Wolfsgate (15 page)

Justine and Brandon headed across the back gardens to the pathway over the hills which led to the tenants’ cottages.

She touched his arm with her fingers. “This may be a rather long walk for you.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“We won’t stay long,” she said.

He took her hand, slipped it through his arm and squeezed it. She glanced up at him, and he flashed a brilliant smile at her.

Her heart knocked back in her chest.

Justine hadn’t seen that Brandon Treharne signature smile in years. This was the optimum rendering of the smile he had always aimed at whichever girl had caught his fancy.

As young girls when they were fortunate enough to witness the smile, Justine and Annie would giggle uncontrollably at how the young ladies at the receiving end of it would be absolutely paralyzed with joy and rapture. Of course, secretly she and Annie had hoped that one day they too would merit such a smile from a man of their liking. Had she known then that she would be receiving it from Brandon himself one day, she never would have believed it.

Of course, there was a time it had been reserved solely for Amanda. Justine bit her lip and trained her eyes on the slightly muddy pathway. Now she understood the power of that smile even better, for it not only inspired a surge of promise and well-being, but a flare of want which now swelled inside her.

“Oh, Miss Justine—excuse me, I mean, Lady Graven—we’re that pleased for ye, truly we are!”

“Thank you, Lizzie.” Justine hugged the young red-haired girl hopping on her toes with the news of Justine’s marriage to Brandon. “So you’ll come and work at the house?”

“Oh, yes, anything for you, ma’am!” Lizzie let out a laugh.

“Indeed, girl!” Mrs. Archer shot a stern look at her daughter who stilled immediately. “Lizzie worked for a bit for Mrs. Treharne,” she said, her face reddening. “She has some experience as a lady’s maid now.”

“That’s right,” said Justine. Lizzie had been in service at William and Amanda’s this past year. “You’re free now?”

“Oh, yes,” Lizzie said. “Mum had to go to her aunt’s who was ill for a time, and I had to come home then and mind my sister, you see.”

“Thank you, milady. This is most kind of you and your Lordship.” Mrs. Archer bowed her head at Brandon who filled the small dark room with his height.

But Brandon only had eyes for Justine. This was the third house they had visited. Each family was more pleased than the last to see their master back in his family seat, yet even more pleased to hear that he and Justine had wed. Justine knew every one of his tenants, and they had greeted her with a singular ease and warmth.

It was obvious that over the years she had put in the time and effort to build relationships with these people, something that perhaps a lesser woman would not have done. A lesser woman who thought herself grand would have stayed within her grand house, only associated with her particular circle of grand friends, pampered herself in trivial indulgences, and ignored the real world which moved and shifted around her.

But not Justine.

Justine felt an obligation towards the tenants which was impressive as she had not been the official heir or representative of Wolfsgate, not even a blood relative. And yet she had not only recognized that responsibility, but she had taken it up as her own obligation. Indeed, seeing her amongst them now, she betrayed no physical discomfort with the lower classes. They left the Archer cottage and walked towards the cottage belonging to the widow Shaw.

“This will be our last visit Brandon, I promise,” Justine pressed her hand on his arm. “You must be tired by now, and we still have the walk home.” A lightness floated through his chest at the soft tone in her voice, her concern for him, at her planning ahead and reassuring him that she understood his limits. He only nodded.

They were seated across from each other at Mrs. Shaw’s table. Brandon’s legs were crossed, and he sat still as the women chattered about pies.

“Mrs. Shaw, your meat pie never disappoints. Do try it Brandon, it will take you back to our childhood, I promise you.” She grinned and bit into the pastry. “Delicious.” Her tongue swiped a golden flake of pie crust from the edge of her lower lip.

That mouth of hers.

The ankle of Brandon’s top leg swiveled in a tight circle and his free hand gripped his knee. He tried to will away the pounding in his head, not to mention in his groin, but it was impossible. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Justine’s lips. Silence fell in the room, and his gaze jumped between the women. They stared at him. Mrs. Shaw’s hands fussed with her skirts.

