The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe (7 page)

 

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

S
he snuggled under the woolen blanket, curved against John's body. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, and she'd matched her own breath to his. It was early yet, the sky still dark and the fire now merely glowing red embers in the hearth. She could just make out Jasper's outline at the foot of the mattress.

In that dim light, John's body, too, was a dark shadow. A bold shadow in the foreground, if she were to draw this scene. And then, if there were a bit more light, she would be able to see the table in the middle of the room, which would form the middle ground—the
spirited
, John had said. Last, at the far end of the great hall, was the stone wall, which so begged to be covered by some medieval tapestry. The wall would be fainter,
delicate
, to establish its distance.

She rather liked the bold part the best. Especially as that large recumbent form was so enticing to her lips.

How quickly she'd grown used to this—to the touch of his skin, to his scent and that of sleeping by the hearth. To the feel of the straw mattress lain over stones.

Three nights. Three beautiful days and nights in which she'd spent nearly every waking moment with him. Except for the brief mid-morning hour that she'd returned to the inn, walking past the innkeeper's wide-eyed stare at her bald return after an absent night, to gather some clothes and toiletries. If the village hadn't been gossiping already, she'd just given them cause. An unfortunate unintended consequence of Mrs. Martin's plan, for what respectable local woman would hear these rumors and not misconstrue John's character?

He'd be branded a
rogue
.

She smiled against his shoulder. As a lover, perhaps, he
was
shameless, and surprisingly excellent. In everything else, she'd never known a
less
roguish man.

In fact, he was everything honorable and good. The proverbial knight in shining armor, willing to slay dragons for a damsel in distress.

Even if she wasn't quite in distress.

In some other play, she'd stay here in his castle, be beloved by him.
Love
him. Even the word itself made her chest tighten. Plays of love, where all ended well, were not particularly fashionable at the moment. Skewering wit and social commentary, or at least a good tragedy, were far more favored among the populace. Accordingly, her life was more of a Sheridan play.

She slid away from him, stretched out, and stared up at the royal blue light of a night about to break into day.

So she loved him. What did she know of love? This was nothing like that first desperate infatuation of her youth, when all she cared about were
feelings
and dramatic gestures. It was nothing like the sophisticated flirtations and meaningless companionship of her time with either Alverley or Lord Peter.

With John, she'd stripped naked, beyond her literal skin, down to the parts of her she rarely, if ever, acknowledged to herself. Terrifying.

Thrilling.

There was more to each touch, to each kiss, to the feel of him entering her, holding her tight in his arms. There was passion but it had depths she'd never known before. That she'd never imagined existed.

She cared for John, but not only as her lover or her keeper. In fact, he'd hate that she ever thought of him that last way at all.

Oddly, he was her friend.

The sound of a rooster cut through the morning air and the thick stone walls as the first light shimmered silver into the room.

John stirred next to her, reached for her with his eyes half open.

“Morning already?”

She rolled into his embrace. Slid her body against his, over him, one thigh slung across his legs, against the hardened length of him.

“No, still night,” she whispered. “Until I wake you up properly.”

She straddled him, forgoing foreplay, forgoing anything but the satisfying slide of his body into hers.

“You spoil me.” His face was still soft from sleep and the distortion of the scar less pronounced. He looked relaxed. Happy.

“You deserve to be spoiled.” She moved over him slowly, bending down to lick the hot skin of his neck, to feel her sensitive breasts graze against the wiry hair of his chest. Pleasure unfurled within her and she watched that sensation matched in his expression. “You are such a beautiful man.”

“Men aren't beautiful,” he said gruffly, resting his hands on her hips, taking control.

She laughed. “Said by a man, of course. If you could see yourself through my eyes . . .”

“Through my eyes, all I see is you.” She let out a small sound of surprise as he lifted her and flipped her onto her back. But he was over her, thrusting in again, deep, before she had recovered her breath. Then his mouth covered hers and she didn't care about anything but the sharp feel of his tongue against hers, the way he electrified her body. “Stay.”

Had he spoken or was it simply her own thoughts echoing in her head?

“Angel, stay here with me.”

She lifted her hips, urged him on toward his completion, her thoughts galloping wildly away from her own.

She stroked his skin, lifted her hips up to meet his, squeezing her thighs around him, around this male body that mingled with hers.

What did he mean? Stay the morning? The night? A month?

Stay forever?

He stilled over her and then his hips rocked again and again as his body shuddered. She held him close, tight.

No, of course not forever. She could just imagine his mother's delight to find the woman she'd hired had settled in, had destroyed any hopes of a respectable marriage for her son, of grandchildren.

God, his mother!

Angelina cringed inside. Here she was imagining some lovely eternal idyll by his side, when all of this was built on a lie.

A lie constructed in order to do a job.

Which she'd done.

A cold awareness spread through her. If she did stay, whether for hours more or a day, this attachment they felt toward each other would only grow. She'd been hired to
heal
John, not to hurt him.

Not to hurt herself.

She had to go.

Now. This morning. As soon as she could gather her belongings and find transportation away from here. Back to the London Road. Back to London.

Yes. London.

