Who Needs Mr Willoughby?. Katie Oliver

outside.” The thought of spending the rest of the afternoon with him was too, too delicious.

      “Go,” Elinor ordered. “I’ll find my own way home.”

      Without further argument, Marianne and Willoughby made their way back downstairs, out of the front door and into the drowsy warmth of the late August afternoon.

Chapter 11

      “I’ve brought you something, Marianne.” Willoughby took her hand and led her behind the cottage and pointed at the tree she’d fallen from on the night of the storm.

      “For me?” She looked at him in surprise. “What?”

      He indicated a coiled length of rope in the grass.

      “What do you think?” he asked as he bent down and held it up, obviously well pleased with himself.

      Marianne stared at it. “Well – it’s…a rope.”

      “Not just a rope,” he corrected her. “It’s a new ladder for your tree house. I’ll take the old one down and install this one before I go. Then you can climb up whenever you like in perfect safety, and I won’t need to worry about you getting hurt.”

      Her eyes widened. “That’s…that’s really nice of you… Not to mention incredibly thoughtful. Thank you.”

      “I don’t want you falling again. I might not be here to rescue you the next time.”

      He turned and made his way up the slope to the base of the gnarled old oak.

      “But…how will you get up there?” Marianne inquired. “That old rope’s not safe, it won’t hold your weight.”

      Willoughby pointed to a ladder lying in the grass nearby. “With that. I noticed it the other day. Should do the trick, I think, and very nicely.”

      He rested the ladder against the trunk. In minutes, it was done – he’d secured the new rope ladder several times around a thick, low branch – and after climbing to the deck of the tree house, he stood and kicked the ladder aside.

      Marianne shaded her eyes. “Are you coming back down, Mr Willoughby? Do you trust your own handiwork enough to put the new ladder to the test?”

      “Completely.” He swung his leg over the edge of the deck and climbed nimbly down the rope ladder. After reaching the ground he turned and gave her a half smile. “There; safe as houses. If it’ll hold my weight, there’s no chance it won’t hold yours.” He held out his hand. “Let’s try it out.”

      She smiled and took his hand. “Why not?”

      Marianne stood there for a moment, with her hand clasped in his, and felt a wash of pure happiness like she’d never known before. His blue eyes met hers, and she thought – for the tiniest, teeniest second – that he might lean in and kiss her.

      But he stepped back and let her hand go. “I believe we’re being watched,” he said to her, his voice low and warm with amusement. “I’d best behave myself.”

      Startled, Marianne followed his gaze up to the second floor of their new house. Sure enough, Elinor stood at her bedroom window looking down at her and Kit Willoughby with undisguised curiosity.

      “Oh, honestly,” Marianne exclaimed, irritated. “I can see I’ll have no privacy now that mum and Elinor are living here at Barton Park.”

      He smiled. “None at all.”

      On impulse, Marianne lifted her gaze to the window and waved at Elinor. With a flush of embarrassment at being caught out, the curtains twitched, and her sister left the window altogether.

      ***

      As Marianne climbed up the rope ladder a few minutes later, she was all too aware of Mr Willoughby just behind her.

      “Almost there,” he called out behind her. “And try not to fall. I don’t want a repeat of the other day.”

      “I won’t fall,” she retorted. “I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place, if that crack of lightning hadn’t scared me half to death.”

      She reached the top and clambered up onto the deck, her breath coming quick after the climb. She bent down and glanced inside the tree house. The room was just large enough for two people, with small windows on three sides and barely space enough to stand up in.

      “I love it,” she called back over her shoulder as she climbed inside and sat down. “It’s perfect.”

      Willoughby’s head and shoulders appeared at the top of the ladder. “I’m glad you approve.” In a moment, he climbed in beside her, smiling and out of breath, and stretched his long, boot-clad legs out before him.

      “Was it yours, this tree house?” she asked, surprised. “You never said.”

      “My uncle built it for me, years ago. I was never so excited as the day he finished it.”

      “I can imagine. I would’ve been over the moon to have a tree house like this tucked up under the leaves,” Marianne said, and drew her knees up to her chest. “I wouldn’t have let anyone in, not even Elinor.”

      Willoughby turned to her, his blue eyes steady on hers. “Not even me?”

      Her heart quickened. “That’s a ridiculous question,” she said lightly, and smiled. “I didn’t know you then. And besides, you were just a boy.”

      “But you know me now. And I’m not a boy any longer.”

      “No, you’re not.” She looked at him, at his face so near to hers, and blushed. “But your question is still irrelevant.”

      He laughed. “Is it? And why is that?”

      “Because…” She stopped. “Because you’re here now.”

      “Yes. And very glad to be, too,” he said. “So I suppose,” he added, his smile softening and all traces of teasing gone, “that answers my question.”

      “Obviously,” she agreed, and made no protest as his hand came out to cup her face and his lips found hers.

      It started out as the briefest of kisses; tentative and gentle, searching and sweet. His lips brushed hers for the merest, most tantalising moment before he drew back.

      “Do you mind if I kiss you, Marianne?” he asked, his brow creased and his forehead warm against hers. “Only say the word if you do, and I’ll stop.”

      In answer, she took his face in her hands and stroked the thick whorl of dark hair back from his forehead. “Please kiss me again, Willoughby,” she breathed. “I think I might die if you don’t.”

      Without another word of conversation between them, he pulled her closer and slanted his mouth once again over hers.

      His kiss was all Marianne had imagined it would be – assured, tentative, gentle and impassioned, all at once. Her thoughts whirled and scattered as he deepened their embrace, and with a sigh, she parted her lips under his.

      Unlike other men she’d kissed (although, admittedly, the number was few), Kit Willoughby’s mouth on hers was neither crude, nor demanding. He asked nothing of her; he did not thrust his tongue rudely down her throat, or let his hands wander where they shouldn’t. All the ardency and tenderness of his affections was contained in his kiss.

      “Marianne,” he said as he dragged his mouth reluctantly from hers a moment later, “I’m sorry. We should stop. It’s no use me wanting what I can’t have, what I have no right to even wish for.”

      “Bollocks,” she murmured, her eyes luminous with desire for him. “Kiss me again. Please.”

      After a moment’s hesitation he complied, and tightened his arms around her as he pressed her hard against him and covered her mouth with his.