Jayne Fresina (24 page)

“All night perhaps,” he replied. “A woman’s first babe always takes longest.”

Looking at the neat rows of pickle jars, she had a mischievous idea. Bringing out two pots of jam, she set them down on the table before him with a spoon. “Your mother made one and I made the other,” she said proudly. “You see if you can tell which is which.”

He was eager enough for something sweet to finish his meal. “I’m an expert at jam tasting, you know.”

“Hmm.” She chuckled. “Just like you’re an expert at everything, John Carver.”

“Can’t help that, can I?” He grinned.

“Pick up the spoon and get on with it.”

His eyes narrowed. “If I get it right, what prize do I win?”

“There is no prize.”

Leaning back, he folded his arms high over his chest. “Then I’ll not play.”

“Very well then, what do you want?”

“A kiss. If I guess correctly.”

He was, of course, taking advantage of his mother’s absence.

Anxious, she looked at the two pots of jam. He might be able to tell just from the writing on the labels, she thought. If this was to be a true test of her cooking, there was only one thing to do. Taking a black wool scarf from its hook by the door, she tied it firmly around his eyes, while he laughed at her excessive caution.

She guided his hand to the spoon, but he wanted her to hold it and feed him, so she did. What did it matter? In another few days she’d be gone. Lord Oakham’s threat had made certain of it, so she may as well make the most of the time left.

He tasted the first mouthful of jam slowly, making a great deal of show, relishing his performance, his hand closed over hers holding the spoon. Lucy waited impatiently, wishing she never thought of this game. She might have known it could only lead to trouble. Perhaps, she mused grimly, that was why she did it. Around him she seemed to have a disgraceful lack of restraint.

He licked the spoon clean. “Very good,” was the eventual assessment.

“Now the other.” She took the spoon to the second pot and he kept his hand around hers, drawing her subtly closer, until he had an excuse to slide his other arm around her waist.

He opened his mouth wide for the second tasting and she thought he would swallow the bowl of the spoon.

* * * *

With the scarf tight around his eyes, John enjoyed her closeness with all his other senses heightened. It did nothing for his new leaf; everything for his roguish desires. He urged her down into his lap, but she resisted. The spoon dropped to the flagstones with a small clang and amid all the tussling her bosom brushed the side of his face.

“Which one is mine, then?” she demanded breathlessly as he finally got her into his lap, closing his arm around her waist.

“This one,” he whispered hoarsely, one hand clutching her warm hair, easing her face down to his. She made a soft, whimpering mewl of annoyance, quickly quenched by his lips moving over hers. He felt her hands on his shoulders, firm at first, then softening their grip, her fingers spreading, sliding around his neck, touching the curls at his nape. Her warm, full lips opened timidly, succumbing under his, and he hungrily, greedily claimed what she so shyly offered.

The fire crackled gently behind him and Vince, somewhere nearby, snored contentedly. John slid one hand to her breast, stroking her through the old gown, longing to get her out of it. “Come to bed,” he murmured thickly, adjusting her in his lap.

Her hands moved back to his shoulders now and she sat up straighter, ready to leave his knee. “You’re incorrigible, John Carver.”

“You started the game,” he whispered. “And the first jam I tasted was yours, was it not?”

He heard her startled inhale, felt her fingers digging into his arms. He closed his hand over her breast.

“Am I right?”

“Yes,” she sulked.

He celebrated by kissing her again, any part of her reachable with his lips —and felt her pulse skipping giddily. “See? I told you, I’m an expert.”

“Must you always win?”

“Yes.” He laughed, licking his sticky tongue along her rigid, stubborn little jaw. “And at the harvest f
ê
te, you’ll see for yourself.”

“Will I indeed?”

“I’ll win every game for you, Lucy.”

“Don’t bother on my account.”

“I must. My mother says…”

“Says what?” she muttered scornfully, wriggling in his lap.

His arms were immovable, holding her across his thighs. Already he felt his arousal vigorously straining under her. “She says I’m to court you. Properly.”

The woman refused to be still. “Court me? What the devil for?”

“She says it’s time you were properly wooed.”