Forget York or Bath or any other place. She'd face down the shame, grovel at Lizzie's feet. The wench would like that.

John's body was heavy over hers but she savored the feeling of him there, wishing she'd known only minutes before that this would be the last time.

Not that it really mattered. When she was away, in London, this lunacy would pass. She'd forget the last eleven days as easily as she'd forgotten Alverley.

Jasper stood, shaking himself. She smiled at the sight of the dog padding down the hall to go outside.

“It's morning now, darling,” she said lightly.

John laughed, but rolled off of her, cool air rushing in where the heat of his skin had been.

“That eager to finish the first floor?”

“Actually, I need to go to the Golden Lion. I believe Mr. Garrett will think I've absconded and sell off my belongings.”

“I'll go with you.” Of course, this day, after all the other days when she would have been glad for company on the walk to and from the village, he would decide to break his isolation.

“As much as I'd love your company,” she said quickly, forcing herself to meet his gaze with a teasing glance, “there are some things a woman must do for herself.” There, that was suggestive enough that he should assume some mysterious female business where men were decidedly unwelcome. But it was not a lie.
Not
a lie.

“Perhaps there is something I can do for you before you go,” he said, reaching for her again. She melted into his embrace.

Once more, then. For remembrance.

S
he'd sent a note, as discreetly as possible, to the manor house, hoping that news of this meeting would never reach John's ears. It had been one thing to meet with Mrs. Martin at a hotel in London, where no one knew either of them. It was entirely more difficult to arrange such anonymity here in Auldale. Thus, she was waiting in the woods, not far from the manor, and hoping this interview would be short.

The weekly market would be over soon and as kind as Mr. Brown and his wife were for agreeing to take her as far as the London Road, she could not be certain that they would wait for her if she were to be late.

It was strange to stand barely half a mile from where John, unaware that she wasn't coming back, continued to work. What would he think when he realized? Maybe it was cruel to leave without a word. Perhaps she should have come up with some excuse, but she couldn't bear to lie. And she couldn't tell him the truth.

“Miss Whitcombe.” There was Mrs. Martin. Angelina took a deep breath and met John's mother halfway. This was a meeting very different from that one three weeks earlier. Three weeks! It felt like years, like some strange suspension of time. “I admit, I'm surprised to hear from you this soon.”

She forced herself to smile, to act as if this situation were commonplace. As if this were not the mother of the man she—

“I can assure you that your son is competent as far as women are concerned.”

Mrs. Martin had the grace to look embarrassed. Where had her finer feelings been when she'd decided to meddle in her son's life?

“Excellent.” Yes, most excellent. Wonderful, in fact. Everyone should celebrate because Angelina had managed to seduce a man. She needed to leave and she wanted her payment. To put all of this behind her as soon as possible. But Mary Martin stood there, hands clasped in front of her as if there were more she wished to say.

“Yes?”

“In your . . . professional opinion, Miss Whitcombe, do you believe my son is ready to pursue a wife?”

The other part of Angelina's task. But how could she ever promise such a thing? She pulled her coat close around her, stalling her response. If her financial situation weren't quite so dire, she'd act on her conscience, refuse the balance of the payment. But she didn't have the luxury to make such a choice. And yet . . .
John
. His name was a sigh in her heart, a sadness for something she couldn't possibly have.

“My profession has nothing to do with it,” she answered finally. “There's nothing at all the matter with your son. I presume when he is ready to marry, he'll undertake such an endeavor.”

“But he was wounded!” Mrs. Martin insisted, “I explained to you—”

“And he's still wounded, ma'am. No amount of sexual relations or female influence will change that.” At the alarmed look in John's mother's eye, Angelina let out a harsh, frustrated breath. “I do believe I brought him some comfort.”

“You think I'm a foolish woman, aging and losing my senses.”

“It isn't my place—”

“No.” Mrs. Martin drew herself up. She looked peevish and irreversibly proper, although her meddling actions were hardly the sort of behavior of any respectable lady. “It
isn't
your place. And I cannot say I'm happy with your report.”

A frisson of alarm crept down Angelina's back.

“You don't intend to pay?”

Mrs. Martin pressed her lips tightly together.

“I shouldn't. Certainly not one hundred pounds . . . but I am a woman of my word and I hope that I shall find you have been as well.” She took her purse from her dress, withdrew a folded banknote, which she held out gingerly.

Mrs. Martin found this whole business distasteful. How amusing.

“I wish him all the best,” Angelina said, accepting the money with a tight smile. She turned to leave and then stopped, unsettled. She had to say something. She looked back over her shoulder to find Mrs. Martin hadn't moved, was staring after her with a thoughtful expression on her face.

“Mrs. Martin?” The other woman raised one questioning eyebrow that reminded Angelina of John. She swallowed hard. “Please, no more schemes. Give him the space he needs.”

 

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

A
t noon, John climbed down the scaffold and walked back into the great hall. Empty still. Of course, she'd only left two hours earlier. Perhaps she'd wanted a proper bath, or had letters to write, or some other business to attend to. It was market day as well. She hadn't actually said she'd be back in time for the midday meal to which he'd so recently grown accustomed.

