Come Near Me (4 page)

He remembered his route across the water, as he had
been crossing at this particular place since he was a boy. Except
that the stones had seemed larger then, or his feet, smaller.

He was in the middle of the stream, halfway between
the bank he’d departed and halfway to the bank he desired, when he
heard the shriek. Short. Sharp. Feminine.

He stopped where he was, one foot secure on a stone,
the other raised. He held his arms out from his sides, balancing
himself rather precariously as he turned his head. He searched out
the direction of the scream through the trees, the location of the
female.

If he’d had both feet firmly on the stone, he would
have been fine. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.

A moment later, he was sitting rump-down in the
stream, his fists dug into the soft, muddy bottom, watching a blur
of green and white and vibrant, brilliant, dark red dance across
the stones, including the one from which he had lately,
reluctantly, departed.

“Oh, my! Oh, my goodness! Did I push you?” On the
far bank, the blur of color resolved itself into the form of a
heartbreakingly beautiful young woman who was just now pressing her
hands against her mouth, ineffectually pushing back a giggle even
as she tried to catch her breath. “Well, of course I did, didn’t I?
I most distinctly remember feeling a
bump
as I flew over the
stones. I was minding my feet, you understand. I should have been
looking higher, shouldn’t I? Are you very wet?”

Adam looked down at himself and the scant foot of
water he sat in, then at the female once more. The apparition. The
goddess. He resisted the impulse to shake his head, clear his
vision. “That, I believe, madam, would depend upon your definition
of the word,” he said without malice, lifting his hands slightly so
that the gentle current could rinse the mud from his fingers. “I’m
not soaked. Even drenched. Then again, damp may be too mild a
definition. Are you all right? Is someone chasing you? I thought I
heard a scream a moment before we, um,
met.”

“Oh. That.” The fantasy, fairy-tale princess—for
Adam could think of no other way to describe the beauty who stood
before him, stood over him—giggled in a very human way. It was a
very infectious giggle; he found himself stifling a laugh of his
own.

Which was ludicrous. He shouldn’t be laughing. He
should be mad as fire. But all the fire he knew was there, in her
hair, and he longed for nothing more than to warm himself in its
heat. Except, of course, that he was already much too warm. Perhaps
approaching delirium. Another rather prudent dunk in the cold water
was probably what he really needed.

“Yes, madam.
That
,” Adam said, regaining his
feet and his scattered wits as gracefully as a wet, dripping man
can. Then, with the least amount of haste he could feign, he
completed his journey across the stream, ignoring the
stepping-stones as being too little, too late. He splashed through
the water without regard to his boots, to stand beside her on the
bank. “What was it? Bandits? Great woolly beasts? A bumblebee
trying to nest in your hair?”

“It was Bumble, actually, but he’s gone,” she told
him, then shocked him to his toes as she ran behind a nearby tree,
only to reappear a few moments later holding one of her petticoats
out to him. “Here. Use this to dry yourself.” When he hesitated,
she waved it in front of his face. “Oh, go on. Don’t be a gudgeon.
It’s old as Moses, and you can’t hurt it. And get that spot of mud
on your cheek—the left one. Ah, that’s it. There! Don’t you feel
better now?”

“Did—did you say
Bumble
?” Adam finished
wiping at his cheek, drying his hands, and made to return the
petticoat, which made him feel even sillier than he had in
accepting it in the first place. Besides, it was warm from her
body, smelled of lavender, and his only other option was to beg she
let him keep it forever.

He quickly rolled the garment into a ball and laid
it on the bank, wondering when it was he had reverted from a
gentleman of the world and into a stumbling, stuttering schoolboy.
Better yet, when had he last been called a gudgeon? When had anyone
last dared?

The apparition in front of him pushed back a lock of
dark-red hair and nodded. “Why, yes. I did say Bumble. He’s one of
the marquess of Daventry’s bulls. His prize bull, I imagine.
Someone must have forgotten to latch the gate to his pasture, I
suppose, and he decided he might like to amuse himself by tossing
me in the air a time or two. I didn’t linger to ask his intentions.
I yelped and bolted straight for the stream. But the trees defeated
him, and I’m sure he’s gone now. Well, that will pay me handsomely
for trespassing, won’t it?”

