Bewitching Kisses (Bewitching Kisses Series)

by Rainy Kirkland

  Chapter Eleven

  Sarah awoke to the sound of songbirds outside her window. Their cheerful notes chipped away the darkness, allowing the first rays of the morning sun to spread their beauty across the Virginia sky. For a heartbeat she lay motionless. Then, as her senses registered the thick feather softness of her bed and the smooth pillow beneath her cheek, a deep, contented smile curved her lips and she stretched.

  “Nicholas Beaumont,” she whispered to the empty room. Sarah flipped over onto her back and pulled the covers to her chin. She had been at Agatha’s for a full week, yet thoughts of Nick were still the first to greet her when she rose to face the day, and memories of him were always the last to leave before she surrendered to sleep at night. Sarah tossed back the covers. She shivered as her bare feet danced over the cold floor, for it was still too early for the maidservant to bring the fire. She could have lingered, warm beneath the quilts, but today Nick was coming.

  Quickly, she poured cold water from the porcelain pitcher into the bowl and washed the sleep from her eyes. She rubbed a crushed mint leaf over her teeth, then, using the new tortoise shell comb that Nick had given her, Sarah unbraided her hair and made short work of the tangles. Ignoring the looking glass that stood to the side of the dresser, she re-twisted her ebony locks atop her head, secured it with her pins, and then replaced her lace cap.

  A woolen jacket and skirt of deep orchid had been carefully laid over the chest at the foot of her bed. And as Sarah stepped into the skirt and pulled it up over her nightrail, she couldn’t help but think that the fabric was too fine to wear for everyday purposes.

  But this isn’t every day, her mind sang as he slipped her arms into the long, fitted sleeves of the jacket. Nick is coming today. She pinned the bib of her white apron into place, then with nimble fingers tied the laces in the back. Her hand smoothed down the front of her skirt, and her smile grew as she noticed the delicate lace that now graced the apron’s edge. Dear Madame Rousseau, she thought with affection. You always strive to do something extra.

  Turning back to the bed, Sarah tidied the coverlets and fluffed the pillow. By the time Tanzy appeared bearing hot coals to rekindle the fire, the room had been straightened and Sarah was on her way downstairs. She loved these early hours of the morning, for they belonged to her alone. Agatha’s servants were already about their tasks, and as Sarah strolled thought the herb garden, she could listen to the low, sweet song of Mrs. Hempsted as she prepared the morning meal or the rhythmic thump of the axe as Oscar split logs for firewood. Birds sang from the treetops, and as the sun broke through to officially claim the day, Sarah felt enveloped by a peace she had never known. But her peace was short lived as memories of Salem intruded.

  I do so long to be home, she had told herself over and over, for thoughts of Samuel and Elizabeth worrying about her had grown to the point that they were almost more than she could bear. But once they know I’m safe . . . Sarah thought about the home that she had grown up in. Even with the lean-to addition her father had so skillfully added off the kitchen, her house was not much larger than the brick cook house that stood in Agatha’s backyard. Her vegetable and herb garden might be small by Virginia standards, but it depended upon her alone to tend it.

  Sarah breathed deeply of the fresh, dewy air. She wanted to be back among her own things, to listen to people that said what they truly meant, not more or less, to walk down the road, wave to a neighbor, and not see clothing that would have shocked the devil himself. Yes, she definitely wanted to be home. But why then, she wondered, did the realization that she would soon be returning to Salem bring no comfort?

  Her steps slowed as she strolled the brick path around the hedges. To her relief, the dinner invitation with the Bellinghams had been politely turned down, yet her days and nights were more than full. Where at Nick’s she had been idle, Agatha had constant needs. Sarah plucked a spring rose, breathed its scent, and thought of Agatha. She had become the grandmother she had never known. Full of complaints and absurd notions, the old woman had wormed her way into Sarah’s affections and now firmly commanded a corner of her heart. How she would manage to say good-bye was a question she could no longer answer. And Nick . . . Her chest drew tight. Would she ever be able to face the day knowing that Nicholas Beaumont would not be part of it?

  Never had she met a man so fascinating. Witty and well read, he had been to places she had never even heard of. He came to visit his grandmother often, and Sarah found herself constantly watching the clock and listening for the sounds of his rich voice in the foyer; then her heart would skip a beat as his footsteps sounded up the stairs.

  Always, he would go straight to Agatha and place a kiss on her cheek. But when he turned and their eyes met in greeting, her stomach would fill with butterflies.

  “Miss Sarah, you out here?”

  Sarah turned to the sound of Mrs. Hempsted’s voice. “Yes, I’m coming,” she called.

  Mrs. Hempsted stood in the open door to the cookhouse, scowling at the rising sun. Her hair was covered by a bright-red bandana and her face was already shiny from the heat of the morning fire. “Do you think you’ll be wanting some chicken to go with that ham and beef for this afternoon?”

  Puzzled, Sarah looked at the woman. Nick’s grandmother was the one who set the meals. “Did you wish me to ask Mrs. Beaumont when she rises?”

