Asher didn’t want to leave this dream.
For years, he’d awoken in a cold sweat from the nightmare of being crushed by a mountain of his father’s debts. Slowly suffocating to death.
But this morning was different. In this dream, he felt the warmth of sunlight on his face while lounging on a bed of sweetly scented strawberries. Better still, there was a soft woman in his arms, her lush bottom pushing back against his ready cock in invitation.
Helpless against the enticement, he cinched an arm around her waist and rocked forward.
“Asher,” the woman whispered on a slumberous sigh.
He buried his face in her hair, breathing in deeply. Such a delectable fragrance. A somewhat familiar fragrance that prodded the edges of his waking mind. It was almost as if he’d had this dream before, but he was nearly sure he hadn’t. This felt too new and unexplored and altogether decadent.
“Hmm . . . ?” he murmured.
She yawned, her back arching in a stretch. “You left the hayfork in the straw. Be a dear and move the handle out of the way. I want to sleep for just a bit longer.”
Asher frowned and pulled her closer, still trying to cling to the dream. Yet reality started to intrude, reminding him of a drenching rain shower, a loft, a pile of straw, and a tooth-chattering heiress . . .
“That’s not the hayfork, lass.”
This was Asher’s thought. But it was not his voice.
Opening his eyes in confusion, he saw sunlight bleeding in through a wall of warped planks, felt a cushion of soft, springy hair beneath his cheek, and heard a scrape and creak of wood behind him.
He blinked into wakefulness, feeling a sense of being watched prickle the back of his neck. More alert now, he looked over his shoulder toward the ladder, startled to find a man standing over them.
“This is the hayfork,” the man said, holding the object in question. He wasn’t brandishing it like a weapon, but held it as if it were a long rifle at rest, with the stock on the floorboards and his hand around the neck. And yet, it was clear by the hard look in his lean, weathered face that he wouldn’t hesitate to use it with lethal intent, if need be. “Mind tellin’ me what you’re doin’ in my barn?”
Fully alert, Asher sat up. Reflexively, he leaned over to shield Winn. Though with his current state of morning arousal, his movements were stiff and stilted. Apparently, the straw he’d so carefully packed between them had dispersed and his loins had been nestled perfectly against the firm globes of her bottom.
The sun glinting on the sharp tines of the hayfork, however, demanded more of his attention at the moment. “We came in out of the rain. That’s all. We mean you no ill will.”
“The rain ended yesterday, and well before twilight,” the farmer said.
Yesterday? That would mean that the light slanting in through the warped slats was the dawn. And they’d lost half a day’s travel.
“Yet, here you are . . . still,” the farmer continued. “Mayhap you’re thinkin’ to take what isn’t yours.” With a turn of his grizzled head, he pointed his aquiline nose and blunt chin toward the pail of leftover carrot tops.
Asher felt contrite at once. It was obvious by the tumbledown condition of the barn and the age-worn brown shirt and trousers that this man couldn’t afford much. Not even the loss of a few carrots. “My sincerest apologies. Please know that I intend to make reparations for the—”
“Whot was that about yesterday?” Winn asked, stirring groggily beside him.
Rolling over, she splayed her hand across his abdomen, stirring his blood and forcing him to realize that it would have been more prudent if he’d slept with Victor. How in the world was he ever going to forget what it was like to lie beside Winn?
Her fingertips flexed experimentally. Slowly, she blinked up at him and her eyes curved into crescent moons on a sleepy smile. Then, abruptly, they went wide and round. A bright blush bloomed on her cheeks as she snatched her hand away.
“Good morning, sweets. It appears as though we’ve overstayed our welcome”—he paused, motioning with a subtle backward tilt of his head—“in this fine gentleman’s loft.”
Clutching the blanket to her magnificent, barely contained breasts, she lifted up on an elbow to peek over his shoulder. Then she squeaked and dropped back down.
With a look of distress, she mouthed, “Did you tell him about Victor?”
Asher flattened his brow, mouthing back, “I’m not an idiot.”
Winn rose up again, hitching the blanket higher and lifted her pleading hazel eyes to the farmer. “Kind sir, you have every right to be angry. Though I hope you will be lenient when you’ve heard the very distressing news I must impart. You see, this man—”
In a flash, the warmth in Asher’s veins turned to ice.
He realized that now would be the ideal time for her to unleash a sad tale about having been kidnapped from her own wedding. Stolen out of London. Barely escaping from a pair of henchmen out for blood.
