Proper Scoundrel (38 page)

Only this morning she’d set boldly forth, carrying flags of purpose and determination, eager to brave the world she’d left behind ... and ended trembling in a vicarage kitchen, fragile as the lamb butting her leg.

Despite herself, Lacey smiled at the lamb’s antics. “What makes you think I have milk? Do I look like your mama?”

Lacey placed a hand to her aching chest. She was no-one’s mother. The self-inflicted wound, unexpected and sharp, hurt the more amid the ruins of her loss.

Determined to calm herself before Gabriel returned, she poured milk into a pan to warm as she rinsed a lambing bottle and nipple. She reminded herself that her purpose in returning stood at hand—her niece, Gabriel’s step-daughter, asleep upstairs, the child she would save ... as soon as she saved herself.

So near, yet so far. So possible, yet not. Only Gabriel stood between her and success, between joy and despair.

Some things never changed.

Lacey sat on the floor near the hearth and coaxed the lamb into her lap by tugging gently as it followed its grip on the nipple.

She was home. To face her ghosts. An entire village of them, spectres who’d condemned her and turned their backs on her, Gabriel at their head.

While his flock considered him a saint, they considered her a sinner. About the latter, they were correct. About the former, however, they were mistaken. Gabriel was human, all too human. Flawed. No one knew that better than she.

Oddly enough, she believed she’d forgiven him a long time ago. ‘Twas herself she could not seem to pardon.

Gabriel returned to the kitchen after bringing Ivy and their bags upstairs, and Lacey tried to appear composed, as she sat before the fire, the greedy newborn in her lap suckling lustily.

Gabriel stopped beside her, hands behind his back, a paradox of a rogue, bigger than life, deadly handsome, stirring her just by looking at her.

As if he realized it, he stepped away, fixing his gaze on the old oak table, with its slab of a top and legs as big as tree trunks. Then he sat, confused for a moment as to what to do with his beefy hands and placed them finally on his thighs.

“Where’s Ivy?” she asked, her dratted voice a wobbling croak.

“Fell asleep while I was showing him his room, the pup beside him. I took off his shoes and threw a blanket over them. Is he getting old, our Ivy?”

“The pup’s name is Tweenie; she’s his shadow. And he’s not as old as he is stubborn. He insisted on driving through, all the way from Newhaven. I’m sorry we arrived so late; we made a late start. I’m glad we didn’t awaken you.”

To her dismay, he rose and dropped down beside her to stroke the drowsing lamb’s lanolin-soft wool.

Too close. Oh, God, he was too close.

The mite roused at Gabriel’s attention and suckled again, as if it hadn’t eaten in a week, until it was pulling loudly on air-bubbles.

Lacey tried to wrest the empty bottle from the lamb’s grip, and as she did, Gabriel’s big brown hand stroked too far and grazed her breast.

They froze at the contact, gazes locked, some primitive, unnamed energy rising hot and thick between them—an intangible yet undeniable force, savage.

Lacey’s heart raced, her nipple budded, her womanhood flowered. To keep from crying out at her body’s betrayal, she bit her lip, and tasted blood.

At the same moment, Gabriel’s breath left him. He struggled for air. Lust flared in him, molten and heavy. He’d controlled passion for years, the more so with Clara’s staunch approval, after their sorry wedding night. But a minute in Lacey’s company and passion long-dead reared up wild and alive.

Trapped. By weakness.

Strength lay in denying passion—a hard-won lesson for him. But around Lacey, desire overcame determination, and strength became a wisp of smoke where once had burned a zealot’s fire.

Lacey. Lace. Home. His Lace.

No, and again, no.

She used to make him call her Lady Ashton when he wanted to call her Lace, like the rest of her friends did, except for the day that he’d come home a new-minted parson, when he’d finally called her ... his.

Why did he still feel like that runny-nosed boy with the torn shirt and dirty nails? Why, when his clothes were new and his home comfortable and clean, elegant even? Why, when the gray dress Lace wore, which must once have been blue, was mended and pressed to a pauper’s shine?

Trapped. By passion. By Lacey. Gabe wanted to swear, to rage. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she gave passion back, as good as she got, as only Lacey could. If it were not for the fact that he wasn’t the only man who knew—

Gabe rose to his feet and crossed the kitchen, to be as far away from her, from captivation, as possible.

He wasn’t certain he could bear to be near her without taking her into his arms, any more than he could bear the constant reminder of her betrayal, of his foolishness.

“I’m looking forward to spending time with my niece,” she said, her nervous rush of tumbling words pulling Gabe from pain and shivering him to his bones. He gazed at her across the room, hoping for no greater significance than her words betrayed. “My daughter,” he said, desperate, for some strange reason, to stake his claim.

Lacey rose, lifting the lamb in her arms. “Stepdaughter,” she corrected. “I hope she hasn’t forgotten her real father.”

Gabe approached her, then. He’d face any and all demons, real or imagined, for Bridget. “Her father died before she was born. Her mother and I married before Bridget turned two. I am the only father she knows.”

“I’m her aunt, kin by blood.”

“Blood, as we know, does not always tell.”

Lacey stepped back under the weight of his verbal blow.

As unexpected to him as to her, his barb had been born of instinct and self-preservation, but as always, her pain became his. He might just take to bleeding on her behalf, and then how foolish would he look?

Frustrated over his callous behaviour, over how brutish he must appear to her, he reclaimed the lamb with more force than he intended, yet he could not seem to compose himself. He wished to the devil he didn’t bloody well care how he appeared or how she felt. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Preoccupied by his demons, Gabe made for the stairs, then he realized he’d committed the unforgivable and gone before her. He should have allowed a lady to precede him, as he would the lowliest in rank ... except that Lacey was no longer a lady. And neither was he a gentleman, she had oft-reminded him.

He stopped to let her pass.

Bio: Annette Blair

A New York Times best selling author for Penguin Books, Annette Blair left her job as a Development Director and Journalism Advisor at a private New England prep school to become a full time writer. At forty books and counting, she added cosy mysteries and bewitching romantic comedies to her award-winning historical romances. She’s also stepped into the amazing world of self publishing.

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First published in paperback by Kensington Publishing

Copyright 2006, 2012 by Annette Blair

Published by Annette Blair, May 27, 2012

E-book Cover Copyright 2012 Calista Taylor

www.calistataylor.com

Photoshop Brushes: Dark Garden Photography

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This is a historical work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and establishments is entirely coincidental. Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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