The Charmer (12 page)

He didn’t move for several beats,
but eventually he bid her good night, followed by a loud huff directed at Holt
as they passed on the landing.

"Should I be worried that he'll
stab me in my sleep?" Holt asked, throwing the pillow onto the mattress
then squaring up to her. Goodness, he was tall and solid. The muscles in his
upper arms bulged beneath his shirt sleeves and his shoulders were so wide.

"I would lend you some of
the old family armor for protection, but I'm afraid you'll find it
uncomfortable for sleeping."

"Such unexpected kindness,
thank you."

"Unexpected? I'll have you
know I've been very kind to you so far. I gave you a job despite your lack of
skill with orange trees and your impertinence, I allowed you to pull out my
weeds, and I've let you sleep on my floor on the best guest mattress."

"It is a good mattress,"
he said, taking a step toward her in a move that reminded her of a predator
stalking its prey. Deliberate. Stealthy. Primal.

Her housecoat suddenly felt too
tight across her chest.

"And the rushes smell nice,"
she said, somewhat pathetically. She should move away. Should get out of his
presence before she was sucked in.

"Speaking of nice smelling
things..." He breathed deeply.

"Are you sniffing me, Mr.
Holt?"

"I prefer to think of it as
drawing in the scent of you. Is that the orange blossoms I can smell?"

"Yes. I sometimes add dried
ones to my bathing water."

"Interesting," he
murmured, not sounding in the least bit interested. He took another step closer
so that he was mere inches away, and regarded her with smoky, half-hooded eyes.
"Delicious."

"I, uh... Pardon? What's
delicious? The oranges?" Good lord, thinking had just become the most
difficult activity. Thinking and breathing, quickly followed by talking. Those
three things were greatly over-rated in her book. Much better to touch. And
taste.

"I've never tasted
oranges." His voice whispered across her skin, leaving a trail of
devastation in its wake in the form of goosebumps.

"You should," she heard
herself say. This brazen woman was not her, did not sound like her, could
not
be her. Not after everything she'd learned from her two husbands and swearing
off men forever.

And yet...and yet...

He lifted his hand to her face
but did not touch her. His fingers hovered near her cheek, as if he were too
afraid to put skin on skin, as if he were unsure whether he wanted to set off
the avalanche of emotions that would inevitably follow.

It wasn't clear who moved the
fraction required to close the gap. Perhaps she leaned in, or he stretched his
fingers. His touch sent a shock through her body, made every part of her hum
with awareness of him, of his masculinity, his power and beauty. She'd thought
he had an innocent, boyish look about him when they first met, but not now. Now
she'd wager there was nothing innocent on his mind.

There was nothing innocent on
hers either.

No matter how wrong, how foolish,
she had to keep going. Had to. She could no more stop what was about to happen
than she could hold back that avalanche with her bare hands. In the back of her
mind, way back in a dark, cramped corner, she knew they were making a mistake.
But there was no chance of that thought escaping its prison when he touched her
with such delicacy and looked at her like she was something wondrous. Like he
could see past her face and right
into
her heart.

His thumb brushed along her jaw
to the corner of her mouth. His other hand cupped her cheek.

Then he kissed her. Softly,
carefully, as if she were a skittish deer and he was afraid of startling her.
She wasn't in the least startled. She was alive and on fire, utterly aware of
every part of her body and of the nearness of his. She reached up and did
something she'd wanted to do ever since he'd walked into her life—wrapped her
fingers as far around his arms as they could go and relished the ripple of
muscle and sinew. 

Deep down, a knot unraveled inside
her.

Then he broke the kiss.

He groaned and stepped back, dropped
into a crouch, and busied himself with the blanket. Then she heard it too.
Footsteps coming up the stairs. She pulled her housecoat closer and scrambled
to gather up her scattered wits to greet the servant who thought she needed
rescuing.