In fact, if she played her cards right, she could garner sympathy enough for this farmer to drive her all the way to her aunt’s and see that Asher was put in irons for the rest of his life.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone had used him to gain what they wanted.
“This man,” Winn repeated after she cleared her throat and swallowed, “and I are traveling troubadours who were set upon by thieves. They robbed us of our instruments, along with the satchel of our few worldly belongings and small scraps of food. After our ordeal, we met with a drenching downpour and took shelter in your barn to dry our clothes. I’m afraid time escaped us. And we have taken advantage of your hospitality. Please, sir, if there is a way that we can make amends, let it be known and we will gladly do it.”
The farmer didn’t answer directly and Asher was temporarily tongue-tied as he gazed down at her.
Winn’s hair was in complete disarray with yellow shoots of straw sticking out here and there. Sleep crusted her lower lashes and a bit of dried drool sat in the corner of her mouth. And he couldn’t account for it but that overwhelming, foolhardy impulse to kiss her returned.
She hadn’t betrayed him. It would have been so simple for her to do so.
He should probably say something to corroborate her story. Instead, he reached out to remove bits of straw from her hair, distracted and feeling a grin warming the corners of his mouth.
In response, she batted his hand away and slanted him a perturbed glance.
Clearly, he needed to focus. He turned to the farmer to add more to the story, only to see hard gray eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“A fine tale, to be sure,” the farmer said. “I imagine you’re either a pair of young lovers padding off to Gretna Green, or simply using my property for an illicit encounter. Either way, I’ll not have any part of it. The magistrate will—”
“We’re married!” Winn announced, wrapping her arms around Asher and holding to him like a shield. Her soft curves molded invitingly against his side. And her actions wreaked havoc on his ability to form a coherent thought.
The farmer arched a brow. “Married to each other, I trust?”
“Of course, to each other,” Winn said with an affronted gasp. “Otherwise we would never have . . . Well, not to say that we did engage in any sort of . . . activities last night . . . other than sleeping, of course. I certainly wouldn’t have . . . um . . .” She swatted Asher’s arm. “Crumpet, be a dear and introduce us.”
Crumpet? Was that supposed to be him?
Asher felt a grin tug at his mouth. He winked at her, watching as her cheeks flushed the same hue as a strawberry, her freckles the seeds.
“Yes, indeed, we’re Mr. and Mrs. Strawb”—he stopped and quickly amended with a name that sounded more credible—“Strewsbury. Perhaps you’ve heard of us? The Strewsbury Quartet.”
Winn stabbed his side with a piece of straw. He could almost hear her unspoken diatribe: Quartet? What possessed you to tell him that we are part of a quartet? He’ll only wonder where the others have gone.
“Can’t say that I have,” the farmer murmured, eyes still narrowed with marked skepticism. “But if you’re a quartet, then where are the others?”
“We were separated,” Winn said in a rush.
“Murdered by highwaymen,” Asher said at the same time.
Damn, he’d done it again. In trying to recover from a poorly executed fib, he only made matters worse. Though it would help if she would stop being so soft and warm and distracting.
To keep from being impaled for his error, however, he reached down to strip the dried blade from her fingers.
“What my husband means,” she began with a laugh, tightening her grip on the straw, “is that we were separated when we were all accosted by the, presumably, murdering sort of highwaymen.”
The farmer kept his gaze leveled on them and his hand gripping the hayfork. “And just what sort of instruments do you play . . . the ones that were stolen by these supposed highwaymen?”
Surreptitiously, she yanked one end of their prize toward her. “I sing and I’m also a flutist. My husband plays . . .”
Her words trailed off as their tug-of-war drew his hand beneath the folds of the blanket. Inadvertently, the knuckle of his thumb dragged lightly along the underside of her corset’s gusseted cups, the space warm and supple and inviting. His better intentions were being tested to their limits.
“Have you forgotten, Mrs. Strewsbury?” the farmer asked with an edge to his tone, seemingly one lie away from having them put in stocks and irons for trespassing.
Asher slid his finger over hers as he released his hold on the straw and withdrew. “It’s just that she becomes shy every time she thinks of how nimble her husband’s fingers are . . . on the lute strings.”
It was ideal that Winn’s cheeks reddened before she tucked her face behind his back. Then she pinched him, for good measure.
