Minx

"Henry," he said in a low but commanding voice. "Come back here this instant."

She used her free hand to wave him away. "I've done it before."

"Henry," he repeated. He could feel a thin veil of sweat breaking out upon his brow. Any minute now the bees were going to realize their hive had been invaded. They were going to sting—and sting and sting. He could try to pull her back, but what if she jostled the hive? His face paled. "Henry!"

She slowly withdrew her arm, a large chunk of honeycomb in her hand. "I'm coming, I'm coming." She ambled back toward him, smiling as she skipped along the length of the wall.

Dunford's paralyzing fear drained away once he saw she was safely away from the hive, but it was quickly replaced by pure primitive rage. Rage that she had dared to take such stupid, useless risks, rage that she had done it in front of him. He leaped off the wall, pulling her down with him. The sticky piece of honeycomb fell to the ground.

"Don't you ever, ever do that again! Do you hear me?" He shook her violently, his fingers pressing cruelly into her skin.

"I told you—I've done that before. I was never in any danger—"

"Henry, I have seen grown men die from a bee sting." His voice caught on the words.

She swallowed. "I have heard of that. I think only a very few people react to stings that way, and certainly not I. I—"

"Tell me you won't do it again." He shook her harder. "Give me your vow."

"Ow! Dunford, please," she pleaded. "You're hurting me."

He relaxed his grip slightly but the urgency never left his voice. "Your vow."

Her eyes searched his face, trying to make sense of this. A muscle was twitching spasmodically along the side of his throat. He was furious, far beyond what she'd seen when they'd had that argument about the pigpen. And even more foreboding, she sensed he was fighting to contain an even greater rage. She tried to speak, but her words came out in a whisper. "You once told me that when you were really angry, I'd know."

"Your vow."

"You're angry now."

"Your vow, Henry."

"If it means that much to you..."

"Your vow."

"I-I swear," she said, her gray eyes wide with confusion. "I swear I won't go into the beehive again."

It took a few moments, but eventually his breathing returned to normal, and he felt able to loosen his grip on her shoulders.

"Dunford?"

He didn't know why he did it. Lord knows he hadn't intended to do it, hadn't even thought he'd wanted to do it until she said his name in that soft quavering voice, and something inside of him snapped. He crushed her to him, murmuring her name over and over into her hair. "Oh, God, Henry," he said hoarsely. "Don't ever frighten me like that again, do you understand?"

She didn't understand anything except that he was holding her so very close. It was something she hadn't even dared to dream about. She nodded against his chest—anything to keep him holding her like this. The strength of his arms was stunning, the smell of him intoxicating, and the simple feeling that for this brief moment she might possibly be loved was enough to carry her through the rest of her days.

Dunford fought to understand why he had reacted so violently. His brain tried to argue that she had never been in any real danger, that she had obviously known what she was doing. But the rest of him—his heart, his soul, his body—screamed otherwise. He had been gripped by a shattering fear, far worse than anything he had ever felt on the battlefields of the peninsula. Then he suddenly realized he was holding her—holding her far closer than was proper. And the damning thing about it was that he didn't want to let go.

He wanted her.

That was a chilling enough thought to make him suddenly release her. Henry deserved better than a dalliance, and he hoped he was man enough to keep his desires under control. It wasn't the first time he had wanted a proper young lady, and it probably wouldn't be the last. The difference between him and the blackguards of society, however, was that he did not see young virgins as sport. He wasn't going to start with Henry. "Don't do that again," he said abruptly, not knowing whether the gruffness in his voice was directed at himself or her.

"I-I won't. I gave you my promise."

He nodded curtly. "Let's be on our way."

Henry looked down at the forgotten honeycomb. "Do you...Never mind." She doubted he'd want a taste of it now. She looked at her fingers, still sticky. There was nothing to do but lick them clean, she supposed.

The silence was overwhelming as they traveled the length of Stannage Park's eastern border. Henry thought of a thousand things to say, saw a thousand things she wanted to point out to him, but in the end lacked the courage to open her mouth. She didn't like this new tenseness. For the past few days she had felt so utterly comfortable with him. She could say anything, and he wouldn't laugh, unless of course she'd meant him to. She could be herself.

She could be herself, and he would still like her.

But now he seemed a stranger, dark and forbidding, and she felt as awkward and tongue-tied as she had all those times she had had to go into Truro—except for that last time, when he'd bought her the yellow dress.

She stole a look at him. He was so kind. He must care for her a bit. He wouldn't have gotten so upset about the beehive if he didn't.

They reached the north end of the eastern border, and Henry finally broke the silence. "We turn west here," she said, motioning to a large oak tree.

"I suppose there is a hive in that one, too," he said, hoping he'd managed to inject a sufficient note of teasing into his voice. He turned around. Henry was licking her fingers. Desire uncurled in his chest, quickly spreading to the rest of his body.