Jayne Fresina (21 page)

Ever since he’d turned fourteen and first looked at females as something other than a hindrance, he’d known one day he would marry. It was a sad inevitability that every capable man was expected to find a wife to bear his children. With his mother there at his side, however, he kept serious thoughts of marriage at bay. He had a woman in his house already, a woman who took care of him, saw to his meals, mended his clothes and occasionally reminded him about his manners. Very occasionally, since she knew him too well to expect miracles. Until now, it never occurred to him that his life lacked anything. But a myriad of previously unknown hopes and fears took hold as watched Lucy with her sewing. He’d never known this before, this ruthless determination to keep a woman in his life, to stop her from leaving.

Slowly he shook his head. Why couldn’t he have felt like this a few minutes ago, when Alice stood waiting politely for his kiss?

Taking another step forward, he realized Lucy wore no cap this evening. Her hair was braided down her back, tied with ribbon, the true color richly evident in the firelight. To call it merely red was an injustice. It was every shade from amber to russet, entwined and gleaming like wet autumn leaves. It almost hurt to look at her.

He must have made a sound, for she turned her head and saw him there. Vince gave a low woof and dutifully lollopped over to greet him. Making a quick fuss of the dog, he strode to the fire, restless, his mind a whirl of nonsensical ideas and fancies.

“New gown?” he muttered, forcing the words out under duress.

“Your mother’s. She gave it to me.”

“Good.” Walking across to the other side of the hearth, he leaned there, one arm propped up on the mantle. “You can wear it at the summer f
ê
te. Oakham holds one every year on his lawns at Bollingbrooke Hall.”

She raised her warmly-questioning eyes to his.

“You’ll go with me,” he added, his voice firmer now, very much the master of his domain and all the creatures in it. He knew it would be polite to ask, but she’d only say no, wouldn’t she?

“Perhaps,” she said, her gaze drifting back to her sewing.

He pressed his lips tight, gritted his teeth. Was there any point about which the wench wouldn’t argue? “I bought you something today,” he spat out finally, sorely regretting the fact already.

Again her eyelashes lifted, a little smile tugging her lips crookedly upward. “Something for me?” Her joy was far too enthusiastic, not commensurate with what he offered. One would think she’d never been given anything in her life.

He walked over to a crate he’d brought in earlier and lifted the lid. It was filled with straw and had carried items for the pantry, gifts for his mother, but underneath, buried deep, was something he’d purchased for her in Norwich market, when his companion’s back was turned.

John held it out to her, slightly embarrassed. “I thought you might have need…”

She leapt to her feet and almost ran to it, then stopped, hands a few inches from claiming the gift. “For me? You’re sure?” Her face turned up to his. Like a fertile field lush with summer’s abundance, her eyes were wide and clear.

“Should keep the sun off your face.” He thrust the wide-brimmed straw bonnet at her. “Don’t suppose you want any more freckles.” He’d heard his sisters lamenting their own occasional “blemishes” enough to know how little freckles were appreciated by young ladies. And he’d seen Lucy constantly squinting, her hand over her eyes when she worked outside in the sunny yard.

Frugal with his coin, he’d never bought any young woman a gift before, not even Alice. A wise hussy like this one, he thought moodily, would run to whichever man had the most to spend on her, but he wanted a woman who shared her time with him out of genuine affection. This was the difference between him and Nathaniel. His cousin didn’t care why a woman was with him, as long as he enjoyed himself. In the past, John hadn’t cared much either, but that was before he met this stunning, sorrel-haired creature for whom every slight triumph was precious, every fresh accomplishment a discovery as great as that of a new world conquered.

She clutched the gift to her bosom. “It’s lovely.”

He looked at her, the need to speak almost burning a hole in his tongue. No, he’d let her do the talking tonight. He didn’t trust himself, had a tendency to say the wrong thing to her, blurt things out. Like asking her to kiss him.

* * * *

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she added, his silence making her nervous. “It must have cost you…” she faltered. It wouldn’t be delicate to mention money and how much things cost. Especially considering other conversations and quarrels recently had.