It was Bessie, holding two cups
in one hand and a candle in the other. She paused in the doorway and her jaw
went slack as she regarded Susanna first then Holt. Her eyes widened and the cups
tilted at a dangerous angle.

"I brought you both warm
milk," she said. "I...we...we thought you might like some." She
held out the cups. Susanna took hers, but Holt didn't look up from his task.
Bessie set his cup down on a table near the door. "Is there anything else,
m'lady?"

Susanna shook her head. She
didn't quite trust her voice, and so Bessie left without hearing a word of
thanks. When her footsteps had finally faded, Holt stopped his fussing. He turned
and regarded her over his shoulder. She'd expected to see the remnants of
smoldering desire in his eyes but instead his expression deadened her heartbeat.
He looked like a hunted man.

Somehow, she found her voice. "We
shouldn't have." It hurt to say the words, and they almost stuck in her
throat, but she forced them out. It had to be said. Now that the first reckless
flush of passion had faded and her mind was working again, the foolishness of
their kiss became apparent. It had unleashed things inside her that should
forever remain bound.

"I know," he said,
heavily. He was still crouching, one hand on the rushes for balance.

"It was a mistake."

The incline of his head was so
small she almost missed it. "I know."

She held her cup to her chest with
both hands and returned to her bedchamber. As the door clicked closed behind
her, she wondered what had happened to turn Orlando Holt from predator to prey
in mere moments.

CHAPTER 6

S
usanna found Holt in the stables
after breakfast. He stood with his back to her, facing the crates filled with
jars of marmalades and succades. He couldn't have failed to hear her footsteps
crunching on the gravel as she approached, but he didn't turn around.

She took a moment to admire his
strong, straight back and the width of his shoulders, and the way his unruly
hair brushed the nape of his neck. Her face heated at the memory of his lips on
hers, the way he'd looked at her as if she was something precious. Her nerve
endings sizzled and the embers of desire stirred.

She threw cold water on them
before they could flare again. Last night had been a mistake. They both agreed.
Today...today was going to be awkward.

"Are you ready to get to
work, Mr. Holt?"

He nodded but didn't turn. "All
these things," he said, indicating the crates, "you're trying to find
a buyer for them?"

"Yes. I've sent letters to
several shopkeepers in London but have had no reply as yet." The lack of
response was frustrating. She'd written the introductory letters in her
father's name and even mentioned Sir Francis Carew to legitimize themselves.
The letters had been delivered almost two months ago. She was relying on selling
the products to pay the servants' wages and buy more jars for the next batch. If
she didn't receive an answer soon, all their savings would dry up.

"Not just any shopkeeper I
hope," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Your products are rare, luxury
items, particularly the succades. You want to sell them to the nobility and the
wealthy. Most shops aren't frequented by their maids, only a select few. You
want someone who specializes in the exotic and exclusive. Someone who attracts
the right sort of shopper."

"And what do you know of
selling orange marmalades and succades to the nobility, Mr. Holt?" Indeed,
what
did
he know? From his confident tone, he was implying he knew much
more than a simple country gardener ought.

He turned slowly, and she was
struck by how tired he looked. Shadows rimmed his eyes and his usually smiling
mouth was flat. "Nothing," he bit off. "I'm a fool." He
pushed past her and she stood, swaying a little as the force of his bitter
words struck her.

She stumbled after him. "I
don't think you a fool." Her voice sounded weak, shaky, but he heard her.

He stopped and turned, shook his
head, sending the blond locks tumbling over his forehead. "I know,"
he said, giving her one of his crooked smiles. It reassured her somewhat.
"That was directed at myself."

She didn't ask for an explanation
and she suspected she wouldn't have got one anyway. Somehow she knew he was
referring to the previous night and their kiss.
Fool
. The word could
easily describe her too.

They set to work in the walled
garden under a cloudy sky, neither saying much as the morning wore on. Even
with her back to him, Susanna knew precisely where Holt was and when his gaze
landed on her.