It was nearly three when he dressed properly and then started down the path himself. The market would be over by now, but he needed more nails. Or he would eventually need more nails, and it was just as well to be prepared ahead of time.

Or maybe . . . maybe he wanted to make certain nothing had happened to Angelina. As safe as Auldale usually was, it
was
market day. Or perhaps she'd tripped on a downed tree. He should have cleared this path days ago, or accompanied her every time she went back to the village.

A bit late for the concern.

Not that anything
had
happened to her. This was Auldale. Peaceful, dull corner of Yorkshire. In fact, Angelina was the only stranger. Not that she was a stranger to him anymore. How could she be when he knew what made her laugh and what made her smirk? When he knew intimately every inch of her body? Knew about her childhood, her past lovers, and her dreams for her future?

Her future. That was why he was uneasy, swallowing up the countryside with vigorous strides.

She'd said nothing that morning. No acknowledgement that he'd said anything at all.

She eventually wanted to go back to London and the noisy, exciting life she'd described, back to the stage.

He wanted her to stay. Stay indefinitely. Move all her belongings to the castle and give up that room at the inn. Make
eventually
some very distant time.

Foolishness. He'd known her for all of two weeks. Not even that.

Yet, he did know her. Better than he'd ever known anyone else.

And he was damned sure that she cared for him too. Only, she'd hidden everything underneath that flirtatious smile, and he'd let her.

The inn was busy for Auldale, filled with a half dozen tradesmen and locals sharing drinks after the morning's work. Mr. Garrett, the innkeeper, spied John and ambled over.

“Afternoon, Captain.” John winced at the honorific. But it was a measure of the villagers' respect that they didn't return to the simpler Mr. Martin. “It's always a pleasure to see you, but if you're looking for the miss, she left a few hours ago.”

“Miss Whitcombe?”

Garrett nodded, looking a bit uncomfortable.

“Said she wanted to catch the coach on the London Road. Brown and his wife took her up in their wagon.”

“Miss Whitcombe left?”

“Yes, Captain,” Garrett said slowly, as if he needed to enunciate each syllable to make certain John understood. But enunciation wouldn't make him understand. The meaning of the words was incomprehensible. Inconceivable.

Why?

And so abruptly, without a word?

“Thank you, Mr. Garrett,” he said perfunctorily before leaving. Before making the other mile-long walk that was 45 degrees radially from the path to the castle. The walk to the manor and to the stables.

He could catch up to a farmer's cart easily.

A
s he crossed the curved cobblestone drive of the manor house, the front door opened and his mother stepped out, waving to him. As if she'd expected him, had been waiting by the windows for him to show up.

“Georgie! What a delightful surprise!”

“John, mother. Please,” he said reflexively, even as he passed her. He could hear her scurrying to catch up with him. Frustrated, he slowed his pace.

“You were named George for a reason, dear, like your father.”

“Actually, you named me Hubert, but neither of us prefers that moniker.”

“Well, that was simply to appease your grandfather. What a wretched man. He always refused to be happy for your father and me. In any event, I am so happy you are here and I don't have to hunt you down at that dreary pile of stones. I am having a dinner tomorrow night and I would like you to attend.”

“No.”

“Georgie!” He could hear that tone in her voice. The one that signaled impending tears. His younger sisters had always been able to ignore it, but he never could. “I rarely ask anything of you!”

He threw open the door to the stables, into the scent of animal and fresh hay. The stable boy jumped out from the stall he'd been mucking. The groom, Charlie, was nowhere in sight.

“Saddle Hal.” The bay was the fastest in the stable. And at the moment, he valued speed over stamina.

“Where are you going?”

Finally he turned to his mother. She looked the same as she always did, a pale patterned cap over her curls, a style she had worn for the last decade.

“For a ride.” To stop the desperation that had circled around him ever since Garrett had said Angelina was gone.

“Forgive me,
John
,” his mother said with an arch edge that startled him, “but you haven't been on that horse in three months. Today, that woman leaves Auldale and you suddenly want to take a ride . . .”

“Does everyone know?”

She laughed. Then cut the sound short.

“You didn't know she was leaving?”

He was not having this discussion with his mother. He glanced to the stable boy, who was taking an excruciatingly long time to do a simple task. One that John should have done for himself. He pivoted on his heel, strode toward Hal, who was standing patiently as the boy took his own sweet time about saddling the horse.

“If she didn't tell you she was leaving, don't you think she had her reasons?”

Yes, he damn well hoped Angelina had excellent reasons. He wanted to know them. Needed to.

Stroking the horse's head, he gestured to the boy to step aside.

“John!”

The bay lifted its head toward the noise. John moved to the stirrups and adjusted their length. Why wouldn't his mother go away?

“You cannot go after her.”

“I can.”

“And do what? Bring her back to stay? Forever?” He rubbed his thumb down the raw edge of the leather straps. “It's one thing to have an affair, dear, but to flaunt it in front of everyone in Auldale?”

Stay.
That morning, forgetting all the restrictions of society, he had asked Angelina to stay.

He dropped his hand to his side. There was no point in his going anywhere.

This
was her answer.