Her eyes brightened. “I’ve never eaten here,” she said excitedly. “I could never afford it. I’ve been to Christiana Campbell’s for lunch, but never the King’s Arms.”
She slipped her hand into his as they crossed the street and walked through the dark garden behind the tavern. “Do you know what they serve here? Colonial game pie and fig ice cream and oyster pie. I have the menu memorized!”
He couldn’t believe it. She’d never eaten at the King’s Arms. He knew she didn’t want to get married, but didn’t she even date?
The garden led to an alley that led to Duke of Gloucester Street. The street was nearly empty, with only a few people strolling toward the King’s Arms. Candles flickered in the wavy glass tavern windows. Megan and Pat read the bill of fare while they waited to be called inside.
“They have wandering musicians here,” Megan said, “and everything’s lit by candles. And the waiters wear knee breeches. You probably know all that.” She smiled, slightly embarrassed at her enthusiasm.
“Nope. I’m new in town, and it’s nice to have my very own tour guide.”
“I guess I’m new too. I moved to Williamsburg in June. I needed to get away from… things. I really love it here. I’ve always been a history buff.”
They stepped into the tavern and were seated at a small table by a fireplace. A candle flickered in its glass chimney, illuminating the white linen tablecloth and formal place setting.
“I’m a history buff of sorts,” Pat said. “My ancestors lived in Williamsburg when Lord Botetourt served as governor. I was born and raised in California, but I’ve always been drawn to Williamsburg. Now that I’m here, I feel like I’ve come home.”
Megan nodded. She knew exactly what he meant. She didn’t have Williamsburg roots, but her heart told her this was where she belonged.
She gave the costumed waiter her order and her menu and watched Pat. She liked the way he looked in the candlelight. It made his eyes dark and mysterious, and emphasized the few laugh lines around them. He was wearing a navy blazer, navy stripped tie, and a white shirt with a small blue check pattern.
When their soup arrived, he regarded his bowl with undisguised apprehension. “You ever have peanut soup before?” he asked.
“It’s supposed to be good.” She delicately stirred the muddy brown concoction in front of her. She sniffed at it, then dipped a small chunk of toast called a sippet into the soup.
“Well?” he asked.
She thoughtfully chewed her soup – coated sippet. “I like it. You can try yours now, you coward. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
He grinned. “I leave adventure up to you. I’m the laid – back, sensible country doctor.”
Sometimes, she thought. He definitely had an easygoing California style, but there was nothing laid back about his kisses. And he was slightly crazy. Not an out – of – control craziness. Pat had a quiet, teasing sense of humor that was often turned inward. Her initial impression of him had been wrong, she admitted. He was responsible, sensitive, mature, and very caring. It was his self – confidence and the fact that he liked himself and the world around him that allowed him to be a little crazy.
She made several selections from the relish tray offered to her and smiled at Pat. “I’ve been thinking that you’re a little crazy.”
He seemed surprised at that. “Me? Dull Pat?”
She tasted the sweet corn. “You’re the only person I know who has a rabbit hopping around in his house. And you have an… um, unusual sense of humor.”
The waiter returned with warm Sally Lunn bread and tiny Indian corn muffins. Pat made a small mountain of muffins on his bread plate. “My sense of humor has always gotten me in trouble. My first year in med school I got Jimmy Szlagy to help me steal a cadaver and-” He stopped abruptly and grimaced. “You probably don’t want to hear about this while we’re eating.”
She scraped the final dregs of soup onto the last chunk of toast. “I probably don’t.” She slathered butter on a thick wedge of bread and closed her eyes in epicurean anticipation. “Yum.”
Pat relaxed back in his chair and watched her. She was a person filled to the brim with a love of life, he thought. Eating wasn’t a bodily function to her. It was a celebration. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever dated who got orgasmic over bread,” he said huskily, then smiled. “Are you as easily pleased in bed as you are at the dinner table?”
Megan paused with her slice of bread midway to her mouth. A thrill raced through her when she realized she’d been waiting for this. She wanted him to flirt with her. She might even want to be seduced. Her gaze caught and held his as she tested the texture of the bread with the tip of her tongue. She sensually licked a buttery fingertip, enjoying his rapt attention, and lowered her lashes. “There are some things a man should find out for himself.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that an invitation?”
She tipped her head back and laughed softly. It was fun being a temptress in a crowded restaurant, she thought. It was exciting and relatively safe. She paused while the waiter replaced her soup bowl with a salad dish.
“It’s an opinion,” she said, spearing a tomato with her fork, “and I think I’ve been saved by the salad.”
Pat wagged a finger at her. “Nothing can save you, Megan Murphy. Destiny has brought us together. It’s been predetermined that your beautiful, silky red hair should be spread across my pillow.”
“Destiny had nothing to do with it,” she said, suddenly nervous, not sure if she should let the conversation continue in this direction. “It was your adventurous rabbit that brought us together.”
A minstrel wandered into the candlelit room, playing an eighteenth – century ballad on his guitar. Megan turned to face him, but thoughts of Pat and his pillow were spinning in her head. The minstrel’s tunes, the elegant table, the room filled with people intermingled in a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds that were soft – edged in comparison to the clarity of her desire. She wanted to sleep with Patrick Hunter. She wanted to know him in the most intimate way possible.
She busied herself with her main course, spreading a bit of currant jelly across the flaky brown crust of the game pie, as her waiter had suggested. She mechanically tasted slivers of duck, rabbit, and venison, and was surprised when her plate was empty. “I ate all that?”
Pat sipped his wine. “You seemed preoccupied.”
Preoccupied, she thought. If he only knew. She’d spend the entire meal mentally making love to him.
They finished the meal with raisin rice pudding and coffee. “I can’t eat another bite,” Megan said. “In fact, I may never eat again.”
Pat helped her into her coat. “Now for the really exciting part of the evening. I’m going to take you to the movies.” He slung his arm around her shoulders and hurried her through the garden to the parking lot. “My parents have taken pity on their poor, deprived son and sent him a TV and a DVD player.”
“How nice!”
“I have great parents. I can’t wait for you to meet them. I’m glad they’re coming here for Thanksgiving.”
“I have great parents too. Thank goodness they’re in Florida.”
He started the engine and looked at her sideways. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing. The problem is, they have this super marriage. And since this marriage has made them so happy, they want me to have a super marriage too.”