“Let me up, damned knave. I know what you have in mind. I can feel it already. Woo me indeed! And you’re getting me all sticky.”

With one hand he cupped her chin, firm but gentle. “Lucy Friday, I hereby give you notice: I intend to court you and win you. There now, ‘tis said and done. Can’t be any plainer.”

“No,” she managed.

“Yes,” was the calm retort. He was never so sure of anything in his life. When he went after her that day, he did so to bring her back and keep her there. Didn’t even think twice about it. Whatever it took, he was willing to do it, anything to keep her. Anything. He was ready.

“Please don’t,” she groaned, his hand still around her jaw, fingers lightly caressing the warmth of her cheek.

His hand drifted slowly down her throat, across her shoulder and down to her breast again, slyly measuring the reckless, scattered beat of her heart. “If I win every game at the f
ê
te, you must promise to be mine.”

“I’ll promise no such thing.”

He began to tickle her again while his mouth sought her breast, kissing her sloppily through the gown until her nipple was evident, a soft prick against his tongue. She hadn’t worn a corset after her first day in his house, finding it too difficult to work in such a binding garment and being too stiff and tired at the end of the day to fuss with all those tight laces. He’d often remarked to his mother that Lucy should wear a corset, but tonight he was certainly glad of the absence.

She was laughing too hard now, too winded to make him stop, so he licked that little prize and teased it with his lips until she was finally still in his arms.

“John…your mother could be home any minute.”

He stopped and raised his head, staring into the blindfold, feeling for her in the darkness. She was struggling, he sensed, with something more she daren’t tell him. Damned woman kept too many secrets.

“Promise me,” he coaxed, his hands around her narrow waist. “After the harvest f
ê
te…if I win every game…”

He didn’t finish.

“We shouldn’t,” she groaned, her brow falling to his shoulder, as if her will to resist him was crumbling away to dust. His own will had gone that way long since.

“Well.” He stroked her hair with one trembling hand. “I might not win every game.”

He felt her smiling, her lips moving his collar, briefly touching his neck. “I thought you always win.”

“You’ll have to take that chance, won’t you?” As he would, too.

* * * *

After a moment, during which Lucy battled with every denial in her head, every protest against her heart’s demands, he suddenly began to sing to her. Shocked, she sat very still, her head pressed to his shoulder, his fingers combing through her long, loose hair. He sang of a bird on a briar, an old song she’d heard before, but one that had never been sung to her. Solely for her.

Not knowing what to say or do, she sat very still and let him sing on.

Later they went to their separate chambers, but only just. He had now drawn a line across this flirtation and set a date for her thorough and complete undoing. For tonight he was content with the promise she gave in a rash moment, when it seemed as if she had no choice.

He’d sung to her. He meant to woo her. He’d brazenly announced it. What was a woman supposed to do?

Chapter 16

His mother, it turned out, had given Bridget a hearty slap when she learned of the fight, and when John was teased by Martin Frye and the other farm laborers, he told them all that Lucy Friday was a young lady who should be treated with respect from now on and if he caught anyone doing otherwise he’d set them straight with his own fists.

This, to many villagers, was a declaration of sorts. It angered some of the young ladies who’d hoped one day to catch his wandering eye, but Alice kept her head up and put on a brave face. Bridget, so they heard along the grapevine, assured everyone that his fascination for the “bold tart” wouldn’t last long. The village, she said, would soon be rid of the scourge. But with the threat of John’s vengeance hanging over them, no one else spoke out against Lucy.

The day of Lord Oakham’s summer f
ê
te dawned bright and warm with a high violet sky kissed by fluffy clouds. While John readied their transport to Oakham’s manor, his mother went into the pantry and brought out a circular posy of wild, plum red roses, picked from the thorny bushes covering parts of the old flint wall.

“I made this for you,” she said to Lucy, pinning it in her hair. “For today. Since you lost your bonnet.”

With her foolish promise to John hanging over her, not to mention Lord Oakham’s threat to turn her in, Mistress Carver’s thoughtfulness was all too much to bear. Lucy threw her arms around the lady, kissed her and thanked her.

“It’s only flowers, Lucy,” the woman exclaimed, bemused.

