She leaned into him, her arms tightening, and he needed no further encouragement. He met her lips with his, fitting them together perfectly, like two parts of a now-completed whole. He carefully pulled her closer, wrapping his arm around her and slanting his lips across hers while shoving his hand into the glorious mass of her unbound hair, her pins having been lost several hundred feet in the air.
He had wanted to kiss her forever. Her response was equally passionate and unrestrained but somehow even better than he could have imagined. Perhaps they were giddy to simply be alive, but he allowed himself to enjoy the fact that she met his ardor completely.
She pulled back and eventually opened her eyes. She exhaled softly against his lips and again brushed her mouth against his in the lightest of caresses. “You’re very good at that,” she whispered.
He smiled against her mouth. “So are you.”
“I don’t suppose we can just stay here for a while.”
“Here? On the rocky beach?”
“Yes.”
“No,” he sighed, “we should move. If we can remain hidden, this may be a better strategy for avoiding your enemies. I highly doubt they would have predicted such a turn of events.”
She shifted in his arms, one hand cupping the back of his neck. She rested her head against his shoulder, and her whole body seemed more languid, as if all of her energy had drained from her in one moment.
He smiled. “Now she wants to rest,” he murmured, rubbing his hand along her side, amazed she had come through the fall relatively unscathed. “Does your ankle hurt still?”
“Yes.” She nodded as strands of her hair lifted in the wind and snagged on his stubble. “Most abominably.” She lifted her head. “Not to worry, however. I shall find a walking stick, and we’ll be on our way.”
He raised one brow, which she regarded with a scowl. It was a pattern he was beginning to recognize. “A walking stick will solve the problem?”
“Yes.”
“You’re indignant.”
“You’re insulting my plan.”
“No, no, it’s a perfectly sound plan. But, Miss O’Shea, I suspect you have a broken bone inside that stylish riding boot. We may require something more substantial than a walking stick. For now, I’ll carry you on my back until we can locate civilization.”
She bit her lip. “I’d rather you carry my portmanteau, if you don’t mind.”
He remembered her mad tumble from the sky, off-balance from that blasted piece of luggage. “How were you carrying that?”
“I’d fashioned a length of rope around the handles and tied it to my waist and balanced it between my knees. The knot began slipping, and I finally had to let it fall.”
“Thankfully,” he muttered. “If you’d tried to land while still maneuvering that thing—”
“I couldn’t leave it behind. It contains the Blackwell family diaries and all of my documentation for my address to the international assembly.”
He managed a smile. “Priorities.”
“You may find it ridiculous, but I should be quite lost without that bag. It would negate all of this effort, which would be a shame.”
He inclined his head. “We are in total agreement on that score. To waste the efforts of this night would be a tragedy.”
“So you’ll carry the portmanteau?”
“No. I’ll carry you.”
Her lips twitched in a smile. “As you said—priorities.”
Emme’s ankle throbbed until she thought she’d be sick. The crushing pain added to the terror still racing through her because she’d jumped from an airship, making her dizzy and miserable.
Oliver had told her to stop apologizing, but she’d known he had an aversion to heights and Wing Jumping. She’d had no other options. She had hoped he wouldn’t follow her, that by the time he realized what she’d done, the ship would be too far out over open water to even allow him the option.
He carried her on his back for nearly a mile, with her carrying the portmanteau and having him pause so she could switch it between her hands, until he began to stagger and she finally insisted they stop.
The world was still dark, and rolling meadows stretched into the distance. Using her scriber, they’d been able to determine a rough idea of their location, but it was far from precise. Oliver estimated their walking distance from the nearest city at one hour and had fashioned a walking stick for her from a gnarled tree limb.
“My ankle is not broken,” she repeated as they stood at the side of the road.
He studied her with his hands on his hips. “You cannot move it an inch without screaming in pain.”
She frowned. “I wouldn’t say I’ve been screaming in pain—”
He looked at her flatly. “You’ve been screaming in pain.” He’d insisted earlier that she keep her boot on, knowing once she removed it, her ankle would swell.
She bent down and placed a tentative hold on her ankle, testing it from every angle with her fingertips and biting her lip against the pain. She straightened and said, “Nothing grinds together, and there are no protruding bones. It is merely a sprain.”
“Also no small thing.”
He massaged the back of his neck, and if she weren’t so distracted by her own discomfort, she’d have offered to do it for him. The kiss had been beyond description, and quite likely the only thing that could have distracted her from the pain not only in her ankle but in her shoulders and back as well. She’d decided she could fashion a career out of kissing Oliver Reed and be forever content.
He looked into the distance and then behind them. A light rain had begun to fall, and he motioned toward a nearby copse of trees. “We’ll hunker down there until either an opportunity presents itself or I’m struck with a sudden flash of brilliance.”
Only yesterday, she’d have teased about the concept of brilliance paying him even a passing visit. Now, she felt a sudden surge of awkwardness. She’d had a very literal taste of him and was in entirely new territory. She nodded and began hobbling with
