Page 145 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

His hands came down on the top edge of the door, one either side of her, as he looked out over her shoulder. ‘It will do,’ he said. ‘Ground’s cold. If it gets any heavier . . .’

Perhaps I should stay, she said. But not out loud, only in her head. She felt him breathing behind her; she felt his thoughts. Almost without volition, she turned on the spot, within the gateway of his arms, and as if it were an automatic reaction, he closed them round her. She looked up into his face, etched with the uncanny stormlight. Every part of her, from her skin to her soul, ached for him. He gave her a quizzical look, but she felt the inevitability that cradled them. A slight lift of her chin was all it took to tilt them over the edge. His lips were on hers, soft, tasting of him, somehow known, though this was the first time. Hers were ready, longing. A stream of piercing sweetness passed from him into her. She wanted all of him, she wanted everything. She yearned to get closer to him, closer yet. She wanted to climb right inside him and never come out.

In her imagination, in a fraction of second, like a landscape illuminated by lightning, she saw the snow become a blizzard, too heavy for her to go home, saw them hurrying into the cottage, saw her staying the night, sleeping in his bed, saw him joining her there, saw them twined and blissful and together.

Then she would never go away again.

It was right.

The kiss paused for breath, she moved her head slightly so that her cheek was against his warm cheek, and the last sane part of her mind said, What am I doing to him?

If she stayed, a Rubicon would have been crossed. She would never be able to go back.

And they would destroy him.

She wanted it. She wanted it with every drop of her blood. But she must not, could not do that to him. It was not too late. One kiss, the madness of a moment, never repeated, put out of their minds. Dragging her cheek away from his was like ripping off skin. She could hear him breathing as though he had been running. But she turned away, breaking the lock of his arms, and said, ‘It’s not too heavy yet. I think I can get home all right.’

Her voice didn’t sound like hers – remote, weirdly normal.

And his didn’t sound like his as he said, ‘Best leave right away, then.’

Best for both of us if you go away and don’t come here any more.

No. Best for him, certainly. But for her – exile. To live in a strange land, among strangers, for ever. He was home, but she must leave him. She must go away.

They were unnaturally natural in the last few moments as he tightened Pharaoh’s girth and she led him out and he threw her up into the saddle and helped her find the stirrup. She gathered the reins, and could hardly see him through the tears. She thought that if he said he was sorry for kissing her, she would die. But he did not mistake her. She was not upset because he had kissed her but because they had stopped. He knew, and she knew he knew, and it was the only comfort in that desolate moment.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

‘I hate not being with you at Christmas,’ Richard said.

‘It isn’t really any different from any other day of the year,’ Molly said.

‘And I hate it when you’re reasonable. It feels different, and don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.’

‘Oh, the romance of significant dates! Well, if it’s any comfort to you, I shan’t be alone. I shall be going over to spend it with Chloë. The housekeeper, Mrs Mackie, will be cooking us Christmas dinner, and apparently she’s a very good cook.’

‘And will the moustachioed villain be there?’

‘If you mean Sir Thomas—’

‘Who else?’

‘He’ll be in Surrey, spending Christmas with his wife, entertaining all the local dignitaries. They always have a big dinner on Boxing Day, so I’m told, and invitations to it are much prized.’

‘Let’s hope Lady Violet keeps him until Twelfth Night at least. What’s the flat like? You never did tell me.’

‘Large rooms, but gloomy, all in the Victorian style: heavy dark furniture, red flock wallpaper, a red velvet cover on the mantelpiece with little bobbles all along the edge – do you know the sort of thing?’

‘I do.’

‘The old aunt’s what-nots are everywhere. Sir Thomas never removed them, and Chloë, of course, doesn’t even see them, so there they sit, to be meticulously dusted every day by Mrs Mackie. Who is my main comfort.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘A Scots woman – ’

‘So I gathered.’