by Louise Allen
Meg gave a little gasp. ‘You gave me your word…’ she began.
‘I promised not to touch you. I said nothing about attempting to persuade you.’ Ross stalked over to the window to put the width of the room between them and caught his still-bandaged leg on the sharp corner of one of the little tables that had been brought in for the tea things.
He couldn’t bite back the grunt of pain as he grabbed one of the long window curtains to steady himself. The wound had been healing well and he had been able to walk and ride with less and less pain each day, but it was not ready to stand a sharp corner of solid mahogany being driven into its centre. Ross swore viciously under his breath, taken aback by the wave of nausea that hit his stomach. Then there was a flurry of skirts and Meg was on her knees in front of him, her hands gentle on his leg.
‘Oh, no! Has it opened it up?’ Her head in that ridiculous cap was so close that its frills brushed his groin, with predictable results. One small warm hand was resting on the inside of his thigh while the other touched the bandage through the thin barrier of his knitted pantaloons. ‘There’s no blood,’ she said, her voice anxious.
‘Meg,’ he managed through the effects of a vivid fantasy of her kneeling in front of him like this, her hands on him—and both of them naked. ‘If you do not want me to touch you, I suggest you take your hands off my leg. Now.’
She sat back on her heels and looked up at him, then the flood of colour rushed up to her hairline as she found herself so close to an erection that the clinging jersey did nothing to veil. ‘Oh!’ She scrambled to her feet and retreated behind one of the sofas. ‘If you need a woman that badly, I suggest you take yourself off to Truro—I am sure there are any number of establishments that cater for a gentleman’s every need.’
‘But I do not want a whore, Meg. I want you,’ he said softly. ‘I want you to be my mistress.’
‘No.’ Her fingers were white as they gripped the back of the sofa. Was she stopping herself running from him, or to him? ‘No, you cannot have me.’
‘Then I will just have to burn,’ he said, his voice harsh as he realised that was the choice. It was Meg or nothing. ‘And the fire is very hot, Meg. So very hot.’
‘Once, I gave my virtue because I was in love,’ she said, fiercely. ‘And then I gave my reputation in return for protection. But I am not going to give my freedom in return for money.’
‘I have not offered you any yet,’ Ross snapped back. This was probably not how a gentleman negotiated with a prospective mistress. He should have thought what he could offer her, laid that out, discussed provisions to be made after the affaire was over. No doubt that was how it was done.
But he had realised what he wanted in a blinding flash and asked for it. The women in his life before had come and gone easily with an exchange of coin, or sometimes of food. Or perhaps a pretty shawl or a trinket.
Meg was a lady—or had been. He could not offer her coin in her hand like a whore and he had no idea what she might accept as a business arrangement.
‘Tell me what would you like,’ he said more moderately. Her eyes were like flint as she glared at him. ‘A house, of course. Penryn is a charming town, you would like that. Your own servants. A carriage, a dress allowance, those too, naturally. I would set up a bank account for you…’
Her eyes were shooting daggers now and she looked too angry to answer him. Up to now he had always seemed to understand women well enough; now he appeared to have strayed into shallow waters and had no idea how to read the chart. ‘Meg, you have been in my arms, you have kissed me. Don’t tell me that you did not want me then. What has changed? I am offering you security, comfort. I cannot be that repellent to you.’
‘Oh, you arrogant man,’ she hissed. ‘Just because I kiss you that does not mean I want to be your mistress, your…plaything! You think I want to be tucked away like a gem in a jewel box for you to take out and toy with when it suits you? I am earning my living, honestly, with a fair exchange of money for labour and loyalty and you want—well, you want what you lust after. Never mind what I want.’
‘What do you want?’ he asked, genuinely baffled.
Meg took an agitated step away from the shelter of the sofa. ‘Don’t men realise that it is not the lying together that is important to women—however good that is—it is all the other things. Friendship, companionship, trust, give and take between two people…’
‘Love?’ he finished for her, the word sounding like a jeer. ‘You are quite the romantic.’ She flushed, as though the word was an insult. ‘If that is what you want, Meg, then I am sorry, but I cannot give you that, whatever it is.’
