Deep, abiding affection.

The need to touch him, comfort him, overwhelmed her, and it took all her strength not to draw him into her arms. Instead, she merely squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, Philip,” the inadequate words and gesture in no way expressing the depth of her jumbled feelings.

“Thank you.” A bit of the tension left his features. “Over the years, I corresponded regularly with Father. Our letters were stilted at first, but after a while some of the tension dissipated, as clearly we both found it easier to communicate through letters than face-to-face. But all the tension returned three years ago when he wrote, demanding my return to England, as he’d arranged a marriage for me. I refused. Partly because I was not yet ready to come home, but also because I’d become quite stubborn in my own right and I did not take kindly to such an autocratic order. As you can guess, our relationship suffered anew because of it. We still corresponded, but it was strained. And then I received his letter telling me he was dying. That, of course, made me realize it was time to come home. I’d hoped that my return to England and my marriage would heal the rift between us. But then I stumbled upon the Stone of Tears.”

Another wave of sympathy washed over her. “Yes. An extremely unfortunate bit of luck.”

“In some ways, yes, with Mary Binsmore’s death being the most tragic. But the curse has not brought only bad luck.”

Her brows shot upward. “How can you say that? The curse lost you Lady Sarah.”

Lifting her hand to his lips, he pressed a kiss to her fingertips, shooting a tingle up her arm. “Yes. But the curse led me to you.”

Thirteen

Meredith’s heart stuttered a halt, then slammed against her rib cage. The curse led me to you…

Before she could think of an appropriate reply-no doubt because there wasn’t one-he smiled. “Forgive me, please. I did not mean to inject our evening with ghosts from the past. There are still several more courses to enjoy, and Bakari will treat me to his most fearsome scowl if I do not serve his masterpieces in a timely manner.”

Clearly he wished to change the subject, and she was more than willing to comply. Surely the simple routine, the ordinary nature of sharing the remainder of their meal would dispel the air of intimacy that had closed in on them during their conversation. Although how she would ever erase the unsettling feelings his story had wrought upon her, she did not know.

The next two courses consisted of thinly sliced duck, then a savory lamb stew, after which she felt warm and sated and relaxed. Surrounded by the fluffy pillows, it was as if she were encased in a velvety cocoon.

“I cannot decide which dish was more delicious,” she said, watching him lift the lid off yet another platter. “Bakari is a gifted chef. If I were you, I’d station him in the kitchen rather than the foyer.”

He laughed. “Wait until you taste this.” He held a small china bowl containing what appeared to be a combination of custard and thin layers of cake, decorated with a drizzle of chopped nuts and a golden syrup. Obviously a dessert, but one unfamiliar to her. Scooping up a spoonful of the concoction, he held the spoon to her lips. The delicate scents of honey and cinnamon teased her, urging her to eat the offering, but she hesitated, her earlier tension rushing back at the intimacy of his gesture. It was one thing to share a meal with him. It was quite another for him to feed her.

“Try it, Meredith,” he said softly. “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

She parted her lips, and he fed her the morsel, then slowly slipped the spoon from between her lips. A heady combination of tastes and textures delighted her mouth- silky-smooth custard, spongy cake, crunchy nuts, sweet honey, the tang of cinnamon. Her gaze locked to his, she slowly chewed, then swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden racing of her heart. The heated awareness of him that she’d managed to push aside roared back to life, inching tingling warmth up her spine.

To her dismay-and utter fascination-he leaned back, reclining onto his side on the pile of pillows, his upper body propped up on his left elbow and forearm. Her gaze involuntarily wandered down his length, taking in his tanned throat, the enticing expanse of his broad chest, his long, outstretched muscular legs.

“Do you like it?” he asked in a husky voice.

She jerked her gaze back to his and found him studying her with deep concentration. Like it? More than anything I’ve ever seen before. She glanced down at the china bowl cradled in his left hand and fire raced into her cheeks. Heavens, he’d meant the dessert.

“It’s, um, delicious.” When he dipped the spoon into the bowl again, she asked, “Are you going to have some?”

“I’d love some.” Sitting up, he handed her the bowl and spoon, then scooted around to face her, moving closer until their knees bumped.

