It’s just the flowers,” came his muffled admission.
“The what?” Mary asked, nibbling on a fingernail while a panicked Clarice tried to recall if her daughter had touched him with that hand.
“The flowers.” He gestured toward the middle of the table, where Clarice had placed a bowl crammed with cheerful posies she’d picked from her garden. “They make me sneeze.”
His words finally got through to her. As he drew breath in preparation for another discharge, Clarice lunged for the bowl, clutching it to her chest. “Flowers make you sneeze?”
With an obvious effort, he held back. “Aye. I’ve always been that way—I don’t know why.”
“Lud.” So he wasn’t on the verge of death after all. Trying not to laugh—at herself or his absurd affliction, or maybe both—she sidled toward the door. “Let me just take these outside.”
Cameron began to rise, as though he intended to help her. Or to leave.
“Mary,” she choked out, “will you please pour Sir Cameron more ale?” She hurried outside, closing the door behind her before she slumped against it, attacked by a fit of the giggles like she’d never experienced.
Around Cameron, she seemed to be a different person. She knew not whether that was good or bad, but she did know she had to get herself under control.
Biting her tongue, she drew a deep breath and used every ounce of her will to keep a straight face as she reentered the cottage.
As requested, her daughter had poured more ale. Apparently recovered, Cameron sipped and chatted with Mary while Clarice bustled about, stoking the fire and lighting candles to ward off the dark that was swiftly falling. If she were honest with herself, she was hoping the cozy atmosphere and another cup of ale would keep him there awhile.
Though if she were perfectly honest with herself, what she truly hoped for was another kiss.
And why not? What could it hurt? She’d already let herself get swept away. The inevitable disappointment would be no worse for having one more memory of Cam to cherish.
He had removed his surcoat and sat at her table in a thin lawn shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, muscled forearms. That small display of skin was enough to remind her how he’d looked and felt all wet. Agile and strong, and so unlike her husband’s aging form. She could hardly imagine Will hauling her from the river with such ease, let alone kissing her to distraction while he did it.
But though Cameron had readily accepted her supper invitation, he hadn’t so much as touched her all evening. She wondered whether he’d given up, or whether he was simply gentleman enough not to pursue her in her daughter’s presence. She hoped it was the latter.
For she meant to have that kiss. She’d thought of little else since Cam had shown her the truth this afternoon: that she’d never really been kissed before. A mindless grinding of the lips, perhaps, but not a true kiss as she now knew it, as something intimate and exciting and sublime. Something she wasn’t ready to forgo just yet.
Everything else, she could happily live without. She knew what that felt like, and why anyone would ever call it making love was beyond her comprehension. A glossy lie, that, doubtless invented by men to keep brides from abandoning their marriage beds.
But the kissing. The kissing, she was rather taken with.
“Well, I’ve got two choices,” Cameron announced, rising. “I can either leave or we can dance.”
Clarice was removing the apron that covered her navy blue dress. “Dance?” Whatever was he talking about?
“Aye, dance,” he said. “I was supposed to practice my dancing tonight, in preparation for Friday’s ball. Lady Kendra told me in no uncertain terms that I was to return early or dance here instead.”
Clarice didn’t fall for that story, but when he began pushing the table and chairs out of the way, she couldn’t seem to find the words to tell him no. Courtly dancing was for couples, mostly. He would have to touch her.
Her skin tingled at the mere thought.
Mary scraped a chair across the floor. “May I dance, too?”
“Of course you may.” He brushed his palms on his plain wool breeches. “We’ll start with the minuet. I need the most practice in that—”
“We’ve got no music,” Mary pointed out.
“I can count the beats.” He cleared his throat and launched right into the lesson. “We count six for each minuet step, but the first movement is only a plié—”
“A what?” Mary cocked her golden head.
“A plié. Just turn out your feet and bend your knees a little.”
“Like this?” She pliéd until her bottom nearly touched the floor.
Clarice’s heart warmed when she saw him bite back a laugh. “Nay, princess. Just a wee bit. Like this.” He demonstrated. “Now, that’s really naught but a preparation for the step, so we start with the last beat of the previous bar. Six, one, two, three, four, five; six, one, two—”
“I think I feel the headache coming on,” Clarice interrupted, putting a hand to her brow. “This is terribly complicated, isn’t it?”
“You’ll do fine. Follow me. Plié, then step forward with your right foot and rise on your toes. Close in your left foot and lower your heels.” As best they could, Clarice and Mary executed the steps while he watched. “Good. Now the same on the other side.” Counting off, he danced along. “Six, one, two, three, four, five. Smaller steps, Princess Mary. The steps must be tiny to fit in the beats. Six, one, two, three, four, five…”
When he took Mary’s hands to show her how they would dance together, Clarice wanted to scream. Not that she begrudged her
