Kiss Me Annabel

His smile was all in his eyes. ‘I have been watching a demonstration of jousting. I begin to imagine myself in a suit of armour,’ he said, those eyes glinting with laughter.

‘And here I was imagining you a Pict,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm and walking away from Rosseter as if he didn’t exist.

One eyebrow shot up. ‘One of my naked and bloodthirsty ancestors?’

‘And mine,’ she said sedately.

‘In that case, why don’t we try our skill at the bow and arrow?’ he asked, playing directly into her hands.

She glanced back over her shoulder and found Rosseter bowing unhurriedly before Griselda, doubtless apologising for sending the lemonade by servant rather than his own hand. She turned slightly so that Rosseter could see her face and smiled up at Ardmore.

His eyebrow went up again. It was a good thing that she would never even consider marrying him, because that eyebrow could be really annoying in the long run. There was nothing about Rosseter that was irritating, thank goodness.

If Ardmore had any brains at all, he’d know precisely what she was doing and as her countryman, he should be supportive. Helpful, even.

Sure enough: ‘Do you want me to walk more slowly so that he can catch up?’ Ardmore asked. There was laughter glinting in his voice. Apparently he had decided to be helpful.

‘No,’ she said tranquilly. ‘I think an exhibition of archery should do it.’

‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘Englishmen are distressingly slight in their frames, aren’t they? Weedy, almost. But you needn’t worry about your children,’ he added. ‘After all, you have a Pict or two in your background. Most likely the boys won’t get too weedy.’

‘My children will not be weedy! At any rate, women dislike being towered over, you know.’

‘I’ve never noticed that,’ he said, and she thought with annoyance of all those Scottish women who had built up his confidence to these unprecedented heights.

They stopped at the archery tent. A breeze flapped the silk roof, carrying with it a smell of April flowers. There was a pile of bows in the corner. The attendant took one look at Ardmore and handed him one that appeared to have been made out of half a sapling.

Ardmore squinted at the targets, posts with circles painted on them. They were adorned with silk flags, the better to look antique, one had to suppose, and positioned at farther and farther distances.

Then he stripped off his jacket. He was wearing a shirt of thin linen. Annabel had to admit that it wasn’t threadworn and actually appeared to be quite lovely material; perhaps it was woven on his estate. He stretched the bow back experimentally. Great muscles rippled on his back, clearly visible through the clinging linen. He turned to the attendant, taking a handful of arrows. He handed all but one to her and gave her a lazy smile. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, your chosen one is approaching. He seems to have found himself an escort.’

Annabel looked about. ‘Oh, that’s my chaperone, Lady Griselda. You met her last night when we were first introduced.’

‘I told you I can’t remember anyone’s name.’ Then he blinked. ‘Did you say Lady Griselda?’

She nodded.

He turned. Griselda was chattering with Rosseter, and looking far too pretty and young to be a widow. In fact, if Annabel hadn’t loved her so much, she would have been jealous of her perfect ringlets and lush figure. She looked precisely like what she was: a merry, gossip-loving, adorable lady. A perfect –

Annabel glanced up at the medieval knight next to her, who was all but standing with his mouth open.

‘The Earl of Mayne’s sister?’ he asked.

Griselda and Rosseter moved into a patch of sunlight. Her hair gleamed like the proverbial gold.

‘Do you know Mayne?’ she asked.

‘I met him last night,’ Ardmore muttered. He turned about and drew the bow back again, but without fitting an arrow.

At that moment, Griselda walked up to them with a twinkling smile. Rosseter bowed with all the tempered nonchalance of an irritated Englishman. Ardmore seemed to be in an excellent mood. He flexed the bow again; Annabel was quite certain now that he was only doing so to show off his muscles, and not for her benefit either.

If Griselda stretched her blue eyes any wider, they’d likely fall out of her head.

‘Shall we have a friendly match?’ Ardmore said to Rosseter.

‘I have no interest in sports,’ Rosseter said evenly. Characteristically, there was no disdain in his tone or anything that a man might take insult from.

‘In that case, how about a match between countrymen?’ Ardmore said to Annabel.

Griselda laughed. Rosseter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He said nothing, but she felt his disapproval.