What the devil was wrong? Was he drooling? Perhaps he was. He had been obsessing once again over his wife’s lips wrapped around his…

Justine tilted her head at his dish.

“Ah.” Brandon exhaled. He took a large bite of the pie. The flavor and texture melted in his mouth. “My wife is absolutely correct, Mrs. Shaw. Delicious.” He nodded at her.

The woman’s face flushed, and she bobbed her head at him. “Thank’e, sir.”

“Mizzy Justine you’re here!”

A dark, scruffy boy, his hair standing on end, his face smudged with streaks of dirt, ran into the cottage and threw his arms about Justine. “You said you’d be back long before this!”

“It’s Lady Justine, John. Mind yer manners, love,” said his mother.

“Oh my, oh my!” John blinked up at her and burst out into laughter. “Milady? Fancy that! And what makes ye a proper lady now, Mizzy Justine?”

“I do.”

The boy’s head jerked in the direction of Brandon’s rich, low voice. His eyes widened at Brandon.

“I have married, John,” Justine said, smoothing the hair over his head. “This is my husband, Lord Graven.”

The boy’s eyes scrunched together as he scanned Brandon from head to toe, his neck and shoulders stiffening. “But yer supposed to be dead. Ain’t that right?”

Mrs. Shaw gasped. “John Shaw!”

Brandon grinned. “That’s how the story goes. But as you can see, I’m very much alive and married to your Mizzy Justine, which now makes her my Lady Graven.” He liked how that sounded the second it rolled off his lips—
my Lady Graven.
Justine stared at him. Did she like that, too? He met her gaze and leaned back in his chair, his grip tightening on his cane.

With a small hand at her cheek, the boy peered into Justine’s face, his eyes round. “Guess you can’t marry me then, eh? But seein’ as his Lordship come back from the darkness o’ death for you that’s somethin’, I expect.”

“Oh, Lord, deliver me,” muttered Mrs. Shaw.

Justine smiled, her hand rubbing John’s back. “You could very well say that, John.”

“That’s all right then,” the boy mumbled, frowning at Brandon.

“Have my pasty, John.” Justine pushed the plate towards him. “I couldn’t possibly finish it.” John lunged at the food and took off with it outside.

“Forgive the boy, Lord Graven.” Mrs. Shaw flushed once more.

Brandon shook his head. “He knows his mind, and he’s outright, Mrs. Shaw. That’s a gift. Let’s hope he never loses it.”

The door was pushed opened, and in strode a tall, muscular young man with long chestnut hair.

“Auntie Keren—oh, pardon,” he said. He hung his hands at his hips. His brooding, dark eyes took in Justine.

“Lord Graven’s been waiting to see you, Martin,” Mrs. Shaw said.

That dark gaze shifted to Brandon.

“Martin, I want you to meet Lord Graven, my husband,” said Justine.

Martin stood very still before the table and nodded at Brandon. “Sir,” he said just above a whisper.

“Lady Graven tells me you are a fine hand with horses, and that you’ve helped her quite a lot at Wolfsgate, even with her riding.”

Martin’s eyes slid to Justine. She nodded at him. “Yes, sir,” Martin said. His stiff gaze settled on Brandon once more.

“I’d like to keep you on formally as groomsman.” Brandon straightened his spine. We’re cleaning up the house and making repairs, and we need the help. Would you be interested?”

The muscles around Martin’s jaw tensed. “Thank you sir. Yes I am.”

“Very good then, come to the house tomorrow morning,” Brandon said.

Martin nodded at Brandon. His eyes slid back to Justine. “Ma’am.” His hand touched Mrs. Shaw’s shoulder, and he left the house.

“He’s a good boy, our Martin,” Mrs. Shaw said. “Became very quiet after his parents and sisters were taken away with the sickness. Doesn’t have any family left. We took him in then. Loves horses, just loves them. I believe he’ll do well by ye, sir.”

“That’s what my wife tells me, Mrs. Shaw,” Brandon said. “I’m sure he will.”

