by Heather Snow
Derick’s expression had smoothed into one both thoughtful and intense. One that warmed her thoroughly, even though they had entered a deeper, shadier part of the forest. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said.
They rode in companionable silence, their horses edging closer to each other as the lane narrowed. The low canopy of trees above them grew together in this part of the forest, forming a natural tunnel, one that smelled of wild orchids and crisp, dense greenery—a heady feast for the senses.
As the shadows enclosed them, Derick’s voice drifted across to her. “I know why I was always running these woods, Emma. I was trying to escape my mother.” He paused and she looked over, caught by the curiosity and the…the empathy in his gaze. “What were you running from?”
Emma’s stomach knotted at the unexpected question. She could tell herself she’d just wanted to be near him, a girlhood infatuation, but the lie would sound false, even to her own ears.
“Was it your father?” he asked boldly. “I remember hearing that he was a harsh man. Demanding, with little patience for anyone.”
“He was that,” she admitted. “Exacting as well, and always obsessed with whatever mathematical theorem he was working on at the time. He had little left for anyone else, and he didn’t suffer fools.” Or daughters.
“You’ve never been a fool, Emma.”
“No, but I was a disappointment, if only because of my gender. And he never let me forget it, even if he didn’t say a word.” She shrugged off the familiar ache. “It was worse for George, really, because he was the son. The man who should have been able to carry on Father’s legacy. But George’s mind simply doesn’t work the way Father’s did…the way mine does, and Father was always bitter about it. George had left the house before I can really remember, but I heard things growing up about the animosity between the two of them.”
“Mmmm…” Derick said thoughtfully. “Did they ever reconcile?”
“No. George rarely came home when my mother was alive. Never, after she died. Not until he came back to take up the reins after Father’s death.”
“It must have been lonely for you, living in that house.”
Emma’s chest squeezed. She never talked about her father, having done her best to bury her feelings with him. But somehow, here in the shadows with Derick, it felt…freeing to voice them. “It was. I know my father wanted more children before I was born…another son, one who hopefully took after him. But fifteen years passed before my mother fell pregnant again, and then only with a useless girl.”
“Emma…”
“No, I know I’m not useless,” she said. “And my father eventually came around, in his own way. He recognized my talents and fostered them, but always with an overtone of…resentment.”
“Did you resent him for that?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered, and it felt good to say it. “I resented trying to live up to what he wanted and knowing that I never would. That he would always consider me inferior.”
“You could never be inferior.”
She huffed. “Good of you to say,” she said lightly, trying to ease the moment. “I suppose that’s why I always followed you around all those summers. You treated me like a pest, yes, but…you also treated me like an equal. You taught me things, not begrudgingly, but because I was there. With you, I could simply be…there.”
She couldn’t believe she’d admitted that to him. As the silence grew, she worried she shouldn’t have.
“I’m glad, Emma,” he said, finally. “I…think it was the same for me with you.”
And then they emerged into the sunlight again, and the surreal interlude was broken. Emma took a deep breath of the clean forest air. What had he meant by that? She looked over at him, but he was staring straight ahead. Still, something had…changed, had grown between them there in the shade of the forest.
But the moment was gone. Rippling sounds from the creek now reached their ears, as did the warbling cry of the pudgy little dipper birds who so loved the fast-moving water.
“My God,” Derick said, his voice soft with wonder. “I feel as though I’ve just passed through an enchanted tunnel and been transported back in time.”
Emma looked over at Derick, grateful that he seemed willing to forget their recent conversation. She wished to simply enjoy this afternoon with him as they were now. It seemed he felt the same. His gaze fixed on the landscape before them, on the babbling creek that wound through the vegetation until it pooled at the mouth of the cave, some thirty yards ahead of them. He leaned forward in his saddle, as if most eager to get to their destination.