She put the bonnet on now, too excited to wait, dashing to look at her reflection in the window.

“Go on up to bed then,” he said gruffly. “I’ll put the fire out.”

She turned, one hand on the crown of her bonnet. “I suppose Alice doesn’t need a hat. She has no freckles.”

He was bent over, checking the sleeping piglet. “Aye. Alice has none of those witch’s marks on her face.”

Lucy took one last look at her reflection before walking back across the room to where he stood. As he saw her coming, he straightened up, watching her warily, flinching in readiness.

When she should have come to a halt, she kept going, stumbling into him. He had to put his arms around her, just to keep from falling back and then she rose on tip toe, head flung back, and kissed him, full on the lips. The bonnet fell. His fingers spread between her shoulder blades, drawing her closer still, improperly close.

She’d meant it only as a quick, innocent thank-you, but should have known what would happen. Her arms went around his neck and he lifted her, holding her tightly, resettling his feet to steady them both. The unexpected kiss quickly turned greedy, a full-blown devouring, a sudden yielding, a wanton capitulation after too long holding it at bay. All the agony of those last few weeks in his house, the closeness and yet the distance, was too much to bear. Every casual glimpse of his well-honed body, the sound of his low, gruff voice waking her every morning through her open shutters, even the sight of his boots kicked off by the fire, made her heart pulse a little faster, made her long for his arms again. The idea of some other woman one day having him, when she could not, made her bitter, raging inside with self-pity.

John broke away first. His eyelids were half-lowered, lips still parted and wet. Sweeping his hands to her bottom, he moved her against his loins, her hips to his hard thighs.

“I need you,” he managed, his voice like slow wheels over gravel. “I’m on fire, wench.”

Lucy trembled, closing her eyelids all the way, leaning into his body, her cheek to his shirt. She needed him just as much, but it was treacherous ground for them both. If she went to his bed, she might want to stay there. She was in his way, preventing him from loving good girls like Alice. Unmarried girls.

“I didn’t like it today,” he said. “Too many hours without you in them. I need you to stay with me.”

She opened her eyes again to find him watching her, his regard hot, heady with intent. Her body tightened, her breath stilled, strangled in her throat.

“No. It’s impossible,” she murmured.

With her braid twisted around his fist, he forced her head back, making her submit to another kiss, but this time, when his tongue began to press its way between her lips, she backed down, stepping out of his embrace. She suspected he would have struggled to keep her in his arms, but Vince growled a warning, a reminder, and so he thought better of it.

“Thank you for the bonnet,” she said again, every word dripping with thwarted desire.

Retrieving the fallen hat, he passed it to her and she ran quickly up the stairs to her bed.

* * * *

The next day, while she was sweeping the yard, wearing her new straw bonnet, he crept into her bed chamber and searched until he found the wooden box she’d brought with her. Waiting for her to open up to him was no longer feasible. Despite promises to his mother, he wanted answers now. These thoughts and feelings she put inside him could no longer be dismissed as transient, a shallow, passing fancy. They were deep set, beyond the pale, and they demanded the truth.

There was no lock; the box opened easily, much to his surprise. Inside he found a small ivory and silver comb, a delicately wrought silver bracelet inlaid with mother-of-pearl and one pearl earring. He recognized it at once, the partner to one he found on the floor of a bawdy house chamber almost three months ago. For a moment he stared at it, then closed the box and put it back under her bed.

Prying into her possessions revealed little he didn’t already know. She was clearly a light-fingered thief, however, and he ought to warn his mother to keep an eye on her own jewelry.

He went to her window and looked out on the yard, where she worked in her straw bonnet, humming a light tune. How had she done this to him and why? Surely there were a great many other men, richer, more powerful men, she might have trapped with her wiles. Sometimes he wondered if she was merely practicing on him, passing the time in a fashion to amuse herself. The kiss last night was lusty and willful, utterly unexpected. It was equal parts innocent and wanton, when he never before imagined it was possible to be both at once.

