After the Abduction (24 page)
Still, Juliet couldn’t let her go on thinking these foolish things about him. “Lord Templemore doesn’t like me, not the way you mean. He’s merely being polite, to make up for what his brother did to me.”
With a shake of her head, Rosalind returned to sit beside Juliet. “When a man’s being polite, he doesn’t follow a woman’s every move with his eyes, nor disrupt his entire household on behalf of her sister. He doesn’t drive out at dawn in the snow just to be with her, and he certainly doesn’t make her blush over talk of checkmates.”
She glanced up, startled.
“Griff told me about finding the two of you alone in the drawing room. From what he said and what Lord Templemore mentioned the next day about chess, I’d wager that the two of you were not merely moving pieces about on a board.”
To Juliet’s annoyance, she colored right up to the roots of her hair.
Rosalind chuckled. “He’s courting you, you ninny. Surely you figured that out.”
Juliet gaped at her. “No, he’s not.”
“He most certainly is. Why else would he do all those things?”
Because he wanted to unnerve her and distract her from finding out the truth.
Then again, he could do that better by avoiding her,
couldn’t he? Yet he’d readily agreed to her proposal that he give her lessons. Until this week, he’d spent time with her at every opportunity. As Morgan, he ought to have stayed far away from her—as he’d started out to do. Instead, he’d kissed her and willingly walked into all her traps.
“You don’t mind that he’s courting you, do you?” Rosalind asked.
“I…I…don’t know. Until this very moment, I didn’t think he was.”
“I assumed that you felt some attraction to him as well. I’ve never seen you respond to a man as you do to him. With all the others, you seemed bored or faintly annoyed, but he makes you…well, glow. You do like him, don’t you?”
She’d been so busy trying to resist his sensual pull that she hadn’t bothered to think about whether she liked him. “I don’t dislike him,” she evaded. “But he often infuriates me.”
“Then you do like him,” Rosalind said with a sly smile. “That’s how it starts.”
You don’t understand,
she wanted to say.
He denies our entire past together.
Yet knowing that, she still missed him. She still longed to see him.
“I must go.” Rosalind patted her knee. “Polly’s waiting, so don’t be too long.”
After Rosalind left, Juliet dressed with particular care in her green velvet riding habit ornamented with gold cord and a small matching hat with gold tassels. She was probably being foolish. He probably wasn’t even there. Rosalind was surely mistaken.
And if Rosalind was right?
She paused in drawing on the matching half boots fringed in green. What if Rosalind was right about all of it? What if Sebastian really wanted to marry her? The warm thought seeped through her, insidious and seductive.
Then she shook her head sternly. She mustn’t let idle speculation tempt her from her purpose. If he’d been courting her, it was for a treacherous reason—to ensure that she kept quiet about his identity, for example. He couldn’t possibly have feelings for her. Beyond desire, of course. He admitted that he desired her, although that, too, was probably only because she’d pricked his pride by criticizing his seduction skills.
You’re more heartless than I realized, Juliet.
His words thundered through her memory, lacerating her conscience. What had seemed an unfair accusation now rang true in light of what Rosalind had said. That wasn’t the statement of a man who wanted only to prove his skills.
With a coil of anxiety tightening in her belly, she fled her bedchamber prison. Was it possible that she’d actually hurt him? For one moment in the conservatory—when the meaning of her accusations had dawned on him—she’d glimpsed pain in his face. At the time, her own hurt had been too great to acknowledge his, but now she had to wonder…
Spurred on by that thought, she hurried down the stairs and furtively threaded her way through the empty halls to the side door Rosalind had spoken of. Polly was waiting for her as Rosalind had promised, and in moments Juliet was mounted and away, without Polly. She didn’t need the servant witnessing
this
confrontation, to be sure.
What now? She finally had a chance to get Sebastian alone again, and she didn’t know what to do with it. Rosalind’s comments had thrown her off balance. If Sebastian truly cared for her, that changed matters considerably.
What was she thinking? How could he possibly care for her? He continued to deny who he was, for goodness sake. He could hardly expect her to marry him when he wouldn’t even admit
whom
she was marrying.
