Second Time Around (10 page)
Read Second Time Around Online
Authors: Beth Kendrick
Cait stared down at the floor as the shock wore off and self-consciousness set in. “So …”
“So what brings you back to Thurwell?”
“I’m taking a sabbatical from my job,” she hedged, still not meeting his gaze. “I’m an English professor, too, now. Shayland College in Connecticut.”
“Well done.” He sounded genuinely impressed, despite the fact that Shayland was ranked several tiers beneath Thurwell. “Then we’re colleagues.”
“No,” she said, still smarting from the last time she’d been attracted to a man she considered one of her peers. “I’m taking a break from teaching. Doing a little writing.”
“Poetry?”
She shook her head. “Novel.”
“Ambitious.”
“Not as ambitious as publishing a short story collection that’s been favorably compared to
Dubliners
.”
He laughed and rolled his eyes. “One short story collection, published years ago.”
“Yeah, but what a collection. Are you working on anything new these days?”
“Not really. Just dabbling. Guess I burned out after one book. What’s your novel about?”
As she scrambled to come up with a response, a thin ribbon
of blood trickled down from the cut on her cheek onto her shirt. She had never been so grateful for an open wound in her life. “I’m bleeding. Do you mind if I go wash off a bit?”
“Of course. The guest bathroom’s right upstairs, first door on the left. There should be clean towels under the sink and Band-Aids in the medicine cabinet.”
She started up the stairs and he called after her, “Let me know if you need anything. Sorry about the mess.”
What mess? His bathroom was as spartan as his kitchen—clean and serviceable, but without any wall art, ruffled shower curtains, or froufrou skin care products. The pile of white towels stacked beneath the sink smelled faintly of fabric softener. The hand soap was generic, still in the plastic pump bottle.
She leaned over the basin to splash her face with cold water, then patted her cut dry with tissue. She was studying her reflection in the mirror, debating whether she should apply butterfly Band-Aids, when she noticed the silver lock gleaming in the hallway.
The second story of Gavin’s house had three doors in addition to the bathroom. One of these was ajar, and one was closed, but the third was secured from the outside with a formidable steel contraption that looked like a padlock on steroids.
Cait cast a long, speculative look at the door before returning downstairs, where Gavin was waiting with car keys in hand.
“Do you need stitches? I can drive you to the hospital.”
“No, I’ll be fine. It’s just a scratch.”
“You sure?” he asked. She nodded. “Then I’ll drive you home.”
“Oh, I can walk back.”
“Absolutely not. It’s getting dark, and you never know what might go down on the mean streets of Thurwell after night falls.”
“How chivalrous.” She knew it wasn’t any of her business but had to ask. “Hey, I couldn’t help noticing—what’s with the mysterious locked door up there?”
He flashed her a rakish grin. “That would be Mr. Rochester’s lunatic wife, of course.”
She laughed and waited for him to elaborate, but he changed the subject immediately. “Listen, I’d like to take you to dinner sometime. We can go out, grab a bottle of wine, talk teaching, writing, hockey injuries. What do you say?”
For a moment, she just stared at him, flustered, every fiber of her being screaming,
Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!
Somehow, this internal riot of enthusiasm translated to her blinking several times in succession and volleying back with, “Okay.”
“Great. Does Friday night work? Say around seven?”
Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!
“Okay.”
C
ait unlocked the front door to Paradise Found and waved to Gavin, who put the Jeep into gear and pulled away from the curb. She had hoped to slip into the house and up to her room without an interrogation, but Jamie, Brooke, and Anna were all lounging around the living room eating pizza and waiting for her.
“Look who’s finally back,” Jamie said. “Grab a plate and make yourself comfortable. We have news. Big news!”
Cait closed the door and turned around, giving everyone a good look at her face.
Brooke raised her hand to her lips in dismay. “Caitlin!”
“Oh my God.” Anna winced. “What happened to your eye?”
“Oh, that.” Cait tried to look nonchalant. “I ran into Professor Clayburn.”
Jamie’s eyes were huge. “In the middle of a bar brawl?”
“Not exactly. He asked me out. We’re going to dinner on Friday.”
“What?”
“Good evening, ladies, I have to go write.” She dashed up the stairs.
“Oh no, you don’t!”
“Get back here right now, missy, and spill your guts! We demand every last detail!”
“Sorry,” she called, high-fiving Mr. Wonderful with her index finger as she rounded the landing. “The muse calls, and I must answer!”
She locked the bedroom door behind her and opened her laptop with subversive glee. Forget the Great American Novel. Tonight she would just indulge in a little warm-up exercise:
Helena Barnett glanced up from the pages of her book as a thunderclap rattled the library windows and a bolt of lightning streaked across the night sky. She pushed her spectacles farther up on her nose and prepared to resume reading when another flash of lightning revealed a man racing a massive stallion up the drive through the tempestuous storm. The book slipped from her fingers as she blew out her candle and pressed her brow against the windowpane, her eyes searching through the dark for a second look
.
Why would such a man be riding in such weather, at such a dark hour of the night, toward the quietest estate in the dullest county in all of Britain? What business could such a man have with her placid, even-tempered father?