As if she felt him watching, she stopped and looked up. He ducked out of sight. Hunkered down under the window, he turned his head and saw the book of recipes his mother had lent her, set on the table beside her bed. There was something poking out of the pages. He reached for the book and opened it to find a small, torn square of linen and a pressed four-leaf clover.

He’d found that clover just a few days ago in the lane and given it to her, for luck. She’d claimed to have no belief in “silly superstitions,” yet she kept it. Even more interesting was the square of linen, which he recognized from one of his own old shirts. There was a stain on it because he’d cut himself while wearing it.

Why would she keep that?

He shook his head slowly, concluding it must be part of this devious witch’s spell she’d put upon him. What other explanation could there be for keeping an old, stained piece of shirt?

* * * *

When she went to her chamber later, Lucy knew immediately someone else had been there. The shift laying across her bed was moved. The wash jug and basin too had been pushed a few inches to the right by someone looking behind it, searching. On a sudden instinct, she crouched and drew out her box. She opened it.

There, beside her pearl earring, was its twin, once thought lost and now returned. The two fat pearls lay together, happily reunited.

Like she and John perhaps?

She slammed the box shut and closed her eyes, panic rippling through her, as well as something else. Something warmer and sweeter.

Last night, when he let her leave his arms after the kiss, she knew it was a reprieve. But those two earrings laid together sent her a message. He was waiting. This respite he granted was not infinite and neither was his patience.

Chapter 14

It was laundry day, a task she hated more than any other, apparently. It was a heavy, long, tedious job and she often burned her hands doing it. Now he watched her drawing water from the well. She’d been very quiet lately, ever since he returned her earring. She never mentioned it and he wondered whether she waited for him to say something.

He’d showed his mother the scrap of bloodied linen he found. “She’s casting a spell. I knew it. I knew she was up to no good.” It was the perfect excuse for all the odd things happening to him since she came.

“Why the devil would she want to do that?” his mother exclaimed. “You get yourself in enough of a pickle without interference from the supernatural. If you don’t know what to do with yourself lately, it’s your fault, not hers.”

“What else would she want with an old bit o’ shirt?” he demanded.

“Perhaps she was merely marking a page.”

“Hmmph!”

“Or perhaps it’s a keepsake.”

“A keepsake? For what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps she’s in love with you, John.” His mother had walked away laughing, leaving her son in a state of confusion.

Until then it had never occurred to him that Lucy’s motives in keeping the scrap of old shirt might be entirely guiltless, even in his favor. He’d instantly assumed the worst. He did it a lot with her, he realized, chagrined.

Was it possible she had feelings for him? Good feelings? Deeper feelings?

His mother was right: he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was usually very self-assured when it came to women. He knew what he wanted and he always got it, but he didn’t poach from other men, it wasn’t sporting. She claimed not to be his cousin’s mistress, but was it the truth? There was something in the way, something keeping her always in motion, running away, withdrawing whenever he advanced a step. He pondered her thoughtfully through the window. She was an intriguing blend of fear and boldness, tears and laughter.

Since John was her first lover, in his eyes she truly belonged to him, but what did she think? What rules did a concubine live by, if any? There was much to be resolved and straightened out, not the least of which was the cryptic comment on Nathaniel’s note:
On loan, handle with care.

“What are you still doing here?” his mother exclaimed, finding him by the window as she came out of the scullery, rolling down her sleeves.

He stared through the open window. “She’ll spill half the water before she gets it inside,” he muttered, watching Lucy struggle with a heavy bucket.

“Then go and help her. Is it so hard for you to be a gentleman? There’s no one watching, fool boy!”

It was true, he thought, scanning the yard hastily. No one was out there today but her. Perhaps, he could…

On her way back to the house she stopped and set down her bucket a moment to greet the growing piglet she’d nursed with such dedication and against his wishes. Flourishing against all expectation, the piglet would soon be ready to join his litter mates, if she could be persuaded to give up her pet. Then she’d have nothing to distract from her duties to the man of the house.