Sweet Bargain (18 page)

"There's no clock," she said.

He studied the food on his plate, pushing a piece of chicken through the sauce in a long furrow as he considered his answer. "Would you like a clock?" he asked.

"Would you allow me one?" she countered. "There are no clocks anywhere in this house, except the one my parents gave us, and you had it removed from the hall yesterday."

He saw now how she had taken that act. He had not meant to slight her family. He had thought only to escape the tyranny of time that had ruled his uncle's house. "I apologize for moving the clock without consulting you," he said. "It is a handsome clock, and you may have it placed anywhere you wish." He pushed the bit of chicken into a lump of vegetables.

"In your library?" she asked.

He had to look up, and knew he'd betrayed himself as soon as their eyes met. The faint smile in hers told him she'd deliberately provoked him. He put down his fork and studied her. She was teasing him.

"You could tell me about your objections to clocks ... Nick," she said.

He could, if he could speak. Her voice, low and sweet and hesitating over his name, sent a ripple of heat through him like July sun shimmering over ripening grain. Why had he dressed for dinner with his throat swathed in linen, his limbs confined in layers of wool and silk? She looked so cool in the blue muslin gown that dipped in a lace-edged arc below her slim throat and puffed lightly at her shoulders above bare, rounded arms.

"At Haverly," he began, as much to distract himself as to enlighten his bride, "my uncle had several clocks in each room. He liked to see a clock on every wall, and he insisted that all clocks agree to the minute. I have seen him upbraid a man of his in the severest manner if but one clock in dozens missed the exact chiming of the hour."

Bel wondered what suffering of his own he was concealing. All day she had been thinking over his revelations in the tree, and she guessed that he would always minimize whatever had been difficult or painful for himself.

"How many clocks are there at Haverly?" she asked with careful unconcern.

"Would you believe a thousand?"

A thousand
. She made a fleeting attempt to imagine a thousand clocks ticking and chiming, but he was looking at her with undisguised longing, and the image of clocks gave way to an image of the thousand kisses he had once asked for.

"Then let us set our clock awry," she said, striving for a light tone. "Let all the clocks in Courtland ring at twenty minutes past the hour."

"Done," he said, his eyes locked with hers.

It was the first time he had yielded to her. She looked away, unable to answer that gaze with one as frank.

When the footman entered with the next course, she busied herself with the placement of platters. The things about which she and her husband were not speaking possessed her mind, and the little shiver at his nearness started deep in her. She searched for a rational topic of conversation.

"Do you object to any other conventional domestic arrangements?" she asked.

"Neckcloths at dinner on a July evening."

"You prefer to be the shepherd then?"

Again she drew a penetrating look from him, and she realized she had revealed thoughts about him she was not sure she wished to explain. Whatever tale she told him, he was going to know if it was less than the truth.

She felt the heat of a blush rise in her cheeks, but she kept her gaze steady. "When we first met, you stepped out of that wood in a white shirt and corduroy breeches like some character out of a pastoral."

"And do you still see me as such a character?"

"Sometimes I do. You are not at all what I thought you were even two days ago."

She could see she had startled him with her admission, but he did not take his eyes from her. "Should I be glad of that?"

She nodded, unable to speak.

Abruptly he rose and, turning his back to her, strode to the window. There he stood, looking out, his hands braced against the sill. She clasped her own hands in her lap and pressed them together hard to still the trembling. He was going to ask for another of the bargain kisses, and this time she meant to question him about them.

"Would you be willing to ... go fishing?" he asked.

"Fishing? Now?" She turned, astonished, but his back was still to her.

"If we hurry," he said without moving, "we can still catch the evening rise, and ... it will be cool by the river."

She could hardly adjust her thinking to his unexpected invitation. She was so sure she knew that alteration in his eyes that meant he wanted to kiss her. And at least some of the surprise of this moment lay in her recognition that she would be disappointed if he didn't want to. She was staring at his back when he turned.

"Will you come with me?" he asked. The look was still in his eyes.