“Haven’t been married long, I see,” the farmer said with amusement in his tone. The small grin that creased his countenance suggested that he believed their story. “My own wife blushed for the whole first year. Ah, but those were the best of days. Hold on to them while you can.”
She lifted her head, avoiding Asher’s gaze to look at the farmer. “And where is your wife, sir?”
“Visiting her sister, a couple of hamlets north of here. I’ll be surprising her with a visit today. You see, I just bought that young stallion down there for her. Claims that I never buy her anything.”
“He’s a fine horse,” Asher said and Winn murmured her agreement, though with a trace of regret that only he would understand. “Your wife is quite fortunate, Mister . . .”
“Champion.” The farmer grinned proudly, rocking back on the heels of his muddy boots. “Been married seven years now and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t turn inside out for my Gwyneth. And, I imagine, that horse there will pull a smart little gig as well as a cart and a plow.”
“You’re traveling north?” she asked, a hopeful glimmer in her gaze. “It just so happens that we are, as well.”
“Seems to me that London is where you’d make your fortune.”
“And we would, surely, but there are so many of us in town already.”
Mr. Champion’s narrow-eyed skepticism returned and he grunted. “I suppose I could lend a hand to a pair of down-on-your-luck troubadours. That is . . . if you help me by mucking out the stalls and milking the cow.”
“Cow?” Winn asked uncertainly. “I didn’t see a cow yesterday.”
“The neighbor and I share old Betsy between us. I brought her back this morning. Then caught you lot in the loft, and an empty pail of carrots.”
“I would absolutely love to milk your cow,” she said with a nervous smile. “It will bring back all the days of my childhood . . . on my parents’ tenant farm.”
The farmer’s mouth remained stern. “And what about you, lad?”
Asher didn’t miss the ultimatum. “I can muck a stall better than it’s been mucked before, sir.”
With that, the fate of their next few hours was sealed. And would, he trusted, hold temptation at bay for a while longer.
* * *
Winnifred felt the glare of a pair of big brown eyes on her.
If the puffed grunt and flare of her nostrils was any indication, Betsy was getting irritated. And what, precisely, would a large milk cow do when being squeezed for minutes on end by a person who obviously knew nothing about milking? Would she retaliate by squashing said person?
“Nice Betsy,” Winn said with another skittish clasp. “Lovely Betsy. I imagine with your buttery brown coat and not a single freckle, you’ve turned quite a few heads from the gentlemen cows—or bulls, rather.”
Betsy turned her attention back to the bundle of hay in front of her and Winn felt as if she’d been given a stay of execution.
She’d already wasted too much time in her futile efforts. When Asher had asked her earlier if she even knew how to milk a cow, she’d confidently—and perhaps stubbornly—told him that she did.
After all, he’d been wearing a disbelieving smirk at the time. And, in her own defense, she wanted to milk the cow. Part of her—and she couldn’t quite put her finger on the reason—needed to prove to Asher that she was more than an heiress. More than a person whose daily existence was recorded in her father’s accounting ledger.
Unfortunately, she and Betsy were getting nowhere. And Winn knew that she needed to hurry along or they wouldn’t be able to arrive at her aunt’s in time, and Asher would miss his grand opportunity.
Swallowing her pride, she strolled over to the stall where Asher was working. The instant she saw him, however, she forgot what she was going to ask him.
He was shirtless still. And even more glorious than before—if such a thing were possible. His bare back glistened with sweat, muscles bunching and flexing sinuously as he plied the hayfork, in and over. In and over.
Her greedy gaze descended to where his breeches rode low on his narrow hips. Beneath the superbly snug buckskin, she spied the clearly discernable outline of his taut, sculpted buttocks. His tailor and valet should be shot for covering this sublime perfection with clothes. And to think, this man—whom she was now ogling with near eye-socket-spraining intensity—had lain next to her all night long. Her! Undesirable Winnifred Humphries.
Breathless and weak from watching his exertion, she sighed and leaned against the stall door.
Until it shifted . . .
Without warning, the door swung wide on a groan. And with her usual, terrible luck, Asher turned around in time to see her at her most awkward, shuffling and stumbling sideways in a pantomime of poorly executed dance steps.
Then her shoulder connected smartly with the heavy wood. She winced. All over again, she felt enormous and ungainly.
What business did someone like her have thinking about being in the arms of a man like Asher Holt?
