A Love by Any Measure (8 page)

No touch.

When she opened her eyes, he was looking at her smugly.

“I don’t know what you think of me, but you hunger for this almost as much as I do.”

He paced back across the room and set the glass on the far table next to a sack Maeve knew instinctively held two loaves of bread.

The turn of phrase caught her attention. “I do not,” she contested, before his comment fully struck her. “You hunger for it?”

His composure slipped. In the recesses of her mind, a little bit of her swooned. This wasn’t just a casual contract for him — he anticipated their meetings. Maeve could see the conflict in his countenance. He was trying to determine whether he should retract the statement, or let it survive.

Finally, he stood in front of her chair and relaxed his body, talking in soft, cracking tones when at last he spoke.

“I want you in my arms and in my bed. I want you to be … But we … ”

She had seen this look before. It was the expression someone wore when they’d just emerged from a long stay in the confessional, one which the roosted chickens would later balk about. August broke off, his face contorting. Maeve almost rose from her seat in her instinct to comfort him, to throw her arms around him and whisper soothing things in his ear. But she kept back, reminding herself that she mustn’t allow this to become anything beyond a contractual relationship.

“We have an agreement.”

The words sobered them both. Grayson composed himself and addressed her once more, his tone all business. “One-hundred-sixty seconds, if you’re still intending to proceed?”

“Aye, well I am here, aren’t I?” Maeve spat back ambiguously. “But do you really expect me to stare at your clock and count that high while you’re distracting me so?”

He laughed and his eyes shone in a way that twisted Maeve’s insides anew.

“No,” he answered. “I think I’ll get more out of our time if your attentions lie elsewhere. Have you ever seen an hour glass?”

She nodded and internally scoffed, “My goodness, we’re not that far removed from civilized society!”

“I have one on this table that’s modified a bit.”

Maeve eyes fell upon a foot-high hourglass piece, oddly capped with a small bell. The bell’s pulley was attached to a string that led into the inner chamber of the hourglass and was fixed therein to a small metal hoop.

“This piece is scored to measure thirty second intervals,” he explained, pointing at the etchings on the side of the glass. “I’ve poured sand enough for three minutes. As it falls, it pulls down the metal hoop. When all the sand has emptied, the string pulls just enough to ring the bell. Very simple and very effective. I’m releasing the plug now and giving you twenty seconds to come to me.”

His body pivoted as Maeve leapt from her chair. She wasn’t sure if the buffer time had elapsed or not when she flew into his arms, pressing her lips to his. Stroking the cheek wasn’t an option tonight. Maeve had been turning yesterday’s encounter over in her head as he spoke, and she was not interested in starting from scratch. Grayson stumbled, then righted himself as his arms wrapped around her and drew her in.

You’ll feel like you’re catching fire, and your whole body will be driving you to get as close to him as possible …

Yes, fire was the right word. Maeve ached to be flush against him. Again, her leg rose instinctively, trying to hook around him. Grayson sensed it against his side and moved his hand to the underside of Maeve’s knee while never breaking their kiss. He drove her to symmetry, as his other hand reached down to find the other leg and pull her up to straddle his waist. They faltered, trying to find balance.

“The bed,” he practically growled.

Was he asking permission? Maeve nodded, and before she could understand what was happening, she was splayed flat, looking at the ceiling.

“Next time, we start here,” he declared.

August presented a hard, demanding kiss and slid her head and body back to meet the pillows. His mouth sought out her neck and Maeve twisted his ebony hair through her fingers. From the corner of her eye, she glanced at the hour glass.

She was of the opinion that the sand was falling much too quickly.

Maeve’s breath doubled. His mouth left a wet trail across her chest as his right hand traveled up her torso, leaving a path of incomplete sensation, and arrived at the neckline of her dress. His green eyes looked up from his pursuits long enough to catch Maeve’s hungry gaze as he pulled down the bodice to free her right breast.

She gasped, but the momentary shock quickly passed when Grayson’s mouth found its goal and his teeth and his tongue danced around a quickly hardening peak. The movements sent shivers spiraling through her body.

And then, you’ll find your hands want to touch him just about everywhere …

Maeve drifted her fingertips down his back and practically clawed into it. She wanted him, needed him to feel something from her in reflection. He shifted his hands and freed the other breast, turning his mouth to it as his fingers then pinched the freshly abandoned one.

