She shrieked again and grabbed for her pillow so that she could fling it at his head once more.
“And you,” she said, “are going to fry. I did not. And if you had been the gentleman you profess to be, you would have moved, not just to the edge of the bed, but right off it onto the floor with your pillow.”
“You were lying half on it,” he said. “And being a gentleman …” He completed the sentence with a grin.
She stared down at him. He was enjoying himself, she thought, and so, strangely, was she. What had seemed horribly awkward and embarrassing just a minute or so ago had been turned into … fun. But oh, dear, he looked tousled and almost boyish. And attractive. It really would be wonderful to make love with him.
“What?” he said. “You have no answer?”
“You might have taken my pillow, then,” she said.
“But you were lying half on that too.”
“Poor thing,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “And so you were doomed to spend the rest of the night in the middle of the bed with only half a pillow for your comfort.”
“I am not complaining,” he told her. He laced his hands behind his head and looked complacent. “Pillows are not the only source of comfort.”
“Hmm.” She got to her feet. “Turn your back and pull the covers over your head. I am going to get dressed. I do not suppose anyone has fed and watered Tramp this morning or let him loose in the stable yard.”
He did as he was told with great ostentation, and Samantha dressed quickly, a smile on her face, and dragged her brush through her hair before twisting and knotting it at her neck.
“I shall see you at breakfast in half an hour or so,” she said as she let herself out of the room.
He snored softly beneath the bedcovers as she had done last night. She was laughing as she shut the door. How her life had changed in the span of a week. She scarcely recognized herself despite what had been said last night about having to take herself with her wherever she went. She could not remember a time when she had simply enjoyed someone else’s company, when she had laughed and joked with that person and talked nonsense. And hurled pillows.
And shared a bed.
And felt a knee-weakening desire.
She was going to miss him dreadfully when they had arrived at her cottage and he had resumed his travels. But she would think of that when the time came.
Tramp greeted her as if he had been shut up all alone for at least a week in his perfectly comfortable stall.
They talked about the weather and the scenery. They talked about books—she had read a good many during the five years of her husband’s illness, and he had read a fair number during the years of his convalescence and since. They talked more about their families and the homes where they had grown up, about their growing years, the friends they had had, the games they had played, the dreams they had dreamed. They talked about music, though neither claimed any proficiency on a musical instrument.
They carefully avoided any situation or topic that might ignite the attraction they undoubtedly felt for each other.
Sometimes they talked nonsense and laughed like silly children. It felt ridiculously good. Sometimes they bickered, though even those flare-ups usually ended in nonsense and laughter.
They talked with fellow travelers at inns where they stayed and at places of interest they visited. Ben began to think that perhaps he would enjoy traveling after all. He was sure he would have lingered in southeast Wales longer if he had been alone. He was fascinated by the new industries that were springing up—coal mines and associated shipping concerns and metalworks. He would have loved to make a few detours—into the Rhondda and Swansea Valleys, for example, to see the industries at work. Perhaps he would come back one day and add chapters to his book that were not concerned purely with pictorial beauty. But not yet. After he had seen Samantha settled, he would want to put as much distance as possible between himself and her.
“I have been thinking,” he said the morning they left Swansea behind and proceeded toward West Wales, “that after you have taken up residence in your cottage I will take the route up the west coast of Wales rather than return the way we have come. I will see Aberystwyth and Harlech and Mount Snowdon, and then travel along the north coast.”
Her dark eyes—those lovely, expressive eyes, which seemed to have come more fully alive since they left County Durham—looked steadily back into his own. She was wearing pale spring green today and looked young and wholesome and pretty. And desirable, though he tried to ignore that thought.
He was very glad they had not become lovers that night. It was going to be a lonely enough feeling, driving off on his own, without the added complication of having indulged in an affair with her.
Or would he regret not having reached for pleasure when it had surely been offered?
“There is sure to be some lovely scenery on that route,” she said, half averting her face to gaze out of the window. “There already has been, has there not? Being in sight of the sea so much of the time smites me here.” She tapped the outer edge of one curled fist against her stomach. “Or perhaps it is Wales itself that is affecting me. It really does feel like a different country even though most people speak English. But, oh, the accent, Ben. It is like music.”
“Penderris is by the sea,” he said. “Did I tell you that? It is at the top of a high cliff in Cornwall.”
“With yellow sands, as there are everywhere here?” she asked.