The Kiss (30 page)

"Look, you above all people know how I feel— what my choice is. It's just that in this instance I made a mistake."

He looked closely at her and she resisted the urge to squirm.

"Unlike you," she breathed, "I seem to have a penchant for making mistakes."

"Don't fool yourself. I'm very capable of making mistakes."

Oh, he was always so kind to her. But then, since he didn't love her, of course, he wouldn't rail against her actions, wouldn't be jealous. He would just think badly of her, but never say it aloud.

A chorus of greetings floated to her ears and she finally looked up to find Ata, Elizabeth, Sarah, Fairleigh, and now Grace coming toward her.

"Georgiana!" Ata said waving. "Oh, I'm so glad we found you. Your mother asked us to tell you the doctor has arrived."

She took a few steps toward them, and the cramp returned to grip her leg with a vengeance. She stumbled and closed her eyes against the pain before she righted herself. She would not let anyone see her discomfort.

She would not.

She breathed in slowly through her nose and reopened her eyes to wave at the ladies. "Oh, thank you, Ata! Is it not a beautiful day to take the air? You must walk along the beach. There are so many birds, and Fairleigh will enjoy it so."

She took a tentative step forward and the cramp ripped through her thigh down to her twisted knee, and she thought she might just lose consciousness. If she could just reach the log or the earthen berm that fronted the sand. She took another step or two and her slipper caught on some half-hidden seaweed.

Large hands gripped her waist before she fell. "Lean on me," Quinn commanded while wrapping an arm around her. He half carried her to the berm.

Thankfully, Ata's party was distracted by Fair-leigh's interest in a lesser yellowlegs nest she had discovered.

"A cramp?" His voice was low, concerned.

She nodded.

"Can you ride?"

"I don't think so." A fresh wave of tight pain crawled along the corded muscle when she attempted to flex her foot. "No, I can't," she admitted, barely able to breathe.

"Well, then, I'll send them all away and help you back to Little Roses," he said, his eyes hooded. "Or would you prefer Miles?"

She wanted to cry. He should be raging at her. He should be chastising her. He should be disgusted.

But he was not. He was as kind and patient as always. Only now the veil she had sensed upon his return to Penrose two months ago had fallen over his emotions again.

Miles appeared with the horses in hand.

"Georgiana?" Quinn asked softly.

"You," she whispered. "I want
you
... to help me." She just couldn't deny herself.

"Take the horse back to the stable, Miles," Quinn ordered. "Georgiana and I must confer on estate business."

"What?" Miles asked, confused. "But I was—"

"And I would ask you to tell Mr. Brown to send down the architectural drawings I've forgotten. We've much to discuss about the proposed new boathouse here."

Miles stared at him and then at her. "What the devil—"

"What's this about a boathouse?" Ata stumbled in the sand in the high-heeled half boots she favored. "Grace, you didn't tell me Quinn was planning a boathouse. Oh, I long for a sail. It's been an age since Luc took us out on
Caro's Heart."

"Quinn?" Grace looked so pretty, tendrils of her pale blonde hair dancing in the breeze. Her blue eyes were so trusting.

"I've ordered the yacht out of drydock and the boathouse is to be reconstructed."

The ladies chattered amongst themselves with excitement while he stepped closer to Grace and whispered something to her. Grace nodded and turned to rejoin Ata and the others.

"Come, Ata. Let's go back and find the plans ourselves." Grace added, 'And this new hat is useless against the sun. I need my parasol."

"Of course, my dear. Come along Elizabeth, Sarah. Will you collect Fairleigh, Grace?" A mischievous light appeared in Ata's eyes. "Oh, Miles. Do wait a moment. I fancy the idea of riding that lovely animal."

"Ata," Quinn said with a smile. "That horse is not safe for you."

"Nonsense," she replied. "I'm an accomplished horsewoman."

"I don't doubt it," he replied. "But you see, I'm afraid I won't be able to face your grandson or Mr. Brown if they see you on that horse."

"What?" she fumed. "Luc has absolutely no say in what I do or don't do. And that other man you mentioned has even less say."