A moan escaped her lips and she called out without thinking. “August … ”

She froze, as did he.

Then he went wild.

The invocation released a flood gate. August bit down hard, and though it hurt her for a moment, it felt divine the next. Maeve became aware of a wetness below that accompanied a dull ache building in the pit of her stomach. Something primal was driving her — she felt like she needed to be touched there.

But denial was a way of life, and she instead focused on August’s pursuits as he drew himself back up to meet her lips with his again, his tongue shooting into her mouth and dancing about. Though the action was unexpectedly hostile in its intensity, Maeve liked it enough to try doing the same back. Their tongues played against each other, as below the shaft of his manhood pressed against her knickers. He had pushed her skirt up over her waist without her noticing.

What was she doing? Maeve didn’t understand her impulses, but her hips were pushing, rocking forward, trying to meet thrusts that were making her dizzy with need. She hoped he didn’t laugh at her. She felt both compelled and humiliated.

As she felt his body shift and his hand slip under the waistline of her knickers, his fingers pushed into the wetness below, and every rational thought Maeve had ever had was gone. She gasped as he pulled back, revealing a self-satisfied smile.

“You hunger for it as much as I do. Admit it. Tell me. Tell me it’s not just me.”

There was no point in denying him. Maeve couldn’t in the state she was in, but she couldn’t concentrate long enough to form words either.

“Yes … ” her raspy voice admitted.

“Maeve,” he gasped, pressing his lips hard to hers, his fingers stroking her below.

The twinkling ding of a bell stilled them both.

August’s head fell to her shoulder and his fingers lingered inside her. Maeve swore she heard him mutter something obscene under his breath before concluding, “Time is always my enemy.”

Maeve could hardly catch her breath, even as the pulsation below began to die. Despite her fervent attempt to suppress it, her hips swung forward, inducing the friction of his fingers against the wetness again.

His eyes shot up, the amazement and — she hoped it was delight — sharpening into a feral stare. He pumped his fingers twice more, soliciting a gasp and moan.

“Do you even know why I’m doing this to you?” His eyes blazed heatedly at her. “Do you know what will happen if I do this?”

She shook her head and rocked her hips forward once more as he applied pressure back, also twittering his thumb above and making her stomach pull into an unresolved knot.

“I don’t know, but it feels good. Why, August? What happens?”

He stroked a few more times, then stopped. Maeve felt a wave building inside, as though she might explode. If only he’d continue.

He bit his bottom lip and withdrew his hand, slowly dragging his fingertips up to her navel. It left her with a bitter chill as the heat subsided and the sweat covering her began to evaporate. Maeve grimaced, thinking she would probably catch her death walking home.

“What happens?” He laughed bitterly as the wall of his status re-erected itself, leaving Maeve feeling lowered and inferior. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and I’ll not let you discover this without a proper space of time. Besides,” he added, rising from the bed and leaving her with a feeling of complete exposure and unease — perhaps even shame, “I’ll remind you that what we do is for my pleasure, not yours. You will only gain that knowledge if it pleases me to make it so.”

Maeve sat up and looked at him, perplexed. “But, August, I … ”

“Playtime is over, Miss O’Connor. That … ” He preceded her in confusion, but didn’t leave her behind for long. “You are to address me properly. In the heat of the moment, it pleased me that you should be so informal. Not now.”

Her head lowered in shame, having given in to the fantasy for a moment that he was acting from more than just an arrangement of convenience. But it was just a fantasy, she reminded herself. Even if it had been something more, they could never be.

And of course, there was Owen.

“Yes, of course,” she whispered abashedly. “My apologies, Lord Grayson. I didn’t mean to … I only thought … ”

“This is nothing to me,” he boldly stated, motioning vaguely to the bed where she lay. “You mean nothing to me, Maeve. I was … confused in the heat of the moment, is all. Best that you go now.”

“But you said you hungered for it, and made me admit … Oh, I see.” She felt stupid in her gullibility, but was quick to learn when she’d been fooled. “It was part of the game to you.”

His eyebrow crooked as he turned back to her. “Is it not to you?” he questioned indifferently.