‘All right,’ Annabel said. She turned to the attendant and gave him a melting smile. The boy scrabbled about and handed her a bow. It was ash, with a pretty curve, but good for nothing. Annabel took a closer look at the bows. ‘I’ll try that yew,’ she said.

It had a sweet curve. She pulled back the string experimentally. Luckily, the small sleeves of her dress didn’t impede her arms in any way.

Ardmore was grinning now, obviously as aware of Rosseter’s disapproval as she was. And Griselda was laughing. Then Ardmore drew back his great bow again, muscles flexing through his shirt.

Annabel looked away and met Rosseter’s eyes. She read approval in his face: Rosseter thought she was avoiding a display of gross masculinity by looking to him rather than Ardmore.

She picked up her bow and Rosseter put a gloved hand on hers. ‘You needn’t do this,’ he said.

‘I enjoy archery,’ she said noncommittally, turning so that his hand slid away. The boy handed her a clutch of arrows.

Rosseter lowered his voice. ‘There’s no need to put the Scot in his place. Leave him to his grotesque posturing; Lady Griselda seems to enjoy it.’

She glanced over and, sure enough, Griselda’s dimples were in full play. She was handing him arrows and Ardmore was plunking them into the target, one after another.

‘Kind of her,’ Rosseter remarked. ‘I’m sure they won’t even notice if we go for a stroll.’ He put his hand on her bow this time.

‘That would be impolite,’ she said, matching his expressionless tone perfectly.

‘Ah,’ he said.

She took that as assent, not that she needed it. Ardmore turned around and said, ‘Now, then, Miss Essex, what’s our challenge?’

She walked over to him, eyeing the targets. ‘Three arrows each. You’re for that far one, and I’ll take the one with the red flag, in the middle.’

‘Go for the blue one; it’s closer,’ he said generously.

Annabel glanced up and saw that he thought to win. A smile touched her lips. ‘The centre of the target, of course, is that black dot,’ she told him.

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘Good,’ she said sweetly. ‘I just wanted to make sure, given that you seemed to have some trouble hitting it during your practice run.’

A slow grin spread over his face. ‘But there must be a forfeit if this is to be a proper competition, Miss Essex.’

Rosseter intervened. ‘Of course there will be no forfeit. That would give it the coarse air of a public exhibition.’

‘But you see,’ Ardmore said, ‘we Scots are quite coarse.’

Annabel frowned at him. Rosseter clearly wasn’t entranced with her nationality, and she didn’t wish to remind him of it.

‘The forfeit is a request,’ Ardmore said. ‘A favour that can be demanded at any time and must be paid without question.’

‘Miss Annabel has no need whatsoever to ask you for a favour,’ Rosseter said, and now she could hear a thin disdain behind his well-bred tones.

‘One never knows,’ Ardmore said, selecting an arrow. ‘She has already made several requests of me, and of course I am always glad to help a countrywoman.’

Annabel fitted her own bow. Griselda was giggling and helping Ardmore draw on the archer’s glove handed to him. Naturally Rosseter just stood to the side as she drew on her own glove.

Suddenly there was a spray of those high, arching trumpets that Lady Mitford liked so much. ‘A contest!’ shouted the trumpeter. ‘An archery contest commences at once!’

Rosseter’s thin nostrils flared as he stepped back. Annabel realised that he was really angry now. In fact, if she didn’t back out of the contest, he might simply stroll away in his elegant striped morning coat and dismiss the idea of marrying her. That was likely how he had remained single all these years.

In a moment they had an audience, a circle of women in fluttering dresses of white and pink, a sprinkling of gentlemen with admiring eyes. Ardmore drew back his bow and let it fly. Annabel suddenly realised that drawing back her bow would make her breasts push forward in an unseemly manner. She glanced at Rosseter. He was still there, waiting for her to make a decision. Didn’t it bode well for their marriage that the two of them had no need to exchange a word to know precisely what the other was thinking?

She moved forward to take her shot.

‘It appears you didn’t quite hit the target,’ she said to the Scot, allowing just a trace of regret to deepen her voice.

He squinted at it. ‘It looks good to me.’

‘Hmmm.’ She drew back her bow and paused for a moment, looking for that black spot in the centre of her target. Then she let fly and the arrow flew like a bird to its nest. She smiled and glanced up at her opponent. He wasn’t looking at her target, but at her, and he looked a bit distracted. She glanced down. She had felt her gown strain over her chest when she drew back; after all, such light muslin wasn’t designed for sport.

