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Authors: Blackthorne

BOOK: Ruth Langan
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As they turned away Quenton called, “A word of caution, Miss St. John. When in the company of the king, never turn your back. And don’t even think of leaving a room until the king takes his departure first. No one leaves the king’s side until he gives his permission.”
She paused. “I’ll remember that, my lord. And I hope you’ll remember that you are not the king. I need no one’s permission to go to my room.”
He shot her a dark look as she flounced away with Liat’s hand firmly in hers. Then he turned to his brother, who was stifling a yawn. The anger was gone from his tone. “Would you like to go upstairs now, Bennett?”
The young man nodded. Without waiting for help, Quenton bent and lifted him from the chair, carrying him from the room and up the stairs, with Minerva following.
When he had left Bennett in the care of his young servant, he went in search of Liat. Entering the boy’s suite, he could hear the drone of voices in the inner chamber.
“I could show the king my drawing of the butterfly.”
The lad’s eagerness had Olivia smiling gently. “I know the king would greatly appreciate your drawing. But I suspect that he has far more important things to do.”
“Not at all.” Quenton paused in the doorway and winked at the boy when he turned to him. “After all, I should think the king would enjoy talking to someone who shares his love of butterflies.”
“Did you come up to see my sketches?” Liat asked eagerly.
“Aye, lad.” In truth, he’d merely wanted to prolong his time spent with the nursemaid. How he loved teasing her. Or just looking at her. The sketches were as good an excuse as any.
Liat, dressed in a long nightshirt, raced to the other room and returned carrying a sheaf of drawings. He scattered them on the floor and Quenton was forced to kneel in order to study them.
These weren’t the childish stick-figures he’d been expecting. Even without Olivia’s neatly lettered titles, he could identify various species of butterflies and insects, as well as several carefully executed flowers.
He gave Liat a long, measured look. “These are very good, boy.”
A shy smile bloomed. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now that I’ve seen them, I must insist that you show them to the king.”
“Truly?”
“Aye. He is quite knowledgeable about painting and the arts and sciences. I think he will find in you a kindred spirit.” He glanced up. “And in you, Miss St. John.”
She nodded, unwilling to trust her voice. The sight of man and boy, kneeling side by side, heads bent as they studied the drawings, had brought an unexpected lump to her throat. How was he able to turn her anger upside down so easily?
“All right now, lad.” Quenton helped him gather up the sketches. “I think you’d best climb into your bed, or Miss St. John will have both our heads.”
The boy placed the papers on his little writing table, then crossed to the big bed. Quenton remained where he was as Olivia tucked the linens around the boy’s shoulders.
“Will you hear my prayers, sir?” Liat asked.
“Aye.” Quenton took a step closer.
“Bless my mama who is with the angels. And bless Lord Stamford, who has given me this bed. And bless Miss St. John, who gives me kisses.”
“She gives you kisses, does she?” Quenton couldn’t help smiling as he ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’ll have to speak to your governess about that.”
“She only kisses me good-night. Or when I’m afraid. Or sometimes just because she feels like it.”
“Well, that’s all right then. Good night, lad.”
“Good night, sir. Ma’am.”
Olivia bent and brushed her lips over Liat’s cheek, then followed Quenton from the room. In the sitting chamber she turned toward her bedchamber and paused at the door.
“It was kind of you to include me in your plans to entertain King Charles. But it wouldn’t be right for me to accept.”
She was so solemn, he nearly smiled. “And why is that?”
“I am little more than a servant in your home, Lord Stamford. I have no right to be in the company of the king.”
He couldn’t resist a taunt. “If you believe yourself a lowly servant, why is your tongue always so sharp, especially with the lord of the manor?”
Her eyes flashed. “Are you so accustomed to women with soft words and empty brains?”
The warmth he’d been feeling only minutes before was now wiped away. “God in heaven, woman, you try my patience. You would be well advised to remember that you are here at my pleasure. If I so desire, I can have you sent back to London on the morrow.”
He saw the flicker of emotion in her eyes before she tossed her head and stiffened her spine. “Are you ordering me to pack my valise?”
