Tempting Fate (26 page)

Almost.

He’d witnessed her uncle behaving as the obnoxious sot that he was, but Whit hadn’t yet seen the absolute swine her uncle could be. And what would happen when he did? She’d be right back where she’d started—terrified, ashamed, wondering.

“Mirabelle?”

She opened her eyes to find him watching her with quiet concern.

It wasn’t fair, she thought, to have kept her uncle’s behavior a secret from those who could suffer from it—those who had shown her so much kindness.

Better that he should know. Better that she get the whole of it over, once and for all.

She searched for the right words and realized there were none that would suit as well as the blunt truth.

“My uncle is horrible,” she admitted. When he failed to respond, she took a deep breath and pressed on. “I’m not speaking in hyperbole, Whit. At his worst, which you’ve not yet seen, he’s truly awful. Five minutes in any respectable drawing room in London and he’d ruin the family name forever.”

“I imagine he would.”

“The family name,” she reiterated. Honestly, how could he not catch on? “
My
name.”

“Are you concerned he might take a sudden interest in traveling to London?”

“What? No.” She rubbed the palms of her hands against her legs. “I’m trying to point out that he’s a liability, which makes me one as well. I should have told you sooner, I know, but—”

“A moment.” He held his hand up, his brow furrowed. “You consider yourself a liability.”

“Of a sort, yes. You’ve worked so hard to secure your family’s place in society and an association with me could conceivably damage the progress you’ve made. I know I should have said something before this, but I was…afraid…”

“Afraid you would no longer be welcome at Haldon,” he finished for her.

She nodded.

“I see. I must have told you—” He grimaced and swore. “Hell, dozens of times that I didn’t care for your presence at Haldon. Why would this be any different?”

“You said I was unwelcome, not that I wasn’t allowed. You poked fun, but never said I wasn’t to come.”

“And you would have respected my decision in that regard?”

“I’d have adhered to it,” she equivocated. “It’s your house, your family. I know I should have said something sooner, but—”

“Yes, you should have.”

Her stomach, already in knots, fell to her toes. “I know. I’m very sorry. It wasn’t right to keep it from you. It’s only that I love your family and Haldon, and—”

She broke off when took her chin in his fingers. “You should have, Mirabelle, because I could have long ago put your fears to rest on the matter. Look at me.” He gently tugged her chin up until she met his eyes. “You’re not responsible for his sins.”

Hope bloomed cautiously. “Others would disagree.”

And wasn’t that the point? What others thought?

“Others would be wrong.” He let his fingers spread to cup her cheek. “I value, and cultivate, my family’s good standing in the
ton.
But not to the detriment of those I care for. Haldon will never be closed to you because of your uncle. I give you my word.”

She closed her eyes again—this time to hold back the tears she felt gathering.

Whit never broke his word.

The weight of the fear she’d been carrying for so long dropped away and she suddenly felt light, almost weightless. And exceedingly tired.

She opened her eyes when his hand withdrew from her cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She noticed his jaw tense at her words, but was in too much of a happy stupor to think on his odd reaction. “I suppose you should be getting back to the house,” she whispered.

“In a while. Why don’t you lie down for a bit?”

“I’m not tired just yet,” she lied. She was more than
ready to fall asleep sitting up, but she wasn’t at all comfortable with the idea of sleeping while he just sat there. Heavens, who would be? She was even less comfortable with the idea of him leaving. The stable loft seemed so much more pleasant, warmer, safer for having him in it.

“You needn’t sleep,” Whit said. “Just lie down.”

“While you sit there and stare at me?”

“Would it help if I were to lie down beside you and stare?”

“Is the staring really necessary?”

“I’m afraid so. You’re irresistibly sweet to look at when you’re sleepy.”

“I’m not sleepy,” she objected but maneuvered herself to lie down on the blankets. It felt wonderful, absolutely sublime to lay her head down, but she wasn’t ready yet to fall asleep.

“Whit?”

“Hmm?”

“I can’t go back to Haldon right now. It would compromise your mission if your family were to play a role in defying my uncle’s wishes. The baron wants me here—or needs me here, anyway.”

