Charity Begins at Home by Rasley Alicia

Author:Rasley, Alicia [Rasley, Alicia]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Midsummer Books
Published: 2012-02-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

With the highly tuned courtesy essential in a village, the crowd melted away. Barry and Buzzy and Pookie withdrew to a nearby table, still arguing over the scorebook and handing coins back and forth in some obscure banking ritual. Molly Ferris lingered to cast an accusatory look at Charity, but she left, too, when Barry called for her to come share a lemonade with him and Buzzy and Pookie.

So Charity was left alone at the edge of the green, adjusting Tristan's bandage, her gaze focused on the cords the long muscles made in his arm. I should take the entry money to Mrs. Hering, she told herself, feeling the weight of the coins in her pocket against her leg. But she didn't move, except to tie a final knot in the bandage, her fingers brushing against the smooth skin of his wrist.

"Look at me," he commanded, but she only shook her head, staring at the jaunty bow she had tied on his arm. He groaned, then laughed, and with his uninjured arm drew her against him. Against her cheek she felt the rough linen of his shirt, the warmth of his chest, the steady beat of his heart.

"I don't know why your parents named you Charity. You are the least charitable girl I have ever known." His hand tangled in her hair, and she remembered that he still had her ribbon tucked away in his pocket. He whispered, "Will you come with me now, Charity?"

She felt herself on the brink of disaster, and he was urging her over. She wanted to go with him; she wanted to go away from him—she didn't know what she wanted. She felt like Marie Antoinette on the way to the guillotine, except that the executioner was going to ask her if she preferred it quick or slow. This is precisely what you hoped for, she told herself, but she felt an ache in her chest that had more to do with fear than with fulfillment.

It was all too fast, a whirlwind courtship at its whirlingest. For all their crackling conversations, for all their occasional moments of oneness, they had had no courtship. He had never sent her love letters or bunches of flowers; she had never melted into him during an improperly close waltz or felt his kiss even on her hand.

She had no time to prepare for this, to unwrap her heart and examine her feelings one by one. She had never been the sort to make impulsive choices; and yet he expected her to know so soon what was best for her, for him, for them both.

She looked up into his wary dark eyes, saw the shadow of sadness, the glint of laughter, and with the recklessness she had just learned from him, she agreed.

He drew her across the road, down the shady lane toward the bridge that crossed the stream. They were hidden from view here, though she could not forget that the whole village must know where they were and what they were doing.

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