“Yes?”
“Do you want the captain to be your friend?” The innocent question sent a flutter through her lower belly.
Interesting, that, for she’d assumed any sort of feelings she’d had for Cecil had been long dormant. She shoved them away. “I’m not certain.” She wasn’t that carefree widow she’d once been, and she certainly didn’t want romance. Did she?
Not that Cecil had shown up on her doorstep with that in mind.
Simon nodded. The breeze ruffled his dark curls. “I might.”
She frowned. “You might what?” Really, she needed to do a better job of attending to the conversation.
“Have the captain as a friend.” He let out a huff of frustration. “There are no other boys here. Do you think I may talk with him?”
A frisson of alarm sailed down her spine. “That might not prove a good idea. He doesn’t seem the friendly sort.” Not to mention, if Cecil had figured out his paternity, he might inadvertently reveal it to Simon, and then they’d all land in the drink.
“Perhaps he doesn’t know how to be a friend.” Simon scratched his relatively dirty fingers through his hair. Where had his mittens gotten to? “I shall teach him, and aren’t we supposed to be kind at Christmastide to all we meet?”
“Oh, Simon.” Apparently, he did listen when she taught him things. Perhaps too well. Going forward, she would have to mind what she said while he was about... until Cecil left that was, for military men were always restless. “I don’t know.” Cecil was grouchy but perhaps he had a right to be. He’d been wounded in battle, but how badly? Did it go beyond his marked face and the slight limp? She’d been around enough ex-military men to know their minds were almost always affected by what they’d endured. And what would happen if he followed through on his threat to toss them in the street? The urge to live a solitary existence might be a strong motivator for a veteran of the wars. Her gut tightened. “Truth to tell, I’m not sure what is a good idea right now.”
The boy frowned, and in that instant, in the shadows of the rapidly falling night, he resembled Cecil so much. “You aren’t happy anymore, Mama.”
Her mind spun at the abrupt change in conversation. “Why do you think so?”
“Your eyes don’t sparkle.”
“I am... worried.” She’d need to do a better job of hiding her feelings from him. At his young age, he shouldn’t fret over his mother.
“About that stranger in our cottage?”
Was Cecil a stranger if they’d known each other intimately and passionately years before? Sarah’s cheeks heated. She was confused by his sudden appearance, certainly, and worried over her future, definitely. Yet... Finally, she sighed. “Perhaps.” There was no easy answer to any of the questions. “Come.” She held out a hand. “We should go back. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
“My tummy is making growling noises,” he agreed as he hopped off the trunk and rushed over to her, grabbing her hand.
“Then we’d best tame the beast.” Taking comfort in the slight weight of the boy’s fingers in hers, she started them back up the lane, avoiding most of the mud and pulling him well away from the temptation. “Do you still wish for snow?”
“Oh, yes.” He nodded vigorously, and she wondered what had become of his cap. “I’ll keep looking.”
At least it would give him something to do and send him away from Cecil’s gravitational pull.
Once they gained the garden, Sarah paused while Simon made certain to latch the gate behind him. She glanced up at her bedchamber window—er, Cecil’s bedchamber now she supposed—and sighed.
The second floor of the cottage hosted two rooms: one larger and one smaller. Both had fireplaces, but only the larger one had a tiny room attached that served as a dressing room. The lace-edged curtain twitched back. Cecil looked down at her, his expression a thunder cloud. What did he think about the circumstances? Was he as anxious as she? Except her stakes were much higher. Surely, he wouldn’t be so heartless as to throw them out at Christmastide.
The thought sent hot tears prickling behind her eyelids, but she refused to cry in front of Simon, so she blinked the moisture away.
“The gate is secure, Mama,” Simon said as he gained her side.
“Thank you.” He took his role of “man” of the house seriously. She looked at her son, the one shining, good thing she’d done in her life, the reason she’d made up such elaborate lies, her reward for surviving what she had, and she smiled. “We shall need to wait and see what happens now before we make any more decisions.”
Did she say that for her benefit or his?
