3
Snow Kiss
The female’s muttering continued, along with a few choice phrases Phineas surmised ’twas best he couldn’t hear clearly: “imbecilic clodpate…selfish…arrogant male species… Cats have souls too…”
Her ire, though in no way directed toward him, still managed to rouse the shame that seemed determined to besiege him this evening. Rarely did he venture this far from his home woods on the far side of Lord Bedford’s estate, finding the London-bound lord away from home sufficiently to give Phineas free roam over most of the extensive grounds.
Alas, why had he chosen today, this close to Christmas—the tenth that he’d spent on his own and away from any of his family, any of his kind—to venture further afield?
Ahhh, yes. Boredom. Loneliness.
The very emotion he sensed tickling the awareness of the two figures wasting their futile struggles on the frozen ground. If he could just prompt them gone, he could make quick work of the excavation, attempt to assuage his guilt over the irritating horse.
The horse. Hell, by now, he half wished he’d just eaten the blame thing. Saved himself another hunting trip in a day or four.
Vexing wench, she was still determined to wield the shovel? Tonight?
Despite his irritation with her, how she made him laugh. Had he ever howled for a female before? Ever howled—at all? He chuckled even now.
By blazes, it’d felt good, watching her cackle, get so tickled at his tomfoolery she laughed herself sick. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that—
Oh yes, he could. With Warrick, while recovering in that ward and bandying about their broken bayonets.
But with a woman? To relax to such a degree that mirth blossomed so swiftly? Nay, never.
Interesting, how behaving the fool proved a boon to his downtrodden spirits as well. Having precious little interaction with females not of the doxy class—camp followers and the like—he found conversing with Maryann astonishingly easy.
Would the refined, composed (boring, he supposed) Larchmont chit his mother lauded put him at such ease?
Doubtful. Would they even find anything to speak of? Any manner of common ground? He, with his years of war, his keen interest—despite today’s bungle—in horses; she, with her long betrothal to his brother, and not much else—to speak of, naught that he knew about.
Make this one your mistress.
Tempting. But nay. He was his mother’s son more than his father’s, and he could not, in good conscience, fathom setting up a mistress before even meeting his intended.
Why not?
Why not indeed?
Not anymore, she’d responded when he inquired after her man, if he waited at home for her.
Though she was young for a widow, judging by her voice and the inky glimpses he’d had thus far, it did explain much—her independence, her determination to take care of herself and others.
“So no children?” he asked, glancing skyward, the thought of her alone more disconcerting than it should have been. Were the clouds thinning? The air turning colder?
And blast him for even asking. For even having the thought.
“Other than the two healthy ones delivered today? I have assisted with several others—if one counts the furred, four-pawed variety, but alas, none of my own.”
Which was a shame. “A competent, interesting lass such as yourself? Do you not want a brood of your own?”
“After today, Mr. Edwards? The hours of crying and pain I witnessed, the mess and the sadness? I do believe I may simply claim my sister, Harriet, as my one accomplishment and not try for any of my own.”
He wanted to argue with her—but that was absurd. He knew next to nothing about her—other than that he wanted to know more. Wanted to know the press of her capable, alluring body against his broken own.
He wanted to taste her lips and a whole lot more…
He shook himself from that flight of fancy.