“Don’t tempt me.” He caught her by the chin, holding her firmly when she tried to turn away. Under his breath he muttered, “And you do tempt me. More often than I care to admit.”
She felt the little thrill that always followed his touch. For a moment she was certain he would kiss her. His gaze burned over her lips and her pulse began to race in anticipation.
Just as quickly he took a step back and looked her up and down in a measured way that had her blood heating.
“I’ll have Mistress Thornton summon a dressmaker from the village. You’ll need a wardrobe.”
She blinked. “A...wardrobe?”
“So you’ll be fit company for the king.”
He strode away quickly, leaving her feeling oddly deflated because he hadn’t kissed her. Still, she was happy at the knowledge that, instead of sending her packing, he had just guaranteed that she would remain a while longer. At least until the king’s visit came to an end.
As she turned away, she caught the flicker of a shadow some distance along the hallway. Surely it was her imagination that she was being watched. Any number of servants might be upstairs, lighting candles, retrieving bed linens to stave off the chill of the night.
Still, it was hard to dismiss the feeling, like fingers along her spine. And the prickling of the hair at her nape.
She hurried inside her room and leaned against the closed door, listening for the sound of footsteps. But all she heard was the pounding of her own heart. And the silence of the old house as night settled in.
Chapter Nine
 
 
“P
embroke.” Quenton stood at the library windows watching as Olivia and Liat skipped along the garden path. He seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time lately standing at these windows instead of hunching over the ledgers. But as pressing as the muddled accounts were, the scene below was far more important to him. “How is Mistress Thornton holding up under the strain of the king’s impending visit?”
“As you might expect, my lord, she’s a bit on edge.”
Quenton’s lips curved into a grin. That was like saying the ocean was a bit damp. “I spotted her earlier haranguing a group of village girls who’d been brought in to help with the extra chores. By the time she left them, the air was blue with her highly imaginative curses.”
“Aye, my lord. She does have a way with a word.”
Quenton glanced at the older man. His features, always so bland, hadn’t altered. But there had been the slightest note of admiration in his tone.
He returned his attention to the scene in the garden. A stable lad had just settled Bennett into his chair, and Minerva was tucking a blanket around his shoulders. “Do you think I should bring in more women from the village to ease our housekeeper’s burden?”
“Nay, my lord. That might give Mistress Thornton the idea that you don’t think her capable of handling the king’s visit.”
“Is she capable of it, Pembroke?”
“Aye, my lord. If necessary, Mistress Thornton could manage Blackthorne and everyone in it all by herself. She just gets a bit worked up. Makes even the simple look difficult. But she’s a most competent woman. And despite those curses, she has a good heart.”
He glanced over Quenton’s shoulder. “Shall I tell her to have your tea served in the garden, my lord?”
“Aye.” Seeing Pembroke’s gaze centered on him he felt it necessary to add, “I believe it is my duty to see how my brother fares on this fine day.”
When he strolled away, with his hound at his side, the butler allowed himself a smile. How convenient that Master Bennett and Miss St. John were both in the garden at the same time.
 
“Look what I drew.” Seeing Quenton, Liat raced along the garden path and skidded to a halt. He held up a drawing of a butterfly.
“Ah. A
Brintesia circe.
Did you draw this for the king?”
“Aye, sir. Miss St. John said it may be my best one yet.”
“Quite right.” Quenton glanced around. “Where is your nursemaid?”
“Over there. Talking to Master Bennett.”
“Would you care to walk with me?”
“Nay, sir. If you don’t mind, I’d like to search for more butterfiies.”
Quenton smiled as the boy scampered off. The king’s visit, it would seem, had excited more than just the housekeeper. Everyone at Blackthorne was, as Pembroke had so aptly put it, on edge.
As he followed the garden path and approached his brother he could hear Olivia’s voice, chattering happily.
“...was about ten or so and we were on holiday. I was wearing a new dress. Lemon yellow, with a wide yellow sash. I’ll never forget it. My papa called me his little daisy. Oh, I was so proud of that dress. We were meeting a group of his fellow instructors from Oxford in a nearby park. On the way Papa pointed out a rare
Apatura ilia,
a lovely bronze and orange butterfly, and I went chasing off after it, determined to catch it in my hand when it landed.”
