Upon A Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(14)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

And then strong male arms came around her, pulling her frantic body into a large muscular frame. "Maybe you should have accepted my help, hmm, princess?"

She couldn’t very well jerk away from him unless she favored a bruised bum on her birthday. Tensing underneath his brace, she waited for him to release her. But he did nothing of the sort. Instead he continued to hold her against him as he guided her towards the safety of the plush snow.

"There," he said, releasing her.

"The orangery is j-just around the corner," she stuttered. And she somehow managed to walk in the correct direction and waited for him to fall in behind.

Stefan grinned as the girl marched through the snow as if nothing had happened. But she felt it, he knew, because he had felt it as well. The way her body felt against his was sinful and exhilarating. Like fire and ice. He obliged her and that insipid temper of hers, and felt the welcoming heat from the orangery as she let them both in.

The flowers were beautiful, all exotic in their colors and sorts. He found himself more entranced than he originally expected. But considering his only thoughts had been of Rosalind’s proximity, it wasn’t altogether shocking. Several lemon-colored flowers and small orange trees were lined against the furthest wall. Walking in the only direction that the rock path would take him, he furthered his investigation of Rosalind’s favorite spot.

The heady smell of flowers and fruit penetrated his senses. The alluring scent failed to alleviate the nerves he felt at the task at hand. How in tarnation was he to woo a woman who seemed to jerk every blasted time he touched her?

A brilliant plan began to form in his mind, and he plucked a flower, hoping he wouldn’t be scolded, and then went in search of Rosalind, for she had suddenly disappeared ahead of him.

At the east end of the wall, Rosalind was leaning over a small plant. He stood behind her and slowly lifted the red flower and put it in her hair. She froze. He sent up a prayer that she was still breathing as his fingers fastened the flower behind her ear.

Her breathing turned ragged as his fingers brushed across her cheek. And then, he stepped back.

"Perfect," Stefan said, assessing his handiwork.

"Yes, well…" Rosalind touched the flower.

"Less than one minute, I believe." Stefan murmured.

Rosalind narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

He reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "It seems you were wrong, Rose. It took me less than a minute to locate the perfect flower to enhance your beauty. Shall we see how many minutes it takes me to compose a sonnet?"

"No, truly, that’s fine. I—"

"The red of the rose is a lover’s hue, yet my eyes are besotted when I look at you. With skin so tender—" he reached out and cupped her chin "—and lips red as your namesake." His thumb traced her bottom lip. "I only ask that when you have it, my heart you will not break. Eyes of green, a tongue tipped with honey. Oh fair, fair maiden, in your arms I would stay, if only to gaze upon your face for a day."

Stefan’s chest was heaving as he pulled her into his arms, laying claim to her lips. His need was great, but his desire to prove to her that he was more than a brute or savage was greater. Reluctantly, he pulled back and looked into her clear green eyes. "I believe I broke the time record on that one as well."

"Amazing," she said, quirking her brow.

"It was a good sonnet."

"Not the sonnet." She pushed past him. "Your ability to bring everything back to yourself. Mayhap the next time you write something so beautiful, it should be to a mirror that you recite it rather than a woman?"

With that she marched out of the orangery, leaving him again confused. Why the devil was she so angry?

Just as he was ready to swear aloud, she re-entered with a smile on her face. "And, Stefan?"

"Yes?" He would be lying if he said his heart didn’t jump in his chest at the look on her face.

"That, was not a sonnet."

Biting back a string of expletives, his mouth dropped open as he watched her again leave him alone to his devices. Why the devil couldn’t the girl be least bit encouraging?

Stefan trounced out of the orangery after her, purposefully making his steps loud and angry, quite like a young child who had just been scolded, but she had disappeared. He grumbled on his way to the stables to see how Samson was faring, slaying Rose the entire way.

At the stables, Samson was enjoying a handful of oats when Stefan strolled in. It was beyond Stefan how his horse managed to woo everyone within his vicinity. One time a patron of a store gave him apples merely because he thought the horse smiled at him.

Of all the ridiculous notions. Samson neighed and kicked his hooves.

"Alright, old boy, alright." Stefan laid his hands on either side of Samson’s face and looked him in the eye. It was peculiar how well the horse seemed to read others.

"Blast, I’m going crazy!" Stefan muttered to himself as he grabbed another handful of oats and held them out to the horse who had become more of a friend than a mere pet.

"She hates me, Samson! Everything about me! I wrote a blasted sonnet, and she walked away! I guess maybe it could be that I keep kissing her…" Stefan began pacing in front of the horse’s stall. "And maybe if I wasn’t so pushy, she might actually wish to talk to me. But I can’t help that every time I look at her I can think of nothing else except kissing her."

A branch cracked in the distance, putting an abrupt end to his blubbering idiocy. Frozen in place, he looked slightly from right to left before exhaling in relief.

The trouble with saying things out loud was someone might hear him. He glanced around the empty stable, then stepped back towards Samson and whispered, "And it’s not that she hates it, Samson. Quite the opposite, in fact, if you get my meaning."

Samson looked at him without blinking as if to say, "You do know that I’m a horse?"

And then a thought occurred. It was an unfortunate truth, but a truth, nonetheless. The horse, it seemed, was better at courting than the master. How often had he been approached in Hyde Park? How often had women complimented his horseflesh? Women, who in his mind, wouldn’t know how to purchase a good horse any more than they knew how to purchase Hessians.

"How do you do it, old boy?" Stefan ran his hand along the horse’s glistening fur. "What are your secrets, hmm? A little neigh in the right direction and the ladies flock, isn’t that right?" Stefan elbowed him, and let out a teasing laugh.

"Well, I must say this is another first, Stefan. Asking for seduction tips from your horse now are you? My, my, how the mighty have fallen." Rosalind quirked a smile as she approached Samson and nuzzled his neck. "At least you sought out a wise teacher. I’m sure he could teach you a few things, couldn’t you, boy?"