“What sort of man do you suppose Captain Stapleton is?”
That was a question she’d like to know as well. “I believe he was in the military.” Good Lord, what would the villagers think once word of his arrival and occupation of the cottage leaked out? Her reputation would be cut to ribbons from gossip and innuendo. Perhaps she and Simon would need to flee after all. Her heart beat all the more furiously.
“Did he fight like Papa?” The boy didn’t seem all that eager to go inside.
“Yes.” The word was propelled on a gasp. Had she failed her child with her lies, failed Cecil by her silence? I rather think I have. The hot tears once more threatened.
The masculine clearing of a throat in the shadows alerted her to his presence, and as she squinted through the darkness, Cecil materialized before her, same ramrod straight bearing, same broad shoulders, same scowl.
“I am actually a major now, Mrs. Presley.” His baritone voice danced around her and tickled her chest. “I received the promotion after I was wounded and in hospital healing.”
“I apologize. I didn’t know,” she murmured but she held his gaze in a show that she wouldn’t let him bully her. What should she say knowing he’d suffered so much?
He shrugged, which drew her attention to his arms. He didn’t have his cane with him. Perhaps he only needed it for vigorous walking. “Injuries in war time happen. As always, I was more fortunate than most.” A trace of bitterness lingered in his voice.
“I know that only too well.” He had been lauded when he visited London, a celebrity of sorts, a ladies’ man, and a hero. That was only some of what had drawn her to him originally.
“I suppose you do.” Cecil’s attention wandered to Simon, and Sarah held her breath. Would he see himself in the boy when that connection was all too obvious to her eyes? He cleared his throat once more—a nervous habit? “Since I am to stay here, I’ll need to settle in, perhaps change my travel-stained clothes for dinner. Would you care to help me with my trunk, young man?”
A slow, delighted smile curved Simon’s lips. “May I, Mama?”
Oh, dear God. Please give me the strength to survive this. Despite her misgivings, she nodded. “Don’t dawdle.” Then, coward that she was, she beat a hasty retreat into the house, wishing there were somewhere—anywhere—she could hide from her past that had come to call like an unwanted ghost.
Chapter Five
December 15, 1814
Cecil awoke the next morning to the irregular thumps of someone chopping wood... or trying to. For long moments he lay abed, staring up at the plaster ceiling and the dark beams that ran across it to continue beneath the eaves. Here and there, cracks had broken through the plaster, and there was a small wet spot in one corner that indicated a problem with the thatched roof.
Why had she not taken measures to fix such things?
He turned over onto his side as another series of thumping met his ears. With each movement and rustle of the bedclothes, the trace of violets met his nose—Sarah’s perfume. How well he remembered it from that one summer’s night when they’d fallen into each other’s arms and explored. A twinge of feeling went down his spine and his groin vaguely stirred. It had been a two years or so since he’d last been with a woman, and there was something about this one that had wormed its way under his skin.
In quite a different way than she’d last done that unforgettable
night.
I’m not looking for that sort of complication.
He wanted the chance to rusticate in silence by himself until he could figure out what he wished to do with the remainder of his life.
And that didn’t include having a female about.
When another few anemic thuds echoed to his location, he uttered a curse and then threw off the sheets and the quilt done in pretty pastel colors. The fool woman would hurt herself with such work. That kind of chore should never fall to a female hand.
Which meant it was time for him to take back the responsibility for this cottage. Finding Sarah here had been a shock to be sure, but this was his property and he’d do the necessary work to keep it running.
Cecil surged to his feet and bit back another curse, this time for the chill on the scarred and scuffed wooden floor when he crossed off the nearly threadbare Oriental carpet. The fire in the hearth had faded to embers. Not bothering to light a candle since the golden glimmers of sunrise were creeping through the windows, he padded to a straight-backed wooden chair resting in one corner of the room where he’d thrown his clothes upon retiring last night.