A tingle shot up her leg, and she stared at the bowl and spoon she now held. His meaning was unmistakable. Everything cautious in her warned her to set the food back on the table and leave. Everything feminine and curious in her wanted to know what it was like to feed a man. This man.

Heart beating hard, she scooped up a bit of the creamy dessert and brought the spoon to his lips. Fascinated, she fed him the bite, withdrawing the spoon slowly from his mouth as he’d done to her. She watched him chew. Dear God, the man had a beautiful mouth. She instantly recalled the thrilling sensation of that firm, sensual mouth brushing against her lips and skin.

Reaching out, he brushed a single fingertip against her lower lip. “A drop of custard,” he murmured. He then brought his finger to his own mouth and licked off the creamy dollop.

She felt as if he’d tossed her into the fire. Before she could think of what to say or do, he gently took the bowl and spoon from her, setting them back on the table. He then picked up an oval ceramic platter filled with an assortment of cut fruits, olives, and shelled nuts.

Setting the platter next to him, he picked up a small piece of fruit. “This is a fig, very popular with the Greeks since ancient times. Taste.” He reached out with the offering, but when she held out her hand, he shook his head and brought the fruit closer to her lips. “It is customary for a guest to eat a handheld offering from the host-if the guest enjoyed the meal. It symbolizes a harmonious end to the dinner.”

“I see.” She tried to tell herself that she would eat from his fingers solely so as not to flout ancient custom and offend him, but it was such a blatant lie she banished the excuse as quickly as it formed. Ancient custom had nothing to do with it as she leaned forward and ate the bit of fig from his fingers. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that the fruit was sweet and luscious, but all she could concentrate on was the sensation of his fingers touching her lips.

“The guest may return the favor to the host, if she wishes,” he said, “to indicate that she found the company pleasing.”

Dear God, she found him so much more than merely pleasing. Tempting. Tantalizing. Exciting. Unable to refuse, she reached out and picked up a small section of peeled orange, which she then held out. His gaze steady on hers, he lightly grasped her wrist and pulled her hand closer to his mouth. He drew the sweet citrus and her two fingers between his lips. She gasped as the warmth of his mouth surrounded her fingertips, his tongue brushing over them. Her own lips involuntarily parted in response, and her breath caught. He withdrew her fingers, then dropped a kiss on them.

He chewed, swallowed, then said, “Delicious.” He then picked up a plump, dark olive, the pit clearly removed. “After the sweet fruit, the host offers something salty-to show that he holds his guest in the highest regard.”

As if in a trance, Meredith watched him bring the olive to her mouth, her heart skipping a beat when he slowly ran the offering around the perimeter of her parted lips before allowing her to eat it. The salty tang slid over her tongue, a sharp contrast to the sweet fig.

“The guest may offer the same to the host. If she wishes,” he said, his brown gaze searching hers.

Just as she couldn’t deny she found his company pleasing, nor could she deny she held him in the highest regard. Of course, to do something that admitted that-openly, and to him-was more than a bit frightening. And most certainly unwise.

Yet she could not stop herself from picking up an olive and offering it to him. His eyes darkened behind his lenses, and a tremor shook her hand. Again he lightly clasped her wrist and drew her hand closer to him, gently sucking the olive and her fingers into the heat of his mouth.

The desire she’d attempted to bludgeon back gushed through her, bubbling in her veins, quickening her pulse. She wanted his mouth on hers. So badly her lips tingled.

“And last,” he said, “to finish the meal, is this.” From the center of the platter he picked up an object about the size of an orange, but it was a deep purplish red in color.

“What is that?”

“A pomegranate.”

She looked at it with interest. “I’ve never seen one, although I’ve heard of it.”

“It is called the Fruit of Paradise, and throughout history it has been cited in the myths and legends of many different cultures and civilizations, as well as in art and literature.”

“Actually, I first heard mention of one in Romeo and Juliet,” she said. “A lark’s song tells Romeo that morning has come and he must leave his love. But Juliet tells him, ‘Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree; believe me, love, it was the nightingale. ’”

“Yes, I recall that passage. She assured him it was the nightingale rather than the lark… because she did not want him to leave. You enjoy Shakespeare?”