As the hour of dinner approached,
the heavy silence that hung between them was broken by the rapid
clip clop
of hooves on the gravel drive. Susanna and Holt both straightened at the same
time, but he remained behind as she left the garden through the archway to
investigate.

Jeffrey hailed her and
dismounted. "Good morning, Cousin." His greeting was jovial but his
expression was one of distaste as he took in her appearance. "You have
dirt on your forehead again."

She wiped her forehead with the
back of her hand.

He sighed and shook his head.
"You made it worse." If it were any other gentleman, she would expect
him to wipe the dirt off, but not Jeffrey. A union between them may be illegal,
yet laws could not stop a man desiring a woman. It had not stopped her first
husband's brother from trying to kiss her every moment they were alone. But not
Jeffrey. He had never shown the least interest in her. It was refreshing, and
she had to admit it was the reason she tolerated his interference.

"What can I do for you,
Jeffrey? Or is this a social visit?" It wouldn't be. Jeffrey never made
purely social calls. Everything he did had a purpose, and that purpose was to
further himself or his estate.

"I heard about your intruder
and came to see if you were all right. I see that you are, and I'm
relieved."

"We are all fine, thank you.
It was very kind of you to check on us. But please, if you see Father, don't
tell him. There's no need for him to be alarmed."

"If you wish, but I do think
he should know. It's his right."

"It may be his right, but I
think it's for the best not to worry him unnecessarily. He's not well."

"
Is
it unnecessary
though, Susanna? What if the intruder returns? What if he resides in the house
this very moment in one of your unoccupied chambers?"

"I saw him run away from the
house with my own eyes!"

"What if he came back? Or
had an accomplice who managed to enter the house another way? Perhaps I should
go and search the place myself." He strode off.

She ran after him and caught his
arm. "Don't be absurd, Jeffrey. Besides, my servants checked every nook
thoroughly and found nothing and no one."

She let go and he flipped the
edge of his cape back as if in protest at being manhandled. "Those relics
can hardly walk up and down the stairs let alone see properly."

"My servants are perfectly
able to search Stoneleigh and you know it."

"The gardener perhaps,"
he grumbled, looking over her head to the house.

"Speaking of Mr. Holt."
She glanced toward the arch but couldn't see him. "He mentioned there is a
stranger residing up at the Hall. I hope you don't mind me asking who he is and
if you can trust him."

He flinched. "Of course you
can trust him. I trust him and you trust me, don't you? Susanna, I'm deeply
offended." He pressed a hand to his chest. His jerkin must have been
padded there because he looked larger than usual. "Deeply."

"I'm sorry, Jeffrey, but he
is the most obvious candidate since he couldn't possibly know the situation
here at Stoneleigh."

"Who says he doesn't
know?"

She frowned. "What have you
told him?"

"Nothing, nothing." He
tried to move past her but she blocked his way.

"Have you questioned him
about that night?" she asked. "In your capacity as justice of the peace,
I mean?"

"No need." He thrust a
finger between his ruff and neck and scratched. "I was with him until
late. We had business to discuss."

"Business? Interesting,"
she said lightly. "So the stranger is a man of trade?"

He sighed. "Dear Susanna,
Mr. Monk is of good character. He won't harm you."

But would he climb through her
window if he thought she had something to steal?

"You don't know how relieved
I am to hear you say that," she said.

His lips pressed together and she
could see he was trying to decide if she mocked him or not. Then he looked past
her.

"Ah, perhaps
he
can
convince you that the house must be thoroughly searched."

She turned to see Walter Cowdrey
riding toward them. As he dismounted, Holt emerged from the garden. Walter ignored
him and joined Susanna and Jeffrey. Holt came closer, near enough to hear but still
apart.

"Lady Lynden!" Walter
sounded breathless. "I came as soon as I heard." He grasped her hand
between both of his rough ones. "Are you all right?"