Derick turned to her then and Emma caught her breath. The afternoon sun hung in the sky behind him, casting its light around his head in golden rays. The black of his hair shone in dark relief, the rays lending a glow to his skin and casting shadows that highlighted the chiseled beauty of his features. But it was the boyish grin that had stolen the air from her lungs. Yet at the same time, her heart expanded in her chest until she felt like bursting. This was the Derick she knew, the Derick she’d always loved. Emma had to look away lest she blurt the words too soon. While she knew what was best for him, she expected it would take him some time to come to the inevitable conclusion.
“Then you’re glad you let yourself be tempted?” She phrased it as a question, but it really wasn’t.
His smile faded and his eyes darkened a little, as if he’d been reminded of something he’d rather not think on. When his smile returned, it didn’t seem as genuine as it had a moment before. “Depends on how good those pastries are,” he said, then urged his horse ahead to the cave.
Emma allowed Derick to secure her mount alongside his as she spread out the blanket and basket she’d brought. She picked the softest ground she could find that wasn’t damp from the abundant rains—a soggy blanket seeped through with cold water wouldn’t be at all a good spot for seduction. She had to settle for a rockier patch than she would have liked, closer to the mouth of the cave but it was still near enough to the creek to enjoy the soothing rhythm of the running water.
When she had everything arranged just so, Emma closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun, basking for a moment in the perfection of the day.
“It’s more lovely than I remember.”
Emma’s eyes flew open at Derick’s low voice, just near her ear. His emerald gaze was fixed not on the picturesque scene around them, but on her. Those eyes, always so sharp, that seemed to take in everything at once, roved her face, her body. They grew heavy-lidded. A feeling like gooseflesh, only hotter, skittered over Emma.
Unprepared for the intensity of the moment, outside in the brightness of day no less, Emma stammered. “It—it is.” She took an involuntary step back, then stopped herself. Quit being a ninny, Emma. Isn’t this what you wanted? Yes. Yes, it was. She took in a breath, and resolved to play this coolly, as if they were just two old friends having a picnic—at least until she got up her nerve to kiss him.
“It couldn’t be more perfect,” she said brightly. “Only it’s a shame that it’s too cool this summer to swim, as we used to.”
Derick blinked, a slow dip of his lids followed by several rapid ones. He, too, took a step back. “Yes.” And then he laughed, though it sounded a little forced to Emma’s ear. “Although if you think I’d be so easily badgered into merman service these days, you’d be disappointed.”
Emma blushed, remembering the imperious commands she used to give him. “It was only fair, given how often I had to play Lancelot.” She hadn’t minded so much when they were very young, but as they’d approached their teens. “When what I really wanted was to be your Guinevere.”
Derick’s head tilted, his eyes contemplative.
Emma felt her own eyes go wide. Dear God, had she said that last bit aloud? Damn her loose lips. She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the picnic blanket before he could comment on her blunder. “No worries about merman service, today, however,” she said. “In fact, I intend to service you.�
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Derick’s step faltered and his muscled arm went tense beneath her hands. A strange choking sound reached her ear.
Had she said something wrong? The way Derick bit his lip as if trying mightily to keep in a guffaw or two certainly indicated she had. She thought back.
“Serve you, I mean.” A wry smile twisted her lips. In her nervousness, she’d magpied the incorrect verb tense.
Laughter burst from Derick’s lips, but his eyes sparked with something more than amusement. “What?” she asked, her smile twisting down a fraction. So she’d bungled a verb. Was it truly that funny?
But Derick only laughed harder, placing his hand over hers on his arm and resuming their walk to the blanket. “Nothing,” he said, still snorting a bit. “Service away.”
Emma left Derick to get settled on the blanket while she knelt before the basket. As she pulled out two crude cups, one of the bottles of wine, wooden plates, a round of cheese and the pastries she’d wrapped in cheesecloth to keep them warm, she was acutely aware of Derick’s regard. Although she wasn’t facing him, it was as if she could feel his gaze on the sensitive skin of the back of her neck. It set off a slow burn.