  Mrs. Hempsted placed her hands on her ample hips. “If I wanted to know what Miss Agatha wanted, I would ask Miss Agatha. Now since Mr. Nick isn’t here I thought I would ask you.”

  Sarah felt her heart leap. Nick must be coming earlier than usual. “Mr. Beaumont is dining with us this afternoon?”

  Mrs. Hempsted heaved a great sigh, then eyed Sarah with a critical stare. “Mr. Nick asked me to ready him a basket for an afternoon picnic. And since I can’t see him carting Miss Agatha clear across country, you must be the one he’s taking. So do you want some nice roasted chicken to go with the ham and beef? I’ve made my special buttermilk muffins that Mr. Nick is partial to, and there’s pickled asparagus, and cabbage with onions. The chicken soup will be ready shortly, and I cut some thick wedges of Mr. Nick’s favorite cheeses.” She counted the items on her fingers and found them wanting. “We also have apple fritters and a nice boiled pudding, and I think some good stewed calf’s feet would be pleasing. Then for a sweet, I’ve got fresh macaroons and my special butter pound cake. That’s a favorite with Mr. Nick,” she confided. “There are some oranges left from the batch he had sent up from the docks, and I’ll put in a good selection of his favorite jellies.”

  Sarah struggled to keep her mouth from gaping open. She would never become accustomed to the grand displays of foods that were served at each meal. “All that for one afternoon?” her voice squeaked.

  Mrs. Hempsted brushed her hands against her apron. “Mr. Nick’s got to keep his strength up. He’s a hard-working man. So what shall it be, a little roasted chicken to round it out?”

  Sarah could only shake her head and wonder how many other people Mrs. Hempsted had rounded out besides herself. “You really think that much food is necessary?”

  The cook folded her arms across her generous bosom. “Maybe more but not a drop less,” she stated. “Miss Sarah, I mean you no disrespect, but you gotta learn how to care proper for a southern gentleman. They get real testy if you don’t feed them right.”

  Sarah’s heart raced with the thoughts of caring for one southern gentleman in particular. And if Mrs. Hempsted was right, he was coming to fetch her for a picnic. Now, she thought desperately, if I can just find out what a picnic is before Nick arrives.

  A picnic, Sarah learned a short while later, was an excursion with food. But exactly why people would want to take their meal and eat it out of doors when there was a perfectly good table to sit at inside remained a mystery. Excited and relieved at the same time, her hands trembled as she placed Agatha’s breakfast tray over her lap and smoothed the covers into place.

  The hall clocked chimed the hour of no
on Agatha stared at her grandson. “I want to go, too,” she pouted.

  “Maybe next time, Gran,” Nick said, grinning at his fragile grandmother and the huge tray of food before her. “Besides, I would have thought that the very idea of a bumpy carriage ride would be enough to make you shudder.”

  Agatha poured molasses, thick and dark, over her cakes then speared one of the pieces Sarah had already cut. “Go ahead then.” She chewed noisily. “Leave an old woman like me alone to her own devices. I’m sure I’ll not find the afternoon too boring with no one to talk to but myself. You just go ahead and have a good time. Don’t give me a thought. It truly doesn’t matter that I’ll probably never see the river again before I die. You two young people just go off by yourselves and enjoy the peace of the afternoon. Don’t even think that I might be lying dead in my bed before you return. You just go and have a good time.”

  Torn between desire and responsibility, Sarah took a step toward the bed and gave Nick a beseeching look. “Mr. Beaumont, I think we should go another day.”

  Nick took in the good color of his grandmother’s cheeks. His mind was made up. He’d been looking forward to this interlude alone with Sarah ever since he had conceived the idea.

  “I’m sure you’ll live through the afternoon.” He placed a kiss on top of her snow-white hair. “If for no other reason than to question Sarah when she returns. Sarah,” Nick reached for her hand. “Come.”

  Agatha struggled to hide her glee. The sparks between them were almost visible. She gave an exaggerated sigh. “You go, Sarah.” Her voice was faint. “It’s enough for me to know that you would have stayed with me if you could have.”

  “Mr. Beaumont . . .” Sarah turned to stand her ground. She knew Agatha wasn’t dying, but regardless of what anyone thought, the woman was ill. “I think we should . . .” Her words never finished, for as she turned, Sarah was sure she saw Agatha conceal a smile.

  Completely confused, she made no protest when Nick touched her arm and motioned her to the door. She wants us to go, Sarah thought as she made her way down the stairs, but for some reason she doesn’t want us to know that. For long moments she pondered the situation, but the answer continued to evade her.

  Feeling absurdly pleased with himself, Nick maneuvered the carriage off the main road and established a leisurely pace for the horses. He had hoped sending Sarah to his grandmother’s would be a good idea, but never would he have guessed the magnitude of her effect on Gran’s household. “Joyous” Luther had called her, and now everyone at his grandmother’s walked with a lighter step and seemed surprisingly pleased with themselves. While at his own home, Wadsworth’s chin was in constant danger of scraping the floor and Mrs. Killingham, who had been with him for more than fifteen years, suddenly couldn’t remember his likes in food. Twice in the seven days that Sarah had been gone, the woman had served him shirred calves’ brains.

