Jo Ann Brown (10 page)

“It was not unpleasant.” He rubbed his hands together as if trying to work feeling into them. “Lady Meriweather asked me to have tea with her this afternoon.”

Charles raised his brows, but said nothing.

“Dash it, Northbridge! Do you think the baroness expected me to state my intentions toward her daughter right then and there?”

“Hold hard! Take a breath.” Charles swallowed his laugh.

Poor Herriott was more out of countenance than ever. His friend had overreacted to everything and everyone since word had arrived that he now was Lord Meriweather.

“What do
you
think?” Herriott asked.

“About what?”

“The timing of when I must ask for Sophia’s hand.”

Charles tried to ignore the pinch in his gut. It felt far too much like envy, a feeling he had endured too often of late, but why should he be jealous of his friend’s situation? He had made a muddle of his own marriage, letting himself be betrayed by an illusion he’d wanted desperately to believe was real.

“The only answer I can give is that you will know when the time is right.” Another answer that avoided honesty.

“When I know it is the right time?” Herriott kept rubbing his palms together. “I have never considered allowing myself to be leg-shackled to a woman simply as a duty. That has been one of the few luxuries allowed the merchant class that is denied the peerage.”

“But now you are a peer with an estate that needs an heir. If you have no intentions of marrying Miss Meriweather, the sooner you let her and her family know that, the better it will be.”

“I have never shirked from doing my duty.”

Charles nodded. Sophia was equally determined to do her duty to her family, even if she were unhappy for the rest of her life. But would Herriott make her unhappy? Could it be that Charles hoped so because he wanted her himself? He must be touched in the head.

“Then I see no problem.” He hoped that was not a lie. When his friend remained silent, he added, “If you want my advice—”

“I do!” Color rose up Herriott’s face when he realized what he had shouted.

“Then I say we should get away from here for the rest of the afternoon and allow you some perspective. What say you? Shall we find Bradby and ride neck-or-nothing along the shore?”

“An excellent idea!”

Charles went to change into riding clothes and greatcoat while Herriott arranged for horses and sent a message to Bradby to join them.

Horses were waiting by the time Charles reached the stable. Bradby and Herriott appeared moments later. As soon as they were in the saddle, Charles led the way north along the shore road. It was how they had ridden on the Continent, so they fell into that pattern, even though Herriott should have been in front on his estate.

Overhead, gulls rode the sea winds, shrieking at anything that moved. The sea crashed on the cliffs and sent up a fresh scent that overpowered the odors of rot where leaves had fallen off the trees.

The sense of freedom was heady as they rode past the village at a safe pace. Shouts came from the bottom of the cliff as the cobles were readied to be launched into the tide.

Once beyond the village, Charles sent his horse to a rapid pace along the shore road. He did not look out at the sea, not wanting to discover if the small boats were heading out to gather fish or to smuggle tea and brandy. He wanted to put every worry behind him as the wind blew the horse’s mane into his face while he leaned low in the saddle.

Too soon, he drew in with regret. The ride had been invigorating, but he would not ruin his horse when it was impossible to flee the thoughts that plagued him. He realized how far he had outdistanced his friends when he had to wait almost a minute for the other riders to reach where he kept the horse to a sedate walk through the shadows of the trees lining the road.

They rode in companionable silence, but Charles saw his friends reach for their weapons when a rabbit burst out of a hedgerow. He had fought not to do the same. Bradby and Herriott both looked chagrined at the instinctive motion, and he sighed. How long would memories of the war and the training that had kept them alive remain with them?

When Herriott motioned toward a copse, Charles turned his horse in that direction. He had seen the flasks on Herriott’s saddle, and he hoped his friend had brought enough to quench their thirst.

Charles dismounted and led his horse into the shade where Herriott continued their conversation as if there had been no break.

“I truly could use your advice, Northbridge,” his friend said.

“Not mine?” asked Bradby as he swung down from his horse.

“
You
have not wooed and won,” Herriott replied. “Northbridge is the only one among us who has run the whole race and triumphed with the prize of a woman’s heart.”

