Teaser Tuesday
Today I'm sharing an excerpt from my novel A Woman so Bold, recently released by Soul Mate Publishing. In this scene, my heroine Landra and her sister Lily visit the hero at his estate for the first time. I love this scene because it's one of the early scenes where Will and Landra connect on both an emotional and physical level. It's sweet, a bit sensual, and it drops a hint at the secret that will create conflict for my heroine later on:
We found William working in a vegetable garden next to one of the fallen down outbuildings, hoeing with his shirt off. He wore a pair of brown, patched britches, and his suspenders were off his shoulders, hanging down around his thighs. He was sweating, and the sun gleamed on his bare chest and broad back. The muscles in his arms and shoulders stood out with every swing.
“You’re quite welcome,” Lily whispered. I poked her arm and she squealed, alerting Will to our presence. He raised his hand to us, giving me a glimpse of the hair under his arm; it was ruddy and golden, a bit darker than the hair on his head. I stood as if frozen.
“Say something,” Lily whispered.
“G-good day!” I managed, my throat feeling as it did in those dreams where one must scream for help yet is stricken mute.
Will leaned his hoe against a tree, removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face with it.
“Good morning!” he said, approaching us. “I’m sorry for my dishabille.”
“Not at all,” said Lily.
Resisting the urge to poke her again, I said, “We’re sorry to interrupt your work. Our stepmother sent us with a basket for you. She thinks you don’t know how to cook for yourself judging by how heartily you eat.”
Will laughed. “It’s not that. It’s only that the cooking there is so good. Please, come inside, both of you. Just give me a moment to wash, and I’ll show you around.”
Will returned from his bath sans sweat, with his hair combed and gave us a tour of the house and grounds. The house itself was rambling, filled with echoing rooms haunted by shapeless furniture covered in white drapery. It was a house for entertaining large parties and balls, a house for leisure, a house that demanded servants for its upkeep; in short, a house from a time that had passed on, but I was enchanted by it.
The field was freshly plowed, and out in the middle stood a lone oak tree that was so large it had been left to grow when the ground was cleared many years before.
“Can you imagine it surrounded by swaying white cotton?” I asked. “It must have been beautiful.”
“Would you like to walk there?”
“May I? That is, if Lily wishes to come.”
“I’ll stay behind,” Lily murmured, “and walk among the dead roses.”
Will offered me his arm, and we walked beside one another in the freshly plowed field, each in our own row, until we reached the live oak. It was an ancient tree; its branches spread wide and long and low, and its great trunk was more than forty paces around.
“It must be three or four hundred years old,” said Will.
“More, perhaps.” I stared up into the gnarled limbs and slipped off my shoes, letting the dirt sink between my toes, cool from the tree’s shade.
“I’m glad the two of you came to call.” Will took a pipe out of his pocket and began to pack it with tobacco. He placed the pipe between his teeth and lit a match by striking it against the sole of his boot. “I can’t think what to call it now it’s my own. What would you call it?”
I bit my bottom lip, searching the grounds for inspiration, then leaned against the trunk of the oak, smiling. “Oakhurst, of course. How simple!”
“Now that is a name,” said Will, puffing his pipe. “I’m indebted to you.”
He smiled at me, his eyes strikingly blue in the midday light, and as he looked at me, my hand strayed unwittingly to the scar on my mouth. I dropped it again just as quickly, but he had noticed. His gaze grew more serious, and he put his thumb out and traced the line.
“What happened, here?” he asked. “I’ve often wondered.”
I swallowed, my fingers hovering over the rough bark of the oak against my back, and he kept my gaze for some moments, letting his thumb remain. I could feel his fingers resting lightly against my cheek and was struck with the urge to press my lips into his palm . . .