‘I never said love,’ she shot back. ‘Do you think I am going to hold out until you lie and use that word, whisper sweet nothings and then yield?’ Her expression said quite plainly that she could hardly imagine him doing any such thing as whispering soft words of love. ‘Do I seem so foolish, so empty headed? If you only employed me because you thought you could talk me into your bed, then you had better have your money back now and I will leave,’ Meg said, haughty as a duchess. ‘I am afraid you will have to accept two gowns, a pelisse, a bonnet and a quantity of underthings in lieu of part of it, but I have not worn all of them.’ She stalked to the door.
‘What,’ Ross demanded, ‘am I going to do with a pile of female underwear?’
They glared at each other, then the corner of her mouth twitched. ‘I am afraid I could not possibly speculate,’ Meg said, sweeping out into the hall.
Damn the woman! He might not be in love with her, but he was deep in lust and whatever it was he felt for her was rapidly becoming an obsession. An uncomfortable one.
‘My lord?’ Heneage was standing in the door, regarding him with some caution. Ross supposed he was frowning again.
‘Yes?’
‘Tregarne is here and asking to speak to you, if it is convenient, my lord.’
‘Very well, I’ll see him in the study.’ What did he want? Ross wondered. He had intended visiting the head keeper in the next day or so.
‘My lord.’ The man who had taught him to load and clean his weapon and how to shoot safely and accurately seemed hardly unchanged until Ross saw the light full on his face and realised he must now be in his sixties.
‘Tregarne! You see, your tuition has got me home again safely.’ And God knows how many men dead. Ross shook his hand and gestured towards the chair opposite his own beside the fireplace. ‘How are you? And Mrs Tregarne and the boys?’
‘All well, my lord.’ The weatherbeaten face cracked into one of its rare smiles. ‘James has joined the navy and Davy’s one of the underkeepers now. But you took a bullet in the leg, so they tell me. That’s not good news.’
‘It’s a lot better now and the limp is going. I was coming to see you tomorrow; I thought we could go and bag some pigeons and a rabbit or two for the kitchen.’
‘That would be just like old times, my lord, if I might say so.’ The keeper grinned. ‘But my, you’ve filled out some from the gangly lad you used to be. Grown into your feet, just like my lurcher pups do.’
The keeper hesitated. ‘There was something I needed to talk to you about though, my lord. You recall that old rogue Billy Gillan? He’s still alive and tough as hobnail boots—and he’s still taking our pheasants, the wicked devil. And smuggling from down in the cove, if the rumours I hear are right. Now, I want to set a trap and catch him at it. He was too wary while your father was with us, God rest his soul, but Billy won’t have your measure yet—he’ll be careless, I’m hoping. We’ll catch him red-handed, haul him up in front of you—’
‘I’m not sworn as a magistrate, Tregarne,’ Ross interjected.
‘No, of course, you won’t be.’ The keeper’s face fell. ‘You will soon enough, won’t you? But we don’t have to wait—Sir John Vernon at Hall Place, he’ll have the old rogue behind bars, soon as look at him.’
It would kill Billy. And it was a miracle he’d escaped capture before now. But Ross wasn’t going
to let him fall foul of Tregarne if he could help it. If he could only think of a way to keep the wily poacher on the right side of the law—but that was like looking for ways to stop cats chasing mice.
He could tell Tregarne to ignore whatever Billy was up to—but that would be openly condoning smuggling as well as undermining Tregarne’s authority with his underkeepers.
‘Leave him be for a few days,’ he temporised. ‘I’ll see about getting sworn—I don’t want to export my own troubles over to Sir John to deal with.’
‘Aye, I can see that.’ Tregarne nodded agreement. ‘You’ll call in tomorrow then, my lord? There’s a field of young beet with the tops being shredded by those darned pigeons. I could fancy a pie.’
Ross found the conversation had calmed both his anger, and his desire. There was Billy to worry about, but he’d think of something. As Ross crossed the hall on his way to the library he met Meg, just emerging from the door to the back stairs.