"Yes," she answered, knowing she had agreed to more than fishing.

Nick sat cross-legged on the rug they had spread above the Ashe and considered the contents of the case Bel had opened before him. Arrayed in precise ordered compartments were dozens of bits of silk, wool, and feathers, cleverly wrapped about sharp barbs to suggest the variety of insect life that hovered above the river during the spring and summer months. Bel was explaining which of these dry flies was apt to be most successful in late July on the Ashe, but the movement of her fingers over the bright lures was distracting.

She had put on a plain brown overdress, concealing one of the light, white muslins she so often wore. She sat beside him, her knee nearly touching his, her movements as she leaned over the box of lures bringing sweet hints of lavender and woman to his eager senses. He was tempted to curse the widow who had taught him nearly every degree of rising desire. He could not pretend to himself that he did not recognize the danger of indulging in this quiet closeness. Abruptly he asked Bel for a lure.

She broke off her sentence and looked at him questioningly, and he met her gaze, letting her see the desire that consumed him. If she chose to back away from him now, to end their expedition, he would understand. But she nodded and looked down at the lures. She selected one and looked up again, offering it to him. When his fingers brushed her palm as he took the offered fly, she did not flinch.

Bel watched her husband attach the lure to his line, then spring to his feet in one fluid motion and move to the edge of the river, positioning himself with care to take advantage of an opening in the trees that made for easy casting. She watched with entire approval the precise rhythm of each cast that sent the fly, leader, and line descending as lightly as a breeze-borne leaf to the river below. It was satisfying to see that she had married a man whose fishing she would not blush for among the Shaws, but it was another sort of feeling altogether to watch the hasty way he was setting the hook. He was too fast, and though the trout were biting, he was losing them from impatience or distraction. She drew up her knees, hugging them as if she could steady the slight trembling of her limbs, closing her eyes and concentrating on the sweet, playful music of the river. A moment later her husband gave an exclamation of disgust, and she heard him climb back up the bank to their rug. She looked up.

"Your turn," he said. He stripped his line, separated the segments of the pole, and lowered himself to a place beside her again.

She selected a tiny, shimmering green imitation of a shell fly, attached it to her leader, and rose, wondering if her concentration would prove any better than his. "Wish me luck," she urged.

"Good luck," he said.

Nick knew at once that watching Bel fish his river was just the sort of pleasure that he could come to crave unreasonably. She chose a spot where shadow and light mixed. In her brown dress she looked like a woodland nymph. Her bright hair wanted only a crown of ivy leaves to complete the image. It was an unfortunate image, for it made him think of Daphne fleeing Apollo's kiss, but Bel had not fled, nor had she questioned him about his determination to hold her to their bargain.

For the first time he saw the flimsiness of their bargain now that they had married. Only her honor and his desire held it together, for, in truth, he would not expose her brothers if she refused him. And he should free her.

He could see the truth of her uncle's story about her fishing prowess in each cast. She was sure and graceful and willing to cast to the places trout liked best, the osier-fringed bank or the deep narrow slot where water spilling down from the rocks above brought the trout their food. On the fourth or fifth cast—he'd lost count—she got a bite, and with a deft pull on her line, she set the barbed hook in the trout's mouth. Nick was on his feet in an instant, at her side in two.

"Did you see him?" she asked, without turning. The trout arched from the water in a silvery flash, twisting desperately to dislodge the hook.

"Easily three pounds," said Nick. He grabbed their net and prepared to help her, admiring the combination of will and cunning with which she worked the pole and line, drawing the fish ever closer to the shore. When she had coaxed her catch into the shallows, Nick waded into the river and wielded their net. A quick blow finished it. He cut the line and held her prize up for her admiration. She smiled at him with open delight, and the pleasure in her look sent a surge of warmth through him even as he stood in the cool waters of the Ashe.

"Shall we have this beauty
poached
for dinner tomorrow?" he asked.

"Aunt Margaret's recipe?" she countered, laughing.

