The Lady's Legacy (Half Moon House Series Book 3)

by Deb Marlowe

  “Keep them for now, ye’ll have use of them again,” she said sagely before she turned to eye Francis. “And is this the lad who wore your extra? I’m that disappointed for you, sir. I thought you had a lady friend to keep company with.”

  “I hope to see my lady friend tomorrow,” he confided. Francis wondered if the matron noticed the twinkle in his eye. “But I did find myself an errand boy today. I mean to put him to good use fetching supplies, carrying my easels and such.”

  “Aye? Well, feed the boy, and you have the chance. Heavens, but are you naught but skin and bones, lad?”

  “No, ma’am,” she answered truthfully. “There’s more to me than that.”

  Caradec laughed out loud. “I’ll have one of your private parlors for the evening, if it’s available. I’m going to discuss his new duties with the boy and go over the properties and manufacture of quality paints.”

  “Aye?” He’d lost Mrs. Beattie’s interest. She hefted her linens back up and nodded toward the back of the inn. “The blue parlor is empty. Go on with ye, then.”

  “Thank you. And could you send along a couple of wine glasses?”

  “Ah, I thought I saw the old Jacobs mark on that box.” The landlady tucked behind the small desk that held the register, reached up and pulled a bell pull before taking her linens up again. “We’ve a new girl working tonight, Mr. Caradec.”

  A brunette came breathlessly from the green baize door just beyond the desk. She approached and curtsied. “Yes, Mrs. Beattie?”

  “This is Malvi,” the landlady said, her voice tight. “She made a special request, Mr. Caradec, to meet the artist we had staying with us.” She lifted a brow in his direction. “She’ll bring your glasses and anything else you’ll need, but please don’t make me regret making her known to you.”

  Francis saw Caradec straighten, most certainly affronted, but the servant girl spoke before he could.

  “I’m sure the gentleman would never, Mrs. Beattie.” Malvi breathed in, emphasizing the way she’d tied her apron to mold to her ample curves.

  She never—never looked at her employer, that is. Francis didn’t think she’d taken her eyes off of Caradec since she’d stepped out of the servant’s corridor.

  “Never what?” she asked, as rude and condescending in two words as only an adolescent boy could manage.

  The girl’s gaze still didn’t lift from Caradec. “Never do anything untoward. Would you, sir?”

  “Why would he?” Francis snorted. There. That got Malvi to turn away—if only to shoot a dark look full of malice in her direction.

  “I hope you know I shall continue to treat all of your staff with the utmost courtesy, Mrs. Beattie,” Caradec said stiffly. “Exactly as I have done.”

  “Aye, sir. Ye’ve been naught but the perfect gentleman and I mean no offense, but I did wish ye to know of the . . . state of things.” Now the landlady tossed a warning look at her new girl. “Ye’re welcome to the parlor and Malvi will be with you shortly.”

  Francis followed him into the back of the house and entered when he held a door for her. The parlor was small, but the fire was laid and ready and two plush chairs sat before it. A round table and chairs occupied the other side of the room and light from several covered lamps made the place feel cozy.

  Caradec eyed the chairs before the fire, but then moved to the table. He set the box down, went over to set a light to the fire, then crossed back.

  “Now, we begin—and we do it just as we discussed—by absorbing all the rich wonders of life.”

  “Wine?” Francis asked, moving closer to watch him open the box.

  “Not just any wine.” He took out a bottle, slightly dusty. “Sit,” he motioned.

  The look he gave her along with the order had a temperature of its own—and it slid over her skin like silk. She sat, worrying that they hadn’t even started yet and she already needed to worry about keeping her resolve.

  “When I was a boy, there was a winery near my village,” he began. “It had been there as long as the village, everyone said, and had quite a good reputation. The children, myself included, were sometimes hired to help in the fields or at the presses. The patriarch of the family who owned the place was a legend. Nearly eighty years old and still a man with an eye for the ladies.” A smile broke out on his face as he remembered. “Oh, he was a character and we loved to hear his stories. His palate was renowned. He could taste a wine and tell what region it had come from and sometimes what year it had been bottled.”

