A Stranger's Kiss

beneath her tucked up dress.
    Or maybe it was just simple distaste that any father could conceive of locking up a fully grown woman simply because her idea of what made a good husband did not coincide with his own. Whatever it was he decided to take Carlisle at his word. Emerald Carlisle, he had been told, was no concern of his. And when the girl let go of the pipe with one hand and urged him, with an unmistakable gesture that left her swinging in the most perilous fashion above a well-tended rose border, to get her father inside the house, he didn’t hesitate. Patting at his jacket pocket he turned and headed back up the steps. ‘I think I left my car keys on your desk, sir.’ The “sir” almost choked him.
    Carlisle glared after him. ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ he said, irritably, but followed Brodie back into the house.
    * * *
    Emmy’s heart, already beating an adrenalin-charged tattoo as she eased herself down the drainpipe, had gone into overtime at the sudden appearance of her father. But the moment her gaze had collided with the dark-eyed stranger standing with him she had known instinctively that she had an ally. He hadn’t batted an eyelid at the sight she must have made, not given her away by so much as a twitch of an eyebrow. Instead he had quite coolly considered his options.
    He could have informed her father that he appeared to have an incompetent cat burglar clinging to his drainpipe.
    Or he could have ignored the situation, pretend he hadn’t seen her and hope she didn’t fall into the roses.
    What the dark-eyed stranger had done was create a diversion.
    That kind of swift thinking was so rare she thought. Poor Kit would have dithered and blushed and quite given the game away. He was sweet and wonderfully talented, but not in the least bit decisive which was why she had to get to him before her father’s henchman. As she searched amongst the lavender and roses for her shoes she felt a moment of regret that she wouldn’t be able to stay and thank Dark-eyes for his chivalry. Were they grey, she wondered. Or brown? Distance and the dusky light had made it impossible to tell.
    Unfortunately she didn’t have time for politeness, but she was sure he would understand her need to put the maximum distance between herself and her father before he discovered her escape. If only she could find her other shoe!
    She spotted it at last, half buried behind the tall lavender that edged the border, filling the air with sweet scent as she brushed against it. The roses were not so kind, snagging at her bare arms as she reached for her shoe, catching and tangling her hair with their thorns. She didn’t have time to worry about it, or take time to extricate herself carefully, and tugged herself free. The rose retaliated by whipping back and catching at her neck with its thorns. She scarcely noticed. All she knew was that it was taking far too long.
    But there was no way she could make her escape barefooted. Her feet would be cut to ribbons on the gravel by the time she had sprinted around to the old coach house where her car had undoubtedly been stowed after her incarceration. She could just hear her father. “Miss Emerald has decided to stay for a few days. Put her car away will you, Saunders?” All perfectly natural. She made a rude noise as she tipped the dirt out of her shoes and slipped her feet into them.
    ‘Maybe you left your keys in the car, Brodie.’ Her father’s impatient voice carried through the open front door pinning her back against the wall.
    ‘I might have dropped them in the hall.’
    Brodie. The name had a nice, solid ring to it and Brodie, bless the man, was giving her all the time he could, delaying her father, quite` unconcerned at the tetchiness in his voice. Not many men were that brave. Unfortunately his valour would be to little avail. There was no cover within a hundred feet of her exposed position and any second now she was going to be discovered and dragged ignominiously back to the nursery where she would probably be put on a diet of bread and water. Not that she cared about that. But poor Kit...
    Of course, she could always throw herself on Brodie’s mercy. In fact the thought of flinging herself into his arms had a definite appeal. She hadn’t been mistaken about the shoulders, or his height. And his character spoke for itself.
    But no. He had already done more than enough. To demand he choose between her and her father was more than could be expected of any knight