Springtime Pleasures (31 page)

“Shh!”

“Three Prisoners, and three
Canoes
—”

“Ooooh, what shall we do about the canoes?”

“Ach, never mind the canoes. Does it mention a sack?”

“No, no sack.”

“Well, what shall we do about the sack, then?”

“I tell you what you shall do,” Griff gritted out. “You will untie me at once—”

“Why is he talking? Does anybody understand what he’s saying? That’s not in the book, is it?”

“Stop it!” he roared—and inhaled dust from the sack that had him coughing and wheezing for breath.

“Gosh, he’s loud.”

“How about we cut the sack open at the bottom and drag it down? Then it’s almost as if there’s no sack.”

“Good idea. Give me a hand, will you?”

Griff felt as if he were slowly going mad. Surely this was merely a nightmare, an evil hallucination his tired brain had conjured up.

But no, several of the girls surrounded him, and somebody started tugging at the thing that still covered his head.

“Keep his head still, or he’ll end up with the scissors sticking in his brains.”

Dear God. They were mad. Truly mad.

He didn’t dare to move a muscle while the girl snipped happily away, humming under her breath, until the sackcloth fell apart and he could finally, finally see daylight again.

Breathe freely.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deep lungfuls of fresh, clean air.

When he opened his eyes, he could see a horde of little girls milling about him. They were at the edge of some lake, out of sight of the house.

His heart sank.

There were two more poles next to him. Against those two very pretty dolls had been tied.

“The water is boiling!” one of the girls shouted, directing his attention to a giant cauldron that stood a few feet away on the pebbly beach. A row of raggedy wooden dolls sat around it like the audience at a play.

“Aww, why did you have to drag the cauldron along? There is no cauldron in the book!”

“I know there isn’t. But it’s the
Macbeth
cauldron. Remember how much fun we’ve had with it?”

Griff took a deep breath. “Whatever you are doing, you will stop this at once,” he said in his most commanding voice. “Untie me.”

A dozen heads swivelled around, and the girls stared at him as if he were some exotic curiosity.

“Why is he talking?” one of them finally said. “That’s
not
in the book.”

Another one, with carroty-red pigtails, rolled her eyes. “Grown-ups. They have to ruin everything.” With an annoyed huff, she walked towards him.

“That’s a good child,” Griff said, trying to keep his voice calm even though his heart thundered in his chest. Who would have thought that little girls could be such mad, little monsters? “You will untie me—”

Her reddish brows puckered, she fumbled around in her pocket of her dress.

“—this very moment and—”

“Ha!” she crowed triumphantly, and waved a large grubby handkerchief about. “Got it!”

“Wha—”

Rolling the handkerchief up, she shoved it into his mouth and knotted the ends.

Griff choked.

Hell!

He tried to suppress the urge to cough, tried to calm his breathing, to…

Dear God.

“That’ll stop him,” the red-haired horror said, her voice oozing satisfaction as she turned to her companions. “Now, where do we start?”

Desperately, Griff tried to fight down the panic that welled up inside him. He was utterly at the mercy of this horde of bloodthirsty girls. Goodness knew what they planned to do with him. It was ridiculous to be afraid of small girls, he told himself, but—dear God!

“Let’s boil Eugenie first.” A plump, dark-haired girl untied one of the fine dolls from the other poles and gave it a fierce scowl. “What a stupid thing you are with your stupid French dress and all! Stepmama thought if she gave me a French doll, I wouldn’t mind being sent away from home.”

“Boo!” the other girls shrieked. “Death to the French doll!”

“Well, she was
wrong
! And now you will die!”

The other girls clapped. “Throw it into the pot,” they started to chant. “Throw it into the pot!”

The dark-haired girl threw her head back. “You will be eaten by savages! Die, doll!” With an ear-splitting scream, she threw the doll into the boiling water.

As the doll’s waxen head slowly started to melt, the group cheered, dancing around the cauldron like maniacs.

At the sound of their shrill cries, the blood froze in Griff’s veins.

Yes, savages, that’s what they were, that’s—

“And what do you think you are doing?” A new voice cut through the mayhem from behind him.

At once, the girls fell silent, and their heads whipped around to stare at the newcomer.