  He shook his head. “At assemblies and festivals, men would test him, setting up a challenge, asking him to name several different vintages. Old Gabin nearly always knew. One time he sat all the children down and taught us how to appreciate a good wine—much in the way that your chef did.”

  The door opened and a subdued looking Malvi came in, carrying a tray with two glasses.

  “Ah, just in time,” Caradec said. “We’ll take those—and if you could bring two more glasses and a pitcher of water? And ask the kitchens for a bit of cheese, if you please?”

  The servant girl set down the tray. Staring at him, she hesitated a moment, then whirled around and left the room.

  Francis would have rolled her eyes, but Caradec appeared oblivious. She watched him open the box and take out a bottle, handling it carefully. “Is that from the winery?” she asked, bursting with curiosity. “The one near your village?”

  “It is. I think you will enjoy it.” He leaned in and the narrow space between them filled with heat and a jolt of something that traveled right down to her belly. “And now,” he breathed, “we begin.”

  She could not resist the urge to needle him. “Begin what?”

  “Your education.”

  She might have laughed, if she hadn’t been caught by that slow, anticipatory smile.

  With smooth movements and deliberation he poured a glass of wine and set it before her. He poured himself one too. When she would have reached for hers, he stopped her.

  “Look at it first. What do you see?”

  “A glass half empty?” Her mouth twitched.

  “Very amusing, but we’ll save philosophy for another day.” His heavy lidded eyes fixed on her face. “I’m an artist, Flightly. I want to know what you see, learn how you view the world.”

  Swallowing, she nodded.

  “Tell me,” he ordered.

  Carefully, she examined the wine.

  “Don’t frown so,” he told her. “There is no wrong answer.”

  She looked, really looked. “It’s like a jewel. A garnet. And there is a brownish line around it, where it touches the glass.”

  A flash of curiosity showed in his face, but he didn’t ask anything. “Hold the glass—by the stem, not the bowl—and leave it on the table while you swirl it around a bit.”

  She obeyed.

  “Now, breathe it in.”

  She lifted the glass and took a cautious sniff. “Oh!” she said in surprise. “It’s not sour at all, but sweet. It smells like berries.”

  He followed her example. “It does. Anything else? Close your eyes and see what comes to mind.”

  “There is something.” She frowned. “Something . . . wet?”

  “Earth?” he suggested.

  “No.” Her eyes popped open. “Leaves. I can smell wet leaves, like after a rain.” Amazed, she looked at the glass.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “I never knew there was so much to it.” She smirked over at him. “But then, I’ve probably never had wine this fine before, either.”

  “Not even at Danby Castle?”

  Oh, my. The bitterness with which he made his remark told her how bothered he really was about that particular point. “Well, I never saw a bottle that looked so old, even there,” she told him.

  He took a deep breath, letting his pique go and gathering himself. “Now, we taste. Take a sip. Move it around in your mouth, letting it touch everywhere. Hold it a moment before you swallow.”

  “W
e’re not spitting it out?” she asked with a grin.

  “No.” His tone lowered. “We are enjoying the full experience, if you will recall.”

  Something happened to her insides when he spoke in a rasp like that. To cover her reaction, she lifted her glass. After a small hesitation, she took a sip.

  “Did you taste the fruit?”

  “Yes. And something else. Something tangy at the end.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I did.” She drank the rest of the small glass and held it out. “May I have more?”

  “In a moment. Where is that girl?” He looked at the door just as a thump sounded on the other side. With a glance and a raised brow, he went and opened it. Malvi stood on the other side, both hands occupied with a large tray carrying his requested items.

  “Oh, thank you, sir. I couldn’t manage the latch, too,” she said, a little breathlessly.

  “Of course. Leave it all on the table, if you would.”