“Your parents’ will,” Whit murmured. “Did they know the sort of man he was when they had it drawn up?”

“I’ve no idea. I’ve very little memory of them. They preferred adult company.”

“I see.”

“I recall my nanny very well, though,” she said with a fond smile and a yawn. “Miss McClelland. She was very kind to me. She had the most beautiful bright red hair, and I could never understand why she was always about hiding it under a cap.” She snuggled deeper into the hay. “I used to make excuses—transparent ones if memory serves—to go to her room in the evenings so I could watch her brush it out. She’d tell me stories while I sat on her bed.”

“I’m glad you have that memory.” He brushed a hand down her own hair. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“I searched her out once I was old enough to do so. She took a position with a nice family in Scotland, then retired when the children grew into adults. I considered attempting to begin a correspondence with her but…”

“But what?” he prompted.

“Well, it was near to twenty years ago and who knows how many children she had reared before me. She wouldn’t remember who I am, like as not.”

“I doubt that. A woman isn’t likely to forget a child she cared enough about to tell bedtime stories.”

“Perhaps.” She closed her eyes for moment. Just for a moment, she told herself. “I wonder if she ever—”

“Mirabelle?”

“Yes.”

“Go to sleep.”

She pried open blurry eyes. “Aren’t you going back inside?”

“Later.” He brushed a hand down her hair in gentle strokes as her eyes fluttered close again. “Later.”

While Mirabelle slept and Whit sat watching Mirabelle sleep, a very drunken gentleman staggered down the hallway to knock on a door. After several moments without receiving an answer, he knocked again, and again, and then turned the handle to peek inside. Discovering he’d gained admission to a broom closet, he snickered and stumbled back to the center of the hall.

It took him two more tries to correctly count the doors between his room and his destination, but eventually he managed to knock on the right door.

He didn’t bother, or perhaps simply failed to remember, to wait for an answer this time. He fumbled his way into the room.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” a second
drunken voice snapped—slurred really, but he wasn’t in a position to notice.

It took his eyes a moment to find the form lying on the bed, and a moment more for his uncooperative feet to find their way to that same bed.

“Come to a decision. Here.” He dug through his pockets, which seemed exceedingly deep just then, before finally discovering and producing a folded piece of paper that he held up with a triumphant, “Ha!”

The second man craned his neck and squinted at it. “That it?”

“It is.” He tried bobbing his head, but it did terrible things to his vision. He caught at the bedpost to keep from falling over and thrust the paper closer to the prone man. “Just need your signature on the line.”

“You’re certain? Won’t take it back just because you offered while in your cups?”

“Insulting,” he huffed. “Made up my mind. I want her.”

“Well then, fetch me a pen.” The second man snatched up the paper. “You can have her.”

It was much later before Whit slipped away from Mirabelle and clambered down the ladder. He tossed the rope back up to the loft before seeking Christian in an empty stall at the end of the stable.

“You’ll see to it she’s back inside before the others wake?”

“Always have,” Christian replied as he tugged on his boots. “Near to dawn now, but they’ll not be up till well past noon. You needn’t worry.”

Needn’t worry, Whit thought, and nearly laughed. “You’ve been a good friend to her.”

Christian sent him a hard look. “Aye, well, she needed one, didn’t she?”

Twenty

T
he single redeeming factor of having a house full of men who spend eight hours of the day eating and drinking to excess, is that they have the tendency to spend the remaining sixteen hours in bed.

The house was quiet when Mirabelle went back inside a bit before noon, and quiet still after she had washed and dressed and slipped down the stairs to find herself a bit of breakfast in the kitchen.

She found bread that hadn’t gone completely stale yet and a small hunk of cheese with only a few bad spots. Her mouth watered at the thought of eggs and kippers, but those were for the guests. Wishing there w ere hot chocolate to be had, she made a pot of weak tea and settled down at a scarred table to eat her meager meal.

Whit found her there not ten minutes later. A wide beam of sunlight cut through the small row of windows, leaving the table, and her, in a soft glow. He’d wager, the way the light fell across her soft brown hair, that it would be warm to the touch. All of her would be warm to the touch—her hair, her skin, her mouth. He ached to reach out and take that warmth for his own. She’d feel like heated silk beneath his hands, warm cream against his tongue.

