She ignored him. “If we do not stretch our legs, our muscles will atrophy.”
“No.”
She tapped her finger on the table. “Well, now you are ruining it, but I have something for you. Only you must come with me on a walk if you would like me to give it to you.”
His frown deepened. “That is terrifying.”
But somehow, sixty minutes later—Mrs. Turner did not mention we were so far from this waterfall,Matilda had gasped as they stumbled down a rocky path—they were there. The landscape was rocky and harsh, and she loved it. She wished she had charcoal or oils, something bold to capture the harsh lines of the Dark Peak. The waterfall tumbled down in four separate streams, and when they stepped closer to it, the spray clustered in little pearls at the tips of Christian’s overlong black hair.
She wanted to brush her fingers over the flecks of damp.
But she did not do it. She looked away from him, down to the flat shale of the embankment, and produced what she had brought with her: a blanket, a bottle of wine, and a grease-paper packet filled to the brim with caraway buns.
“I remembered your fondness for sweets.” She angled a sidelong glance at Christian’s face.
Was he charmed?
Curse her for a fool, why did she want him to be?
“I asked for Chelsea buns—with icing sugar, you know—but they did not have any. You have been denied your chocolate for days. I thought you would…” She trailed off.
What was shedoing? She had not thought this through, not really. She had only thought to make him smile. But it felt suddenly too intimate, too real.
She had learned, in her seven years of being a Halifax Hellion, that it was better not to try. If you did not try to please someone, you could not be crushed by their disappointment in you.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I—we can just go back. I don’t—”
Christian closed his hand over her own. Her eyes flew to his. “Sit down,” he said. “I would like to eat the damned buns.”
They ate in front of the waterfall. They did not speak overmuch, but she felt Christian’s gaze upon her. Or at least, she thought she did.
She had forgotten glasses for the wine, so they passed the bottle between them. Matilda pressed her lips to the rim of the bottle where Christian’s had been a moment before. She fancied she could still feel the warmth of his mouth.
She looked over at him to find he was looking at her as well. She drank deeply from the bottle, the lush velvety wine sliding down her throat, warming her limbs.
As she watched, he swallowed. She could see the bob of his throat.
She put down the bottle.
He reached across the space between them. His hand came up to cup her cheek and his thumb brushed across her mouth.
“You have wine,” he murmured, “there.”
His thumb caressed the corner of her mouth. Matilda’s thoughts felt slow and thick, like honey dripping down the side of a crock.
There was wine on her lips. She put out her tongue to lick it away, and instead she caught the edge of Christian’s thumb.
He made a low sound. His gaze trailed across her—her face, her mouth, her body. Everywhere his eyes touched her, she felt a liquid warmth, as if she could feel that pale gray gaze all along her skin. Something trembled low in her belly.
She wanted him to touch her everywhere. She wanted him to press her down to the ground, and she did not want him to go easy.
His hand fell away from her face, and he threw himself to his feet. “I should like to walk,” he said.
Matilda blinked dizzily up at him. Her brain was misfiring. Had she just—licked his thumb?
Had he not wanted her to?
“You should not stay here alone.” His voice was slightly hoarse. “But I—I would prefer to walk. Shall we…” He trailed off. He did not seem to know what to do with his hands. He kept putting them in his pockets and then taking them out again.