Bradby’s nose wrinkled. “Must you turn poet when you think about courting? Save your pretty words for your lady fair.”

Charles tied his horse’s reins to a nearby bush and let his friends enjoy their squabble. When they first had begun to serve together, he had participated in their battles of words, always eager to be declared the champion. That was before he had discovered that too many victories would soon be proved hollow.

“What say you, Northbridge?”

He faced his friends, hoping his expression revealed nothing of the pain that rode him like a hag upon a nightmare. “I have to say that I stopped listening to your bibble-babble.”

His friends laughed, and Charles relaxed. The dangerous moment—the one when he might be forced to own that his marriage was not what he had once boasted it was—had passed.

Bradby winked. “Herriott was lamenting his misfortune in failing to win the heart of lovely Lady Eloisa.”

“Eloisa? Lady Eloisa Parkington?” asked Charles.

Herriott’s color deepened, and Bradby nodded.

Charles shook his head. “Why would you be muttonheaded enough to be sweet on Lady Eloisa? She made it clear from her coming-out that she would settle for no less than a duke with an annual income higher than the three of ours combined.”

“I was foolish to think a childhood friendship could grow into more.” Herriott slapped the rock he leaned against. “That is ancient history, part of another life.” He stared out at the sea. “The life we had before...” He did not continue.

There was no need. Charles wondered if Bradby heard Herriott’s unspoken words in his own mind, as Charles did.
Before we went to war
. Their lives had been altered so much by what they had experienced that what had happened before their first battle seemed to belong to someone else’s life.

“Before you gave up hope of a dukedom?” asked Bradby with a guffaw.

Charles ignored his friend’s unceasing jokes. When they had been riding north, he had been able to get away from Bradby’s jests by joining the children in the carriage. He should have given that some thought before suggesting they ride this afternoon, but he had not guessed when he did that Herriott would ask Bradby to join them. With a start he realized how he had been avoiding Bradby’s company more with each passing day. That made no sense, because he had once considered Bradby one of his most boon companions. They had discussed politics, the law and books, and he had admired Bradby for his brilliance.

No longer.

Now Bradby seemed to aspire to the title of court jester instead of returning to his work as a solicitor. Charles could not recall the last time his friend had engaged him in a vehement discussion on some obscure aspect of the law.

Charles touched his cheek. He had thought he was the only one who carried scars of those atrocious battles. Now he was no longer sure.

Herriott opened a flask and handed it to Charles, then reached for another.

“You always think ahead, Herriott,” he said.

“I wish I had considered the idea of bringing along sandwiches or even some cakes.” Herriott opened another flask. “I should have asked Mrs. Porter, but I know better than to bother a cook in the midst of preparing the evening meal. I poured some lemonade in the flask and got out of her way.”

Charles tipped it back to drink and grimaced at the sour lemonade. “Cakes would make this even more grotesque in flavor. Next time taste it before you leave the kitchen and add some sugar if necessary.”

“He was too busy,” Bradby said as he took the flask, “sweetening up fair Sophia to worry about anything else.”

Beside him, Herriott stiffened. “That is not funny,” his friend growled before walking away.

“Why did you say something like that?” Charles asked. “Can’t you see that Herriott is in no mood for jests?”

Bradby lowered the flask, sudden dismay in his eyes, as if he could not believe that he had spoken so. “I did not mean to jest.”

“Think before you blurt out something next time, will you?” Charles capped his flask and shoved it into the pocket of his greatcoat. “Herriott is on edge with the abrupt changes his life has taken. A year ago, he was in trade. Now he has a title, an estate, and the assumption he will marry one of his predecessor’s daughters to keep the bloodline unbroken. Have some sympathy for the man!”

“I do.”

“Then show it instead of turning everything into some larking comment aimed at making us laugh on cue like a group of traveling players.”

“At least I try to help!”

Charles’s hands fisted at his sides. “Do you truly consider having us braying like a herd of witless donkeys to be helpful?”

