With This Kiss (37 page)

Julia gave a light shudder. “And one wonders why the stench of the Thames is so abhorrent.”

“This is the most direct route, but certainly not the most scenic. Had I known I had company, I would have taken another path out of the city.”

“Where are you —” she started, then broke off abruptly, giving a soft laugh. “Forgive me. I suppose that’s your affair, isn’t it? I believe I’ve sufficiently played the part of the shrewish wife, chasing her husband halfway across London in an effort to ascertain his whereabouts. I needn’t compound the insult by badgering you with questions. I’ll leave you to your pursuits.”

She was, Morgan thought, gracious even in her own self-mockery. The prospect of spending the afternoon with her, as opposed to ruminating on his own thoughts, was infinitely preferable. “As it happens, I have a business matter to attend in Kent,” he said. “Fortunately, it’s a rather civil transaction, so I doubt I’ll have need of your protection. Might I enjoy the pleasure of your company instead?”

He watched indecision flicker over her face. “I shouldn’t intrude—”

“Not at all,” he insisted. After a little more coaxing, he at last persuaded her to join him. They rode together through the narrow, crowded streets, increasing their pace to a light, rolling canter as the cobbled ground beneath them gave way to broad dirt roads that would accommodate farmers’ wagons. To his considerable satisfaction he found Julia to be a surprisingly good horsewoman. Other than occasionally pointing out a few sights of interest or unusual wildlife, they rode without much conversation. In time the broad open spaces, clear streams, and lush fields announced their arrival in Kent.

As they reined in at the small village of Charlesham, they found the open-air market bustling. “Hungry?” he asked. At her nod they dismounted and made their way through a variety of stalls, purchasing fruit, freshly baked bread, rich cheeses, local wine, and crisp biscuits that had been liberally dusted with cinnamon and sugar. At a tinsmith’s stall they selected serviceable plates and mugs. Their marketing complete, Morgan tucked the purchases into a cloth bag and tied the bundle to his saddle.

They mounted and continued their journey. After a few miles’ ride, he directed Julia off the main road on which they traveled and onto a narrower path that had fallen into disuse. A thick growth of brambles and weeds nearly hid the route entirely. They rode uphill, moving over a lush rolling meadow dotted with pockets of vibrant wildflowers. Morgan stopped at a shallow stream that meandered through a grove of tall, shady elms. Spread out beneath them was the village of Charlesham, complete with its tall church spire, schoolhouse, modest thatched-roof cottages and regal manors, and bustling market center. Looming a short distance above them was the majestic stone estate known as Snowden Hall.

Morgan reined to a stop and dismounted. Moving to Julia’s side, he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her from her saddle. As he secured the reins of their mounts to the branch of a nearby elm, she surveyed the lush meadow in which they had stopped. He retrieved a blanket that had been tied to his saddle and spread it out over the lush grass. Prying the cork from the wine, he filled a tin cup and passed it to her.

They sipped wine and nibbled their lunch. Morgan relaxed back against a fallen log, stretching his legs out before him. He felt comfortably full and comfortably wearied from riding, more relaxed than he had been in months. Even the weather suited him. It was warm but not nearly as oppressive as the muggy heat of London. A brilliant blue sky hung overhead, puffy clouds drifted by, bees buzzed in the clover, and a pair of spotted fawns grazed a few yards away. The air smelled clean and fresh, slightly sweetened by the scent of wildflowers. He watched as two young boys held an impromptu race, releasing shouts of joy as they galloped headlong down a dusty road.

After a few minutes Julia let out a contented sigh. “This is lovely,” she said, then cast a glance at the nearby estate. “You don’t think the owner will mind our stopping here?”

“I don’t mind at all.”

An expression of astonished delight showed on her face. “This belongs to you?”

He nodded. “In truth, I had almost forgotten about it. Yesterday I received a letter from a local solicitor. Apparently someone is interested in purchasing the place. I came to make certain I wanted to let it go — one of the loose ends that needed my attention.”

Her delight faded somewhat at that news. “I see.” Schooling her expression to one of polite interest, she asked, “Has the estate been in your family long?”