Since he slept nude now that he didn’t need to worry about shocking nuns with his appearance or being summoned to battle, he’d luxuriated in the freedom. With a glance at his trunk that he and the boy had hauled upstairs the night before, he struggled into a pair of fawn-colored trousers. Everywhere he glanced in the room held touches of feminine occupation—of her. From the lace-trimmed curtains to the needlework pillows at the window seat to the trace of her violet perfume, he couldn’t forget her.
Cecil blocked memories of Sarah from his mind in favor of concentrating on the rest of his toilette. Muscles ached in protest, especially when cold and in the attempt to don boots. He suffered through, but that didn’t stop him from cursing his aches and weakness just the same. He left off with shaving, and after quickly tying back his hair, he yanked on his greatcoat and left the room, jerking on gloves as he slowly navigated the spiral staircase, and did a piss-poor job of it with the limp. Thankfully, the other two occupants of the cottage were outside and didn’t witness his struggle.
Once in the garden, he clenched his teeth against the bite of the cold, but it was nothing compared to spending the winters in the howling wind along the plains of Spain. Not far away from the cottage, he found Sarah in the woods, struggling to split a fallen tree into manageable logs. Each time she swung the axe, the blade—no doubt not as sharp as it should be—lodged in the wood, which led her to fight with the handle in the attempt to free it.
“What the hell are you doing out here, Mrs. Presley?” he demanded as he approached, his breath fogging in the air about his head. It was deuced chilly, and that cloak of hers wasn’t enough protection from the cold. Belatedly, he saw the boy not far off gathering sticks and twigs, possibly for kindling.
“Language, Captain Stapleton,” she admonished but didn’t look at him.
“Major.” A twinge of pride worked its way through his chest, but then bitterness from his forced retirement swept it away.
“Major,” she repeated as she attempted to pull the axe from a thick log. “We have a need of fires as the weather cools, as well as wood. Since I don’t possess magic, this is the only way to meet those needs.”
Cheeky woman. The want to grin took hold, but he tamped it down. “Let me do it. This isn’t a task for a lady.” Cecil extended a hand for the axe she’d finally freed from the log.
“I rather think it’s high-handed of you to assume I’m helpless.” Sarah blew out a breath that ruffled an escaped lock of hair. Her cheeks were red, from exertion or annoyance? Then she held the handle of the axe across her chest, perhaps in protection or defense. “I have been making do quite well all this time on my own.”
“That’s not true, Mama.” Simon came over to them, his arms laden. “You say every morning that you detest the chore and wish you had help.”
Ah, out of the mouths of babes the truth will come. Cecil pressed his lips together to prevent adding insult to injury. When he glanced at her, a pretty blush had seeped into her face. He fought off the urge to grin. She was stubborn and wouldn’t give quarter, but he admired that pride. It meant she’d survived a life that would have defeated most women. He once more extended his hand and wriggled his gloved fingers. “Regardless that you’ve done the same for years, it won’t harm anything if I take up the mantle for a piece. Let me do this.”
She lowered the axe. “Well, I suppose it’s the least you can do for bullying your way into our lives.” With a frown, she handed over the tool.
He grunted. Ah, so that’s how it would be. “My property, remember?” Perhaps if their positions were reversed, he’d have acquired prickles too.
But then, he wouldn’t have usurped someone’s cottage to begin with.
Sarah sniffed. Her eyes flashed brown fire. She leveled a glare on him and then transferred her regard to her son. “Come inside, Simon. Leave the major to his work.”
The boy bounced his gaze between her and Cecil. “I want to stay out here with him.”
Sarah’s expression underwent a series of changes as she looked from Simon to him. Shock gave way to disappointment then to resignation, but the slight panic in her eyes caught Cecil off guard. Why was it there at all? Finally, she sighed. “I’m certain Major Stapleton doesn’t want company just now.”
Who was this woman to decide what he did or didn’t want for his life? Willing to antagonize her for as long as he could merely because it kept her discomfited and amused him—as well as gain valuable intel from the boy—Cecil cleared his throat as he nudged her out of the way of the chopping area. “Simon can stay as long as he’d like.” He shrugged. “He ought to learn the skills a proper young man needs. Might as well start now.”