Rosseter was still there, his mouth thin with distaste. Apparently he had decided to give her a second chance.

The attendant hurried over to the targets, his yellow tights flashing in the sun. He stooped next to her target and then rose. ‘Miss Essex wins!’ he cried.

‘Second,’ Ardmore said, drawing back his bow again.

It was a good shot; Annabel had to give him that. But he was holding his elbow just a fraction of an inch too high in the air. Sure enough, to her eyes the arrow was slightly off target, although he turned to her with a smile that suggested he thought it was square.

‘I have heard that spectacles can be quite helpful as one grows older,’ she said to him sweetly. She drew back her arrow and let it fly immediately. Truly, she had chosen a target that was too easy.

There was quite a cheer when the attendant announced the winner of that round.

But when she looked at Ardmore and thought to see him showing the strain of competition, or even a flash of competitive spirit, he was just laughing. ‘No matter how this attempt goes, you’ve won my forfeit. I believe my mistake was in not allowing you to go before me.’

‘That would have been more polite,’ Rosseter put in.

Ardmore bowed and motioned to her.

She moved forward, aware of the two men watching her intently. She shook her curls back over her shoulders; they could be distracting. Then she pulled the bow back, slowly, slowly. She could feel her breasts coming forward and up, straining from the bodice of her muslin gown. Finally she let the arrow slip and it sailed home. It was slightly off its target because she’d held the arrow too long.

Ardmore took her place. He drew back the bow just as slowly as she had. Broad shoulders flexed, and he flashed a glance at her. His eyes were almost – almost – guileless, but not quite. She nearly burst out laughing but instead she gave him a delicious smile, one of her very best. For a moment he looked as if he’d been clopped in the forehead. She stepped back. Unless she’d missed her bet, he had held that arrow too long, and his elbow was jutting high again.

Sure enough, he missed the target altogether.

Lady Mitford popped up in front of them, beaming happily. ‘I do so love it when my guests fall into the spirit of the times!’ she trilled. ‘Now Lord Mitford and I have a most lovely surprise for the two of you.’

She beckoned wildly with her arm and a flower-covered pony cart came into view, being dragged along by two miserable-looking donkeys. Flowers had been woven into their manes and tucked behind their ears.

‘You shall be the King and Queen of May!’ Lady Mitford said happily. ‘Of course, it isn’t quite May yet, but we thought this was so appropriate to our festival. Lord Mitford and I had planned to be the king and queen ourselves, but since the two of you entered so fully into the spirit of the day, we looked at each other and with one breath, we decided to crown you instead!’

Griselda was laughing and clapping her hands, so Lady Mitford’s suggestion must be acceptable from a chaperone’s point of view. Annabel hesitated but Ardmore took the decision from her. Without pausing to ask her, he put his hands around her waist and swung her into the pony cart. She gasped but the next second he was in the seat next to her, and the trumpets were blowing again. Lady Mitford handed up a wreath of flowers.

‘You must do it,’ Ardmore said to her, sotto voce. ‘Look how happy it’s making her!’

Surely enough, Lady Mitford was cackling with pleasure.

‘There’s something wrong, though,’ Ardmore said. He narrowed his eyes. ‘You don’t look exactly right.’ Suddenly his hand darted out and with an unerring touch he pulled three hairpins from her hair.

Annabel gasped. Her hair fell down around her shoulders, rolls of soft golden curls that had taken her maid a full hour to pin to her head. ‘How dare you!’ she said, looking up at him.

But he was settling the wreath of white flowers back on her head. ‘Hush,’ he said. ‘You’re a queen.’

His thigh brushed against hers as the donkeys started off with a jerk around the garden.

‘This is so humiliating,’ she hissed at him.

But he was grinning broadly. They began a circuit of the garden, Annabel smiling at all the guests and silently cursing her companion. Lord Rosseter looked up at the cart and then turned away. Annabel added a particularly virulent curse to her silent tirade. But actually, she wasn’t terribly worried about Rosseter. He would come back, if she wished him to. Or he wouldn’t, and she’d find someone else. His censoriousness was a bit worrying.