Quenton paused, not wanting to interrupt her story. Beside him. the dog went very still. With her back to him, she had no idea that he was near. It was the perfect opportunity to observe and listen. How much more relaxed and animated she seemed in the company of his brother and the little servant. If only she could be that relaxed with him. But there was a tension between them. Perhaps it would always be there. Or perhaps they could somehow find a way around it.
He could think of one way to ease the tension. A way that had his hands clenching at his sides. He wouldn’t have thought of himself as a patient man. But in this instance, he was determined to be as patient, as careful, as he could manage. Else he would surely drive her from Blackthorne, and out of his life forever.
Her laughter drifted, clear as a bell, on the breeze. “I was so busy watching the butterfly, I didn’t bother to look where I was headed. The next thing I knew I had raced right into a bog and was in mud up to my waist.”
“Oh, miss.” Caught up in the tale, Minerva clapped a hand over her mouth. “What did you do?”
“What could I do? It was too late to salvage my dress or my pride. But I did manage to catch the butterfty. And when I showed off my catch, expecting both Papa and Mum to be angry, they laughed so hard they fell to the grass.”
“They laughed?” Minerva’s voice was tinged with disbelief. “Even though you ruined your new dress?”
“Aye.” Just thinking about it had Olivia laughing again. “Mum told me not to fear, the mud would wash out. And Papa told me I had just proved once again that I was certainly his daughter. He said he’d often done much the same thing himself. And was none the worse for it.”
“It sounds as though you had a warm and loving family, miss.”
“Aye. We couldn’t have been happier. Even now, I find it hard to believe they’re really gone.”
At the thread of pain in her voice Minerva glanced up at her, then, seeing Quenton just behind her, gave a little gasp of recognition and got to her feet, dusting off her skirt. “Oh, Lord Stamford. Begging your pardon. I didn’t see you there.”
“It’s quite all right, Minerva. Stay where you are.” He stepped forward. “I was just enjoying Miss St. John’s story.”
Olivia flushed. “I’d better go look for Liat.”
“Don’t bother. The lad’s fine. He’s doing what you just described. Searching for butterflies. Hopefully, there are no bogs in the garden,” he added dryly. He turned to his brother. “How are you feeling today, Bennett? Did you sleep well last night?”
Bennett nodded.
“Good. I thought as much. You’re getting some color from all this fresh air. Do you think the king will enjoy our gardens?”
Again Bennett nodded.
“I quite agree.”
Olivia studied him more closely. She’d never seen him quite so relaxed. Or so easy in his brother’s company.
Getting to her feet, she said, “I think I’ll just go in search of Liat and see for myself that he’s all right.”
“I’ll join you, Miss St. John.” As he turned to go he said to Minerva, “I’m having tea brought out. Mistress Thornton should be along with it shortly. Please don’t wait for us. I know Bennett likes his tea hot.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Olivia wasn’t the only one to notice Quenton’s good spirits. Both Minerva and Bennett stared after him as he and Thor walked away beside the nursemaid.
When they had crossed the garden Quenton pointed. “You see? There’s the lad. In the rose garden. Sketching another butterfly.”
Olivia smiled as she watched the little boy diligently drawing. On the sketch pad was the long, spiky arm of a rosebush. And perched on the rose was an
Anthocharis belia,
its delicate wings beginning to take shape.
The dog padded closer and Liat paused to pet him before continuing on with the sketch.
Quenton led Olivia toward a stone bench. “Let’s sit here a moment while we wait for the lad to finish his drawing.”
He waited until she was seated, then settled himself beside her. The sun filtered through the branches overhead, making lacy patterns on her skirt. Her hands were folded primly in her lap. A wisp of hair had slipped from her neat knot, teasing her cheek.
“Your brother is eager to see the king,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“I can sense the excitement in him. His color is high. And his eyes more lively than I’ve ever seen.”
He looked away. “I wish there were some way to include him in everything we do while the king is here. But it could prove awkward. Especially if Charles should wish to go hunting.”