“I am no longer under your command, so I do not have to listen to your bellowing.” Bradby spun on his heel and walked in the opposite direction from Herriott’s.

Bellowing?

Had he been bellowing?

When he saw Herriott looking at him with uncertainty and disheartenment, Charles knew that he had raised his voice without realizing it. How much of what he had said had reached Herriott’s ears? He had his answer when Herriott looked away, fury tightening his jaw.

Thunder! Now he had angered both of his friends. To own the truth, the only friends who put up with his temper...until today.

He turned his back on the sea and the land beyond it.
God, help me control my temper before I drive away even those who understand.

Chapter Nine

T
he wood was tangled with vines that had grown thick through the summer. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in shades of gold and orange and red. Birds rose, crying raucous warnings.

Sophia watched a magpie’s flight before it was lost amidst the trees. She stood still and took in the beauty of the wood. When had she last come out here to admire God’s creation? Sadly she could not answer that. It had been too long.

The past eleven days had been wearying. Her efforts to urge Cousin Edmund to take over more responsibility for the estate had come to naught. Earlier in the week, he and his friends had ridden south to Scarborough, and they had not returned. She had expected the house to feel as it had before their arrival, but the changes had lingered.

Perhaps it was because Gemma and Michael remained at the house. Other than a single question from Michael about where the men had gone, neither child seemed to miss Charles. Sophia spent time with them each day, teaching them games she had assumed every child knew.

But she had come into the wood alone. She did not want one of the children to mention that she had gone to check on the condition of the dower cottage. Having Cousin Edmund take insult at her interest in repairing it might be disastrous.

Ten or more years ago, Papa had talked about using it for married servants, but it was too far from the house when icy winds blew off the sea. So it had sat, waiting for the time when someone would need it.

Now they did. But how could she move from Meriweather Hall? More than a half-dozen servants, including the butler, Ogden, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Williams, had expressed unhappiness about Cousin Edmund’s indecisiveness. She had urged them to give him time to adjust to the abrupt changes in his life. They had agreed, though they made it clear they expected him to adapt quickly. For now, they depended on her to help her cousin until he was ready to oversee the estate on his own. She had no idea how long that might be, and she wanted to move out before he came up with the obvious solution that his wife could supervise the staff while he went up to London for his parliamentary obligations.

Trudging on through the thick underbrush, which caught at her boots and her bonnet, Sophia was astonished when she reached what was clearly a path. It was as wide as two men walking abreast, and the dirt underfoot was well trod. Who had come this way often enough that the tangle of vines had been forced back?

Hope rose through her, and she hurried along the path. Maybe someone had checked the dower cottage frequently. Maybe it was in better condition than she guessed.

The trees thinned, and she stepped into a clearing that had a view of the sea. The wood concealed both Meriweather Hall and the village, so it seemed as if the stone cottage were the only building along a deserted shore.

She stared at the dower cottage, elated that it had not fallen into ruins. It was a small building, no more than three rooms down and another two upstairs. The cottage’s windows were intact, and the door remained straight. On the roof, the thatch had thinned. Vines had climbed up the stone facade to entwine in the straw, but if those were the only problems, the roof could be easily repaired.

Eager to see inside, Sophia opened the door. She ignored how the hinges creaked. Fish oil would banish that sound.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Looking through the windows, several that were cracked, she was amazed any light got through the dirt caked on the panes. She took a single step, and something crunched beneath her feet. She jumped and stared at dried pods. Mice must have dragged them in. Pawprints of various sizes covered the floor in front of the hearth and led into the open cupboards on the wall to the left. The doors hung at a precarious angle and were gnawed along the edges.

Piles of wood marked where furniture had fallen apart. A table leaned against a wall because one of its legs was missing. The chairs beside it had been upended. Water pooled in low spots on the stone floor by two doors that led to bedchambers on either side of the fireplace. A third door was ajar and revealed steep stairs to the upper floor.

Sophia gasped. Some prints in the ashes did not belong to rodents. They had been made by boots. As she edged closer to the hearth, she saw the prints led to the door on the left.

