Page 8 of Falling For The Dowager

“Shh.” His hands were held up, and Helena crashed into him, her body pressed against him, and she sucked in a breath as she saw what Mr. Dickon was pointing at.

Around twenty feet away from where they stood, there was a flattened out clearing, and Helena watched in utter fascination as a graceful deer bobbed her head towards a smaller creature—the deer’s fawn. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at mother and child, soft chestnut browns against the bright shades and textures of the surrounding forest. Encased by the loving touch of nature, it was a blessing to view them so. Then the leaves parted, and another youngster emerged. It was twins, the pair of them rambling through and nibbling at the surrounding greenery.

“Their coat will fade,” Mr. Dickon said, his voice low, like the sensual touch of rubbed silk gliding over her senses. If she turned her head, she could look straight up into his tanned face, marvelling in the insanity of his dark eyes and strong brows. “Those white spots will go, and then it will look just like its mother.”

Helena blinked, and the tear that had been threatening to spill down her cheek slipped loose, tracing a trail down her face. It was not one of sadness but of joy. She did not expect Mr. Dickon to notice, but one of his big hands came up, and lighter than a feather, he stroked it away.

Every part of her upbringing, every part of her training to be a lady screamed at her to step away from him, to turn around and leave this clearing in amongst the plush setting. Slowly, tortuously so, she raised her chin, looking up into his face. His hand had still not left her face but lingered around her jawline.

“My lady,” he said. His other arm moved deftly closer, coming to wrap her closer to him, curling around her waist until only a handful of inches separated them. It was still too much.

Helena raised her own fingers, curiosity alighting one after another on his face. It thrilled her to see him blush at the explorative movement of her fingers, tracing and brushing the contours of his face. Learning the shape of him. Her breath came out in an excited gasp as he lowered his head.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

“I would like to,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t but…” The unspoken number of weeks they had lingered together in the keep’s study, papers and maps laid out before them as the tension built. She learnt about how the place was run, and they had talked late into the night over what would make the keep a better home. Now that uneven, thick tension burning between them was starting to be exposed, but there was a note of uncertainty, of hesitancy as he waited for her to say so. More a gentleman than other nobles casually given the title when their actions so little warranted it.

“Oh good,” she gasped out. Her hands slipped away from his face and up into his brown hair, revelling in the rich feel of those strands gliding against her skin. Holding him nearer as she went up on tiptoe, she pressed her mouth against his. One brief peck, and she knew all too well that would never be enough. “I want so much. Will you call me Helena?”

Her words seemed to hint at something else greater than just a kiss, and she wondered if his restraint might crack, and he would hike her skirts up and drag her down onto the ground. A wicked part of her wanted that. Wanted to feel the sheer presence of his body pressing her down into the ground. To feel the rough certainty of him claiming her, driving out all memories of Benedict until she would be able to forget her treacherous husband.

But then Callum kissed her, and those tears which had vanished suddenly returned to the delicacy of his mouth. A tentative press of lips, learning the slow curve of her own mouth as he pressed more deeply. One of his hands resting on the small of her back, holding her against his rigid chest, the other gentle on the nape of her neck. Deeper the kiss went, curious and all-consuming, with the certainty they had all the time in the world.

As the kiss continued, the ferocity increased, the nip of his teeth against her bottom lip, the touch of his tongue possessing her mouth, the eagerness of his fingers into the folds of her black dress, until Helena was not certain where his fingers stopped and the sensation started. They were interlinked and dependent on each other's survival. He was magnificent, as exciting as any time her husband had made love to her, burning away each and every memory of the times Benedict had climbed on top of her and done his duty. No, that was all done for now. It would not be recalled or made to stay with her. All that seemed to matter was the caress of Mr. Dickon’s hands on her back, levering her closer to him, and the taste of his mouth angled against her own.

The woodsy scent that was Callum’s own flooded her senses, and both of Helena’s hands moved to his shoulders, clinging to him, unwilling for the contact to be broken. He was the closest it seemed she could get to heaven, the taste of his mouth consuming her, kissing and exploring her lips.