  The girl crossed the room and did as he said, then turned, putting her back to Francis and facing Caradec. “If you please, sir, I’ll apologize for what was said earlier, with Mrs. Beattie.”

  “There’s no need.” He waved a hand in dismissal.

  But Francis saw her straighten her spine and spin the tray in her hands. “It’s just that . . .”

  Caradec sighed. “Yes?”

  “I . . .” She took a step closer to him. “I would like to model for you.”

  Francis craned her neck around so she could see his reaction. He’d recoiled a bit in surprise. Not in revulsion, she was sure. Malvi might be a bold piece, but she was pretty, in a sulky, voluptuous way.

  “That’s very . . . enterprising of you—”

  “Models are paid well,” she interrupted. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “They are fairly compensated. And I thank you for your interest, but I am not presently in need of a model.”

  She slid forward another step. “I’m not shy. I’ll take my clothes off for you.” She lowered her voice to a seductive whisper. “All of them.”

  Francis had had enough. She pushed back her chair with a clatter and stood. “The nob done give you his answer,” she said in heavy street cant. “Toddle off to the taproom, lovie. Mayhap ye’ll find a customer there to strip for.”

  The girl whirled on her. “Mind your business, gutter rat!”

  “He’s hired me ter mind his business,” she said, thrusting her chin at Caradec. “And he’s not interested in yours.”

  “That’s enough from both of you,” Caradec said with a sigh. He walked over and held open the door. “Go on, now,” he told the servant girl, not unkindly. “We won’t be needing anything else this evening.”

  Turning, she gave him an injured look, then swept out, clutching the tray like a shield.

  Caradec closed the door behind her. “Now, what did you do that for?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “I assure you, I could have turned her interest aside.”

  “I knew I was right. You are besieged everywhere you go,” she said, shaking her head. “But be careful of that one.” Her instincts were sharply honed by experience. Even Hestia commented on her ability to read people. “She’s on the hunt for something.”

  “A protector, most likely,” Caradec agreed. “But there’s no need to worry.” He tilted his head at her. “My hands are quite full enough, already.”

  “Not yet, they aren’t,” she said, lifting her chin. “Now, may I have a bit more of that wine?” Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea, but she wanted nothing more than to go back to that intimate atmosphere—to hear more of his past, to learn more to share with Hestia, she told her prickling nerves.

  It had been a long time since she’d told herself such a big lie.

  “Yes, come. Pour us some water and have a bite of cheese while I open the other bottle. I’m interested to see how you compare the two.”

  She did as he asked and he poured two more glasses of wine from the other bottle in the box. Sitting it before her, he nodded. “Come on then, show me what you’ve learned.”

  She pulled the glass toward her. “Oh, lovely.” She lifted it to the light. “This one is a ruby. It looks like a great ruby pendant, without the sharp edges.” Dipping her nose into the glass, she gasped a little. “It smells like smoke!” She had to taste it then, to see if the smoke lived there too—but was surprised again. “No smoke. No berries, either. Plums. And it feels soft and velvety, almost heavy, like it fills my mouth.”

  He made a faint sound and she glanced at him with heavy eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve ruined me for lesser wines.”

  “You’ve ruined me for tasting wines,” he shot back, his eyes alight with more than the reflection of the lamplight. “Have you ever seen a ruby? A real one?”

  “Yes. Have you?”

  “Not up close,” he admitted. “Only adorning a lady’s neck. A lady far beyond my reach.”

  “Well, rubies should have always been beyond my reach, but circumstances don’t always go the way they should.” She glanced over at the low fire. “Real rubies have a sort of weight to them. It’s nothing to do with scales and everything to do with the fire inside of them. Like they have desires of their own. Like they are full of life.”

  “Sounds familiar,” he whispered. “It sounds like you.”

  She set her glass on the table. “Are you going to kiss me again?”

