Snowbound Wedding Wishes. Louise Allen

      ‘How interesting. I just hope you aren’t both going to rush off to the next recruiting sergeant who comes around.’ They grinned back at her, knowing teasing when they heard it. Her feet were freezing now she was out of the slightly warm mash. Emilia slid her feet into her wooden pattens and tried to ignore Hugo, who shot her an unreadable glance, although whether it signified remorse at having embraced her or the strains of teaching small boys their Latin, she could not tell.

      Hugo sat beside her on the edge of the tun and heeled off his shoes. ‘Where does this used mash go?’ He rolled off his stockings. Emilia averted her eyes from well-muscled, hairy calves.

      ‘We’ll show you.’ Nathan seized one of the filled buckets. ‘It all gets dumped over here and then when it is dried we use it for the animals.’

      Hugo shed coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. Emilia kicked off the pattens and swung her legs over to get back into the tun.

      ‘No. I’ll finish here.’ He put one hand on her arm.

      She still could not look at him, or think of anything to say with the boys so close. She was acutely aware of her wet skirts and bare calves, of the blood pounding around her veins, of the closeness of him and the warm weight of his hand against the skin of her forearm. From somewhere Emilia found her voice and something coherent to say. ‘Of course. I must get some food together. You will all be starving.’

      She scrambled back out, jammed her feet into the pattens, let down her skirts and hurried upstairs without stopping to look back at Hugo or brush off the grains that clung to her legs. She heard the scrape of the wooden shovel on the stone base of the tun, the laughter of the boys as they fought over who was carrying the next bucket, then she was in the kitchen with the door safely closed behind her.

      This was a disaster. What had she done? What had she risked, simply because of the aching need for strong arms around her, for the respite from being continuously in charge? And, yes, she thought, if she was going to be honest, she had wanted that fire in the blood, that sensual tingle between a man and a woman.

      Emilia pulled onions and carrots out of their sacks and began scrubbing them to add to the soup that simmered on the hob. She worked as though she could rub away the feel of Hugo’s arms around her, the scent of him. She had made her decision when she had slipped away from that ball and fallen, laughing, into Giles’s arms. She had chosen love and laughter and joy for however long it lasted. And she had been blessed with four years of happiness and two wonderful sons.

      But you paid the price of whatever your choices brought you. The boys had her total love and every moment she could devote to them, to building their futures. And the price for that was hard work and maintaining her reputation, not dallying with big strong soldiers. They were such good boys, so bright, so loving. She chopped the roots with savage swipes of the knife. They deserved the lives of opportunity their grandparents could give them.

      But that was part of the price, too. And she had written three times and been rejected. So, no more false hope. One large tear plopped into the stock. ‘Stop it,’ Emilia said out loud.

      ‘Stop what?’ asked Hugo’s deep, concerned voice.

      ‘Stop being foolish,’ she snapped back as she peered into the jar of peppercorns and estimated how many she could afford to grind up for the soup. It kept her face turned from him, too. ‘Where are Joseph and Nathan?’

      ‘Checking on the animals and taking Ajax a bucket of mash. They offered,’ he added, coming fully into the room and leaning his broad shoulders back against the door. ‘I was not trying to get them out of the way, although it is convenient, I have to admit, for we need to talk. I should not have touched you. I do not know what came over me, which is hardly original or convincing, or even an excuse.’

      ‘I am not a loose woman,’ Emilia said with painful clarity, her eyes focused on a jar of pickled mushrooms. ‘I have only ever slept with my husband. I wanted to be held and I suppose you could tell that. I apologise for not making it clear that no such thing must happen.’

      ‘Damn it.’ Hugo was at her side in two long strides. He took the jar from her hands and banged it down on the table. ‘I do not need telling that you are virtuous. Nor do I need telling that your reputation in this hamlet is precious. I am on my way home, intending to seek and woo a wife.’

      There was only the corner of the table and a large jar of pickles between them. Somehow she had to fight. ‘It seems to be something other than your good intentions in control,’ she said drily.

      He gave a painful snort of laughter and pulled her round the table, setting the pickle jar rocking, and held her tight against him. ‘You think that desire drives me? You are an attractive woman, you feel good in my arms and my body sends me messages about more than holding you. I can ignore that. What I find it hard to ignore is the ache in my chest and the need for my arms to be around you.’

      His cheek was pressed against her hair again. They were just the right height for that, Emilia thought hazily as she hung on to as much solid man as she could get her arms around. ‘You are sorry for me, that’s all,’ she muttered into the rough homespun shirt that smelled of her soap and his skin.

      ‘I am sorry for a lot of people, from the Prime Minister to beggars in the gutter,’ Hugo growled. ‘I do not have the urge to cuddle any of them.’

      For a second, a blissful second, she relaxed against him, her soft curves fitting with erotic rightness against his hard angles. Then she felt his body harden into arousal, unmistakable against her stomach, and she pushed him, hard in the centre of his chest. For a second she thought he would not release her, she could almost feel decency and desire warring in him, and then he opened his arms and stepped back.

      ‘It seems you cannot control your desires as well as you boast, Major,’ she said, her voice unsteady.

      ‘Emilia…Hell, the boys are coming.’

      ‘You have ears like a cat,’ Emilia said as her sons burst into the kitchen. She pulled the greased paper off the jar of pickled mushrooms and delved in with a spoon to find enough to go in the soup. ‘Quietly, boys. Go and wash and clear your work off the table.’

      It was like being two people. One was the sensible, hard-working mother and alewife who was capable of carrying on calmly despite chance-met travellers, snowdrifts or anything else life threw at her. The other was a yearning, passionate creature who wanted to be loved and held and to share joy and troubles with someone who understood.

      But of course Hugo Travers did not understand. He was a gentleman, someone of sufficient standing to take part in the London Season when he searched for a wife. He was also was gallant and sympathetic and grateful for the shelter. And not averse to embracing a woman, a cold whisper of common sense told her. Perhaps he had hoped to see if she responded by lifting her face to be kissed and then he would not have been so gentlemanly. Or perhaps he needed hugging, too, the trusting part of her countered. It might have begun as a hug, but it almost got out of control.

      Emilia ladled out soup and they sat down. Hugo already knew his way around her kitchen, she could see, for he had found the bread and was cutting it. She had the sense that he was used to moving from billet to billet with the army, settling in and making himself at home wherever he found himself. He was acting as though nothing had happened—she must match his control.

      ‘You’ll have business tonight,’ he said as he passed her a slice. ‘Either the result of a strong thirst from shovelling or a wish to check on the stranger under your roof. Your neighbours are protective.’

      ‘Were they hostile?’ she asked, anxious that he had been insulted.

      ‘No. They were reserved, but they made it quite obvious that they were watching. Your smith in particular wished to make it clear that he will dismantle me with his bare hands if there is anything amiss.’

      ‘I nursed his wife last year when she was sick,’ Emilia explained. ‘Joseph, why are you opening and shutting your mouth like a gudgeon?’

      ‘Why