Then they were back at the beginning, and Lady Mitford was begging to send the cart around the back of the house. ‘It’s just to show the household. They all take such interest in our little Renaissance festival, bless their hearts. I know they’d want to see the king and queen.’

So Ewan sent the donkeys around the back of the house as commanded. But it seemed Lady Mitford had misjudged the enthusiasm of her household, for there wasn’t a soul to be seen, just curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. The donkeys stopped and began chomping on a rosebush that flanked the kitchen door.

‘Perhaps she’s alerting the staff to our presence this very moment,’ Ewan suggested. There was something about Annabel that made him feel reckless, as if champagne were pouring through his veins.

She folded her hands primly. ‘I believe we should turn the cart about. It’s not proper for us to be alone.’

He put down the reins. No man of blood and bone would turn down this opportunity. That wasn’t innocence he glimpsed in Annabel’s eyes, but awareness of him as a man. And Ewan was a man of action, rather than words.

He lowered his head so slowly that she had time to squeak, or say no, as proper maidens did when they were about to be kissed. But she didn’t say a word, just looked at him with smoky blue eyes.

His lips brushed hers. They were soft, like the petals of the roses the donkeys were eating, and he wanted to eat her, all of her…He rubbed his lips across hers again, stronger now. But she didn’t say anything, or make a sound, so he let his lips wander down from that little curve in the corner of her mouth, thinking of her neck, that creamy soft neck, but he didn’t want to leave. So he came back and she parted her lips a little and he slipped in between one breath and the next.

And then he had her in his arms, cradling her, and the air was thick with the smell of roses and their tongues were tangling. Her mouth was hot and not at all like that of an innocent maiden but rather – He pushed aside the memory of his first kiss with Bess, a friendly milkmaid. Because this kiss was nothing like Bess’s, had nothing in common with Bess’s…

Annabel had her arms around his neck before she knew what was happening, before she realised that her heart was beating so rapidly that she couldn’t breathe – that must be why she couldn’t breathe – because she couldn’t. Breathe, that is. Not with the way he was kissing her, as if time had stopped and there was nothing left in the world but the King and Queen of May and a cart full of flowers.

Perhaps it was because he was Scots. He kissed long and slow, and there was none of the jostling sense she’d had from Englishmen, as if they kissed while thinking about how to get hold of one of her breasts and wring it like a pump handle. Ardmore’s hands were on her back, but they hadn’t moved since drawing her close, and he didn’t seem to have anything else in mind than the slow tangle of their tongues. It was almost maddening.

In fact, it was maddening. Annabel had been in London for precisely two months, and she’d already been kissed by several men. All of whom punctiliously asked Rafe for her hand in marriage. But their kisses were enough to make her reject their proposals. They pawed and breathed hard, and she couldn’t see sharing a bed with someone who sounded asthmatic.

As far as she could see, Ardmore had the opposite response to her. Here they were, just sitting and kissing, and kissing, and her blood was racing but he seemed as calm as ever. He had those great labourer’s hands spread on her back but he didn’t pull her close to him. And yet she – she – she felt boneless and as if she were about to slump against his chest.

The inequality was unnerving. She pulled back. When he opened his eyes, she revised her idea that he was untouched by the kiss, because there was something deep and hot in his eyes that sent a tingle straight down her thighs. ‘We must return,’ she said, keeping her hands around his neck.

He didn’t even say anything, just smiled his lazy Scottish smile and bent his head to hers again. And she couldn’t help it: she opened her mouth to him and he started kissing her again. And now she could see the attraction of just kissing. Just letting his tongue…well. She was trembling. Trembling from a kiss.

This time he pulled back. And his eyes were even darker and wilder but he had a thoughtful look too. ‘Will you marry me?’ he said. His hands still hadn’t moved from her back.

‘No,’ Annabel said, feeling a pang of regret. It’d be nice to marry a man who kissed so well. But kissing wasn’t a prerequisite for marriage, and money was.

He didn’t say anything, just looked at her. ‘I spent years dreaming of getting out of Scotland,’ she said awkwardly, not wanting to mention money because it – was too – unpleasant.

He nodded. ‘I’ve seen that happen with lads in the village.’

‘Well, then,’ she said.