When she turned with her bounty, however, Derick’s face was raised to the sun much as hers had been earlier. Seated on the blanket, leaning back on his hands, one long leg stretched out before him, the other bent at the knee, he…lounged. He seemed relaxed. At ease. And yet…
Emma had a sense that he could spring to full alert at any moment. Just like his ability to move so quietly that she rarely heard him before he reached her, she imagined he’d acquired the facility of constant readiness as a means to survive during his years as a spy.
Her gaze traveled over him, taking advantage of the view while his eyes were closed. There was so much about him, about the time he was away, that piqued her curiosity. Who was this man? She remembered what he’d wanted out of life as a boy, but given the much different life he’d led since then, what was important to him now? What drove him? How had he changed, beyond just the raw physicality that had erased any soft lines from his body? Beyond the natural maturity that comes with age?
Part of her itched to pepper him with questions, to learn all. But she had years to rediscover Derick, a lifetime. For now, it was enough for them to have an afternoon out of time.
“Your pastries, good sir.”
An easy smile crossed Derick’s face as he pushed off of his hands and leaned toward her. He accepted a pastry with ill-concealed delight and Emma moved to pour him a cup of wine.
“If these taste half as good as I remember, I shall soon be in raptures,” he said, turning the sweet so that a corner was poised near his mouth, ready to be devoured.
The look of pleasurable anticipation on Derick’s face made every bit of her fumbling about in the kitchens this morning worth it—even her burnt finger. She soothed that finger with her tongue nervously, waiting to see what he thought of her efforts.
Derick’s even white teeth bit into the crust, and his jaw moved to chew. The movement slowed, as if he were savoring the taste in his mouth. And yet…if he were savoring, why had his lips just pursed into an almost grimace? And why had his eyes widened? And why did his hand fly up to his mouth to cover a choking cough?
“You don’t like them?”
“No, I—” His words dissolved into a fit of coughing. “I mean, yes, of course I do. They’re just—different than I remember.”
Emma frowned. “You don’t like them.”
He choked again, frantically motioning for the cup of wine in her hand. Emma handed it over, and he took a great swallow. Then another.
“No,” he said when he’d drained the cup. “No, I don’t like them. In fact”—a chuckle rumbled in his chest—“I’d rather eat the mud pies with kelp filling you used to make from the creek floor.”
“But you used to love them!” she cried, dejected. Had she gotten them wrong?
His brows waggled with an amused sort of sympathy. “Maybe I liked them so much then because they were filched. Ill-gotten gains always taste much better than ones that come honestly.” The look on his face told her he was scrambling to spare her feelings.
“They should be perfect. I followed the recipe precisely.” She reached out her hand. “Give me that.” She took the pastry and raised it to her lips, taking a generous bite.
“Argh.” She gagged. She didn’t even bother trying to swallow. Instead, she turned and dove back into the basket, snatching a square of linen so that she could discreetly spit the offensive dessert out of her mouth. “I must have mixed up the salt and sugar.”
Derick’s laughter boomed, sending a white-bibbed dipper flying from his perch on a rock in the middle of the creek with an indignant zit-zit-zit.
“What? The kitchen is not where I am most skilled. And they do look alike,” she insisted, in her own defense.
“Oh, Emma. The look on your face. Didn’t you taste them?”
She wrinkled her nose, sitting back on her heels. “I didn’t need to. I measured every ingredient twice, just to be certain. It should be like plugging numbers into an equation. They should have turned out perfectly.”
“Oh, they did,” he said, rising to his own knees to reach for the bottle of wine. “Perfectly horrid.” His chuckles had become mostly silent, but they still shook his chest in irregular spurts.
Emma couldn’t help sharing in his amusement. It was…infecting. She’d never been good at laughing at herself, but somehow she wasn’t able to berate herself with him looking at her so. Still, she tried. “I suppose I’ve spoiled your day, now, haven’t I?”