He closed his eyes and swallowed a groan. It had been hell last night, and heaven, to have her lying next to him. And he unable to do more than stroke her hair. He’d gone back to his room to toss and turn in bed.

He wanted her, more than any woman he’d ever known or desired, he wanted Mirabelle. But as appealing as a roll
between the sheets was to him right now—and it was tremendously appealing—he needed to concentrate on her safety first and foremost. He took a moment to compose himself, then pasted on what he hoped was a friendly, but otherwise unremarkable, smile and stepped into the room. “Good morning, Mirabelle.”

She turned her head to smile back at him. “Good morning. I’d thought perhaps you’d sleep longer.”

Hard to do on a mattress that felt like a slab of rock beneath his back, while visions of her naked and moaning on a pile of hay danced through his head. “Had all the sleep I needed. Not much of a breakfast you have there,” he commented to change the subject.

She looked down at her plate and shrugged. “It was available. Would you care for some?”

“I’d prefer eggs. Where is your cook?”

“Asleep, I imagine, though I couldn’t say for certain.”

“No matter, I’ll make them.”

“You? You can cook?” She said it with such stunned disbelief, he couldn’t help laughing.

“I was a soldier, you’ll recall.”

“You were an officer,” she returned. “I’ve never heard of an officer cooking his own meals.”

“I didn’t, but I learned how. I enjoyed spending time with my men, and that included those who cooked. I can’t prepare a six-course meal, mind you, but I can manage a few eggs.” He frowned at the stove. “This would be easier over a camp fire.”

“Easier than a stove?”

He shrugged and began loading wood. “It’s how I learned. I suppose the eggs are still with the hens?”

“Yes, I was going to collect them after I ate, but if you like—”

“I’ll get them,” he interrupted, and grabbing a nearby pail, went in search of his breakfast. He didn’t have to go far,
as the hen house was located only a few feet from the manor. He ducked his head under the door and gently pushed the annoyed birds aside until he’d collected enough eggs for a meal. If it wasn’t enough for the other guests, they could bloody well get their own. Mirabelle didn’t need to be working as a damn kitchen maid.

He found her still at the table when he returned, absently picking at her food.

“I return victorious,” he declared, holding up the full pail.

The silliness of it made her smile, as he intended. “Did they put up much of a fight?”

“Nearly lost an eye,” he told her as he lit the stove.

“That would have been embarrassing for you—to have survived a wild boar attack, only to be felled by a chicken.”

“Heard that, did you?”

“Some of it, anyway. I hadn’t realized you’d such a talent for fabrication.”

“Hmm?” He poked at the fire and answered absently. “Ah, no. The boar was real enough. I don’t care for hunting overmuch, but it had to be removed after it attacked one of the local villagers. Do you suppose this fire is hot enough?”

She was glad to have his back to her just then, because she was certain she looked a fool gaping at him. He’d really fought a wild boar?

“Mirabelle?”

She snapped her mouth closed when he turned to look at her. “Er…it seems adequate to me.”

“Excellent.”

She returned her attention to her food, determined not to dwell on the image of Whit stalking the deep woods in search of a man-eating beast. He’d have looked a bit rugged, she imagined—disheveled, and determined. And in uniform.

Good Lord, she wasn’t certain if she were more frightened or intrigued by the idea. She strove for something else
to think of. “Um…Speaking of hunting, the others will do so today.”

He paused in the act of breaking open an egg to stare at her. “They actually do that?”

“Oh, they put quite a lot of effort into pretending.”

“How does the baron go about it?”

“He takes the carriage.”

“He takes the carriage,” Whit repeated. “I cannot form a picture.”

“You’ll have very little trouble with that by the end of the day. Though you can’t let him know you’ve seen it. It’s a ridiculous system he has, but it’s something of a tradition at this point. He sends the others out before him, with one excuse or another, then he has the carriage brought round with all his hunting supplies and two footmen. He takes the carriage to a secluded spot down the road, and hunts from the comfort of the cushioned bench.”