He looked at her once more. ‘Are you sure? Because I won’t ask you again. I need to finish this marriage business and return home.’

She smiled at that. ‘I am sure.’

‘You could never marry a Scotsman.’

‘No.’

‘I regret your decision.’

Then they were back in the garden, and Imogen was waiting for them. Her eyes were alight with a brilliant glow that made Annabel uneasy just to see her. But she looked exquisite, like a black-haired princess in a fairy tale.

Before Annabel quite knew what had happened, the King of May had wandered off on the arm of her sister without a backward glance. Annabel took off the wreath of flowers and tossed it into the pony cart.

Two gentlemen bounded up to her like overgrown hounds and demanded the pleasure of bringing the Queen of May to the pavilion for supper.

Willy-nilly, she glanced over her shoulder. Ardmore had got himself between Lady Griselda and Imogen now. He was bending his head toward Griselda.

‘I’d love to come,’ she said coolly. ‘Why don’t you both escort me?’

They bobbed around her, showing every sign of men who would kiss and grab, kiss and pant. Englishmen, both of them.

Seven

Ewan had almost made up his mind. The one lass he could truly fancy didn’t want him, or so she said. And he had enough sense to know that dragging a woman back to Scotland when she was bent on marrying an Englishman with a title was not a good start to a marriage. But the black-haired Imogen had such potent despair in her eyes that he felt it in the pit of his stomach.

Even now she seemed determined to drag him off to some solitary bench, as if he were a prize pig at the fair. He didn’t mind, as long as all those tears she was saving didn’t overflow and drown the two of them. She would be a good choice for wife, surely. She was beautiful, and if he gave her time to recover from her grief, she’d likely be a pleasant partner in all respects. He certainly didn’t want a wife who started increasing on the spot: he had more than enough to do without worrying about children for a few years.

All in all, Imogen seemed a suitable alternative. Of course, her guardian was fiercely against the idea, but perhaps the duke would be more amenable on seeing how much his ward wanted to marry him. Why, she looked at him as if she wanted nothing more than to bed him on the spot. She must be desperate to return to Scotland.

He could appreciate it; he felt the same way. London was nothing more than a smoky, smelly mess. His carriage had become tangled in traffic that morning and they ended up standing still as a stock for over an hour.

This party wasn’t so bad. But all the high-pitched voices and the repeated shrilling of trumpets were like to give him a headache, if he’d been prone to them. Likely it was a rain-soaked day in Scotland, the kind where you can almost see the lush grass reaching up to meet the branches of trees. And the only sound would be the rain, and perhaps a bird singing, and it would seem as if the very dog daisies were praising God for the beauty of it all. For a moment he closed his eyes, but –

‘Lord Ardmore,’ she was saying, and the misery in her voice was written plain. The poor lass was in a bad way.

He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Imogen, her name was. Imogen, Lady Maitland. He felt a spark of gratitude at being able to remember. ‘Lady Maitland,’ he said.

‘I’d like to speak to you privately, if I may.’

‘Of course. There’s a bit of land down at the bottom of the garden that’s marshy and less frequented by all these folk,’ he told her.

She gave him a dewy smile that almost had him convinced that she was longing for him to drag her down there and have his way with her. ‘How very astute of you to remark the place,’ she cooed.

He thought about defending himself – after all, he hadn’t been searching out trysting places – but gave up. Instead he held out his arm and they tripped along together in silence.

‘Has your husband been gone long?’ he asked. For all his reasoning that she would be a good candidate for marriage, he felt a queer reluctance to deepen the conversation.

‘Long enough,’ she said, giving him that look again. ‘I hardly think of him.’

Well, if that wasn’t a lie, he’d never heard one before.

They walked along some more, she taking little mincing steps because her dress was so narrow it was binding her at the knees. ‘Perhaps I’d better carry you down this last bit,’ he said as they neared the slope. ‘That is, if it won’t create a scandal.’ He glanced back toward the party, but no one appeared to be watching them.

‘I don’t care about scandal,’ she said. An idiot could tell that was true. So he scooped her up and carried her down the hill until they reached a wrought-iron bench under a large willow. The tree hung over the riverbank, emerald-green strands meeting the surface of the water and dropping below. It looked like an old dowager trailing her yarns behind her.