‘Mrs Halgate.’ Ross felt an unfamiliar sensation in his cheek muscles. He wanted to smile at her, although he was not at all sure why, infuriating woman.
‘My lord.’ She sounded just a touch wary.
‘I have come to the conclusion that I have no use for two gowns, a pelisse and some female undergarments. I suggest you keep them.’ Meg opened her mouth as though to speak, then closed it, her eyes intent on him. ‘Because you are not going anywhere just yet, are you, Meg Halgate?’ And then he did smile as he turned and took the stairs two at a time.
‘Ow!’ He reached the turn of the stairs and the half-landing, out of Meg’s sight, before the stab of pain in his leg brought him up short. Ross hopped a couple of steps and sat down at the foot of the next flight to wince and stretch his leg. That had been a damn fool thing to do, but the sudden attack of high spirits had made him act like a twelve-year-old. Which was ridiculous. The estate and all its problems had not vanished; there was Billy, just as much of a rogue as he’d always been, and now adding smuggling to the tally of his offences, at least one household full of simpering blonde damsels in pursuit of his title—and Meg.
Meg, with whom he had erred so badly she was talking about leaving him. Meg, who he was aching for and who he had to have. Somehow, if he could just fathom what she wanted. Meg. Ross leaned back against the stairs, closed his eyes and contemplated the things that were so desirable about Meg Halgate.
There were her blue-grey eyes and those long dark lashes. There were her curves. There was the way that one corner of her mouth dimpled slightly more than the other when she smiled and that tiny mole at the corner of her right eye. And the way she stood up to him and the wicked flashes of humour and the strange sensation that he was waking up from a long, nightmare-racked sleep and she had him by the hand and was teaching him to see and feel again.
‘My lord?’ said a voice from above him.
Ross tilted back his head, opened his eyes and saw Damaris, Meg’s redheaded maid, looking down at him.
‘Are you all right, my lord? I thought you must have fallen, but then I saw you were smiling. I can go round to the back stairs, only—’
‘No, that’s fine, Damaris.’ Ross got to his feet and stood aside to let her pass. I was just thinking.’ And dreaming.
Chapter Eleven
‘Mrs Halgate, ma’am?’
Meg blinked and found she was standing in the hall with a foolish smile on her face. He smiled! He smiled and he made a joke. Damaris was standing in front of her, looking worried. As well she might with the housekeeper behaving in such a hen-witted way.
‘Yes, Damaris? What is wrong?’
‘It’s his lordship,’ the maid hissed with a glance over her shoulder. ‘I found him sitting on the stairs, just at the landing, with his eyes closed and a big grin on his face. And when I asked him if he was all right, he said he was thinking. Seems an odd place for a gentleman to be thinking. Don’t they have studies for that?’
‘I believe that thought can strike a gentleman anywhere. Unlike we poor females who must do our work first and then think, if we have the leisure. Come along, Damaris, I’ve sure we have a lot to be doing.’ Only just at this moment, I cannot for the life of me remember what it is.
Damaris was looking doubtful. ‘We’ve done everything on the list for today, Mrs Halgate. Unless you was wishful to be making a start on the linen cupboard?’
The Housekeeper’s Guide was most insistent about the importance of maintaining an up-to-date register of the contents of the linen cupboard, with every item and its condition noted, and Mrs Fogarty’s linen list had a date of almost twelve months ago.
‘No, we will save that treat for tomorrow.’ She needed to read the relevant sections in the Guide first. Linen cupboards sounded straightforward, but there was sure to be some vital detail she must not miss.
‘I am going for a walk, Damaris. You may have the rest of the afternoon off.’
There, that’s another smile, she thought as she made her way to her rooms for a shawl and to change her shoes. At this rate the entire household would be beaming.
But what was making Ross smile? Meg walked round the side of the house and found a footpath leading in the direction of the sea. He had not enjoyed the visit from Lady Pennare and her daughters, so that could not be the cause. Then they had had that ridiculous row over her becoming his mistress. Men did not like being refused, especially about sex. James had never had any patience with her when she had let any reluctance show and he had positively sulked when she had her courses.