Indifferently. How simple indifference had seemed at the start of this all, but now the mask of stoicism grew too difficult to don. She rose reluctantly, adjusting the knickers around her waist before rethreading her buttons.

The uncharacteristic boldness shocked her. More than boldness — it was a compulsion. Passing him standing at the end of the bed, Maeve propped herself up on the tips of her toes and placed a gentle, chaste kiss on his cheek. “Good night, Lord Grayson.”

His eyes slammed shut. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and said once more in a low, pleading tone, “Go.”

She wasn’t about to chance raising his ire. Maeve had witnessed tonight all too well how his emotions could reverse so quickly.

She took the sack of bread, threw her cloak over her shoulders, and dashed out of the house before he could see the tears streaking down her cheeks.

A Little Knowledge

Maeve’s kiss did more to August than she could have possibly imagined. She thought he had not seen her begin to cry as she left. He had. What she had not seen was August’s own tears, and his breaking of the brandy jar against the fireplace mantel as he collapsed on the floor.

How could he allow this to happen? And why had he denied himself? She had been ready and wanton in his arms. If he had wanted, he could have had her. He could be lying in post-rapture bliss this very moment — or even taking her a second time. It was his every fantasy come to fruition, his wildest hopes made flesh. What had stopped him?

But he knew all too well, realized it with painful clarity, that compassion for the potential consequences had outweighed his selfish desire for her body. If he truly was the bastard she believed him to be, it would have been simple enough. He had seen the fire burning in her eyes. He could have had her at that moment in any way and every way he wanted. And oh, how he wanted that. Laying with Maeve O’Connor was not without risk, however. If he should leave her with child, or if her blacksmith or father ever learned of her being spoiled …

He trembled to think of what her life would be like. It was difficult now as it was, and that was the consequence of poverty. If he should add to that a level of depravity in the eyes of her kin? It would ruin Maeve.

Though he thought the contract a well-engineered plan, he would admit a part of him now hoped she would not so quickly default on her obligations, for both their sakes. He also had a feeling a small part of Maeve was more than willing to continue paying indefinitely.



The following afternoon, August sat in the library, contemplating if he should account to Maeve for his misdeeds, while appearing outwardly to be reviewing surveys of the back pastures. When then the head of staff, Mrs. Compton, informed him that Patrick O’Keefe was waiting in the foyer, he was more than a little taken aback.

“Show him in.”

She nodded, and a few moments later the behemoth Irishman was standing in front of his desk, veritably shooting daggers.

August tried to look disinterested. The truth was, Patrick gave him quite a fright. The physical mass he represented alone was enough to make one happy to get a grin if not a fist. However, there was something off in his standard demeanor. Patrick may have been as large as a bear, but he was generally as cordial as a field mouse. Not today. Today he was a raging bull tied down with ropes, and August was no doubt the object of his ire.

“What business have you, Mr. O’Keefe?” He kept his gaze low, only raising his eyes once to acknowledge Patrick’s presence.

“Maeve O’Connor was over to see Patty last night,” he said, obviously trying hard to restrain his voice.

August fixed his eyes more firmly on the surveys before him, even as he shuffled them a bit, and perhaps cued Patrick to his jumping nerves.

“Really?” he simply stated. “I hope Mrs. O’Keefe enjoyed her visit.”

“Mrs. O’Keefe was answering questions that Maeve has no place asking,” he spat back, making it clear that August’s undivided attention was required. He set down the papers and invited Patrick to sit. Patrick hesitantly took a seat opposite and kept his threatening gaze fixed. “Maeve O’Connor is a good woman who has suffered poverty all her life. She is engaged to a man who can give her some comfort and a sound life for her and Rory. What do you think you’re doing to her, then?”

Impulsively, August felt his hackles rise. When threatened, it was his father’s nature he embraced. The fact that the man sitting in front of him could easily have pressed him into paste was irrelevant. No one questioned August’s motives or dared dictate how he should conduct himself with tenants.

“I’m not quite sure what you’re insinuating, but let me remind you of this: you are my employee. As my employee, you receive a monthly stipend and home without charge on my property. For a man with a wife, young child, and another on the way, you would do well to be most cautious in how you choose your words. However, let me assure you that Miss O’Connor’s arrangement with me is of her own free will, and that I will respect her decision should she choose to discontinue. I would even consider taking her back to Norwich as a member of my staff, if I thought she’d ever consider the offer.”