“How dare you.” She popped her gloved hands on her rounded hips and glared. “He’s learning plenty,” she protested, and her voice shove from the force of her ire.
Both he and Simon snorted at the same time. A trace of justification moved through him that someone, even if that someone was a child, agreed with his assessment.
“Madam, no harm will come to your boy while he’s with me.” He drew his thumb along the blade of the axe. When was the last time she’d sharpened it? Surely there was a man in the village who could do such a thing. “I promise neither will I teach him bad habits. But I do vow he’ll learn the skill of chopping wood correctly and the reasons it’s vital to keep an axe blade sharp.”
“Oh, you...” Her sentence trailed off as she narrowed her eyes. “Watch your language in front of Simon. I don’t want him corrupted.” Before he could respond, she dismissed him and looked at her son. “Mind your incessant questions. Listen for my call to lessons.” Then she marched through the trees with her chin at an obstinate angle and her eyes shooting daggers.
A shiver ripped down Cecil’s spine. He didn’t speak until she’d vanished through the garden gate. The wood banged against itself from her annoyance. Seconds later, the cottage door slammed just as hard. When he turned his head and regarded the boy with the brown eyes the same color as hers, he huffed out a breath. “Is your mother always so disagreeable?” He set a thick log onto a leveled-off tree stump and then began the task of swinging the axe and splitting the log into quarters.
Off to one side, a dirty tarp rested. He tossed the rough-hewn quarters onto it to haul inside later.
“I don’t know what that means,” Simon admitted with a sigh as he dropped his armload of sticks and twigs.
For one moment Cecil had forgotten the solemn boy was just that—a boy. “It means she has to argue about everything.”
“She only sometimes argues with me.” The child chewed his bottom lip. “I think it’s because she worries about me.” He shrugged and pinned Cecil with his gaze. “She worries over everything.”
“Explain.” What did Sarah have to worry about? She lived an independent life with no one in it to dictate anything. He fit anothe
r log on its end and then brought the axe down onto it, the force easily splitting the wood. The muscles in his right arm and shoulder protested, but he ignored the twinges of pain. It was good to work them out. Soon, they wouldn’t complain. He welcomed the chore as well as the chance to prove useful to someone again.
The boy played with a thumb of his mitten and then he carried one of the split wood pieces to the tarp, where he dropped it onto the growing piles. “She is a good mama—the best I’d say—but if I may be honest?”
“Of course.” Amusement for the child’s penchant for sounding grown up curved Cecil’s lips into an unexpected grin. When was the last time he’d done that? Perhaps too long. “And if you’re worried, just know I will keep our conversation confidential.” When one of his little eyebrows rose in confusion, Cecil flashed another smile. “I won’t tell your mother.”
“Oh.” Simon nodded. He once more added a split piece to the tarp and then stopped to pull a large sliver of split wood from the knitted wool of his mitten. “Mama won’t let me do much by myself. She doesn’t think I can understand things.”
“Mothers tend to be overprotective around those they love.” What sort of mother was Sarah? Had she wished for that state all her life? In his mind’s eye, he saw her with a swollen belly and joy twinkling in her eyes. Why had she never married again and had another child?
“I wish she didn’t love me quite so much.” When Cecil laughed, Simon’s cheeks flushed red. “I can do things on my own and go past the garden gate by myself. And,” he lowered his voice, “I would like another man around here. Perhaps if there was one, Mama would see I’m a man too.”
This time Cecil tamped down on his want to laugh as he split another log. He didn’t wish the boy to think he made jest of his statement. “Why do you want a man about?”
With a serious glance sent his way, Simon said, “I have questions.”
“Ah.” He split another two pieces of log. “Boys usually do.”
“Mama says I ask too many, and she answers less than half.” He huffed out a breath. “How am I to learn when my questions keep coming?” The boy came forward and reached for another piece of wood. “Life is confusing.”
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