Samantha James (7 page)

The dishes were scarce being cleared when Simon leaned over. “No doubt you’ll wish to change into suitable clothing. We’ve several very long days of travel ahead of us.”

Anne’s gaze swung to his. “What?”

“It’s time to go home.”

Home,
she repeated silently.
Home.
Despite her earlier self-admonitions, a part of her wasn’t ready to relinquish so readily—or so soon.
This
was home, she thought dimly. Here and Gleneden.

Simon rose to his feet and addressed the assemblage. “I do hope you’ll forgive our hasty departure, but we must be on our way.”

Anne thought vaguely it was a good thing her
maid had already begun packing her trunks.

Anne didn’t want to leave. In a few days, perhaps. Tomorrow, at the earliest. Couldn’t he have consulted her? At the very least, informed her earlier? Not that he’d had to. But it would have been the courteous thing to do.

She could feel his gaze resting on her face. She pressed her lips together. She cared not that her dismay must have been keenly apparent.

“It’s time I was home,” he said with a lift of his brows.

Anne said nothing, merely dropped her napkin on the table.

A scant time later, they stood near the carriage. The horses stomped restlessly.

Pride and bravado had sustained her while she changed into traveling clothes. Jack and Izzie began to wail when they were told they wouldn’t see Anne for a time. Their nurse took them back inside. Anne hugged John, and then Alec stepped forward.

He took both hands in his and kissed her forehead. “Take care, Annie.”

Mama was next. Anne’s heart caught. Anne wrapped her arms around her mother’s slight form. Drawing back, Vivian touched her cheek.

“You’ll write, won’t you, dear?”

“You know I will, Mama.”

Caro had been hanging back slightly. Now she came forward. It was then that Anne noted
her eyes were bright with a betraying sheen of tears.

“Caro,” she said helplessly. “Oh, Caro.”

“Annie, I shall miss you so!”

A wobbly laugh emerged. “It isn’t as if we’ll never see each other again. It shall be soon, I promise.” They clung to each other, neither wanting to let go.

Anne had little recollection of being helped into the carriage. But there was a pinch in her heart, a hollow ache in her chest as she settled herself so that she faced the back of the carriage. Throughout their farewell, she’d managed to conceal her true feelings. Indeed, she was even smiling as she gave one last wave.

It was all so fast. She hadn’t expected that they were to leave so quickly.

Or that it would hurt so much.

The carriage lurched forward. Down the street, around the corner. Caro had taken several steps forward, as if to follow. And as her form finally receded into the distance, a slow-growing comprehension slipped over Anne.

She’d never been away from her family, not really, except for a few years of school when she was young. Not even then, truly, for Caro had been there as well. Throughout her entire life, her loved ones had been near to protect her, to shield and shelter her, to lend her strength, even when she hadn’t known she’d
needed it. Her parents. Her brothers, Alec and Aidan.

Now there was no one.

Despair slipped over her. A thought sprang to the fore and she was powerless to release it.

The man beside her was a stranger. Yet was she the outsider…or was he?

Anne was not the weepy sort. She’d always consigned such weakness to those who were faint of heart. But now, a tearing pain ripped through her. It was as if she were being literally—unbearably—divided in two.

Never had she felt so alone. Never had she
been
so alone, and the desolation that wound through her was crushing.

She struggled against it. She struggled with all her might. She told herself it was foolish, so very childish to feel this way!

It was no use. Two hot, scalding tears slid slowly down her cheeks. She tasted bitterness. She tasted helplessness, staring through the glass long after her family disappeared from view. She did not wipe them away. Such effort was beyond her.

Beside her there was a movement. She felt rather than saw her husband slowly reach out. The heat of his palm settled over her hands, there where her fingers lay so tightly twisted in her lap. She did not turn her head. She did not dare!

The contact was brief—oh, so brief! It was
over almost before it began. It was a gesture meant to comfort. To console. But it didn’t make her struggle any easier.

Indeed, it only made it harder.

Anne was sorely mistaken in her belief that Simon gave no more thought to the kiss they had shared.