“Oh.” Without thinking, she touched a hand to his arm. “You can’t exclude Bennett. It would break his heart.”
He closed his hand over hers. “Do you think I don’t know that? The last thing I want is to hurt him. But with all the extra work this visit will entail, I’m not certain we can spare a lad just to carry Bennett everywhere. And a day of hunting, especially with a vigorous monarch like Charles, could prove too exhausting for my frail brother.” His voice lowered ominously. “I don’t think I could bear to have him slip back into that pale wasted shadow of himself.”
“He won’t. We won’t let him.” Whenever Quenton exposed this tender side of his nature, her heart melted. She squeezed his hand. “We’ll just have to find a way....” Her gaze lifted to the hay wagon rolling across a distant hill “Of course. There’s our answer.”
He followed her direction, then gave a snort of disgust. “You expect me to send my brother along with the king in a crude wagon?”
“Couldn’t someone in the village make a smaller version, just big enough to accommodate Bennett? If the wheels are small enough, and the wood light enough, a lad could probably push him without too much effort.”
She could see that Quenton was mulling it over. “It should be deep enough that he can lean back and rest when he’s feeling weary. And large enough to hold some bed linens, possibly a shawl, a pillow for his head.”
“Aye.” His eyes narrowed as he considered. “And while we’re at it, a chair with wheels for the house.”
“Oh, yes.” In her eagerness she forgot herself. “Quenton, think of the freedom it would give him. And the pleasure.”
For the space of a heartbeat he merely stared at her. “Say that again.”
“I said think of the freedom...”
“Nay. Before that.”
She merely stared at him in confusion.
“You spoke my name.”
“Did I? Forgive me....”
“Olivia.” He touched a finger to her lips to stop her apology. “I want to hear you say it again. Say my name.”
She took a breath, still reeling from the sound of her own name on his lips. At last she whispered, “Quenton.”
“Again. Please.”
Her voice quavered. “Quenton.”
For long silent moments he merely stared down into her eyes. Then he reached a hand to brush the hair from her cheek, allowing the silken strands to sift through his fingers. And all the while he was studying her with a look that had her breath hitching, her heart pounding.
With his hand caressing her cheek he lowered his head. His lips hovered over hers. “Do you know how very special you’ve become to me?”
She was afraid to speak. Afraid to even breathe, for fear of spoiling the moment.
“I must kiss you, Olivia.” He bent to her and brushed his lips over hers. It was the merest whisper of mouth to mouth. And yet it sent heat pouring through her veins. Her heart swelled with so much love she feared it would burst.
His lips remained on hers while his hand moved around to cup the back of her head. He heard her little intake of breath. His fingers tangled in her hair and he crushed her mouth with his.
She wound her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with a fervor that caught them both by surprise.
On a moan of pleasure he dragged her close, thrilling to the press of her body to his. Despite the barrier of clothes he could feel the thrust of her breasts against his chest. His hands moved along her sides, his thumbs skimming the soft curves, stroking nipples already rigid.
On a gasp she started to pull away. He changed the angle of the kiss and moved his hands along her back, soothing, arousing. He could feel her relax against him. His hands dipped lower, to the flare of her hips, and he drew her firmly against him.
“Quenton.” She lifted troubled eyes to his.
“Shh. A minute more.” He pressed soft, moist kisses to her temple, her cheek, the tip of her nose. His mouth followed the line of her jaw, teasing the corner of her lips until, unable to wait any longer, she turned her face and felt his lips cover hers once more.
The kiss was no longer gentle. With a guttural sound they came together in a fierce heat that threatened to consume them both.
His hands were in her hair, his mouth moving over hers as if to devour her.
Her arms slid around his waist, holding on with a strength that matched his.
“Miss St. John.” At the sound of Liat’s voice, their movements stilled. Two heads came up at once.
“Come quickly. I think this is my best drawing yet.”
“I...” Olivia swallowed and tried to speak. Her breath was coming so hard and fast, the effort burned her throat. “I’ll be right there, Liat.”
She looked up at Quenton, who was watching her with the wariness of a hunter. Slowly, the darkness in his eyes gave way to mirth.

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