“No. I purchased it just three years ago as a wedding gift for Isabelle.”

A wry smile curved her lips. “You don’t believe in giving trinkets, do you?”

He gave a light shrug. “In retrospect, it’s just as well I never presented her with this house.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Isabelle would have been gravely disappointed. She would have far preferred a diamond necklace — the gaudier and more ostentatious the better. Rusticating in the country was never one of her foremost goals. London was her life. The theater, the grand balls, the gossip, the gowns, the crowds — she thrived on it all.”

“Then why did you buy it?”

“For myself, I suppose,” he admitted. “For the children I had hoped she and I would one day have. Little did I know that the estate was cursed.”

“Cursed?”

He nodded and sipped his wine. “Would you care to hear the story?”

“By all means.”

Morgan thought for a moment, then began. “Legend has it that once an earl was traveling through Charlesham on his way to London when an axle snapped on his carriage. He was forced to stop for repairs. Having nothing else to occupy his time, he decided to wander through the village shops. In the market square he chanced to see a young peasant woman of phenomenal beauty and fell instantly in love. He had neither youth, nor beauty, nor strength, nor kindness to offer her, but he did have wealth.

“Learning that her family was impoverished, he offered to support her parents and siblings if she would consent to be his bride. She agreed, but only on the condition that they settle here rather than in London. They wed, but there was no love between them. In an effort to make her happy, he built her this house, complete with fountains, gardens, ballrooms, and glittering halls. He hired wandering singers and theatrical players to entertain her, bought her the richest ball gowns, and served her only the finest food. But in the end she left the old man for a poor shepherd boy who offered her his heart. The earl let the manor crumble around him and died shortly afterward, a broken man.”

Julia was quiet for a long moment. “How very sad,” she finally murmured. “Is that true?”

He shrugged. “Village lore. I never met the man — or his bride, for that matter. But I thought the story suited the property’s melancholy charm.”

“Is that how it strikes you?” she asked, turning away from him to study Snowden Hall with a pensive frown. “Melancholy?”

He gave the manor a cursory glance. “Yes. Empty and dilapidated. A bit of foolish whimsy on my part that resulted in nothing but a drain on my coffers.”

“I see a house of great promise,” she declared, as though defending a long-lost friend.

Morgan smiled and pulled her to him. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you?” He removed her riding hat and set it aside, then eased her onto her back, her head resting in his lap. He released her hair from the tight braid into which she had secured it and ran his fingers through the thick, fiery masses, massaging her temples and scalp until her eyes drifted shut and small sighs of pleasure escaped her lips.

“Do you ever think about the future?” she asked after a long moment.

“What do you mean?”

She hesitated, then opened her eyes. Her sherry gaze locked on his. “Our future. What will happen between us.”

Morgan’s hands stilled in midstroke. Clearly she had raised the issue for a reason. What could he possibly do if she, like the young bride of legend, secretly planned to escape? If she longed for a different lover, a better lover, one who was young and beautiful? Force her to remain with him out of a sense of pity and duty? The thought was even more unbearable than losing her completely.

A score of emotions poured through him, the strongest of which was primitive possession. Julia was his — as essential to his very being as the air he breathed or the food he ate. He could no longer imagine his life without her in it. They were legally wed, bound together in the eyes of God and man.

Temporarily overwhelmed by the depth of his emotions, he retreated into the comfortable shelter of dry humor. “Barring any dramatic separation, I imagine we will be stuck side by side, growing old and gray somewhere together. You will watch my hair fall out, and I’ll watch wrinkles form around your beautiful eyes. We’ll sip tea, rock our chairs, and discuss the glorious, bygone days of our youth.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t sound very romantic.”

“Is that what you want, princess? Romance?”

A bittersweet smile curved her lips. “That’s what every woman wants.”

Unable to stop himself, he drew his fingertips across the satiny perfection of her cheek. “In that case I shall have to oblige you and fall tragically, deeply, hopelessly in love, won’t I?”

She rose from the position in which she had lain and turned to face him. “I expect nothing less.”

