Something he had scented often and something, from the beginning, he had adored.

She smelled of green grass and mossy woods and flowers.

Gods dammit.

His cock stirred.

“And now that you are asking these questions, my champion,” she whispered, placing a hand on his chest. “I will stop pussyfooting about and tell it to you true. I want to be part of the new meaning to your life because I think you’re marvelous. And I don’t care one whit about your legs.”

And with that, she pressed her lips to his.

Her there, her scent, her words, her spirit, the time spent in her company, the vision of her burned in his brain, on his heart, Alfie did not fight his hands reaching to her, his fingers sifting into her hair, holding her head to him, or the very ungentlemanly act of touching his tongue to her lips, insisting they open.

On a sweet mew, she gave him this, and if all had not been lost before—when he had to admit it was—it was lost then, he was lost, when he had her taste.

He was lost to anything but deepening the kiss, angling his head to do so, drinking more.

More of Bronagh.

More of her spirit and sweetness.

More of life.

When his body had responded to the point he’d desire to take the kiss somewhere else, he broke his mouth from hers and whispered against her lips, “We must stop.”

“Hmm?” she hummed dazedly, and he felt her weight in her hand at his chest.

He grinned against her mouth and watched as her eyes slowly opened.

That was life too.

“I’ll take dinner with you tonight, honey,” he murmured. “And vol-au-vents filled with stew for lunch tomorrow.”

She snapped into focus and gifted him with relief and excitement filling her eyes before they got wet.

He pressed his mouth to hers and pulled away, saying, “Now we must change for dinner.”

She suddenly shot straight, he lost the feel of her hair, but she gained it as she smoothed it, then smoothed her skirts at her front, and said nonsensically, “Yes, quite.”

“Yes, quite, what?” he asked, unable to remove the teasing thread of his tone.

“Yes, quite, I shall meet you at your chambers to go with you to dinner and…and arrange for us to go on an outing tomorrow.”

“Please allow me,” he murmured.

“Of course.” She touched her throat and her eyes grew somewhat wild.

In turn, he grew concerned he’d been too forward.

“Have you not been kissed, Bronagh?” he asked gently.

“I, yes, well…” She smoothed her hair again. “Well, yes, but not like that.”

He fought his grin.

“You’re very pleased with yourself, Alfie Henriksson,” she snapped when she saw his struggle.

“I am, indeed, very pleased, Bronagh.”

She huffed.

He chuckled.

She stared.

He took her hand.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

She grew adorably awkward again.