And when he squeezed into the crevice where she rested, and she must scoot sideways to allow him room, so small was the space she had chosen, his hip settled dangerously next to hers, and their shoulders bumped provocatively. The muscle of his thigh flexed, and she felt it--Lord help her! how she felt it--from hip to toes.Heat bloomed in her chest, rising to her cheeks, sinking to the apex of her nether regions. She longed for the flexing of his muscles again. Lady Anne, Lady Anne, what do I do now?“A Dufton cobbler, name of Nichol . . .” She addressed her lap, afraid of the look in his eyes, afraid of his closeness, most afraid of her own sense of longing, “climbed up here one day with his bag of tools . . .”She risked a glance. He smiled, as if he read her mind.She faltered. “And a pair of boots he reheeled while he sat enjoying . . . ” He leaned closer, blocking the wind. “The fine scenery?” She nodded, unable to look away once their eyes met, warmer now that he was here, warmer in a way that hummed with anxiety and a very unfamiliar sense of anticipation--of potential.
