Warmth tingles in my chest and blooms across my cheeks as I think of sitting on Gabriel’s lap. I have never sat on a man before.
“You want me to sit on your lap?”
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Did I not just say that?”
Anticipation grips me as I follow his request and perch on his lap. His hard thighs press against my bottom as he shifts me enough to skim his knuckles across my cheek.
“Your wound healed well.”
“The one you stitched?”
He nods and allows his knuckles another light skim. “Over time, the scar will fade more.”
“It doesn’t bother me.” It’s not like I see my reflection often.
“I like scars,” he says. “They remind us that we can overcome our past.”
“That’s a beautiful way to look at them.”
Gently, he brushes loose strands of hair from my face. “Youare beautiful.”
“My skin is too pale.” They’re the first words to come to my mind. The first thing I always think when I peer in the looking glass.
He shakes his head. “It brightens your eyes, and they tell your story. Where you’re going. Where you have been.”
My breath hitches. Surely, they’re not that revealing.
Needing a distraction, I reach for his hand and bring it to the light of the torch. “Was this your mother’s?”
His gaze lowers to the gold ring on his pinky. “Yes.”
“Do you miss her?” I ask as I remember my mother, and how, even now as I think of her, my chest aches.
“Every day.”
“Father thought I was too young to mourn my mother, but I was old enough to build memories and to miss her terribly when she was gone.”
“I remember my mother always smelled like lemons,” Gabriel says, his words low, hoarse. “She had five trees near our cottage, and every winter, she’d pick all the ripe ones and make lemon tea.”
“How old were you when she was taken from you?”
“Seven.”
Overwhelmed by compassion, I frame his face in my hands. “We aren’t so different, Gabriel.”
“Yes, we are.” He allows his hand to glide over my bodice. “You’re a woman. I’m a man.”
Tingles ghost against my skin as he does it again—this time allowing his hands to brush my skin.
“That’s not what I meant,” I manage.
“I know.” He reaches for the hem of my surcoat and pulls it to my thighs.
I catch his hand and smile. “Did you ask permission?”
“Do I need permission?” he asks, his voice deep and doing crazy things to my pulse.
No.“Absolutely.”
