by Liana Lefey
“Wait!” It slipped out without thought, driven by God knows what impulse, and he berated himself all over again for lacking good sense. As the women paused and again turned to him in anticipation of receiving further instruction, his tongue seemed to forget all vocabulary.
“Yes?” Miss Tomblin finally prompted.
He cleared his throat. “You—you’ve come all this way, you may as well leave it here.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed, for a long moment before abruptly extending a large covered basket.
Reaching out, he took it from her and received a sharp reminder from his burn blisters. Whatever she had in there, it was heavy. “Thank you. I’ll return your basket tomorrow—or, if you need it back now, I can empty it. It won’t take a moment.”
“I’ve no immediate need for it,” she said quickly. “Keep it here, and I’ll use it next Sunday.”
“Very well,” he agreed. Awkward silence fell for a few heartbeats. Say something, dolt! “Thank you, Miss Tomblin. Your generosity is much appreciated.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she answered faintly, her eyes now trained on the ground.
He was saved from further discomfort by her friend. “Come, Mary,” said Miss Benfield. “We must be off.”
“Until Sunday, then,” Devlin said, bowing automatically. His crutch clattered to the floor, forcing him to grip the doorjamb for support, and the hastily secured sash at his waist came loose. A blast of icy air hit his bare legs and traveled in an instant all the way up to his nethers. Straightening, he clutched the basket tight against his navel to stop the robe opening any farther, and winced as his blisters again pained him.
Oh, God…
Miss Tomblin’s gaze jerked up to fix on a point somewhere above his head. Her cheeks were aflame, and her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before she at last choked out, “Y-yes—until Sunday, then! Good day!” Tugging her open-mouthed friend’s arm, she fled.
Shutting the door, Devlin let out a long stream of invective. “What idiot masquerading as a bloody vicar answers the damned door in naught but a robe?” he asked the empty room. Disgusted with himself, he went back over to the fire to warm up again. At least he’d managed to prevent complete exposure—and humiliation. Frigid air was no man’s friend.
On second thought, Devlin blessed the cold, north wind that had reached inside the robe’s opening to shrivel him. Had it been warm out, his nethers might have reacted quite differently to Miss Tomblin’s presence. Her reaction to that didn’t bear imagining.
Sitting down, he perused the basket’s contents. There were three knitted scarves, one gray, one blue, and one red. Two sturdy-looking pairs of shoes, a girl’s and a boy’s, lay tucked beneath them. Stuffed along the sides were packets of sugared nuts and stick candy, several small apples, three pairs of woolen socks, and two wooden ball-and-cup toys.
In spite of his chagrin, a smile broke across his face. Miss Tomblin was not only courageous, but thoughtful and observant. If she couldn’t make the house warmer, she’d make sure its occupants didn’t feel the cold as much. And the sweets would be a welcome treat for all.
She had to have spent at least half a pound, if not more—most of it on the shoes. Such an expense was nothing to someone like him, but for a young woman with only her slipper money to spare, it was no miserly sum.
Guilt swamped him. Daniel would never have allowed it. Or would he? The poor box could stretch only so far. And, according to his brother, the parish poor had many needs. Unfortunately, the poor box tended to be, well, rather poor.
Stowing the items Miss Tomblin had given him, he went upstairs, shaved, and dressed. The sun was shining, the air was clear, and he was going out for a bit, crutches and all. Hitching up the horse cart on his own took some effort, but he managed and was soon on his way.
With its sagging roof and rotting shutters, Mrs. Stone’s ramshackle house appeared almost to slump between the two buildings flanking it. Looking at it, he made a snap decision. Mary was right to want to help them. He’d brought a little over fifty pounds with him on this trip—pocket change for Devlin Wayward, gambler and entrepreneur extraordinaire. He’d take a quarter of it and see Mrs. Stone’s house made warm and sound again.
It’s not like I can spend it on brandy and bad habits while I’m here, anyway.