It seemed as if Callum was aware of this because his mouth moved from her lips, down over her jawline and the pillar of her neck, pressing kisses into the small section of exposed skin above her dress. She could not catch the precise words he whispered, but they danced over her skin, and her body responded as if she knew the dialect better than King’s English, or the handful of Latin she remembered, or even her perfect French—nothing could come close to the way his words made her feel.

She gasped as her head twisted backwards, trying to give him greater access to her décolletage. How she could rip her bombazine. How she might even ask him to use his knife on the accursed dress, so she might be exposed to him. It would be cleansing, a holy act, as wild and as beautiful as this kiss.

Callum dropped his hands to her waist, and suddenly much to Helena’s annoyance, he broke away from their kiss and lifted her bodily away from him. With that done, he stepped back and put a further foot between them. It was rather like being splashed with icy water as the pair of them sucked in a soothing gasp of air and stared up at one another, knowing that everything had changed, but not knowing what steps needed to be made to remedy this. What course they should take because all she wanted was to suggest the most illicit decision. Could she pull him down on the grass and flowered flecked carpet beneath their feet? Could she start kissing him, strip him bare, see the whole of him, and worship him the way she wanted to?

How then, could she continue to work alongside him as his employer’s sister? If she were lucky enough to taste him, to have him inside her, to know how his body would feel pressed into her, the sound of his release in her ears, could she carry on as mistress of the keep, discuss menus and the clearing of the lower glade if she would be forever marked by the strength and knowledge of his body? Did this make him as worried as she was, and thus explain why he had stopped?

“We should return to the keep,” Callum said, watching her closely as Helena forced her breath to return to some semblance of normal.

She managed to nod, and Callum turned and walked on ahead with Helena trailing in his wake.

Callum left her at the entrance to the kitchen. He mumbled some half-uttered excuse and slipped away down the corridor. Part of Helena wanted nothing more than to slip after him, to corner him in the study they had both spent too many hours in, and slip his trousers lower and lower until…

“My lady, my lady—Lady Helena,” Mrs. Fuller was calling her, a look of concern on the older woman’s face. “Have you caught the sun? You look awfully flushed my dear.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Here’s some honeyed water. It is one of the few things little Anna can make.” The housekeeper let out a sigh. “We should never have hired her. Head in the clouds most of the time. I am surprised she hasn’t fallen in the keep’s water and drowned.”

“Then why did…” Helena sipped the water gratefully and tried to put her thoughts away from the speculation over Callum’s member. It wasn’t ladylike. It wasn’t proper. It wasn’t… done. They all seemed like rather poor reasons at this moment in time. At least the honeyed water was helping. She watched as Mrs. Fuller started up the preparations for dinner. The housekeeper was a font of gossip for the isle and always ready to supply Helena with information whether she was willing or not.

“Well, chiefly because her wages aren’t too dear. I think her father only agreed because he’s expecting Mr. Dickon to make an honest woman of her. Of course, she’d need to not fall in the keep or a ditch on such a frequent basis.”

“She’s done it often?” It was not the question that Helena wished to ask, but she could hardly press the matter of a prospective bride or a wedding without raising suspicions… or could she? “I suppose it would be a match that…” The honey stuck in her throat, and suddenly the rabbit hot pot looked a lot less appealing. Helena got to her feet and moved around the kitchen, inexplicable energy spurring her movements.

“Oh, the flighty girl likes to imagine she’s in some far-flung gothic tale, I’m sure. I doubt,” Mrs. Fuller said wryly as she started on the vegetables, her knife moving quickly almost like an art form through the carrots and roots, “that Mr. Dickon would want such a foolish little chit. Anna would rather a knight swept in.”

A sense of calm descended on Helena. They were a mismatched pair. It would not suit. When there was no title or money at play, a match of similar personalities could be considered. Perhaps if Benedict and she had had such a chance, they would never have married, and she might have been happier. It was simpler and better not to have the obligations of class, rank, and duty to consider.

“But she’s a pleasing wench, or so my Billy says,” Mrs. Fuller said, referring to her son who was training in Glasgow as an apprentice. “So if Mr. Dickon desires children, I can see a worse match. They’d have bonnie wee bairns, and that’s certainly what his dear mother deserves.”