On the other hand, she hadn’t exactly made it easy for him to confess. That first night, she’d threatened to hold a pistol to his head. Later, she’d refused to marry “Morgan” under any circumstances. And last week, she’d sworn never to forgive him.
All without knowing the reasons for his actions. Her behavior had been understandable when she’d first come here, full of righteous indignation, wounded from two years of abandonment and tormenting questions. But as she’d come to know the kind of man he was—proud, responsible, overwhelmingly conscious of how scandal could wreck his family—she should have realized her mistake. In launching herself at him in anger, without stopping to think how he’d view it, she’d erected walls that made it impossible for him to confess anything. No wonder he’d remained mute.
Didn’t he deserve the chance to speak without fear of reprisal?
She stiffened in the saddle. Very well, she’d give him that chance. She’d try this again, without all the tricks and the anger. After all the games she’d played, she had to change her pattern, rip out the old stitches. Neither of them had spoken an honest word from the beginning. She’d sought to trap him; he’d sought to allay her suspicions.
But somebody had to start being honest, and it might as well be her. If he truly had felt something for her, then surely he still did. She must remind him of that. She must confess that she wanted to hear him out, that she cared for him, too. Perhaps then they could be honest with each other.
And if he didn’t care for her, after all? If it
had
been as she feared—all part of a scheme to distract her?
She’d deal with that when the time came. Worrying about it now would only lessen her resolve.
With that, she spurred the horse to a trot along the
broad path to the cottage. Without the snow to hamper her, she reached it in little time. She spotted the plume of smoke before she saw the cottage itself, and her gloved hands squeezed the reins. He was indeed here. She’d have him to herself, so she must make good use of the opportunity.
Moments later, she drew up in the clearing where sat the cottage and its outbuilding. Dismounting, she glanced around. A painted target was set up at one end. Sebastian’s horse was tethered beneath a lean-to at the other, contentedly munching hay. And the plume of smoke hadn’t come from the cottage after all, but from the outbuilding. His forge. Of course.
The doors and windows stood open, no doubt to release the heat from the fires. Tying off her horse at a nearby tree, she approached slowly, nervous now that she was here. Nor did the loud clang of metal against metal inside calm her agitation.
When last she’d seen him, they’d both been angry. He probably still was, judging from how he’d been avoiding her. And accosting an angry man with a hammer in an isolated place might not be the brightest idea she’d ever had. Yet her other choice was to return to London without seeing him again, which was no choice at all.
Squelching any misgivings, she walked in. A pleasant warmth engulfed her, a sharp contrast to the cold outside.
Sebastian stood with his back to her at an oven, drawing out a glowing red object with iron tongs. She froze just inside the door when she realized he was naked from the waist up. Good Lord in heaven.
Apparently he hadn’t heard her enter over the roar of the fire, and she was in no hurry to alert him, not with such a magnificent display before her. She’d never seen him shirtless, not even when they’d eloped and certainly not since she’d come here. This was one of those things an un
married woman simply wasn’t meant to see, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
Damp, inky tendrils of hair clung to his neck. And what a sleek, fine neck it was, too, as beautifully made as the muscular shoulders flexing under their gloss of sweat and the well-defined sinews of his back. Then there was his nicely rounded bottom and thick, strong thighs so eloquently displayed by snug breeches. My oh my oh my.
She swallowed hard. So this was how a man looked beneath the layers of coat and waistcoat. She wasn’t sure why, but the very sight evoked an exotic quivering in the nether reaches of her belly.
Knowing it was horribly wicked of her, she held her breath, willing him to turn around and show the rest of that impressive male physique. To her delight, he did, swinging the tongs around to dip the glowing object into a pail that lay between her and him. It sizzled hotly, steam rising to veil him, but as the steam dispersed, she found herself staring at his sculpted chest with its smattering of black, curly hair. How would that taut skin feel beneath her fingers? Or her lips?
She blushed at the thought, and that’s when he lifted his head and saw her. His fabulous chest rose with his sharp intake of breath. “What are you doing here?”