Miss Tomblin’s “anonymously donated” gifts were received with tearful surprise. Mrs. Stone’s old eyes told him she knew exactly from whence this beneficence had come. He stayed for a cup of weak tea, enjoying the little girl’s giggles and the young boy’s crows of triumph as they played with their new toys. That a simple bilbo catcher could bring them such joy bespoke much of their plight.
Taking leave of Mrs. Stone and her small charges, he took himself to the main street and hobbled in and out of the shops for the next two hours placing orders to restock his brother’s depleted pantry. A pound of tea and a jar of honey. A new cake of soap. Cheese, eggs, a pound of salt pork, some herbs, and salt. All would be delivered to his door by sundown, save for the freshly plucked chicken he was taking with him. Returning to the vicarage, he set about preparing a meal.
Twice a week, Daniel took an early dinner at The Harper’s Arms, the village’s only inn. The rest of the time, he cooked for himself. Devlin was glad they’d learned the basics of cooking while at seminary, skills he’d thought never to use again after he’d made his first fortune at the tables in London. Now those lessons were being put to the test.
He shook his head as he readied the fowl for roasting. Daniel really must be insane for wanting to live like this! All week long, he’d tidied up after himself, including emptying his own chamber pot.
In spite of his grumbling, he found there was a certain satisfaction in preparing one’s own food. The smell of it cooking seemed that much more savory for having made it with his own hands, and the taste more flavorful. Not that he intended to make cooking a regular practice, but the chore wasn’t entirely odious.
The clearing up, however, was.
As he dried his dishes later that night, the memory of seeing Miss Tomblin pushing up the cuffs of her sleeves and washing the dishes of the people they’d visited arose in his mind’s eye. She’d been completely selfless, sparing no thought for her delicate skin and carefully manicured nails. Though raised a lady, she’d done a maid’s work without complaint.
Again, he couldn’t help thinking how wrong Daniel had been about her. She would make a fine vicar’s wife. A grimace tightened his mouth. Unfortunately, once he was done, she’d probably never even look at another clergyman.
His traitorous mind wondered what sort of man she would spare a second glance after being deceived and wounded by a rogue and then by another rogue disguised as a priest. She’d never know the truth about the latter, of course, but it still stung his conscience.
…
In spite of the stinging cold, Mary’s face burned as if it would never again cool down. All her daydreams had manifested the moment Reverend Wayward had opened the door. His hair had been tousled, his blue eyes sleep-befuddled, and his state of undress…well.
The sight of him wearing naught but a robe had stolen every drop of moisture from her mouth. She hadn’t been able to stop herself from looking. Her eyes had feasted upon the strong column of his throat, the hollow between his collar bones, and the sprinkling of dark curls peppering his chest, thickening as they continued down to where the two halves of his robe were joined by the sash at his waist.
And the feast hadn’t stopped there. She’d looked down to avoid being caught staring like a lustful trollop at his bare flesh—but then he’d bowed and his sash had come free. He’d clutched her basket close to keep from exposing his manly bits, but below it, the robe had parted to reveal a strong, muscled calf and knee dusted by the same dark hair as that on his chest.
Add to that his stubbly, unshaven face and slumber-roughened voice, and
one had a recipe for a whole new round of nocturnal torments. She’d never see him as anything but a strong, virile man again.
“Good Lord, Mary,” whispered a red-cheeked Augie, still clutching her arm as they hurried away down the street. “I think I understand now why you’ve set your cap for him. I would never have imagined a clergyman to look like that beneath his crow’s weeds.”
At first, Mary said nothing, afraid of what might pop out. Finally, having regained some composure, she addressed her friend. “Augie, promise me you’ll say nothing of what just happened. To anyone. Ever.”
“You have my word,” her friend answered without hesitation. “But Mary, what will you do?”
“Do?” Mary stared at her in consternation. “Must something be done?”
“You’ve seen him practically naked.” It was spoken as if the answer were plain.
“So have you.”
Augie’s face paled. “So I have.”
“So what will you do?”
