Page 2 of The Pebbled Path

He eyed his daughter, baffled that she felt none of the excitement, none of the pull that he did. How could she not? He’d never felt anything so powerful.

“I must go in.” He alighted from the cart and walked with swift step up the flower-lined path. Every step felt more right than any step he’d taken before.

He knocked frantically on the cottage door, desperate for it to be answered. He knocked again. Footsteps sounded inside. Relief surged through him. Closer the steps drew. Louder. Only his pulse sounded with greater volume.

The handle turned. The door pulled open.

There in the doorway stood the most alluring woman he had ever seen in all his life, the most exquisite woman who had ever lived. He could do nothing but stand in mute awe of her beauty.

“Welcome.” Her voice warmed him through, pulling the very breath from his body.

He stepped inside, his eyes never leaving her. Such beauty. Such grace. He stopped in the middle of her sparsely appointed home, words eluding him. The woman walked in a circle around him, looking him over. He straightened his posture, held himself proudly, all the while quaking with fear that she would find reason to disapprove.

“You are handsome,” she said, “though not so young as I might have hoped.”

“Forgive me,” he begged. “I would have come sooner, but I knew not how to find you. I knew not that I ought to find you.”

“It is of little matter.” Her smile pulled a sigh of utter relief from him. “You’ve youth enough.”

She closed the gap between them. The tip of one velvet-soft finger traced a path along his hairline, down his jaw, brushing lightly along his neck. Her touch was mesmerizing.

“I hope you mean to stay,” she said, her words deep yet airy.

“I could never leave you,” he insisted. “No one could ever make me.”

A single golden brow arched in pleased amusement. “You will do whatever I ask of you?”

“Anything at all.”

She gave half a nod. “Very good.”

“Tell me what it is you wish.”

She leaned close, her face near enough to his for her breath to tickle his face. “I wish you to take your supper with me.”

“I will take all my suppers with you.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “All of them.”

She kissed him quickly, lightly. As she broke the contact and stepped away, he felt as though some of his breath and a few beats of his heart left with her. He watched, ready to beg her to return should she move too far away.

“Come, sit,” she bade. “I will prepare our supper.”

He followed, desperate to do whatever she might ask of him. Somehow, everything depended upon her happiness. Everything.

“Papa?” a small voice interfered.

Frustration bubbled. He did not wish for interruptions. Distractions would only mean he might miss a request or a moment of his lady’s company and affections. He turned to bid the one interrupting to leave, only to realize that he had, somehow, forgotten Gretel. His own daughter.

“Gretel.” He bade her step inside. “You must meet—”

He knew not the name of his lady love. She did not supply it.

“Why have you come?” she asked Gretel. “I’ve no need of you.”

“My papa and I are journeying to the village on the other side of the forest.” She spoke to his love with disapproval. How could she?

“Gretel,” he scolded.