Mary Brendan - The Silver Squire

‘You can’t stay here; it’s hardly fitting. Besides, as you and Mrs Keene insist, it is a respectable house,’ he mentioned satirically. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon be asked to leave.’

‘Mrs Keene need never know!’ She realised immediately how naive that sounded. A pregnant woman was quite easily identifiable as she neared her time. ‘I shall not be here for very long,’ she quickly amended.

Richard looked meaningfully at the door. ‘Oh, I’m sure a hint of it might already have reached Mrs Keene’s ears.’

Emma glanced, horrified, at the door then actually caught a muffled shuffle of receding slippered feet.

‘You need someone to care for you, Emma.’

She felt the soft words stir the hair at her brow, sensed the distance between them close and solidify with tension. She swallowed, trying to dredge up some clever snub, but nothing came. Nothing at all. Her volatile mind was unusually lethargic.

The fist planted by the side of her head slid down the panels on the door, dark knuckles brushing against fawn hair close to them. His long fingers uncurled slowly, moved a trailing tress back from her brow, then another with a mesmeric gentleness that would have rendered objection superfluous.

Her copper eyes were slowly raised, magnetised by eyes like tarnished silver stars. ‘Let me care for you, Emma,’ he said huskily before his moon-pale head dipped and his lips touched a feather-light caress to her brow.

Entranced, her body felt immoveable, her limbs heavy. Even her ivory lids felt weighted and drooped as warm, skimming kisses trailed her cool skin from temple to cheek.

Hit him! Push him away! resounded in her mind, but hollowly, as though from far, far away. And the tantalisingly soft caress was so soothing. Suddenly, it felt as though she’d been starved of human contact and this man’s touch was as essential as the food she’d eaten.

A dark thumb traced her lower lip, a hand wound into thick tawny hair, tilting her head those necessary few inches. His mouth touched hers with infinite gentle persuasion, and Emma felt herself melting into it.

He knew it, too: unbelievably, her acquiescence seemed a mere kiss away. ‘I’ll care for you and the child,’ he murmured confidently against her mouth. ‘You’ll want for nothing, I swear. I’ll make lasting provision for you. Even if I marry at some time, you’ll want for nothing.’

A glacier of icy feeling, bright and invigorating, seemed to meander from her pulsing lips to her rigid toes. As his mouth slid forcefully on hers and his hand spanned her jaw, manoeuvring it apart, she finally wrenched her head aside, simultaneously swinging small, clawed fingers up towards his face.

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