The curt tone caught her off guard, and she wet her lips nervously. “I…I…was looking for you.”
“Were you?” Eyes cool as chilled wine flicked over her. He lifted the tongs out of the bucket, then carried his object over to a high wooden table and dropped it there. Picking up a small hammer, he tapped with rhythmic, skilled blows, molding the metal to suit some inner design. “That means you’ve either come to your senses and recognized you were wrong. Or you’re trying a new trick to get me to confess to Morgan’s crime.”
A week ago, the mere mention of “Morgan” in third per
son would have sparked her temper. But that had been her problem all along—letting her anger keep her from asking reasonably for the truth. “I’m not wrong. But I’ve given up on tricking you. You’re obviously too clever for that.”
He stopped tapping. “Then why are you here?”
She couldn’t just blurt out what she wanted, not with him so hostile. Yet she must bridge the gap that he seemed determined not to cross. What did a woman do when she wanted a man to resume his courtship of her, aside from telling him right out?
Why, she showed an interest in his endeavors. “I’d like you to teach me to shoot.”
That got his attention. Slowly he faced her. With his forearm, he wiped the sweat from his brow, streaking soot across the already grimy skin and giving her a glimpse of hair-shadowed underarms. “To shoot what?”
“What do you think? A pistol.”
“Why in God’s name would you want that?”
She thought fast. “To have some means of protection from scoundrels in London.”
His jaw tightened. “You don’t need protection. You have your family, remember?”
“All the same, I want to learn to shoot. And I want you to teach me.”
“No.”
“Why not? What can it hurt?”
His harsh laugh reverberated in the room. “You think I’m the man who kidnapped you, yet you want me to put a gun in your hand? Do I look that insane?”
“Oh, for goodness sake, I’m not going to shoot you.”
“I seem to recall something about your wanting me on my knees begging while you held a pistol to my head.”
Dear me, all her rash comments were coming back to haunt her. “I…um…might have exaggerated a little.”
He lifted one eyebrow.
“What good would shooting you do, anyway?” she persisted. “I can hardly prove you’re my kidnapper if you’re dead.” She tipped up her chin. “Besides, you’re only refusing to teach me because you’re afraid you might let something slip again.”
“I didn’t let anything slip before. I told you—”
“Yes, yes, you saw me in London. Nonsense.” She gritted her teeth. “If you’re not afraid of confessing something, then why not teach me?”
He shrugged. “Because I don’t want to.”
She stepped toward him and lowered her voice. “Coward.”
For a moment, the heat that flared in his eyes gave her hope. Then he banked it quickly and turned back to his work. “Your little taunts no longer work on me, Lady Juliet. I’m wise to the full range of your techniques. So you’d best trot right back to Charnwood Hall before I throw you out of my forge.”
Her heart sank. This wasn’t going well at all. How could she ever break down the walls between them if he wouldn’t even let her near?
She squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t let it end like this. She simply would
not.
Scanning the room, she caught sight of exactly what she needed—a pistol lying on a table. Walking over to it, she picked it up. “I suppose I could teach myself. I think I know how this works. Isn’t this the cock? I know you pull it back, but as for loading—”
“Give me that!” He stalked over to snatch it from her hand. “This is not a toy.”
“I know. And it would be far more helpful if I didn’t have to blunder my way alone through learning to shoot, but I suppose I shall, since you won’t help me. Knowing you, there are all manner of pistols in that cottage over there.”
He eyed her warily. “You wouldn’t.”
“I’ll be no bother, I promise,” she said brightly. “I’ll find a pistol and begin target practice on my own. Now does the gunpowder go into something near the cock or am I supposed to dribble it down inside the barrel?”
He glared at her so ferociously that she half feared he’d shoot
her.
Then he laid the pistol on the table and snapped, “Go wait for me outside. You want to learn to shoot? Fine. I’ll teach you. Give me a moment to wash up and dress.”
“Thank you,” she said primly, biting the inside of her lip to keep from smiling as she turned for the door.
So he was wise to the full range of her techniques, was he? Well, the poor man hadn’t seen anything yet.