“Someone didn’t latch the—” Adam broke off, silently
cursing himself. “That was probably my fault, I’m afraid. I was
tramping the fields, woolgathering, not paying attention. Although
I could have sworn I’d latched the gate behind me. You could have
been badly injured, as could I; considering that I’d stumbled
through his pasture without realizing he was in it. Buckfastleigh’s
Prize isn’t known for his ingratiating manners. A thousand
pardons,” he ended, bowing from the waist, which wasn’t easy,
considering how his soggy unmentionables stuck to his rump each
time he moved.

“Yes, I rather believe—did you say Buckfastleigh’s
Prize?” She cocked her head to one side, looking up at him
inquiringly. “How do you know that? I most distinctly remember
calling him Bumble, which is what Hayes calls him because, much as
he loves the sport of the mate, the poor obtuse Romeo has to be
helped through the more mechanical moments of the thing.”

“Really?” Adam said, knowing his eyes were all but
wide as saucers. This all had to be a dream. She had to be a dream.
He had fallen on his own, hit his head on a rock, and was now
dreaming. He decided he liked the dream. Very much. Even if he
ended by drowning. “How—interesting. Except for Hayes, I’d imagine.
He probably sees the whole procedure as a terrible bother.”

She clapped her hands to her cheeks, which were now
burning quite fetchingly with embarrassment. “I shouldn’t have said
that, should I? I’m supposed to believe that babies, even bull
babies, I imagine, are all discovered in the early morning, beneath
the cabbages. Then again, I shouldn’t be here at all. Not
trespassing, and most certainly not speaking to you. The two of us
are quite alone here, you know. That’s not permissible, according
to my companion, Mrs. Forrest. Except that Mrs. Forrest thinks plum
pudding is vulgar and suggestive—how, I don’t know—so I really paid
her very little attention as often as I could until she finally
threw up her hands and left us a year ago. You’re the marquess,
aren’t you? How else would you know Bumble is really
Buckfastleigh’s Prize. Or care, for that matter. Would you like to
step out of the trees and into the sun? You must be cold. You’ll
dry faster that way, too, although you’ll probably begin to itch. I
apologize for that, too.”

The entire time she had been speaking—and she spoke
rather quickly, so he hadn’t had all that much time—Adam had been
busy mentally inventorying the trespasser. Her nearly waist-length
hair was, as he’d already noted, a marvel. But it didn’t begin to
compete with her creamy skin, her huge, liquid green eyes, the
sweep of dark lashes and brows, the pink fullness of her wide
mouth.

Her face was small—he was sure his cupped hand would
all but swallow her chin and lower jaw—and infinitely exquisite. As
was the rest of her. She rose no higher than his mid-chest, putting
her at only a few inches above five feet, and her body was one of
curves rather than planes and angles. A full bosom, a trim waist, a
delicious sweep of hip, the hint of long legs, of feet as narrow
and well formed as her hands.

If this was a dream, he decided he could be content
with that. If it wasn’t? Ah, if it wasn’t, if this adorable
creature was actually here, actually speaking to him...

He waited until she had run down, run out of things
to say, then bent to retrieve the petticoat. He held out his bent
arm. She grinned, bobbed him a fairly saucy curtsy, and took it.
She then allowed him to lead her through the narrow band of trees
that had grown up around either side of the stream, and into the
sunlight pouring down on a freshly turned field.

He’d never smell fresh earth, feel the sun, see
another spring, without remembering how it felt to walk the
perimeter of this field with his lovely, delicious, fairy-tale
princess. He had gone mad, insane. And he didn’t want sanity if it
didn’t include her.

“As you’ve deduced that I am the marquess, madam,”
he said, feeling foolishly formal as the sunlight found her hair,
turning it into a halo of reddish gold that all but brought tears
to his eyes, “perhaps you’ll be so kind as to tell me your name?
Mrs. Forrest would undoubtedly say that, at least, was proper.”

“Yes, I suppose I should. I’m Charlotte Victor, my
lord. My father and I are leasing the cottage to the west of your
lands, and have done so for almost the last year. Precisely in the
direction we’re now walking, just beyond the next line of trees.
Mama died, you see, and Papa wished to get away from our home for a
while. Away from the memories. At least that’s what he tells
people. Personally, I believe he’s here for the hunting. The man
does dearly love the hunt.”