Going in the bedroom, she opened the shutters over the window. The panes were broken and the floor littered with glass. Otherwise, the room was empty. Not even a bedstead or a pallet. Something had left deep scratches in the floor, and she shuddered. What sort of beast had claws sharp enough to gouge the stones? She squatted to examine them more closely.

“Sophia!”

She whirled at the sound of her name. The motion sent her footing out from beneath her, and she sat heavily on the floor.

“Ouch!” she cried.

A silhouette darkened the doorway, and she looked up to see Charles trying not to smile. His greatcoat was filthy from his travels.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He gave in to the grin and held out his hand. “We just returned, and, when you were not there to greet us, I asked a few questions. A footman saw you walking in this direction, so I tracked you here.”

“Another skill you learned during the war?” she asked, then wished she had not when his smile disappeared.

“One of the few that still has some use.” He grasped her hand and tugged. Once she stood, he released her fingers as if he found the very touch not to his taste.

Sophia blinked back abrupt tears. “I am sorry if my question bothers you.”

“I prefer not to speak of the past. It is over and done with.” He walked past her and into the main room.

Those tears bubbled out of her eyes. Charles was fooling himself. The war was not over for him or for Cousin Edmund or Mr. Bradby. They carried it with them every day, a great load of regrets and memories and grief. Even coming to Sanctuary Bay, far from the battlefield, had not let them put down that burden.

Running the toe of her boot across the deepest gouge, she sneezed when dust and the scent of salt rose from it. Winds off the sea must have deposited sea water on the floor. More would come in if she left the shutters open.

Sophia closed them, hooked them into place and then went into the main room where Charles waited beneath a hole in the roof. Sunlight washed down over him, highlighting the strain around his mouth and the gray shadows beneath his eyes.

“You look exhausted,” she said.

“We rode straight through the night.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “Your cousin could not make up his mind whether to leave York or wait another day, so, by the time Bradby and I decided, it was late.”

“York? I thought you were going to Scarborough.”

He gave a mirthless laugh. “We did, but we did not stay long.”

“There are coaching inns along the way from York. One of them must have had rooms.”

“If your cousin could have decided where to stop...”

Sophia chuckled at his dour tone, and his expression lightened.

“Was this some sort of byre or shepherd’s hut?” Charles asked.

She shook her head as she bent to right one of the chairs. “It was built to be the estate’s dower house, but it has been sadly abandoned. The sea winds and our cold winters and damp weather have not been forgiving.” She looked up to stare at the largest hole in the roof. “I suspected it would be in bad shape, but I did not realize how bad.”

Again weak tears burned behind her eyes, and she walked across the leaf-strewn floor to another window. As she opened the shutters, one side crashed to the floor. Fresh air rushed into the cottage, but it could not blow away the remnants of damp.

She dashed away her tears so Charles would not see them. Until she had seen the ruined cottage, she had had no idea how much she hoped there would be a solution other than her marrying her cousin.

Dear Lord, what am I to do now? You can see what lies before me. Help me choose the right path.

She shuddered when she realized that becoming Edmund’s wife might be the path she was supposed to take.

Charles’s hands curved along her shoulders, and she ached to lean back against his firm strength. Slowly he turned her until she faced him. The features she once had considered austere now urged her to let her fingertips explore every inch. She longed to discover if the whole of his face was as rough as the low nap of whiskers along his jaw. She pushed that stubborn lock of hair from his eyes. Its coarse silk created a wave of delight along her hand and directly into her heart.

“Anything is possible.” His voice softened as his fingertips brushed lightly beneath her right eye and then her left. “Even Sophia Meriweather losing hope.” He lowered his hand so she could see the damp dust on his fingers.

Heat coursed across her face. “I had no idea that I looked so ghastly.” She realized abruptly how alone they were. Leaving straightaway would be the best decision.

He crooked a single finger and put it beneath her chin to tip it up, keeping her from stepping away. Her eyes were captured once again by his intense gaze as he said, “Do you think a bit of dust clinging to your face concerns me right now?”