“Well, I…” Her friend’s brow furrowed, and she closed her mouth with a soft pop. “I suppose there is nothing to be done, really. Except, perhaps, pray?” She swallowed audibly. “Oh, Lord—I shan’t be able to look our vicar in the eye next Sunday.”
They both burst out laughing, and laughed until they were out of breath and leaning against each other for support.
Mary clutched her side with one hand and swiped at her streaming eyes with the other. “Oh, Augie! My side hurts. I think I may have strained something.”
“I know I have,” gasped Augie, steadying herself against Mary. “Come, before we make a complete spectacle of ourselves.”
Mary followed her into the bakery, where they ordered hot scones and a pot of Mrs. Olson’s strongest tea to restore their addled wits and reestablish ladylike poise. But despite their benign conversation—they’d struck a tacit agreement to avoid further discussion of Reverend Wayward’s wayward wardrobe—Augie’s words stuck in Mary’s mind like a splinter that would not come out. Deeper and deeper, they dug.
She’d seen him practically naked. Part of her felt something should be done about it. The naughty, lustful part of her wanted to see what he’d been hiding behind the basket. If only he’d set it down before bowing! The morally upright, mortified part of her wanted to forget the entire incident or at least pretend it hadn’t happened.
That part lost.
As for looking him in the eye, she wouldn’t allow embarrassment to stop her from building on the foundation they’d laid yesterday. After all, there would be no shame in knowing what the good vicar looked like beneath his vestments once they were husband and wife.
“I think I know how you must feel,” whispered Augie, dragging her from her reverie.
Mary swallowed a pang of jealousy. Though it was hardly Augie’s fault, it was difficult not to resent her having seen the same glimpse of glory. “What do you mean?”
Her friend flushed deeply. “Well, I’ve a confession to make.”
Heaven help me, if she says she has feelings for him, I’ll—
“I’ve seen Mr. May in a similar state. Without—you know…” Augie lowered her voice until it was barely audible. “…without apparel.”
Mary’s mouth hung open for a long moment before she found her tongue again. “Augie, tell me you’ve not gone and—”
“Oh, heavens, no!” hissed her friend, brown eyes widening with horror. “I was walking the riverside path one day last summer when I heard voices down by the water—his and someone else’s. I thought perhaps he’d gone fishing or boating with his cousins who were visiting at the time. When I rounded the bend, however…I saw him.” Her cheeks were the color of ripe cherries. “He and his cousins were cooling themselves in the water.” She leaned closer, eyes wide. “Mr. May stood up in the shallows and turned to come back up the bank, and I saw everything.”
Mary clapped her hands to her mouth and half laughed, half moaned, “Oh, Augie! Did he see you?”
“No, thank the Lord—though I almost wish he had. It would have made things so much easier. He would have had no choice but to acknowledge me, and then we might have talked sooner. We might even be engaged by now. Instead, he’s only just begun courting me—and only because I nearly disgraced myself to encourage his interest.”
Mary refrained from smiling at the memory of Augie staging a twisted ankle while gathering fallen apples with Mr. May during an autumn picnic—to which she’d invited them both for just such a purpose.
Augie was wringing her hands. “I ought to have immediately left, but I could not make myself move or stop looking at him as he emerged from the water. And now I’m—I’m haunted by such thoughts of him as no decent lady should have.”
A thought occurred to Mary. A terrible thought. “You don’t feel you must marry him for that reason alone, do you?”
“Oh, no,” said Augie, her lashes sweeping down to brush her fiery cheeks. “I loved him for quite some time before that event. But I will say that I was somewhat, erm, well…somewhat spurred to encourage his advances by the experience. He was quite…impressive…without his clothes.” Reaching out, she grabbed Mary’s hands and clutched them between her own. “What I’m trying to say is, I understand how you must feel, because I’ve felt the same way. You’ve loved the vicar for months now, and seeing him in such a state can only have increased your tender sentiments.”
