With a sickening crash, their kite landed in a patch of shrubbery a short distance ahead of them, most certainly out of sight of the rest of their party. He could not have planned a more satisfactory result.
“Drat and confound it all!” he said, pretending he meant it. “Well, we must try to salvage the wreck.” He turned to her with an apologetic look. “No prize for us.” But he was thinking of winning a different prize, now.
“I suppose you are right,” she said, gamely winding string. She tugged as the string caught on brambles a little in front of them, and he moved ahead to free it.
This side of the hill was wilder, with rocky gullies and thorny gorse amidst smaller patches of grass. He reached in among the briars to free the string and waited for her.
“I do not think we can make our way through this,” he said as she came up. “Mayhap we’ll have to cut the string and begin again on the other side, or go ahead to retrieve the remains of our poor missile and work our way back.”
He took the spinner from her fingers and, placing it on the ground, claimed her hand. “The going is much rougher here—allow me to assist you.”
He suspected that she could manage perfectly well—she who had climbed a wall, a tree, and a roof to gain access to his house. But she did not protest. Moreover, she did not pull her hand away. He took that as an encouraging sign.
They made their way around the first patch of briars, heading for the taller shrubs that had claimed their kite. At the edge of a rocky gully she hesitated, obviously studying the rocks to choose her footing. “There’s a better way to do this,” he said, and without so much as asking permission he slipped his arms under hers and swung her neatly across.
“Oh!” She looked startled, but not alarmed.
He crossed in barely two strides of his own long legs and landed himself so close to her he could hear her quick intake of breath as she took a step back. Not yet, he told himself, and settled for a long, intent look into her eyes. He would have liked to nuzzle behind her ear, seeking the source of that sweet scent of jasmine she wore. Bonnets were the devil’s invention, he was quite certain. At least hers was loosened and slightly askew from running.
He said nothing, only took her hand again and made for the shrubbery that had captured their kite. The offender was in plain sight, caught between some high branches with its long tail dangling.
“How will we ever reach it?” she asked.
“You’ve had some recent experience climbing in trees,” he replied, perfectly straight-faced.
“Not in these clothes!” She was aghast until she realized he was teasing her.
“You could stand on my shoulders like an acrobat at Astley’s?”
“No!”
“All right, I’m thinking.” And he was, just not about retrieving kites. He moved closer, leaving a scant and highly improper few inches between them. Now? Yes. No one had followed them, no one could see them. “I’m thinking I should help you with your bonnet.”
Instinctively, she reached one hand up to feel it. He caught the hand and kissed it. Surely she must know what was coming.
“Here,” he said, untying the ribbons. “We must start over.” With relish he removed the offending bonnet, but he could not keep his hand from the soft cloud of hair he found beneath. Somehow, from her hair his hand found its way to her cheek, and from that gentle caress slid down to cup her jaw.
She looked at him with huge eyes, but not a murmur of protest. Emboldened, he angled his head and then—brushed the lightest butterfly of a kiss across her lips.