“I don’t know what concerns you right now, Charles,” she replied.

“That was an honest answer. I shall be as forthright. What concerns me is you and your reaction to the state of this building.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper, the sound like the memory of distant thunder. “
This
is what you believe is your only other choice if you do not marry Herriott, isn’t it?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

“Do you think he will exile you and your mother and sister if you do not wed him?” The hint of a smile curved his lips.

Sophia pulled back as her eyes widened in shock. “Do you find this amusing?”

“To own the truth, I do.” He caught her arm as she turned away. “Because you are worrying needlessly. Herriott is a man of honor. You must have seen that.”

“I want to believe he is honorable.”

“You can trust me on this, Sophia.” His gaze edged along her face in a slow perusal that sent tingles along her skin from head to toe. It settled on her lips.

Did he want to kiss her? Did he want to kiss her as much as she longed for him to?

“He admires you greatly, but...” He raised his hands in a pose of surrender. “Asking you to marry or not asking you requires him to make a decision.”

Sadness rushed through Sophia like a renewed freshet. She wished she had known her cousin before the war made him question everything he did.

“I never considered that,” she said. “Please do not tell my cousin that I thought for even a moment he would not do the right thing.”

“I will say nothing to him of our conversation here.” He swept the room with another glance. “However, he should be made aware of the state of this building. A strong storm might collapse it, and anyone inside could be killed.”

“The chances of someone being here are small.” She pointed to the footprints by the door. “These could have been made long ago. The ashes are compacted together by the rain that has come in through the chimney and the roof.”

“But these aren’t.” He walked to the hearth. A frown slashed across his mouth. “Look there. These ashes are fluttering in the breeze from the window. Someone had a fire here since the last time it rained.”

“It rained the night before last.”

“That means someone other than us has been here since then. Someone who had a fire.”

Sophia stared at the hearth. How had she failed to notice that? She should not have let her distress at the state of the cottage blind her to everything else.

As if she had asked her question aloud, Charles said, “Taking note of the smallest detail is another skill I cannot rid myself of.” He hated every incident that brought the war into his life, and it seemed that any conversation in the past few days had been filled with war.

He had not guessed his journey with Herriott and Bradby would take them south to Scarborough and Bridlington and then west to York. He would have declined the invitation. They spent no more than a few hours in the two seacoast towns before turning inland. In York they had lingered, but nothing they saw or did chased away the memories that haunted them. Charles could have told Herriott before they set off that their quest for forgetfulness was futile.

He ground a cold ember under his boot. During their time away from Sanctuary Bay, he had encountered others who struggled to put the war behind them. Some of them had returned to loving families. Others wandered as he and his friends seemed doomed to do.

Without looking at Sophia, he said, “Many men have returned from the war, and there are not enough jobs. Some have taken to the road to look for work or to find food and shelter. At least one of them may have discovered this cottage. A fire on the hearth would make it warm and allow him to cook any game he poached.”

“But why not come to the Hall and ask for food and a place to stay?” she asked. “We have never turned away anyone who needs shelter.”

He shrugged, still forcing his eyes away from her. When he had followed her here, he had not guessed she would be alone. He should have returned to Meriweather Hall posthaste. Instead he had joined her in the cottage, longing to ease her distress. Or so he had thought until he touched her. Once he let his hands caress her shoulders, his thoughts had been consumed with the need to kiss her.

“I am sure,” he replied, “that there are as many reasons as there are wanderers. Some men are too proud to ask a favor from anyone. Or they may be hoping not to attract any attention.” His hands tightened at his sides. Why had he failed to see the obvious? “Or maybe it is not a former soldier. Maybe the local smugglers are using the cottage to stash their booty.”

“Don’t even suggest that in jest.” Color fled from her face.

“I am not Bradby. I don’t turn every conversation into a joke.”

“But if the smugglers have been using this cottage, that means they are running tame through Meriweather Hall lands.” She glanced at the left bedroom. “There are marks on the floor in there. Gouges like something heavy was pushed across it.”