“My condolences on your loss,” Adam offered
automatically, picturing Frame Cottage in his mind’s eyes, and
recalling that the term “cottage” had always seemed rather too
quaint for a fourteen-room structure. Even if the owner had thought
it the height of ingenuity to top the slates with a picturesque
layer of thatch.

Her grin surprised him. “No, no, you mustn’t. You’re
very kind, but I find it impossible to tell Papa’s lie to you, my
lord. You’ll keep our secret, won’t you?”

“Secret?” He was having trouble hearing her, for the
blood pounding in his ears. What a pretty mouth she had. If he
wasn’t actually lying back there in the stream, dreaming, drowning,
perhaps Charlotte Victor was in reality a Gypsy, and she had cast a
spell over him. There had to be something to explain how he felt.
Because he felt as if his life, at the supposedly quite respectable
age of thirty, had somehow just begun. He was filled with that
life. Fit to bursting.

“Yes, our secret. Mama isn’t dead, you see. Not
really. She’s just gone missing. Well, she’s not precisely
missing.
She’s gone away. With one Henry Carpenter.
Wonderful man. It has all been a bit of a scandal at home, which is
why Papa packed the two of us up and took us away. Once he noticed
Mama was gone, that is. It was fox-hunting season, and he’s rather
fully occupied in fox-hunting season.”

“I suppose your papa isn’t the only gentleman to
have misplaced his wife during fox-hunting season.” Adam felt a
tickle of laughter building low in his throat. He bit his bottom
lip as his eyes began to water. Charlotte Victor was beautiful.
Charming. Innocent. And he was enjoying her so much he could just
eat her up, as he would a sugarplum.

She tipped her head slightly, looking at him. “Mama
writes quite often, so I’m not upset, and it’s not as if I’m not
fully grown and able to take care of myself. She deserves a little
happiness. Losing your husband’s affection to a pack of hounds and
a scrap of vermin isn’t something a well-bred woman of any
sensibility takes lightly. At least that’s what Mama said. I,
myself, have no experience in the area, but I imagine she’s right.
What’s this? You’re laughing, aren’t you? Don’t try to stifle it—go
on, laugh. It’s funny.”

Adam, having been given permission of sorts, threw
back his head and roared. “Oh, thank you, Miss Victor. I don’t
remember the last time I’ve heard such refreshing honesty,” he said
once he’d recovered. “London is full of lies, you know.”

“Really? Well, that is a pity. I’m sure I shouldn’t
know how to be anything but honest. And you’re welcome. I’m glad to
have been of service, I suppose, although I’ve also betrayed myself
quite completely as being nothing but a silly country miss,” she
said, beginning to skip along, her skirts flying out with each kick
of her half-booted toes. She all but danced ahead of him on the
narrow path, then stopped, turned, looked at him through the fiery
haze of wind-kissed curls.

She smiled, unaffectedly shoving the errant locks
away from her face, and showing him that she had absolutely no idea
she was figuratively punching all the air from his lungs at the
same time. His stomach slapped his toes, then shot upward,
plastering itself against his windpipe. “I can find my way from
here, my lord, if you’ll be so kind as to return my petticoat?”

His own probably faintly idiotic smile vanishing,
Adam realized he’d begun clutching the petticoat to him as if
holding it meant he could also hold on to Charlotte Victor.
“Might—mi—” He hesitated, cleared his throat, began again. “Might I
be so presumptuous as to invite you and your father to dinner at
Daventry Court this evening? We keep country hours, I’m afraid,
which includes dining ungodly early. I’d send the carriage for you.
At five?”

Adam winced inwardly. He sounded stiff. Formal. And
yet stammering, almost pleading. A person would think he didn’t
know how to offer a proper invitation. Or that he cared, more than
he liked to admit, what Miss Charlotte Victor thought of him.

“Why, I’d be delighted, my lord,” she responded with
a small giggle, taking the petticoat from his nearly nerveless
grasp. “Papa would flay me if I refused. Truth to tell, he’s been
all but dying for the chance of an invitation to Daventry Court.
He’s heard your brother, Lord Dagenham, that is, has the most
marvelous hounds.”

Her answer eased his mind and loosed his good humor
once more as he retraced his steps to the stream, and beyond. He’d
put the papa with Geoff, and send the two of them off to the dogs
directly after dinner, while he and Miss Victor took an intimate
stroll in the gardens.