“Here,” he said in a low voice, coming to her. Cupping her shoulder, he proceeded to rub her tender wound in soothing circles with the heat of his hand. Other than his mouth hitching up at one corner, he didn’t mention her clumsiness. “How are you faring with Betsy?”
Winn couldn’t bear to look into his eyes to see laughter. So she kept her focus directly ahead, to the dark whiskers on his jaw and the corded muscles of his throat. This, of course, opened a pathway for her eyes to wander over the broad expanse of his shoulders and the damp springy curls—glossy with perspiration—on his chest.
Instead of the sight repelling her, she wanted to reach out and touch him like she had this morning before she was fully awake enough to appreciate it. Or perhaps to lean in and dry him off with her own body . . .
She drew in a steadying breath, ripe with the odors of the barn. But underneath, she caught his scent. The raw, salty essence of his sweat combined with his own appealingly earthy fragrance. His was the aroma of supple saddle leather and sweet rain. Of untethered twilight rides and fresh dew on the meadow grass. Of warm straw beds and strong arms.
She wanted to lick him.
Shocked by her own thoughts, she cleared her throat and pointed toward the cow’s stall. “Betsy is refusing to cooperate. Though, admittedly, when I said that I knew how to milk a cow, I might have been exaggerating a bit. I don’t suppose . . .”
“That among my innumerable rakish talents, I also possess the ability to coax milk from a cow?” he asked with the flash of a disarming grin.
Her mind was still considering his innumerable rakish talents and she failed to respond. Oh, what a chapter that would make!
“Let’s see, shall we?” He took her hand and, reflexively, her fingers twined with his as he led her back to Betsy’s stall. Then before he released her, he gave her pinky a playful tug.
The gesture seemed unconscious and familiar, as if they were two people who’d known each other all their lives instead of being practically strangers. Then again, they had spent a night in the straw together.
Winnifred smiled to herself, still feeling his touch tingling on her skin. But when he motioned for her to resume her place on the miniature three-legged stool, she tilted her head in confusion. “I thought you were going to show me.”
“I am. Just trust me.”
Skeptical of his method, she gradually lowered down onto the stool, keeping her legs together and angled to the side like before.
He chuckled. “You’re going to have to spread your knees, Winn.”
“You make everything sound so wicked.”
“Just another of my talents,” he whispered in her ear, his hot breath sliding wantonly into the whorls and spiraling deep into her middle.
Then he reached around her, skimming his hands down her thighs to the inside of her knees, nudging them apart. Obediently, she opened for him and was surely blushing to the soles of her feet.
“Yes, like that,” he rasped, seeming to exert more effort now than when plying the hayfork. “Move the pail between them, and tuck your skirts out of the way.”
She did, and glimpsed the lace of her drawers peeking out from beneath her hem, just above her stockings and silver garter ribbons. Positively scandalous!
If he noticed, he made no comment. His hands coasted over her arms, the calluses on his fingertips rousing gooseflesh as he encircled her wrists in the best sort of manacle. “Lift your hands to pet her with me. Reassure her in long, slow strokes.”
Winn could hardly breathe, but this time it had nothing to do with her corset. It was all because of him. He made the air in her lungs too hot. Her eyelids too slumberous to hold open. Her head too heavy. So she rested back against the solid support of his shoulder, feeling the silken cow hide beneath her hands and the sure strength of his hands over hers. She was a fool for waiting so long to ask for his assistance.
He nudged closer still, guiding her lower to the warmer, taut flesh of the udder.
“That’s it, Winn. You’re just letting her know it’s time to let down her milk. And now, all you need to do is take hold of her like this”—he paused to situate the inner curve of her thumb and forefinger at the base of the swollen teat—“and squeeze.”
Together they gripped Betsy and a short blast of milk came forth, startling Winn so much she sat forward and nearly kicked over the pail.
She gasped. “We did it!”
“Not quite, but we’re getting there,” he said, a smile curling his voice. “Now, take hold of another and create a rhythm.”
She did as instructed and was rewarded by another spurt. Then the next time, more milk erupted until she was pulling warm silken liquid in long streams that hissed into the pail. She was so focused on her task that she didn’t even realize she was doing it all on her own.
Asher stood off to the side, observing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him use his forearm to wipe sweat from his brow.
“Where did you learn to milk cows?” she asked.
He was out of breath when he answered. “Consider it one of the many mysteries in my arsenal.”
“Oh, don’t be shy about it. You can tell me.”
