She was gazing drowsily into the fire when Zander’s hand softly stroked her cheek.
She smiled dreamily and turned her face up to his, giving a sigh of pleasure as his mouth brushed hers.
Her lips parted beneath the light pressure of his, and when he deepened the kiss her arms went around his neck. Her whole body melting, she kissed him back.
Then, suddenly scared by her own reaction to that kiss, she drew back, demanded raggedly, ‘Why did you do that? You had no right to kiss me. Don’t ever do it again. I hated it!’
As soon as the words were out she knew she’d made a bad mistake.
She sat still as any statue as his hands moved to cup her chin and tilt her head back, so that she found herself looking up into his handsome face, intriguingly inverted.
‘So tell me,’ he said silkily, ‘if my kiss is such anathema to you, why did you kiss me back?’
About the Author
LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a Derbyshire village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy travelling, and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going round the world ‘on a shoestring’ while their son looked after Kelly, their much loved German shepherd dog. Her hobbies are reading and gardening, and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.
Recent titles by the same author:
CLAIMING HIS WEDDING NIGHT
CAPTIVE IN THE MILLIONAIRE’S CASTLE
THE BOSS’S FORBIDDEN SECRETARY
MISTRESS AGAINST HER WILL
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Running from the Storm
Lee Wilkinson
MILLS & BOON
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To Ned
CHAPTER ONE
THE twelfth-century, lichen-covered church was filled with the fragrance of roses and lilies and the strains of Mendelssohn’s traditional and well-loved Here Comes The Bride.
Bright sunshine slanted through the stained-glass windows and, as the trees in the churchyard moved in the breeze, made changing kaleidoscope patterns across the backs of the polished pews and the grey stone slabs of the floor.
Nothing seemed quite real as Caris walked slowly up the aisle on the arm of her Uncle David. Her father, still angry with her, had refused to give her away.
A man, presumably the best man, was waiting by the chancel steps. He had his back to her and she couldn’t see his face.
There was no sign of her groom.
On both sides of the aisle the congregation turned their heads to look and smile at her as she passed in a froth of white tulle that, even then, she knew was all wrong for her.
She did her best to smile back, but her face felt set and stiff, as though it was made from wax, and she couldn’t.
As she reached the chancel steps she was aware that her bridegroom had joined her and was standing by her side. She didn’t look at him.
The elderly priest stepped forward, gathered the congregation’s attention with a glance and began with the traditional words, ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together …’
While the wedding service solemnly progressed, Caris stared straight ahead and asked herself what she was doing here.
When they reached the point where she and her bridegroom needed to make their vows and she still refused to look at him, he took her upper arms and turned her to face him.
His green eyes were cool, commanding; his blond, well-shaped head had that slightly arrogant tilt she knew so well.
‘Say it, Caris.’
But she couldn’t. This was all wrong! She couldn’t, wouldn’t, marry Zander!
Dropping the bouquet of pale-pink roses she carried, she turned and, gathering up her full skirts, fled down the aisle between the rows of gaping guests, tears pouring down her cheeks.
She could hear him calling after her, ‘Don’t go, Caris … Don’t go …’
But she had to. No matter how much she loved him, she wouldn’t marry a man who didn’t love her, who could well suspect that he had been trapped into marriage.
Gasping for breath, sobs rising in her throat, she reached the gloomy inner porch of the church and flung open the heavy door.
Stumbling through into the outer porch, she was met by bright sunshine and a brisk breeze that blew the folds of the fine silken-net veil over her face.
The dreamer was endeavouring to tear off the suffocating veil when she awoke and, sitting bolt upright, found she was in her own bed, the uncertain light of a rainy, late-spring morning filtering in.
Even so, it was a few seconds before the panic subsided and the sight of her familiar room, with its pastel walls and pretty, flowered curtains, steadied her a little.
Somewhere nearby a car door slammed and she could hear the unmistakable sounds of the quiet, tree-lined street coming alive—Billy Leyton’s motorbike being kicked into life, the shush of tyres on the wet road, next door’s dog barking.
Right on cue, the bedside alarm-clock announced with a loud jingle that it was seven-thirty.
‘It was a dream,’ Caris said aloud