Justine’s eyes darted to Brandon, and a slight smile curved her lips. She raised a chipped cup to those remarkable lips and drank, then grinned as she listened to yet another story Mrs. Shaw told her. Justine’s head tipped back and exposed her creamy throat. Her easy laughter filled the cramped space and lapped around him like warm water.

He could not remember such a sultry, inviting sound nor feeling the velvet smoothness which now passed through his chest upon hearing it. Yes, an untroubled, simple pleasure. He pressed his palm down his thigh. For the first time, he sensed his limbs were not tense, nor were his muscles coiled. Unusual, really. At this moment, he was actually content to sit in this dark, stuffy cottage on this battered wooden chair and watch a friendly young woman with sparkling eyes, a woman who happened to be his wife, simply discourse with another woman about daily nothings.

Brandon’s attention drifted from the trail of chatter between the two women. The cuff of his shirt poking out of the sleeve of his frock coat fascinated him. His fingers tugged at the offending fabric. Cold perspiration beaded on his forehead. He curled and uncurled his fingers into a fist until his knuckles whitened. His skin begged to be scratched. Begged.

A touch on his shoulder.

His body jolted, his eyes darted up. Justine’s warm fingers stroked his tight jaw, and he exhaled.

“Shall we go home?” she whispered. Her soft voice wrapped around him, and his shoulders relaxed. She stayed close to him as he stood up, her arm sliding around his middle.

He leaned on her for a moment. “Thank you,” Brandon murmured against her hair. He hated being dependent on Justine physically. She didn’t look like she had the strength to help him, but her determination was iron clad. Strands of her curly hair slid against his lips, and her lavender scent filled his nostrils. His eyelids sank for a moment.

In silence, they walked slowly back towards the house, his limp more pronounced from his fatigue. Once home he did not protest when she helped him out of his outerwear and boots. She then poured him a brandy as he settled into the sofa before the fire and loosened his neck cloth. Molly had drawn the heavy midnight blue curtains, lit a fire, and prepared a cold supper for them. Justine brought the tray of cheese, chicken, and bread to the parlor along with a bottle of wine and two glasses and placed it before him.

“They like you, all of them, very much,” he said. “And you them.”

“The tenants?” she asked. “I enjoy visiting with them, having a woman’s chat, playing with the children. I suppose I came to rely on them for my sanity.”

Brandon smirked. “My uncle was surely not good company, especially for one such as you.” She sat next to him on the settee.

“I started visiting regularly when the fever hit. Dr. Langham had come to check on Richard and Lord Jeremy. I asked him how the village was faring, and he told me about the children being ill and underfed. I begged him to let me accompany him on his visits with supplies and be of assistance to him, but he refused, saying it would be unseemly and much too dangerous.”

Brandon’s arm stretched out around her shoulders. He pulled her close and dipped his head to hers. “Let me guess.” His breath mingled with her own. “You went on your own with a cartful of food and supplies?”

Justine grinned. “I did. Then one day he caught me feeding Martin soup, and he was quite angry with me. I begged him not to say a word to my stepfather or William, and he eventually relented after seeing all the food and the bed linens I had brought. I also gave him money for medicines.”

He planted his lips on the side of her temple and held her for a moment. Her eyes slid closed as she inhaled his clean, masculine Brandon scent once again.

“I’m sure you were there every day, Justine,” he whispered into her hair.

“I was.”

His fingers squeezed her shoulder then lingered on the side of her arm. “I am full of admiration, Lady Graven.”

She looked directly into his grey-green eyes. It had been a great joke to William and Richard that she was now Lady Graven. It had been a bitter joke to her as well; a forced marriage to a phantom husband who would soon be dead. But now, with Brandon alive and actually here and saying it himself, it was no longer a hoax, a travesty, meaningless and empty.

Yet it was real on paper only.

Justine leaned forward, gently releasing herself from his grasp, and poured the wine. She offered Brandon a glass of the ruby liquid. He brought it to his lips and drank, his impenetrable, sober gaze remaining on her.