Today’s Special First Kiss February featured guest is Margery Scott, author of historical romance Emma’s Wish. Welcome Margery, my fellow Love Historicals author! Here’s the first kiss between Sam and Emma.
The minister was speaking, but Emma saw nothing but Sam’s face, heard nothing but Sam’s voice. “I, Samuel Edward Jenkins …” he began, pausing as the minister coached him with the appropriate vows, “… take thee, Emma Violet Witherspoon … to be my wedded wife … better or worse … until death do us part.”
Until death do us part. Forever. Eternity. Until the end of time. This was the vow he was making to her, this man she barely knew. And she would make the same vow to him.
Could they really make this work? Could they spend their lives together and be happy?
“Emma?” a voice whispered, then again, louder this time.
“Oh … I’m sorry …”
“It’s your turn,” Reverend Winslop said softly.
Emma’s voice quivered as she began to recite her vows.. “I, Emma Violet Witherspoon, take thee, Samuel Edward Jenkins, to be my husband …” As she said the sacred words, her gaze met Sam’s, and her voice became louder, stronger.
A few minutes later, Reverend Winslop said the words that would bind them for life. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.
Sam squeezed her hand, but whether it was a nervous reaction to the finality of the situation, or whether he was pleased, Emma had no way of knowing.
Then the minister winked at Sam and grinned wickedly. “Well, Sam, are you going to kiss your bride or not?”
For several long moments, Sam didn’t move. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he felt a drop of sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades.
He hadn’t kissed any woman besides Catherine in almost ten years. Hell, he hadn’t kissed a woman at all in almost three.
Now, with the whole town of Charity looking on, he was expected to kiss a woman he hardly knew.
Finally, he cupped Emma’s cheeks in his hands. Her skin was smooth and pale except for the dusting of freckles her face powder hadn’t been able to hide. For some reason, he was glad. The freckles suited her.
He felt her move, and then felt her hands resting on his as he closed the gap between them. He breathed in the scent of roses as his lips brushed against hers. The kiss was feather-light, but had the force of a mule kick. Heat seared through him. He wanted nothing more than to feel her lips against his, to go further, to explore the warm recesses of her mouth. Instead, he pulled away before his body betrayed him and he dragged her into his arms.
He caught Fred looking at him, shaking his head.
“I thought you coulda done better than that,” Fred muttered.
Trouble was, he could have done a lot better than that. And that’s what scared the bejeezus out of him. What had happened?
His body wasn’t listening to his brain. That’s what had happened. How could he even think about kissing Emma when his wife – the woman he loved – lay buried only a few yards away.