Invitation To A Cornish Christmas. Marguerite Kaye

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      ‘Thank you,’ she said, clutching gratefully at him. He put his other arm around her, putting himself between her and the cliff edge. The wind suddenly dropped and the sun came out from behind a cloud, and Emily smiled up at him. His eyes were made golden by the sunlight, his close-cut beard coal-black. His bottom lip was full, his answering smile reflecting not only her own delight in the wild coastal scenery and the glorious freshness of the day, but the latent desire which had quivered between them earlier.

      Treeve brushed her hair back from her face, his fingers warm on her cheek, on her neck as he tucked the long tress behind her ear. Her heart began to race. She took a step closer, and he slipped his other arm under her cloak, around her waist. She reached up to touch his hair and felt him exhale sharply as her fingers smoothed the silky soft damp curls away from his forehead. And then the sun was blotted out and the earth seemed to tilt on its axis as he lowered his head and their lips met.

      He tasted of salt. His lips were gentle, his beard soft yet prickly, rasping just enough on her skin to delight rather than grate. She sighed, opening her mouth to his kiss, nestling closer into his reassuringly solid bulk, and he brushed his tongue along her bottom lip, making her quiver, her quiver made him sigh, his mouth covering hers, deepening the kiss, until another gust of wind made them stagger backwards.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      ‘Luckily the wind blew us away from the cliff.’

      ‘You know that’s not what I meant, Emily.’ His eyes were lambent, heavy-lidded. It touched her that he needed reassurance. That he took nothing for granted.

      ‘I’m fine.’ Her words, so trite and so completely inadequate, made her shake her head at her own banality. ‘I’m perfectly fine.’ And free, she added silently to herself. Not that she’d tell Treeve, ever, but his kiss had freed her. ‘Truly,’ she said instead.