“Consider the offer?” Patrick gasped. “The O’Connors have lived on Middle Lake for four generations. That cottage is where Maeve was born. That cottage is where she held Sine’s hand as she lay dying. What do you think you could ever do that would make her want to leave?”

Ravish her from tip to toe and make her scream out my name in ecstasy, August mused.

“I’m confused. I thought she was engaged to the blacksmith in town,” August pondered. “Wouldn’t she be expected to live with her husband once she weds?”

“For a few years, but Maeve and Owen want to raise their children on Middle Lake,” Patrick answered. “He’s been saving up money to pay the rent on both places. Otherwise, they’d have been married by now.”

The conflict of emotions brought the taste of bile to August’s tongue. Now he understood why Maeve had been so intent on retaining the lease. It wasn’t because of her father’s health, though that was certainly a consideration at the moment. What she was really after was securing the ability to move back to her family home and raise her children there.

In his mind, the image formed: little children gathered around Maeve’s chair, listening to her stories, as Owen Murphy sat across the way, smoking a pipe and grinning. Patrick was right, Maeve deserved that prosperity. Why couldn’t he just let her go? Why torment her like this?

Because that future did not include him.

“Lord Grayson?”

Patrick was looking at him askew, and August realized his attention had drifted off. Quickly, he glanced at the mantle clock, wondering if it were too early to place a lantern in the attic window.

“She wants to raise her family here? On my land?”

“No, they want to raise their family here, on Middle Lake.” Patrick tilted his head in a curious fashion, and August suspected from his tone that there was more to his statement than the mere words therein. However, having entertained this intrusion into his day and feeling that his implied message had been sufficiently conveyed, August arose from his chair.

“I understand your concern, Mr. O’Keefe, but I consider the matter closed. I am required elsewhere. Please show yourself out.”

Running from the potential confrontation may have made him seem cowardly, but August didn’t like the direction his instincts were taking him, telling him to promise to keep Maeve’s honor intact. Why should he promise any such thing? And further, how had Patrick O’Keefe come to suspect the truth? August had always credited him with exceptional intuitiveness — it was, after all, one of the reasons he had appointed him middleman. Patrick was not particularly emotional, but evidence had proven he was not the type of man to evict tenants ruthlessly or overlook the occasional tardiness of rent. He was precisely the combination of firm hand and local credibility that August needed acting on his behalf.

He half-wished in this particular case Patrick had acted in opposition to character. If he had thrown out the O’Connors when their rent was first late, or kept to the customary practice of collecting annual rents rather than larding it out monthly, as he had done, August never would be contemplating doing the things he was to an innocent, untouched woman like Maeve. There would never have been a chance for any of these adolescent attractions to blossom.

Confusion was fast becoming a bosom chum. August needed to retreat, to consider in a clear frame of mind what was going on about him. He walked to the garden, where Caroline sat on a stone bench, reading.

“News from home?” August asked, making his presence known.

Caroline jolted and clutched a letter, the focus of her attention, to her chest, her cheeks flushing red as though caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“August! You gave me a fright!” she gasped, moving the sheets of paper around her back.

Now his curiosity was piqued, and Lord Grayson gave way to the menacing big brother. “What do you have there, sister?” He squirreled around her in an attempt to grab the document from her dainty little hands.

Caroline squealed and took flight. Even as demure and petite as she was, she could move sprightly enough. “That’s none of your affair.”

She took off along the hedge rows, but August gave chase. He caught up with her at the edge of the lawns and grabbed her around the waist, causing both to tumble to the ground. In the ensuing jostle, August at last snatched the parchment. He sprang to his feet, held the paper aloft, and began reading aloud what was certain to be no more than a gossipy drudge from Caroline’s familiars back in Norwich or London.

“‘Dear Miss Grayson, you’ll forgive if I should seem forward or unconventional in my addressing this inquiry to you so soon after our introduction, but I would very much like to beg permission to call upon you at Shepherd’s Bluff.’ Caroline, what … ? Who?”

She snatched the letter back vehemently; her face flushing even brighter, a trait inherited from their fair-faced mother.

“A gentleman whom I chanced upon in the market and is no further your concern than that.”