If he could have leaped out to ride the entire journey with Duffy and his driver, he would have. He dearly longed to shut her out, closet her presence away where he need not think of her.

Perhaps he could have…if only he hadn’t glimpsed her tears. If only he could have paid no heed and turned a blind eye.

If only she hadn’t cried.

If only the journey home did not drag so endlessly!

It wasn’t the confinement within the carriage that nagged at him, but
her
. Her closeness surrounded him. It was impossible to ignore her. Her scent—damn it to hell!—was that of sweet, delicate roses. How quickly it became uniquely her own—and intimate in some way he pondered long and hard yet could not define—nor did he like!

Their wedding night had proved particularly awkward—for both of them. It was late when they stopped at an inn. Anne picked at her meal, and Simon had a very good idea what was on her mind…There was no point in dawdling, he decided. As soon as she laid down her fork, he escorted her up the stairs and down the hall to her room.

Stepping into the chamber, she paused, then turned. She was nervous. Simon sensed it—he saw it as well. He had no wish to prolong her uncertainty.

“I shall send the innkeeper’s wife to attend you,” he said. “And in the morning as well. Have a pleasant night, and I shall see you at breakfast.” He gave a slight bow and withdrew.

For that very reason, he began the next morning atop his mount alongside the carriage. He was quite certain that Anne was once again relieved—and, confound it, he wasn’t sure if he
should be pleased or affronted! Either way, he felt compelled to spend part of each day with her.

And each day, when he resumed his place inside the carriage, he positioned himself on the opposite seat, assuming an air as if it was of no consequence. Yet the size of the conveyance was such that there was no way an entire day could pass without their touching.

Her knee bumped his when she shifted restlessly (it was rather difficult to avoid, since her legs were surely as long as his, he suspected). It occurred rather frequently, he discovered, which led him to surmise that perhaps she was not a good traveler. Or perhaps she was not particularly fond of his company.

Neither of them seemed inclined toward conversation. When there was, the subject was confined to the weather. The food. The condition of the road. It was gentlemanly on his part, ladylike on hers.

Never had the journey been so long and arduous! He longed for it to be ended.

As for what would follow after that…Simon tried to dismiss it from his mind, a singularly foolish notion, he discovered. He did not want to think of her as an obligation. It was not fair to her.

Yet, God knew, it was difficult to think of her as his wife!

It was a dilemma, he suspected, that each of
them pondered. Which irritated him, yet for the life of him, he did not know why!

The journey to and from London usually spanned the length of several days. In deference to her comfort, they alighted for refreshment once during the day, and again to spend each night at an inn.

It was near the end of the third day that she sat up. She had been gazing rather absently through the window. But all at once she straightened, as if in sudden revelation.

“My God,” she said faintly.

Simon quirked a brow. “Is something wrong?” he inquired.

“Nothing is wrong,” she countered immediately. “It’s just that—”

She broke off. She lowered her head, momentarily confining her attention to her lap. Then once again her gaze skidded to the window. It was then he noticed a smile, such that he had the sensation she was trying to hide it.

“Is there something on your mind?”

“Aye.” In the back of his mind hovered the awareness that it was the first time her speech had revealed her Scottish heritage. “I mean…no.”

“Forgive me if I fail to comprehend,” Simon remarked, “but both the subject and your logic are proving rather elusive.”

She bit her lip and he had the distinct sensation she was engaged in a serious debate within
herself. “It’s just that…oh, good heavens. It’s just occurred to me that…” She began to laugh, almost wildly, it seemed to him. Should he be alarmed?

“Anne? Anne!”

It was only much, much later that he realized he’d called her by her given name. Or more precisely, that it emerged with a spontaneous ease that startled him each time he thought of it. It was as if he’d done so every day of his life…

“I am not a dimwit. Truly! Though I understand why you might think so. But we’ve been married for…what? Almost two full days. And here I am—here
we
are—and I haven’t the vaguest notion where we’re going.” She tipped her head to the side. “Where the devil
are
we going?”

“To my home.” If he sounded annoyed, he couldn’t help it.