“Very well, if you must know,” he said warily, as if he knew something she didn’t. Then he cleared his throat. “I was nearing my fifteenth year when I met this dairy maid in the village. She was young and pretty and eager to show me all of her—”
“Never mind,” Winnifred said in a rush, suddenly hating every dairy maid in England. “I believe I can imagine the rest.”
His laugh was positively hedonistic as he strolled back to finish mucking out the stalls.
* * *
Later that morning, Asher scraped the last of the whiskers and shaving soap from underneath his chin. He took a hard look in the oval washstand mirror in Mr. Champion’s chamber.
“You have to keep your hands to yourself from this point forward,” he said to his reflection.
This was a business arrangement, nothing more. He always kept money matters separate from life’s pleasures. And until now, he’d never been so tempted to merge the two.
Then again, it wasn’t as if he could keep his distance, not with henchmen chasing them out of London, or his driver abandoning them on the side of the road, or nearly losing her at the Spotted Hen. It was clear he’d had no other choice but to keep Winn at his side.
At least . . . that’s what he told himself.
So why had he claimed that sleeping beside her was essential to their survival? There’d been plenty of straw and a blanket, after all. Though, in his own defense, he had tried to construct a barrier between them. Could he take the blame if his unconscious mind ordered his body to pull her flush against him?
Mulling it over, he picked up his black cravat from the back of a spindle chair and found his answer. He had to resist her at all cost. His father’s compulsions and her father’s money made that fact patently clear. The two combined were flint and steel, ready to send Asher’s plans for a life free of his father’s schemes up in flames.
He couldn’t risk it, no matter how much he was drawn to Winn.
Keeping that thought in mind, he finished donning his wrinkled clothes and went in search of his host.
Mr. Champion was so appreciative of their work that he invited Asher and Winn to break their fasts with him. They sat in the kitchen for a meal of porridge and strong black tea, simple but satisfying. Afterward, the farmer hooked up a short, two-wheeled hay cart to the horse and sat up in the narrow perch, a driver’s whip in hand. He cast a nod over his shoulder and offered them a place on the back.
Winn, who’d been mulish with Asher ever since he’d told her about the milkmaid, still didn’t speak to him. Not even to ask for his help. Instead, she struggled to climb up on her own. And there was an imprudent part of Asher that was glad she made little progress, because that gave him the excuse to come to her assistance.
He strode over and settled his hands on her waist. Turning her to face him, he caught the scent of soap from her morning ablutions, her cheeks scrubbed pink. She refused to meet his gaze. She didn’t speak a word either, but kept her lips pursed. Even so, she rested her hands on the sleeves of his coat, offering a nod of acquiescence.
Was that all she was going to give him?
It wasn’t enough. He wanted to see the fire in those hazel eyes. So he lifted her, holding her aloft until they were nose-to-nose. Those eyes flashed, widening in surprised outrage.
“Whot are you doing?”
A smug grin tugged at his mouth. “Waiting for you to look at me.”
“Well, your foolish ploy worked. Now put me down before you hurt yourself.”
“Do you know what I’ve just realized?” he asked, in no hurry to release her, even as her feet skated in the air, seeking purchase. “Your freckles grow darker when you’re jealous, too.”
“I’m not the least bit—”
Suddenly, the farmer snapped the reins and their two-wheeled conveyance started to trot away. Asher was forced to cut off her scathing speech by tossing her onto the small bed of the straw-flecked farm cart.
Laughing, he leapt up beside her, their legs dangling over the edge, the box seat close at their backs. Winn gripped one of the supporting wooden dowels nearest her and pressed the other on the bed between them as the cart rumbled down the lane. Stubborn in her ire, she kept her face averted.
“The pair of you squabble like it’s been six years instead of six months,” Mr. Champion called over his shoulder with a wry chuckle. “Did you know each other a good spell before you married?”
“Feels like little more than a day,” Asher said with a nudge of his shoulder against hers and a wink when Winn finally glanced his way. “And the instant I saw her, I just knew she’d bring pandemonium to my life.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to studying the scenery.
“Aye,” the farmer said. “The best ones always do, lad. That’s the way it was with my Gwyneth when we met not seven years past. She was so young and bright, had a bonnet full of suitors, and wanted the world in the palm of her hand. Ah, but old as I am, I only wanted her.”
“That’s lovely,” Winn said with a sigh. “Mrs. Champion is fortunate to have such a devoted husband.”