He sat back on his own heels, facing her, both of them on their knees. In one hand, he still held the wine bottle, but the other reached out and cupped her cheek. She leaned her face into his palm…she couldn’t help it.
“No, Emma,” he whispered, his voice and expression gone soft and serious. “You’ve made it.”
Chapter Fifteen
The loud growl from Emma’s stomach saved him. She, of course, turned red as a guelder rose berry, likely cursing her tummy’s inconvenient interruption. But for Derick, it was a godsend.
He’d nearly kissed her. Again. He’d come so close earlier, lost in some sort of damnable nostalgia, but luckily for him, she’d shied away. She hadn’t been going to shy away this time, however, and he wasn’t certain he could have stopped himself.
“We’ll need to do something about that,” he said, grateful for the chance to pull away. “Did I see a round of cheese over there?” He rose and walked over to the food arranged around the picnic basket.
“Yes,” she said, moving to rise herself. “I’ll just—”
“No, no, my mermaid princess.” He waved her off. “Let me serve you this time.”
Derick welcomed the mundane task of slicing through the large chunk of cheese, using the controlled movements to regain a handle on himself. But he could feel the grip slipping. He was tempted to just let it go. Hell and damnation, it was exhausting having to grasp so hard for it.
He had to, though. For Emma’s sake. He supposed he could retreat to the castle, but he was loath to leave this place. Since he’d crossed into the valley, he’d felt…bathed. Coated in some magical balm he didn’t understand. All he knew was that he felt a sense of peace that had eluded him for years, forever maybe. Whatever it was, he hadn’t expected to find it here—not in Derbyshire, not in England. Not with Emma.
Who just might be the noisiest person in all Britain. Behind him, she fidgeted, rustled the blanket, sat, groaned, fidgeted some more. A grin creased his face. What on earth was she doing? When he turned back with wine and a wooden plate of cheese, she was sitting rather awkwardly. Her legs were bent at the knees, but she was twisted at the waist so that her hip and bottom were partially off of the ground. “Rocks,” she said by way of explanation.
After handing her a cup and plate, he settled himself on the blanket as well, though he was careful to keep a respectable distance.
He moved experimentally, but felt no rocks beneath him, only the cushion of the fabric.
“I am sorry about the pastries,” she said after swallowing a bite of cheese. She looked so shocked, so affronted that her attempt hadn’t turned out that he had to laugh all over again.
“Don’t be. They were…memorable,” he said, sipping his wine. “Besides, I find it rather relieving that you can’t cook,” he teased. “No one likes someone who’s perfect.”
“Me? Perfect?” She snorted, scooting to her left as if trying to find a comfortable, rock-less spot. She wiggled her bottom to test out a new position. He swallowed, trying not to watch. “There must have been something more in those pastries than butter, blackberries and all the wrong spices if you think something that deluded,” she said.
“I’m quite serious,” he protested, and realized that he was. Hell, when had he gone from finding Emma an annoyance to defending her virtues to the woman herself? “Emma, you are beautiful in so many ways.”
She huffed, shaking her head as she looked down at the cup of wine in her lap.
Derick took another bite of cheese, hardly tasting it, so lost in thought was he. What a contradiction Emma had turned out to be. From her words and actions over the last few days, he knew that she had both a very high opinion of her abilities and a very low opinion of herself. He also knew that she placed a high value on his estimation of her.
Maybe she needed him in the same way that he needed her. Except rather than her helping him see himself as he used to be…
“I wish that you could see yourself as I see you,” he murmured.
Her head snapped up, a frown tangling her brows. Yet along with the vulnerability he glimpsed in the amber depths of her eyes, Derick saw a spark of what? Hope? A desire to believe?
She shifted again, scooting away, twisting her legs to the other side. Whether it truly was the rocks beneath their blanket making her uncomfortable, or the sentiment behind his words, Derick made a decision.