The path reached an old gate, just right for leaning on and thinking. Why refuse Ross when it made her feel this strange inside? She wanted him. It would be so good in his arms, she knew that. He might be big and fierce but he could be gentle. And he would know what he was doing. A smile tugged at her lips at the thought of Ross knowing what he was doing.
But it would be a financial transaction and that left her heart cold. What had Shakespeare said? ‘The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action…’ and Ross meant more to her than that. Quite what, though, she was not certain. She had not felt like this with James and she had believed herself in love with him. But Ross, so much tougher and harder than James, made her shiver with both tenderness and desire, longing and lust. She would not surrender to him—but might she go to him, as an equal? Would that be worth the broken heart that would surely follow?
Too much thinking—she needed to walk. With a shake of her head Meg pushed the gate open and found herself in a lane, deep between grassy banks higher than her head, their slopes studded with wild flowers. She had noticed the flowers as they had driven here, but they had passed in a blur. Now she could stop and enjoy them individually. Bluebells in indigo profusion, primroses, the vivid magenta heads of ragged robin and sheets of wild garlic with nodding white heads.
Shuttlecock-heads of hart’s tongue fern were unfurling themselves and the soft leaves of foxgloves promised towering spikes still to come.
Enchanted, she strolled down the lane, stooping to examine trails of scarlet pimpernels and the blue bird’s-eye periwinkle and reaching up to pluck a spray of wild cherry blossom to tuck behind her ear.
When the lane petered out suddenly into sand she was right on a beach, a sandy half-moon between two arms of low brown cliff. The sea was breaking in tiny waves, smoothing the sand like well-ironed linen, and bisecting the half-moon was a tiny stream. It must be the stream that ran near Billy’s cottage.
There was no one in sight, no reason not to give in to temptation, take off her shoes, roll down her stockings and paddle in the frothy edge of the water. Under her bare feet the sand was cool and grainy; the water when she ventured in a few inches made her gasp—despite the sunshine the sea was icy. Once she had learned to swim in still, fresh water, the deep calm of the millpond with the sun on her back. A long time ago.
But this was curiously both soothing and stimulating at the same time. She lifted her skirts to her knees and ran a little, splashing, then retreated up the beach
as a bigger wave came in.
How Bella and Lina would love this! The three of them, free, happy, running over the sand and laughing in the sunlight. I’ll find you soon, she promised silently. We will be together.
Toes numb, she walked back to her rock and sat with her feet on a smooth boulder to dry so she could brush off the sand. Seabirds swooped and shrieked, a fishing boat sailed past, the sun shone and Meg sank into the puzzle of Ross’s smile.
It was not that she did not wish him to smile, it was wonderful that he had, but she felt uneasily that it was to do with her and that, in some mysterious, masculine way, he had not been discouraged by her refusal to be his mistress.
Which was worrying, because she so much wanted to say yes that she was shocking herself. The old, romantic, yearning, loving Meg, whom she thought had been buried in disappointment and the need for sheer common sense in order to survive, was still there.
Was the only thing that was stopping her yielding to him the fact that he was offering her money, the position of a mistress? That he wanted to buy her, which would ensure for him that all the inconvenience of emotion and feeling could be set aside? Did that freeze the spontaneous impulse to follow her instincts and go to him? If he had set out simply to seduce her for one night of passion, she might have succumbed. Because, however much Ross looked like the Grim Reaper most of the time, there were those moments when every nerve in her body seemed quiveringly aware of him and the inevitable unhappy ending of all this no longer seemed to matter.
‘You be that new housekeeper up at the Court?’ The strong Cornish burr was right by her ear.
It was Ross’s old poacher. He must be able to move like a ghost. How long had he been there? And her with bare feet, bare head and a bunch of cherry blossom behind her ear. ‘Yes. I am Mrs Halgate. I’ve never been at the seaside before,’ she added, as though to excuse her eccentric behaviour. ‘It is beautiful.’
