He growled, nuzzling her neck. The rough growth of a day’s beard scraped her sensitive flesh, and her pulse picked up an even more frantic beat.

A little whimper escaped her, and she let her head fall back, opening herself to a different kind of kiss.

“Val,” she moaned, pushing her hips against his, her hungering for this man and this moan edging out any and all embarrassment at her body’s wanton response.

He stilled, and then wrenched away; his breath came as ragged as her own, his chest rising and falling in the same quick way hers did.

He stared at her blankly, his eyes containing the same haze of passion that surely clung to hers.

And then he blinked . . .

And with that up-and-down fluttering of his dark lashes—beginning slowly and then growing more frantic—a different emotion slipped in.

Horror.

He wrenched his hands up and back, drawing them close to his frame and far from hers, like she contained the head of Medusa and he feared the venomous bite of one of the serpents stretching from her hair.

Shame brought Myrtle’s feet curling sharply into the hardwood floors.

“That should not have happened,” he said, his voice harsh and sharp.

She nodded dumbly. “I . . . know?”

Except hers emerged as a question.

Because how could something that had been so wondrous have been . . . wrong?

He blanched, his harshly beautiful features twisting in a grimace which was somehow more painful than his earlier rejection.

She waited for him to say anything more, because anything would surely be better than those last words he’d uttered.

But then Val backed slowly away, and when he’d put some ten paces between them, he turned quickly on his heel and raced off.

As he fled, she watched him go. How was it possible to go from the most magical, most beautiful moment of one’s life to the sad emptiness that came at Val’s flight?

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The following afternoon, settled into her place at her window seat, Myrtle stared across the way at Val’s household.

The curtains to that room she so often caught sight of him in had been drawn tight, but for a slight crack in thick fabric. Myrtle occasionally caught a glimpse and glimmer of movement within. She touched a finger to the cold windowpane, scratching at the slight sheen of ice, and then dusted the remnants away with her palm so that she might better see.

Yes, the facts that he’d no servants about and that no visitors entered that household spoke of a man who found solace in his solitary presence, and as such, that disdain was not reserved solely for Myrtle.

She let her hand fall to her lap. Or mayhap that was merely what she told herself in that moment.