Their eyes locked and held. The air between them felt heavy with unspoken words and missed opportunities. For a moment Julia thought he might kiss her. She would welcome it. In fact, she would welcome more than that. She would welcome being taken right there, right then, on a coarse wool blanket beneath a blue sky in the middle of a field of wild spring grass.

Apparently he was of a like mind. He leaned toward her as though to pull her into his embrace. But the laughing shouts of the young boys who had been racing on the road below them suddenly filled the air. Their intimacy shattered, the moment abruptly ended.

Morgan recovered first. “Would you like to see the house?” he asked.

Battling her disappointment, Julia managed what she hoped would pass for an enthusiastic smile. “Yes. Very much.”

He helped her to her feet. Together they packed the remains of their lunch and tied the blanket and cloth sack to Morgan’s saddle. Gathering the reins of their mounts, they walked the short distance that led to Snowden Hall. The closer one drew to the estate, the more magnificent it became. The manor house had been constructed of local quarry stone. Although the stones had glistened like the purest of alabaster in the morning sunlight, the duskier beams of the afternoon sun caused them to glow like softly mellowed gold.

Despite its stunning construction, it was evident that the estate had fallen into disrepair. Random pockets of stone crumbled like powder, giving the facade a somewhat pockmarked appearance. The fountains had long since gone dry. Overgrown strands of withered ivy filled the flower beds. The boards that had been hung over the windows to protect the glass had been torn aside, perhaps knocked down by a storm or collected by local villagers for use as kindling.

Its numerous flaws notwithstanding, to Julia’s mind the estate had a magic all its own. She could easily picture a flood of guests arriving on a snowy winter’s eve, the hearths blazing, and the warm amber glow of candlelight spilling from the windows to welcome them.

Morgan withdrew a key and unlocked the front door, ushering her inside. To her considerable delight, the interior proved just as promising. Morgan’s home in London was graced with an undeniable richness but with an undeniable masculinity as well. Snowden Hall had been built to suit a woman. The rooms were large and spacious, grand without being too formal. Plaster ceilings, great mullioned windows, rich wainscoting, and oak parquetry flooring added a wealth of luscious detail that reminded Julia of a great multi-tiered cake from a fancy confectioner’s shop. There were, of course, a few minor flaws. The house was empty, the floors were stained, the walls were patched, and an occasional windowpane was splintered and cracked. But as their footsteps echoed through the bare rooms, her imagination went to work, mentally correcting the defects and filling the spaces with an abundance of comfortable furnishings.

They left the main level and ascended a broad, curved stairway that led to the upper floors. Again, Julia labeled the rooms in her mind as they passed. A guest suite. A private library. A nursery. Morgan opened a set of broad doors that led to what was clearly the master bedchamber. She stepped inside to find a large room with a tall bank of windows that faced south, bathing the chamber with rich, golden afternoon sunlight. She moved toward the windows, her back to Morgan as she gazed out at the weed-choked gardens and sun-scorched hills.

He moved up behind her, staring out over the barren grounds. “I had forgotten how much work the place needed.”

“It’s beautiful,” she corrected. “Perfect.”

“You think so?” He sounded surprised.

She nodded. It was everything she had always dreamed a home could be. Yet she couldn’t help but acknowledge that the house had been purchased for someone else. Standing there, she experienced the same flood of emotions she had felt in that moonlit garden years ago, when she had watched Morgan gather another woman into his embrace. Longing and blind desire poured through her, accompanied by a shameful sense of reaching for something that wasn’t meant to be hers.

She should just let it go, content herself with what they did have. But that had never been her way and never would be. Gripping her medallion, she rubbed the shiny gold between her fingertips, searching for guidance. Was it really too much to ask? Was it really so impossible that her husband might come to care for her — even a fraction as much as she cared for him? Perhaps if she just tried a little harder, perhaps if she just gave a little more…

“Julia?”

Unable to confine her feelings to mere words, she spun around and locked her arms about his neck, pressing her body against his in a kiss of stark urgency and need. Thus far Morgan had always taken the lead in their love-making. But Julia couldn’t wait. She had to tell him what she felt, and this was the language in which they communicated best.