She gave him a doubtful look, but he shook his head, needing to be clear on this. He pulled her into a more private corner of the market so they could be face-to-face for what he’d say next.
She seemed confused, but went along with it, holding the half-empty basket like a shield between them. His heart was racing now, the moment turning into something volatile and crackling with energy, like a summer sky brewing a storm.
“I have never deflowered anyone,” he repeated, his eyes locked with hers. “I prefer to leave virtuous flowers on the vine.” He sounded ridiculous, and yet he could not seem to stop.
“I thought gentlemen valued purity above all things.” She sounded breathless, her lush curves distracting as he tried to muster up a response.
He wanted her, that was undeniable, but with every word exchanged between them, his lust careened into something far more perilous. He wanted to impress her. He wanted her to see Arlo Kenworthy, and not the Duke of Linley.
“I find it hypocritical that women’s purity is held as proof of their value, while a man can do as he pleases. If the sexes are truly equal, then why would I expect something in a woman when I wouldn’t of myself?”
“Hmmm.” She made the sound as she licked her lips. He hoped it was not because of the lingering taste of raspberries, but because she, like he, was craving a kiss. And he would give it to her…if she asked.
“That’s quite commendable of you.” With that, she turned on her heel and pushed into market again. But she wasn’t fast enough for him to miss the flush on her cheeks.
They didn’t speak again until they arrived at the next stall of interest. The vendor recognized Marena and quickly, they began exchanging a warm greeting in French.
“This is Phuong,” Marena informed him. “She has the best herbs and tisanes. Her family has a farm in Marseille and they bring products from Vietnam.”
Arlo bowed to the woman and introduced himself in passable French. Marena appeared to find his efforts amusing and turned back to Phuong, a smile still on her lips. Soon she was back to the business at hand, listing things from a piece of paper as the seller moved around her miniscule stall, pulling out jars and scooping things out of barrels.
Marena’s face lit up when Phoung handed her a bundle of yellow and green stalks tied together with string. “Merci,” she said with pleasure in her voice, and again his treasonous cock twitched in his trousers as he watched her press the stalks to her nose and inhale with her eyes closed.
“Citronelle.” She lifted the stalks to him, and he obliged by taking a whiff. It had an intense citrus smell that reminded him of the lemon verbena his grandmother used, but spicier. “In Santo Domingo we call it limoncillo. My grandmother used it for teas and remedies,” she explained, piercing the tip of a stalk with a fingernail, coaxing out a more intense aroma. “It’s good for digestion and excellent for the teeth.” She revealed her own gleaming teeth, and once again he was tongue-tied merely by seeing Marena at ease.
He, who was used to sitting in rooms with the most powerful men in London and speaking his mind. He, who was known in the House of Lords for always delivering the right words at the right time, could not produce a single one which did justice to this woman, who had brought him here to this little corner of Paris and showed him her world.
“You can’t find it in London?” he asked, voice hoarse from whatever was afflicting him.
She gave him a curious look as she placed the packaged goods Phuong prepared for her in the basket. “I can find it on occasion, but it’s expensive and not freshly cut like these. Other things like the lavender and chamomile I grow in my hothouse.”
“What do you use it for? The lavender?” He was suddenly hungry to know how she’d use each purchase.
“Lavender is good for swelling joints. And the oil with chamomile helps settle the nerves. But I just like how it smells.” Marena beamed as she pressed a bundle of lavender Phoung had handed her to her nose. “French lavender is the best.” She said it in French, offering a smile to Phuong, and all he wanted in that moment was to see her naked and amorous, sitting in a tub fragrant with flowers. He’d run a soapy cloth over those generous breasts and bend down to take one of the sweet peaks between his teeth.
“Is it too hot?” Marena’s concerned question snatched him out of his improper musings. It appeared that when it came to the Caribbean herbalist, even a mundane conversation about lavender somehow ended with him having lustful fantasies.
“I’m all right.” He pulled on his collar with an ungloved finger and tilted his head toward the jar that Phoung had just passed to them. “What are those?”
“Preserved bitter orange. Those are much harder to find, I usually replace them with other ingredients if they’re called for in a poultice or salve.” She secured the jar in the basket, moving it around until it was in a nook where it would not get jostled. “It’s what I came here to study. How to adapt my family’s recipes to what I could find outside the tropics.”
She angled her head to look at him. “Are you sure you’re interested in this?”
“I am.”
She gave him a doubtful look but continued her explanation. “Root work, is about using what the earth yields, and letting it give you what you need for healing. The problem is, the soil here is very different. There is only so much I can do to reproduce what was available in the islands.”
Arlo was not a romantic. He could be cynical and was decidedly jaded on love. And yet, the image of Marena as a Caribbean Demeter—reaping what she liked from the cold earth of Britain and warming it with the sunshine from her hands—came to him as clear and solid as a memory. And before his good sense could catch up, he spoke.
“You’re here. You’ve brought the sun with you.” Her expression softened at his words, and he almost added something ridiculous like, “I felt the warmth of you from the second we met. I miss it whenever you’re not near.” But a growl from his stomach saved him.
She smiled, and he blushed like a blustering schoolboy. “You probably need feeding constantly to keep all this upright,” she joked, waving a hand up and down his torso. “Let me pay Phoung and we can go find some nourishment for you.”
“No, no, no. I will pay for this.” Her eyebrow rose, and he realized he’d spoken in an imperious tone, and softened the next part. “Please. I said I’d pay for all your expenses while we were here. You are helping me connect with my sister. It’s the least I can do.”
She held a finger up to him and turned to Phoung. “Would you excuse me a moment?” The woman nodded and gave them both a knowing smile, as if they were quarreling lovers. “You are paying for my expenses. You paid for my train and ferry. And we’re staying at your townhouse. You also refused to let me pay for the coffee and pastry at the café, for heaven’s sake.” She gestured to the basket he was holding and shook her head. “This is not part of the arrangement. This is for my work.”
“But—”
She held up a hand, her gaze pinning him in place as she spoke. “I cannot accept it. Please.”
He wanted to push until she let him do this for her. Some unreasonable part of him wanted to give her everything she needed. But he was starting to understand this woman. She was protective of certain things. Her work; the safety of her loved ones. There were places where she would not give in, where she would stand her guard until he’d earned the right to be there. He could only guess at the reasons that had made her that way.