"Understood. But I'm rather attached to my internal organs, and I'd hoped you'd developed a certain fondness for them as well."

She began to giggle. "And pray, what do your intestines have to do with my riding this horse, Quinn?"

"They've indicated they will tie me to a tree with them if I allow you anywhere near my horses."

"This is abominable," she sputtered. "Utterly outrageous. Just because I, perhaps, just perhaps, mind you, have had the misfortune to become unseated on occasion due to several unrelated, unfortunate circumstances, doesn't mean I am not an outstanding horsewoman."

Georgiana made the mistake of shifting her weight and a blaze of pain shot through her again. Her whole body convulsed. Quinn glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"I have a hogshead of very good French wine, which will be yours if you do not get on that horse," he said in a placating tone.

"And the use of your phaeton?"

"And my best driver, Ata."

A huge grin broke out on her face. "Oh, Quinn! You are very kind! I adore driving as much as riding. I'm holding you to your promise, you know." Ata left with the others in her wake.

"You're in for it now," Georgiana murmured despite the pain.

"What?"

"She's wrecked every single one of Luc's carriages," Georgiana replied.

"Christ," he said under his breath. "I shall have Mr. Brown put locks on the carriage house."

The moments dragged while Miles remounted and the widows and Quinn's daughter threaded their way back up the short hill, out of their view.

"Is it the calf muscle or the thigh? Or is it the knee joint? Let me ease you."

"Absolutely not," she said, trying not to be so obvious with her desire to clench and release her muscles repeatedly.

"Can you stand?"

She stood up and then immediately sat back down, her lips tightened against the twisting pain.

"Come," he said, "let me help you."

She couldn't stand it anymore. She dug the heels of her hands along the length of her knotted thigh and closed her eyes. A burst of white-hot pain seared her leg. Oh God, she'd never felt anything like this. She should have known better than to race.

He brushed her fingers away and placed his large hands over her riding habit. His wide finger span bracketed her limb. She tried not to bend over in agony. He firmly gripped her and steadily applied more pressure. Amazingly, the force of his hands, while painful, released the deeper ache beyond and she prayed he wouldn't let go.

"Oh God." She sighed. "Please don't move."

"Do you trust me, Georgiana?"

"You know I do," she whispered.

He released her and quickly moved his hands under the hem of her heavy riding habit. His hands glided up her ankles and calves, past the ribbon tied to hold up her stockings, along her knee and beyond, all the way to the source of her agony. He worked her limb with his deft, strong fingers, always kneading deeply the bunched, rigid muscle.

And each time she thought he was going to stop and the cramp would return—for now it seemed it would never recede—she would nearly faint with longing for him not to stop.

But he did not. He seemed to sense the horrid, raw pain, and for once she couldn't pretend she was all right. His hands moved higher and higher, trying to find the end of the knotted muscle, until they were closing in on the most intimate place on her body. And she simply didn't care what he did to her at that point, as long as he didn't stop.

Her fingers dug into the sandy soil behind her as she leaned back. Who was she fooling? She would never be free from pain. She would never be free from wanting him. She would never be able to fully put the past behind her. She was disfigured forever because of wanting him. And he had claimed her forever as his when he had lain with her.

She felt something soft on her thickly scarred knee and opened her eyes. He was kissing her leg in broad daylight while his fingers worked their magic on her thigh. He stopped and stared at the vivid ugliness. And then lowered his mouth again and caressed her limb with his beautiful lips. And suddenly she felt a drop of water. A tear had fallen on her knee.

"Don't worry, darling," he said hoarsely, not looking up. "I won't stop until the pain is gone. I promise I will make it go away."

His words and kisses were more tortuous than the pain, for they were a reminder of everything she craved and would never have after she left. And the meaning behind the tear—pity—burned a trail of hurt deep within her. She shuddered.

At some point the pain became intertwined with rolling waves of relief. And many minutes later the waves of relief began to change into waves of pleasure. He continued to murmur promises as he rested his hollowed cheek against her knee and slowly ratcheted back the pressure in his hands.