“No further my concern?” August realized his words were somewhat bitter in tone, but did so hope that Caroline was not attempting to keep secrets. The sentiment made those he was keeping become more palpable in their unspoken discourse. “It is most certainly my concern. If someone intends to court my little sister, it is my duty to weed out the insurrection. So let’s start with the basics. British or Irish?”

Caroline looked up from a now quiet repose. “American.”

Well, that was unexpected, and it left August with little power to coerce or punish within his capacity as a British lord. “What is he doing in Killarney?”

“I do not know. Our conversation in the market place did not lend itself to that subject.”

August grew more curious. “And to what did your conversation lend itself?”

“Death, brother,” she answered solemnly, beginning to make her way to the house. “We spoke of death.”

“And he was so inspired by your morbid elocutions that now he wants to call upon you?” This man reeked of suspicion even by so few of these known characteristics. “His name?”

“Captain Jefferson Schand.”

“Captain?”

She nodded. “Of the Confederate States of America.”

“Caroline!” August rebuked. “A disgraced soldier? Sincerely?”

She shook her head violently in an attempt to eschew his conclusion. “Oh, he isn’t as you would suppose. He is a gentle man of great compassion and understanding. When I told you we spoke of death, I did not mean to say that we spoke broadly of dying. We spoke specifically about the deaths of our parents, and the plight of the Irish in the Americas and here in Ireland. His intentions, dear brother, seem not that unlike your own.”

His head snapped in her direction. “What know you of my intentions?”

An understanding smile was her only reply. “Please, let’s have him to tea?” Caroline begged, clasping her hands before her. “I would very much like for you to meet him.”

She batted her green puppy dog eyes, melting him in the way that she always could. How she looked so like their mother.

“Well, all right then. Let me meet this Captain Schand and make out his intentions for my little sister,” he said as her face exploded into a smile. “Send word for him to join us Friday afternoon.”

Caroline rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. August knew she would immediately employ her quill and ink to pen a reply. Caroline was more than an appropriate age to receive suitors if she wished, but only with proper etiquette observed. He would not tolerate the besmirching of her character by salacious rumors borne of Caroline’s misunderstood sense of abandon once she got an idea in her head.

He sat himself next to the fountain’s edge and watched the wind blowing through the trees. By this time in the autumn, most of the leaves had turned. His eyes were drawn to those blushing red, the crimson tone reminding him so of Maeve’s flush as she lay across his bed the previous night.

“What happens?”

What was happening? He couldn’t help but wonder if her question, though direct to the moment, didn’t speak of a larger inquiry. More than any other woman he had held in his arms, Maeve felt fitted to him, both in body and in spirit. She wasn’t like the fainting, weepy, status-obsessed females of Norwich. She was sincere, caring, self-sacrificing, and unapologetically blunt. He knew she must have been in utter confusion over his treatment of her, hot as Hades one moment, colder than winter the next. In truth, he didn’t really understand himself why he acted so passionately, for ill or for will, in her presence. What would happen now? They couldn’t continue in this in-between much longer. Already he knew he was approaching a tenuous place with her. It would break his heart when it ended, but he could always run away from the consequences. Maeve was stuck, woefully at his mercy.

One thing August knew for certain: he mustn’t allow Maeve to fall in love with him. He feared, however, if he let his guard down, she would do just that. But oh, how lovely endearments from her lips would be. She had a spark he had recognized even in their youth. Now as a woman, that spark blazed.

He wasn’t truly evil if, even kept in secret, he was so concerned for her welfare, was he? He had hurt her so terribly the night before, and guilt nagged him with need to compensate his offense. A gift. Yes, a gift was in order. But any bauble he may give her would be worn as clearly as a brand against her flesh. Surely there was something he could offer her that was discreet enough to remain hidden, yet sincere enough to be treasured.

Then, it came to him. Apparently, she needed a proper petticoat. Every fine lady in London or Norwich had a dozen; Maeve O’Connor should have at least one. Perhaps he could sneak away one of Caroline’s to give to her. But then Caroline was so petite, a petticoat of hers would likely rip in two if Maeve tried to shimmy into it. The image of this coursed through his mind’s eye: Maeve’s breasts pulled by the lace of the bodice, nearly bursting the seams, begging for him to unlace her.