“Yes, yes. You stated your home is the country. But
where
in the country? Where are we going? North, if I should hazard a guess.”

“Yorkshire,” he supplied. “On the border of the moors.”

“I’ve never been to the moors,” was all she said.

She didn’t seem displeased, which in turn pleased
him
, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

“And your home? Does it have a name?”

Something twisted in his heart. “Rosewood Manor.”

“Rosewood Manor,” she repeated. A smile curved her lips. “It sounds lovely,” she said.

As he thought of his home, the emotions twisting in his gut were suddenly maddening. There was a part of him that was immensely relieved he was on his way home. He’d hated nearly every moment he was away. Despite everything, it was impossible to entertain the notion of living elsewhere.

Ah, yes, he loved Rosewood. The peace and quiet and tranquillity. But there were times he hated it. Not the land. But the rain. The storms.

It wasn’t always so, chided a voice in his mind. There had once been a time when he’d treasured everything. Relished even the wildness of lightning streaking across the sky, the thunder that crashed across the earth. He leaned his head back against the cushion, away from the stirring of memories. Once—and one time only—Aunt Leticia had gently said that perhaps he should consider selling Rosewood.

He couldn’t.

Everything inside him counseled that it was wrong. He would never sell Rosewood. He had grown to manhood there. It was there that he had wed…He loved it too much to ever leave. In truth, he could not imagine living elsewhere.

Yet hatred burned just as strongly for this place he’d always called home.

For Rosewood was both his comfort and his curse. His peace…

And his punishment.

Late in the afternoon on their fourth day of travel, Anne removed her bonnet. The air was warm both within the coach and without, though not nearly as hot as it had been in London.

As she did, the sunlight caught the gold band on her finger. The ring was shiny and new, engraved with her initials and Simon’s, as well as the date of their marriage.

It felt heavy. Foreign, for she had yet to grow accustomed to the feel of it on her finger.

And she also felt the weight of Simon’s gaze. Her cheeks grew hot, and it had naught to do with the weather. Her fingers busied themselves with arranging her skirts, lest he glean her reaction.

“How long before we are there?” It was not boredom, but curiosity that prompted the question.

“An hour,” he said. “No more.”

Anne straightened and looked out. There had been a subtle transformation in the landscape that had escaped her notice until now. All around were rolling hills. Amid patchworks of farmland, men toiled in the fields. They passed cattle
and fat, woolly sheep, and clattered through villages tucked into the valley floor, where children played in front of red-roofed cottages. One little girl waved, her face pink-cheeked and round and wreathed in a smile. Anne waved back, wistfully reminded of Izzie.

On the outskirts, they clattered past an old Norman church, then began a steep climb. The road crept along the crest of a hill, curving sharply.

To the east lay deeply etched valleys. To the west and north, ridge upon ridge of undulating heather stretched as far as the eye could see. Very soon it would be in full bloom, a vista of lush purple carpet.

So very like Gleneden, she couldn’t help but make a tiny exclamation.

Simon had been watching her closely. “What do you think, my lady? A world apart from London, both in distance and appearance. Outsiders usually consider it most forbidding.”

“Forbidding?”

Clearly he didn’t expect her soft tinkle of laughter. He hiked a brow. “You think not?”

“Never,” she said simply. “I see magnificence. I see tranquillity. A harmony of earth and all within it.”

“You’ve not yet seen the many moods of the moors,” he said quietly. “You may well change your mind.”

There was no chance to respond. The carriage left the road and turned down a narrow, winding lane flanked by trees and a low stone wall.

And then the journey was over. Despite her enjoyment of the countryside, she had somehow envisioned Simon Blackwell’s home as lonely and grim, much like the man himself.

But before her was a lovely stone manor house, with wide, leaded windows that ran the entire length of the house, and wisteria-clad walls on the far wing.

The carriage door swung open. Duffy appeared, looking rather pleased, Anne decided. Simon leaped down before the old man could lower the steps—a task he did himself—then extended a hand.

“Welcome to Rosewood Manor, my lady.”