Apologizing for her impulsive actions, which lately surprised her just as much as they did these kind people, Lucy wished for the ground to swallow her whole and put her out of this misery. But Mistress Carver smiled and soothed her gently. “You can’t help it, Lucy dear. I’ve seen how every sadness and every joy is so deeply felt in you. It must make your life very hard. Never mind. I daresay you’ll toughen up.”

Poor lady, thought Lucy miserably, she had no idea how many years had been spent “toughening up.” But underneath, as she now discovered, she was weak, lonely and afraid, her façade prone to cracks worn away by constant disappointment. Now, under the slightest display of kindness, she shattered like glass.

“Women have it harder than men,” Mistress Carver went on. “We are sensitive to the tides of the moon. Men are too thickheaded to sense anything unless it strikes hard against their skull.”

Lucy swallowed her mournful thoughts. It was a beautiful day, her last at Souls Dryft, and she wouldn’t spoil it. Vince put his front paws on the seat beside her and licked her cheeks, tail wagging. Outside the window John whistled as he harnessed the horses to the cart. He’d been looking forward to this, she knew. He prided himself on winning most of the games at the f
ê
te. A natural-born show-off, he liked any chance to flex his muscles. Today, of course, he had additional incentive to win.

Had it rained, or the sky been overcast, it would’ve been much easier to think of leaving soon. The sun being out only threw salt in her wounds, reminding her she would never have another such day of happiness. But she shouldn’t have stayed here as long as she had already, and each day brought her closer to discovery, closer to calamity.

* * * *

John noticed her peevish silence but didn’t comment on it. She sat behind him in the cart, clinging to the sides, a little posy of roses bobbing in her long hair. Today she looked more beautiful than ever and he felt a warm, different sense of pride because she rode with him to the f
ê
te. At the end of this day, she would be his at last. She’d promised and he knew, instinctively, she kept her promises. Why else would she be looking at him so fearfully? He grinned back at her and winked.

Lord Oakham always laid on a fine feast and the day was filled with competition: horse racing, throwing the hammer, wrestling and a particularly savage sport of shin-kicking. Later in the evening there would be a bonfire and dancing. It was John’s intent to impress her with his skill in every competition and then sweep her off her feet at the dancing. No woman could resist dancing. After that…well…he didn’t want to get too far ahead of himself, but he felt something in the air, a change coming.

When they arrived, he helped his mother out of the cart and then raised his arms for Lucy. For once she let him lift her down, but kept her face somber.

“Smile, Lucy,” he teased softly, more pleased than he should be when she let him help her out with his unworthy hands. “You’ll see me hurled around in the wrestling. You’ll like that.”

Her gaze shyly swept his chin and then his lips, but no higher. “Don’t get hurt.” She hesitated. “Your mother wouldn’t like it.”

“Hurt? Me? Nothing hurts me!” He chuckled, running his thumb over her lower lip as he did once before, readying it for a kiss, but she ducked away, hurrying to join his mother.

So she was going to make him work for it. Fine. He’d never shied away from hard work.

* * * *

He’d won three wrestling bouts in quick succession when Martin Frye ran up to take his turn. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Lucy watched with her heart in her mouth. His mother observed wryly that she hadn’t seen him act this way in years. There was a little blood on his lip, but Lucy barely noticed since he’d stripped off his shirt some time ago, revealing a bronzed, rippling torso with careless, shoulder-shrugging arrogance. He claimed not to be vain, but he must know the effect it had.

The village girls crowded around to watch, having far less interest in the outcome than they had in the handsome young men who competed.

She was shocked when Alice Croft approached, battling with the semblance of a smile. “I hope you’re enjoying the day, Lucy.”

“Yes. And you too, Alice.”

They stood a moment in awkward silence, both wanting to speak, but having little to say and only one thing in common. Eventually, Alice managed a tight apology. “I don’t agree with Bridget’s behavior. She shouldn’t have picked a fight with you.”

Lucy assured her it was all forgotten, but Alice had more to get off her chest. “Nor do I agree with her reasons for saying what she did.” She paused. “I do agree with her, however, that you will cause John trouble and hurt.”