A woman strode past Griff—no, not any woman. That tall, lean figure was unmistakable, even in that dark dress.

Charlie.

His Charlie.

He sagged with relief.

“We are cannibals, Charlie,” the devilish redhead began, only to be cut short.

“That would be Miss Stanton for you, Susan,” Charlie said sharply. “And yes, I did reckon you were re-enacting the more exciting bits of
Robinson Crusoe
.” She glanced at the cauldron. “Marianne, are these the remains of one your dolls that are bubbling away over there?” She shook her head. “Girls, I don’t mind you melting wax dolls, but this—” She threw out her arm to indicate Griff’s bound form. “—this is not at all acceptable.” For the first time, she turned towards him. “I must apolo—” Her eyes widened. “
Chanderley
!”

Chapter 20

in which love wins all

Charlie hardly believed her eyes. It couldn’t be… surely… “Chanderley,” she repeated wanly.

Her gaze darted over him. She could feel the blood ebbing from her face, leaving her lightheaded, as she took in his bedraggled appearance, the gag in his mouth, the ropes that bound him to the pole.

She swayed.

Immediately, the girls pressed forward. “Miss Stanton!”

“Are you alright, Miss Stanton?”

“Do you think she has heatstroke?”

His eyes bore into hers. Alarm registered on his face.

“Chanderley,” she repeated a third time—rather stupidly, she had to admit.
Pea-goose!

Charlie took a deep breath. “I am alright.” Another breath to allow her to gather her composure. “Now, girls—” She clapped her hands. “I want you to douse the fire. And then you will go back to the house.—And don’t give me that scowl, Marianne. What you all did was truly wicked, and I’m most disappointed in you. You will all go back to the house.” And as one of the girls opened her mouth to protest, “
Now
. Since you are so fond of Mr Defoe’s novel, I trust you will find it no hardship to copy the first twenty pages in your neatest writing.”

Groans met this statement. “But, Miss Stanton—”

“No. I don’t want to hear a thing,” Charlie snapped. “Have you managed to douse the fire yet? Good, then take your dolls and
get back to the house
!” Her hand’s trembled with the force of her anger.

Or was it worry for Chanderley?

She cast him a quick glance.

Lud, he looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge!

Charlie forced her attention back on the girls. With eyes as wide as saucers and a few mouths trembling at her harsh tone, they hurried to comply with her command. In no time at all, the group marched back to the school, clutching their dolls. They left the cauldron with the sad remains of Susan’s French doll behind—and a wheelbarrow. That explained how they had managed to transport Chanderley to the lake.

As soon as the last pigtail had disappeared over the small hill that hid the lake from view, Charlie dashed to Chanderley. Up close he looked even more bedraggled. His hair was tousled; a bruise was forming on his cheekbone; and why was his lower face covered in stubble?

She untied the handkerchief and took it out of his mouth.

“Hell,” he said hoarsely, then, “Thank you.”

She stared at him. “What are you doing here?”

His brows drew together and meshed in that way she found so fascinating. “Those little monsters
ambushed
me and threw me into that infernal wheelbarrow and—”

“I know that.” She made an impatient gesture. “But what are you doing
here
, in Scotland?”

“Ah.” His features relaxed. He glanced down his body. “If you’d release me—”

“No.”

His brows rose. “What do you mean, no?”

Charlie crossed her arms in front of her chest.

He flexed his shoulders, and heaved a resigned sigh. “You are one of the most aggravating females I know, do you know that? It’s a good thing I love you to distraction.”

Charlie gaped at him. Her arms fell to her sides. “You
what
?” Suddenly she had trouble getting enough air into her lungs.

He gave her a crooked smile. “That is why I am in Scotland, Miss Stanton. To tell you how very much I love you and adore you.”

Oh my. Oh MY.
She put a hand over her stomach, where a thousand butterflies fluttered about.

His expression sobered as his eyes roamed over her face. “I’ve come to tell you what a deuced dunderhead I’ve been. You have gifted me with your affection, with…” His jaw worked. “With your innocence even—and I would have thrown away that most precious gift.”