There was no assemblage of servants to greet their master and his new wife upon their arrival. Standing in the entrance hall where a beautiful English oak stairway led above stairs, Anne glanced around, aware of Simon speaking to Duffy in low tones near the doorway.

It was Duffy who showed her to her second story bedchamber. Anne found it a bit odd that no other servants appeared to greet them, but reminded herself it was rare that the McBride household observed such formality at Gleneden.

As for her, what the deuce was she thinking?
She uttered a silent rebuke. Gleneden was no longer her home. Rosewood Manor was her home. Nor was her name McBride.

And perhaps—oh, but it was both a stout resolve and a fervent prayer!—it would not prove such a hardship to live here after all.

Her room was of modest size. The walls were a mellow gold, the woodwork and door a crisp, clean white. There was the smell of fresh paint—how sweet of Simon to have gone to such trouble. The bed hangings and draperies were made of crimson velvet, the counterpane a silky red and gold patterned damask. All were distinctly feminine, an observation that immediately sent her gaze swinging to the door on the wall opposite the wide four-poster.

Her heart picked up its rhythm. Simon’s room? she wondered.

Putting it from her thoughts, she turned away to examine the room further. A seat had been built into the window, covered with plump, inviting cushions. Next to it, a set of French doors beckoned. Anne stepped outside onto a balcony that stretched the length of the house.

She couldn’t help but exclaim her pleasure aloud. A far-ranging view encompassed deep green valleys, the endless stretch of heath and heather. She had no trouble envisioning a silver moon etched high in a midnight sky. She could imagine no more perfect place to wish upon stars—

How silly she was. She was too old to wish upon stars any longer. She was married now, and such things were for children, anyway.

Suppressing a sigh, she turned to go back inside. It was then she noticed another set of doors scant steps away from hers.

Her heart stood still. She could see directly into the chamber. She was right, she realized. Her room adjoined Simon’s. She recognized the valise atop the huge four-poster; indeed all the furnishings were on a massive scale compared to hers. The ornately carved armoire, the writing desk directly alongside the doors.

The urge to step inside was almost overwhelming. Indeed, she took a step forward, one hand reaching for the brass handle. Yet all at once she found herself pricked by the notion that she was intruding where she had no right to intrude.

Stepping aside, she quickly turned back to her room.

The journey had been a tiring one. After they left London, each successive day had begun very early and ended late each evening. Anne lay down to nap, but it was impossible. It was really rather amazing how tired one could become while doing absolutely nothing the entire day! There was too much…well, she wasn’t sure what it was, but it was such that she could not sleep! She began to pace, to and fro.

When a knock sounded on the door, she sin
cerely welcomed it. Duffy stood in the hall. He offered a wide smile.

“Supper awaits, my lady,” he announced cheerfully.

On the way downstairs, Anne ran her finger along the fine layer of dust upon the molding in the hallway.

“Duffy,” she asked, “who is the housekeeper?” More to the point, she should have asked
where
was the housekeeper.

He stopped short. “Well, mum, there is none. There is only Mrs. Wilder, the cook,” he explained, “Noah, the houseboy, and me. Oh, and Leif, the groom. It’s been that way since—” He broke off. “A long while,” he finished. “It’s a bit much for Mrs. Wilder, I’m afraid.”

He was uncomfortable; there was no denying it. And while Anne was rather puzzled, she had no wish to prolong his unease.

She flashed a smile. “Thank you, Duffy. I appreciate your candor.”

“Any time, mum. And may I say that it’s good to have you here at Rosewood.”

His welcome was heartening; it remained with her long after he opened the dining room.

Simon acknowledged her presence with an incline of his head. He held a chair for her, directly to his right. Anne wondered that he’d not put her at the far end. From what she’d seen of the state of the house, Anne was rather
pleasantly surprised at the meal. It was hearty, simple fare—and just what she needed.

Afterward, Simon showed her into the drawing room. Perched on the edge of a small settee, Anne gazed around. She eyed the side table beside her. The room was lovingly furnished, Anne thought, but definitely dusty. It was, she decided, something she would attend to tomorrow.