She looked then like some bright white blossom discovered along a wooded path, but he couldn't tell her that. "I want a kiss," he said.

"Here?" Her glance took in the distance between them, his boots planted in the river, and the netted trout hanging from his hand.

He lifted his gaze from hers and looked up the bank to their rug spread among ferns, and an image from his dreams came back to him. "Will you lie with me on the rug?" he asked. Two bright spots of color flamed in her cheeks, and he cursed himself for the clumsiness of his phrasing. "Just for this kiss," he assured her.

Bel could not speak to his suggestion immediately. Her throat was suddenly dry and her pulse pounding. "Can we talk first?" she asked. The question made him look doubtful, but he nodded and stepped out of the stream.

They mounted the bank together, and while she knelt to put away her fishing gear, he carefully packed her catch in their basket. He made one more trip to the river, dipping his hands in the water, washing away the scent and scales of the trout.

She sat, her hands clasped in her lap. He returned, cast her a quick glance, then stretched out beside her on the rug, his face lifted to the evening sky, his eyes closed. It was not going to be easy to ask him what she meant to ask.

"How many kisses do I owe you?"

His eyes did not open, but a flicker of pain crossed his face. "Do you consider the kiss in the church one of the bargain kisses?" he asked.

"No," she said softly. It would be unjust of her to treat that kiss, required by their circumstances, as one of the kisses she had agreed to give for her brothers' safety.

"Seven."

His answer was so definite, so unhesitating, it sent a tremor through her.
Seven
—not so many after all. Seven kisses could burn away in an hour or a few minutes, perhaps, unless one ... She looked at the reclining shepherd beside her and thought of pleasures she had hoarded in lonely times. Letters from Tom deliberately kept in a pocket all day, so that she might savor the anticipated news. Books closed, their endings delayed so that she might remain lost in the fiction. She understood now why he asked for just one kiss at a time.

As if he sensed her gaze on him, his eyes opened, dark and hungry. "Are you still willing to give me a kiss?" he asked.

She nodded.

He rolled toward her, propping his head in his hand as he leaned on one elbow. With his other hand he drew her down to lie facing him. Then his arm encircled her waist, and he pulled her against him. As their bodies came together, she raised her hand and pushed against his chest. "Wait," she urged him.

He tipped back his head, drawing a deep shaky breath, and she could not help moving her hand a little across the smooth, firm contours of his chest. Beneath her palm his heart pounded wildly. Her hand trembled.

"What?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Whatever happens now," she said, "promise me you won't... stay away again. You'll come to dinner at night."

He swallowed and nodded and drew her closer. His hand slid up her back and tangled in her hair, pulling her head forward until their lips met. And she discovered that a kiss was not after all a single emotion transmuted into touch, but a play of feelings, as many-noted as the river winding through the darkening wood.

For the first time she felt the deeper note of longing in his kiss and strove to answer it. She touched his cheek and felt him pause. Then with a sudden fierce energy he broke the kiss and rolled her onto her back, covering her body with his own. One hand still cupped her head. His other hand came up to stroke her throat, the palm resting against her collarbone. Her hand fell away from his cheek.

For a moment the longing in his dark eyes was plain, as it had been in the church. Then his mouth descended to hers again, and his taut, lean frame pressed urgently against her. For a moment her body strained upward in answer to his, and where their bodies met at the juncture of hip and thigh, he rocked against her once. She stilled, recognizing where this advance in their intimacy must lead, and he shuddered and slid from her to lie on their rug, his face cradled in his hands, his breathing harsh and unsteady.

"Forgive ... me," he said. "That ... was not ... our bargain."

Bel pushed herself up. She did not trust herself to speak or stand. Her pulse raced, and her limbs shook with an unreleased tension. She crossed her arms before her and clasped her elbows tightly, drawing a steadying breath. She did like her husband's kisses, kisses that had the power to make her forget their bargain and the circumstances of their marriage and the insults to her family that still divided them and must keep her from his bed.