  The air between them heated several degrees. “Regrettably, I am not—but only because that door has no lock, and Mrs. Beattie has the habit of barging in to ask after my comfort. Were things different . . . were we in private . . . well, I’d wager I’d already be kissing you—and I cannot guarantee that my hands wouldn’t be wandering about your person, as well.”

  She swallowed, and tried to hide her disappointment.

  “You are disappointed?” he asked.

  So much for that. “Yes,” she said, tossing her head. “But you can make it up to me by telling me why you are so disapproving of your friend’s new situation.”

  He straightened. “I’m not disapproving. I just think it’s . . .” He sat back and scrubbed the heels of his hands across his forehead. “It’s just that . . . all of that talent focused on children’s toys?”

  “Perhaps the significance of that has changed, since he’s become a father himself,” she offered. “In any case, he still has time for other work. That landscape of the castle was magnificent.”

  “Yes, it was.” He exploded out of his chair, taking a wine glass with him. “Less than a year ago we were having the finest of times. Nothing but paint, wine, and . . .”

  “Women,” she said when he paused. She got to her feet as well and watched him pace.

  “Well, yes. He was even more popular with the ladies than I was. For several months we traveled together. It was always a new town, a new vista, new people, new inspiration.”

  “Perhaps he’s ready for more,” she said softly.

  “Well then, he should not have settled for so much less,” he bit out.

  She stilled as he tossed back a long drink of wine. Did he truly feel that a wife and child, a welcoming extended family, and a steady, creative enterprise all measured short against the freedom of his wandering ways?

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he growled.

  “Like what?” She retreated when he stalked toward her, not stopping until he fetched up against the wall between the door and a small table.

  He drew closer, radiating heat. Her hands, flat against the wall, curled into fists. She pressed them into her hips to keep from reaching out.

  “Like I’ve disappointed you,” he whispered, setting the glass down on the small table.

  “Why not?” He smelled of the wine that they’d shared. And rain. And the small, ever-present tang of linseed oil. She breathed it in and let the smell of him roll through her, savored it, just as he’d instructed her.

  “Because I don’t like it.” He loomed closer and then leaned in until his
lips brushed her ear. “I like it better when you look at me like . . . this.”

  He touched her nape. Just the lightest touch, the softest brush of his fingers, but she felt her color rise, driven high by the feel of liquid want spreading from that one point of contact, curling into all of her most private places.

  “The door,” she whispered.

  “The door can go hang,” he said gruffly.

  The moment was heated, charged with surging passion—and still she could not ignore the inadvertent humor in his words. Her eyes widened. She saw the moment it hit him—and they both laughed softly.

  But it faded quickly and he watched her intently while his hand slid around to the back of her neck.

  She’d never imagined that she could feel like this, hung in suspense while waiting for a man to kiss her. Even when she knew it was not wise. When she’d vowed to keep things between them light and uncomplicated. Yet here she was, entirely willing and waiting impatiently for it to happen.

  And then it did. One moment they were sharing breaths, and the next he was kissing her with a hungry passion.

  She leaned into it, so glad that they had shared that laughter. It freed her somehow, made it easier to give over, to open her mouth and invite him in. It made the raw desire that welled up inside of her lighter, more frothy.

  He felt it, too. He made a sound and pulled away, buried his mouth in the curve of her neck.

  “Ahh,” she said on a long sigh.

  The door opened.

  “Mr. Caradec?” Mrs. Beattie said.

  She was right there, on the other side of the door. They had been saved from discovery only by the thin panel of wood.

  “Mr. Caradec?” The landlady, sounding puzzled, took a step inside.

  He took a step away from Francis, reaching for his glass at the same time. “Right here, Mrs. Beattie.”

  The older woman peered around the door. “What are you doing back there?” she asked.

  “Comparing colors,” he answered. He held the wine glass aloft. “See how much darker and richer it looks, without the light going through it?” He looked at Francis with a raised brow and she nodded, trying to look earnest. “Heart’s blood—that’s what this particular shade is called. Learn it well, for it is used often in portraits.”