She gripped a large bunch of tall grasses to stop herself from reaching forward and burying her fingers in his hair, which had grown longer. The many dark layers glinted in the lengthening rays of the sun. His hair would be soft, and if she leaned just a little closer she would be able to catch the scent of him. She held onto the grass even more tightly and swallowed against the burn of gathering tears.

He finally glanced up at her. "Georgiana," he whispered. "It's all right. Cry if you have to."

"I'm not crying." She angrily brushed at her eyes and cheeks with the heel of one of her hands.

"I know," he said. "You never did when we were young. Even when you fell from that tree. I've never seen you cry. You—"

"I've cried," she interrupted, detesting his pity. "You've just never seen it. I cried at Anthony's funeral."

"Of course," he replied, suddenly distant.

"Oh, why do you do that whenever I say his name? Why do you hate Anthony so?" She couldn't stop the words from slipping out. "He never did anything to hurt you."

His hands stilled and she wondered why for one time in her life she just couldn't refrain from saying something the instant it entered her mind.

He dropped his hands away from her and now she really did feel like crying.

"I don't hate him." He paused. "It's just that I wish I could have everything I have in my life now with the exception of having known him. But that," he said cryptically, "would be impossible. I know you don't understand."

"Explain it to me." She watched as her hand, of its own accord, reached out and stroked his head. "Please."

The sunlight caught the deep green edge of one of his eyes, and his pupil became smaller. "I've debated for so long the merits and disadvantages of relating the facts surrounding ..."

"Surrounding what?" she prompted when he stopped.

"I had thought I should leave it in a letter to be opened upon my death. But then it might be better left unsaid, for it would not change anything. It's just that I have lived my entire life paying homage to the notion of the importance of truth. And yet I am living a lie."

A sense of calm blanketed her and for once she didn't urge him to speak. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what he might say.

"And I had promised myself I wouldn't tell you. I don't want to sully the memories you hold so dear. But, this part of his life did not concern you, had nothing to do with you, so it cannot hurt you."

"Quinn . . . what is it?" She insisted faintly. "Now you must tell me."

"You see, I love Fairleigh and I don't want her to be raised by Cynthia's parents or Gwendolyn if something should happen to me."

Oh God. This was going to be very bad. "Fairleigh? What has she to do with Gwendolyn?"

He stared at her for a moment and then his gaze drifted to the sky as the shadow of a wild falcon passed over his harsh features. "Gwendolyn is Fairleigh's true grandmother."

Georgiana jumped up. She had to move. She limped a few paces toward the sea and stopped, a deep ache invading her heart as she gazed at the dark, swirling undulations of the churning sea beyond the shoreline.

It couldn't be true.
She closed her eyes against the pain.

But of course it was true. She clenched her hands. "Did he get her with child while you were married to her?" She would not turn around to look at him.

"I
want you to promise me that if anything should happen to me that you will be Fairleigh's guardian. I shall have a solicitor draw up the documents."

She turned to him slowly. "Did he? Did he get her with child before or after your marriage?"

He ignored her question. "You will care for her, love her, as if she was your own, won't you, Georgiana? For you loved him, you said you did. And she would at least be a reminder of the man you loved."

She closed her eyes again. She had been blind. She, the artist . . . the one who knew the Fortesque eyes so well. She unconsciously touched the outside of her pocket, which hid the Lover's Eye brooch she had finally found on her pillow in her sanctuary at Loe Pool. The shape and slope of Fairleigh's eyes were like both Fortesque men but her blonde hair was exactly like Anthony's. She even knew Quinn's wife had had auburn hair. She felt so foolish, so blind.

"And because you know the truth, I won't have to tell anyone else. I don't want to leave Fairleigh at the mercy of Gwendolyn or Cynthia's parents or some unknown cousin next in line."

"It was after you were married, wasn't it?" she whispered, thinking of Fairleigh's age. "My God. Anthony had an affair with your wife right after your marriage."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does matter." In her mind, she guessed the truth. Anthony had always been jealous of Quinn because he had known how much she loved Quinn. But until now she hadn't realized how much Anthony had been secretly tortured by that jealousy. Quinn had always been a little bit better at everything than Anthony and she. And her love of Quinn had probably been the last thing to bring Anthony's jealousy to the boiling point.