Her thoughts whirling, Charlie shook her head. “You feel honour-bound to comply with the wishes of your family; I understand that. Your father—” She broke off as his eyes darkened with anger. “What? What is it?”

“My father,” he snarled. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word honour! I will never—God!” He closed his eyes with some strong emotion.

Charlie watched the muscles in his throat move as he tried to control whatever demons had him in their grip. He grimaced as if in pain, and she felt her heart clench, aching for him.

Without thinking, she reached out and laid her hand against his rough, stubbly cheek. “It is alright,” she whispered, and had to blink back tears when he leaned his head into her palm, cherishing her touch. “Ah, George.” She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “Everything will be fine,” she crooned.

His lashes fluttered, then he opened his eyes and stared directly into hers. What she saw in his gaze made her want to hug him tight. Instead, she lightly stroked his cheek.

“My Aunt Burnell came to me and told me about her… her marriage,” he said with effort, his breathing laboured. “Charlie, you can’t imagine—they basically sold her to the highest bidder, and that swine Burnell, he… he…” He swallowed hard.

Mrs Burnell’s remarks at her party—about women being so often helpless—suddenly acquired new, dreadful implications. Charlie had thought Mrs Burnell had been talking about her niece, but no, it would appear she had been talking about herself. “Burnell was violent,” she said.

Chanderley’s chest moved as he took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, he was.” His face spasmed. “She showed me her hands, Charlie, her poor hands. They are covered in scars, so many; you can’t imagine how many.” Tears began to trickle down his face. “Dear God, Charlie, what that swine did to her! She tried to tell her family, her father and brother, but they did not see fit to help her. Can you imagine?”

She gently wiped his tears away.

“If it had been my sister, I would have killed the bastard,” he choked out.

“I know you would have,” she soothed him. Stepping nearer to him, she slipped her arm around his shoulders and drew his head down to rest against her neck. “It is alright, George.”

“My father talked to me of honour,” he said against her skin, “yet he possesses none himself. He would have stood by and watched how Burnell killed his sister. He would have killed her, Charlie. He really would have killed her.”

“But he didn’t,” she whispered fiercely, tunnelling her hand through his hair, pressing her fingers against his scalp. “Your aunt survived and overcame whatever horror her husband inflicted upon her.”

In the safe round of her arms, Chanderley shuddered. “That is my father’s idea of a respectable marriage.” He raised his head, his eyes wet and red-rimmed. “I spit on his respectability. Where is the honour in respectability if it means to refuse to help your sister when she fears for her life? And where is the honour in respectability if it means forsaking the woman you love above all others?” He searched her eyes. “Am I too late, Charlie?”

For once speechless, Charlie could only stare at him in amazement while her heart hammered against her chest.

“Will you have me, my dear?”

She looked at him, wanting to treasure the moment. Tied to a stake, dirty and tousled, he presented quite a contrast to the slick man about town she had first met. For her, he had shed his polished shell. For her, his famous control had slipped and unravelled.

A burst of happiness blossomed in her chest, engulfed her whole body until even her fingertips tingled with it. Charlie threw her head back and laughed in sheer abandon. And then she kissed him, still laughing. “I love you,” she told him between kisses. “I love you.” Then, “And you love me, too? Is this not the most extraordinary thing? Most peculiar, if you think about it.”

“I see nothing extraordinary about it,” he told her in his superior viscount-tone. “I love you most ardently. I also would appreciate it if you could untie me now.”

“Do you, now?” Mischief bubbling inside her, she took a step back to look at him from head to toe. He did present a fine sight indeed with his broad frame and the rumpled clothes. His shoulders were straining against the fabric of his coat, and the golden stubble…

She narrowed her eyes.

Why, the stubble made him look like a highwayman!

She grinned.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “Carlotta—”

She kissed him again because she could and because he was such a fine specimen of man and because in an extraordinary stroke of luck it would appear he was hers, hers, and hers alone. Teasingly, she licked across his lips, making him groan.

“Minx,” he told her, and deepened the kiss.

Her hands explored the width of his shoulders, roamed down to his chest. She remembered how he had risen above her that afternoon she had spent in his bed—his chest gleaming with sweat, his movements dynamic and oh-so powerful.