Asher recalled Winn saying that she wanted to marry for love or not at all. So it must have crushed her spirit to have been betrothed to a man who was having a well-known and longstanding love affair with another woman. But devotion was a rare commodity. Especially for those who married to exchange wealth for a title.
Even so, Asher understood the appeal of the notion. It was what he wanted, too. In fact, if he was given the chance to strip away all the obsession, manipulation, and greed from his life and be left with only loyalty and devotion . . . Well, he couldn’t imagine anything better.
“A’ course the years haven’t been all that grand,” the farmer continued. “Mine’s just a small farm, after all. Last summer’s heat made for poor crops, and this spring’s rain hasn’t made it any better. But I’ve done what I could to make her happy, saved what little I had to keep her in fancy hats and dresses, never make a fuss when she wants to take the mail coach to her sister’s”—he cleared his throat and tossed a pointed glance in Asher’s direction—“and I don’t ever try to make her jealous or fill her head with any doubts.”
Asher responded obligingly with a contrite, “Yes, sir.”
This time, it was Winn’s turn to smile smugly at him, her brows arching. Reaching into the scant space between them, he gave her little finger a tug in retaliation. Then he settled his hand close beside hers on the edge of the cart bed, almost like two pieces of a puzzle waiting to be fit together.
Asher abruptly shook his head to clear away that thought. It only reminded him of how well they’d fit together in the loft this morning. Best to keep such memories at arm’s length.
“Being set upon by murderous highwaymen was unfortunate, indeed,” Champion said with a timely interruption. Yet, as he continued, marked suspicion edged his tone, setting off the din of a warning bell in the back of Asher’s skull. “I know that if such a terrible thing had occurred to my wife, she wouldn’t be nearly as quiet about it as Mrs. Strewsbury seems to be. No.” He clucked his tongue. “My Gwyneth would be in an uproar, telling every living soul about her ordeal for weeks to come.”
A weighted pause followed. Asher and Winn exchanged a glance.
It was clear that the shrewd Mr. Champion had only pretended to believe their story earlier in order to garner help with the morning chores. The retribution was fair under the circumstances. Yet it was also apparent that they were about to be kicked to the side of the road unless they figured out how to earn their passage. And while walking wouldn’t be the worst thing for him to endure, he knew that Winn’s shoe was broken, which had to pain her whenever she stepped on a stone or stray stick.
A man has to pay for everything in this life, one way or the other. You may as well learn this when you’re young, Asher’s father had often said to him. A lesson he would never forget.
“My wife is saving her voice,” Asher explained, assuming that singing and playing the flute were also lies she’d fabricated on the spur of the moment, much like his fatal highwaymen outburst. “After all, without any instruments in our possession, she’ll have to sing for our supper.”
Winn nodded to him in approval, then angled toward the farmer and affected a laugh. “Otherwise, you would hear me speak of our misfortune so much that you would wish to stuff straw in your ears.”
“Well, as traveling musicians, perhaps you might sing me a tale of woe. T’would help to pass the time. After all, you passed away many an hour in my loft. Eating my carrots.”
Why, the crafty old codger. Ladling on guilt after everything they’d done.
Then again, they had been planning to steal his horse, so Asher couldn’t be mad at him. He shrugged to Winn, ready to take her hand and hop off the edge to save them the humiliation of being booted out for their deception.
But in the next instant, he realized that Winn wasn’t finished surprising him.
She cleared her throat, took in a deep breath and started to sing.
He’d heard the ballad “Peaceful Slumb’ring on the Ocean” a number of times in music rooms and parlors after dinner parties. Hell, he’d even flirted while turning the pages for debutantes as they delighted an audience. But never before had he been transported by it, taken to balmy seas where ships swayed gently over moonlight-rippled waters. He’d never heard a voice so clear, so open that he felt the warmth seep into his soul with every word.
When the final note drifted off on the breeze, the only sound he was left with was the sure, steady thumping of his own heart.
“Winn, that was . . .” Asher trailed off when he realized there were no words to describe the way the music was still lingering inside his head and rushing through his veins. The way his pulse quickened just now as her eyes met his. Or the way the surface of his skin tingled as if he were newly formed from clay and the breath that brought him to life was somewhere in her song.
But he couldn’t say any of those things. They would all seem like purple prose and purely fabricated.
So he kept it simple instead.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her.