Mary stared at her, struggling to keep a straight face. Tender sentiments? No. Her “tender sentiments” were based on other qualities that had nothing to do with seeing him out of his cassock. Lust, on the other hand… Her body still ran amok with longings for which she had no name. Well, no decent name, anyway. “Augie, really, I—”
“I don’t blame you for being inspired,” her friend cut in. “And if you want my help to further yourself with him, you have but to say so, and I will do whatever I can. After all, did you not facilitate my coming together with Mr. May?”
Unbidden tears sprang into Mary’s eyes. “Thank you, Augie. You’ve no idea what it means to me to have your support.” Indeed. To have such a friend, one who not only knew—and more importantly, kept—her secrets, but who was willing to take risks on her behalf for the sake of her happiness, was a new experience. And it was another reason to want to stay in Harper’s Grove forever.
Mary longed to belong. To have a real home instead of living in a string of rented houses with bedrooms she refused to decorate for fear of feeling torn when forced to leave. To be among people who’d known her for longer than six months, people who recognized her when they passed her on the street. She was tired of living like some migratory bird, always flying from place to place, constantly building nests but never settling in them.
She’d simply love to build a nest with the vicar. “Augie, I must confess that I feel at a loss as to how I should address him when next we see each other,” she admitted.
Her friend’s brown eyes narrowed, and her chin lifted. “You must behave as if you saw nothing. That’s what I did with Mr. May.”
“Yes, but your Mr. May knows nothing of the fact that you’ve seen him”—Mary lowered her voice so the baker, who’d come in with another tray of cakes, wouldn’t overhear—“that you’ve seen him exposed. I cannot claim such ignorance. Even if I pretend not to have seen, he’ll still know.”
Augie’s brow puckered. “You could always apologize again for having disturbed his rest. That would then open the conversation for him to apologize for having answered his visitors in near nakedness.”
“I cannot expect him to apologize for that!” she whispered, appalled. “It was my fault for calling on him uninvited.”
“He’s a vicar, Mary,” said her friend primly. “He’s supposed to be accessible to his parishioners at any hour. But it’s not as if we came calling in the middle of the night. It was nearly noon, for pity’s sake. What was he doing naked at that hour?�
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Neither of them had an answer, so they lapsed into silence, sipping their tea and nibbling their scones.
“Augie?” She hesitated, but had to know. “When your Mr. May looks at you, does it make you feel…different?” The blank look she received told her she’d somehow missed her mark. “Does your heart race or your skin grow hot as if you’re feverish?”
A shy smile curved her friend’s mouth. “I feel warm and cozy inside when he looks at me, if that’s what you mean. Mr. May makes me feel safe, as if when I’m with him nothing could ever go wrong or cause me harm.”
That was definitely not the feeling she got when Reverend Wayward looked at her. Not anymore. It hadn’t been ever since that fateful Sunday morning when she’d made a cake of herself.
“Why?” asked Augie.
Mary stared at her in confusion.
“Why do you ask?” her friend again prompted.
“Because when the vicar looks at me, I feel as if I’m going to fly apart,” Mary whispered. “My insides go all wobbly, and I feel hot all over. It’s quite uncomfortable.” Disconcerting and exciting would have been better words to describe it, but “uncomfortable” was more acceptable.
“I imagine it is,” said Augie, frowning a little. “I feel a sense of rightness when I’m with Mr. May. I’m content, utterly at peace with myself and the world. Mother said that’s a sure sign it’s meant to be.” Her brown eyes filled with worry. “Mary, are you quite certain you’re not making a mistake in your choice?”
No, she wasn’t sure. But she could no more stay away from the man than she could voluntarily stop breathing. Her curiosity had been whetted yesterday, inflamed today, and she must satisfy it before coming to a decision. “I won’t know until I spend more time with him.”
This Sunday, she’d know for sure.
Chapter Eight
Devlin managed to make it through the entire sermon without looking at Miss Tomblin. He’d met her eyes briefly in greeting as she’d entered the church, and what he’d seen in them had been worse than alarming.