Lightning flashed and she glimpsed the rider again. He was much closer
now, and she could tell that he was well formed; tall and broad-shouldered beneath his greatcoat. Her pulse quickened and her mind raced in a bid to recover her composure. She snatched up the book that had tumbled down to the thick Brussels rug and furtively tucked the leather-bound volume into the folds of her white muslin nightdress. Her father had long ago resigned himself to the fact that Helena preferred libraries to ballrooms and fictional heroes to flesh-and-blood suitors. But if he ever discovered the nature of her late-night reading material—scandalous novels such as this copy of Laclos’s
Les Liaisons Dangereuses—
he would certainly take away her pin money, and her beloved books along with it
.
Over a distant roll of thunder, Helena heard the pounding of the front door’s brass knocker. Curiosity overruled good sense, and she crept down to the shadowed stairway landing. There, she crouched behind the embroidered damask divan, a vantage point that afforded her an unobstructed view of the foyer below
.
Her father, clad in his plaid silk dressing robe, was murmuring to a stranger who seemed to fill up the entryway with his commanding presence. Water pooled around the soles of his well-worn boots, and his dark hair was wind-whipped across the hard planes of his face. He appeared as unforgiving and fierce as the storm he’d ridden through
.
He looked, in short, like one of the heroes from Helena’s beloved books
.
As her father continued to address him in hushed tones, the stranger raised his face until his eyes locked on Helena’s. She shrank back with a gasp, but he seemed able to stare straight through the divan and her modest ruffled gown. His amber eyes belied his severe countenance—they were smoldering, the color of warm whiskey
.
Unequal to the frank, assessing nature of his gaze, she turned and fled back up the stairs to the safety of her chamber and locked her door behind her. But sleep eluded her and the prospect of reading held no pleasure for her now. A single glance from that dark, sensual stranger evoked thoughts more scandalous than anything printed on the pages of a forbidden French novel
.
By the next day, Helena was wild with curiosity. Her father had left the house before she’d come down for breakfast, and her many questions about the stranger’s identity and intentions went unanswered. And now her investigation would have to wait until later, for even here in Surrey, there were teas to attend and razor-tongued social critiques to endure. Helena nibbled a strawberry and inwardly smiled at the spiteful old tabbies whispering around the refreshment table at the back of the salon:
—
“Have you seen what Helena Barnett is wearing?”
—
“How could I miss it? The fabric is rich enough, but that pattern! Nary a flower to be found. Not even a stripe. And the color—well! The whole ensemble makes widow’s weeds appear the
denier cri.
Is it any wonder she’s about to be on the shelf?”
—
“About to be? I’d say she’s firmly wedged in between bookends and gathering dust already!”
At twenty-seven years old, Helena was well aware that her opportunities for a suitable match were dwindling. The prospect of spinsterhood did not trouble her. Indeed, she rather enjoyed the idea of remaining “on the shelf,” sealed and self-contained like one of the leather-bound volumes tucked away in the library. She took her leave as soon as good manners would allow, refused all offers of escorts and carriages, and breathed a sigh of relief as she set off on foot toward home
.
She took her time meandering along the garden path flanked with low hedgerows and vibrant blooms. The breeze was warm and the sunlight glorious, so she took off her bonnet and gloves. A sprinkling of freckles made no difference, after all, to a confirmed spinster
.
As had happened repeatedly over the course of the day, her musings turned to the man who’d arrived the night before. Her mind roiled with questions about who he was, why he had come—
Foliage rustled just behind her. She whirled around to find herself facing the man who’d consumed her thoughts. Without a word, he strode closer
until she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. Disconcerted, she immediately reverted to her drawing-room decorum
.
“Forgive me, sir.” She schooled her features into a tepid smile. “You gave me quite a start.”
“Did I, then?” His bold gaze roamed over her, from her kidskin boots up to her uncovered red hair. Was his deep voice tinged with a Scottish burr?
The corners of his mouth settled into a frown. “Your attire is leavin’ much to be desired.”
Definitely a Scot. A towering, broad-shouldered—
His words finally registered. Helena had become accustomed to stinging remarks about her lack of fashion and imminent spinsterhood, but this man’s bold appraisal shocked her far beyond anything she’d ever experienced in a ballroom. She disguised her discomfiture with tartness. “My propriety can easily be restored by putting on my bonnet and gloves. You, sir, however, appear to be inalterably lacking in the most basic tenets of civility.” She lifted her chin. “And as long as we’re unintroduced strangers brashly pointing out one another’s flaws … Your penchant for dramatic late-night entrances will go unappreciated in a simple town like mine. Perhaps a swashbuckling character such as you fancy yourself would be better suited for the London stage?”
His frown vanished and was replaced with a roguish smile. “Ah, you mistook my meaning. I merely meant to say that I prefer your revealing attire from last night.”
Her cheeks heated. “It was a modest gown—”
“Aye, but a hallway sconce gifted me with a silhouette I’ll no’ soon forget.”
Oh Lord! How much did he see when I hastened up the stairs?
“Let us be strangers no more,” he continued, as if he hadn’t just mortified her. “Helena Barnett, I am Ross MacCormick, charged with your younger brothers’ education.”
“The new tutor? Then why the urgency to arrive?” And why had her father been so secretive?
“I take my commitment to academics very seriously.”
“You truly are to be their teacher? I fear they are doomed.”
“I teach many subjects, lass. Society etiquette is no’ among them.” He captured her ungloved hand in his and bowed low. The heat of his skin against hers seemed scorching as he slowly but deliberately stroked his thumb against the soft underside of her wrist
.
She snatched her hand away. “You are quite improper, sir.”
His eyes laughed at her, but beneath the amusement, she saw a challenge. “But I wager no’ half so improper, Miss Barnett, as you.”