  The sun grew warm upon his back, and Nick flexed his broad shoulders. He had never anticipated that seeing Sarah alone would become such an impossible task. As the days had slowly dragged by, he realized he was becoming jealous of an old woman too frail to climb from her bed without aid. He shook his head and flicked the reins. Well, no more, he thought. This afternoon is ours and I plan to make the most of it.

  Sarah sat beside Nick on the driver’s seat and enjoyed the bright splashes of yellow and pink wildflowers that dotted the roadside. The sun had passed its zenith and blazed down in all its glory. But the massive oak and pecan trees that lined the road lent shade, and a gentle spring breeze refreshed them as the carriage continued on its way.

  When they reached the stream, Nick drew the carriage to a halt. “I have a surprise for you.” He reached into the deep pocket of his coat and withdrew a small package.

  Sarah accepted the gift with a quizzical smile. “Why have you done this?”

  Nick took in the sparkling color of her eyes and wished his answer might be different. “It is not from me.”

  Carefully, Sarah peeled back the paper to reveal a hand-stitched brooch about the size of a shilling. “Mr. Beaumont!” she gasped with delight. “ 'Tis beautiful. Look at this delicate stitching.”

  Nick’s smile deepened at her pleasure. “Catherine Richardson made it for you. Wadsworth found her hovering at the back door this morning.”

  To Sarah the value of the brooch increased tenfold. “She made it herself? I thought she might be clever with a needle, but I had no idea the girl possessed such talent.” Carefully she pinned the brooch onto the high neckline of her gown. “Do you know anything of the Richardsons?” She turned to Nick. “The children seem so nice, but their needs are many.”

  Nick shook his head. “I think they live down near Blanchard’s orchard, but I’m not certain. As for Mr. Richardson, I don’t believe I’ve ever met the man.”

  Sarah considered this bit of information and silently resolved to look into the matter more closely.

  Nick soaked in the tranquility of their surroundings. “I’m glad I thought of this.” Water rippled gently in the background to mingle with the constant melodies of the birds.

  “I can understand why you would want to come here. Oh look,” Sarah whispered. Eyes wide with excitement, she extended her arm toward a shadowy glen where a doe stood guard while her wobbly fawn approached the stream to drink. For a long moment all was still and then the doe turned in their direction and froze. Sarah watched with disappointment as mother and baby quickly darted back into the bushes.

  “I thought we would eat here.” Nick descended from the carriage, then reached back to help her down.

  Sarah tried to stem the trembling that intensified each time he touched her, but to no avail. Feeling her cheeks grow warm with color, she turned away. “I must confess I’ve never been on a picnic before, so I’m not sure what you want me to do.” She continued to study the water intently.

  Nick smiled at her stiff back and reached into the carriage for the blanket and one of the many hampers Mrs. Hempsted had prepared. “Do you mean to tell me that you never had a gentleman call on you before?”

  Startled, Sarah spun about to find Nick spreading the blanket at the base of a pecan tree. Did this event mean he was courting her? Her mind whirled. It can’t be, reason argued. “I’m going home soon. “Are you teasing me?” she challenged.

  Nick said nothing, but his smile was slow and lazy.

  She fought back a surge of excitement and watched silently as he opened the food hamper. He extracted two delicate crystal goblets, then filled each one with wine and extended a glass. Their eyes met; his warm and full of invitation, hers wary and unsure. She accepted the offered glass and then sank to her knees on the corner of the blanket. Nick leaned back to lie on his side. He touched his glass to hers and then, never taking his eyes from her, took a deep drink.

  Sarah raised the glass to her lips and wondered why her chest had grown so tight. She welcomed the mellow bite of the wine, but her hand trembled.

  “I’m glad you’re here with me.” Nick kept her eyes trapped with his own.

  Sarah blinked, but found she could not look away. “Why?” she stammered.

  Nick’s smile deepened as he watched the sun play over her creamy complexion revealing all too clearly the glowing innocence in her eyes. She wasn’t searching for compliments, he realized, and briefly he wondered if even in childhood he had ever been that innocent, that naïve.

  “I wanted to be alone with you,” he said finally. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and I want to spend some time with you.”

  Sarah felt her heart begin to pound, sending riotous color to her cheeks. Her wildest dream was coming true, and she didn’t have the vaguest clue as to what to do next.

  “You’ve the most enchanting smile,” he continued. “Your eyes sparkle like precious gems and your lips invite a man to taste their sweetness.”

  Now she did respond, and her laughter rang out sweet and full and tinged with relief. “Now I know you are teasing,” sh
e chuckled.

  Nick watched her intently as she finished her wine. She wasn’t flirting, returning his love talk with clever lines as he was accustomed. And it suddenly dawned on him that she really believed he was teasing. His smile vanished completely as he sat up. He plucked the empty glass from her fingers and edged closer. For a long moment they sat knee to knee in silence, and Nick wondered how she’d react if he simply pulled her to the ground and covered her with his body.

  For Sarah the silence was anything but comfortable. Don’t expect too much from me, his eyes seemed to warn, even while they hinted at the ecstasy of the unknown.

  His hand reached forward tracing the smoothness of her cheek and her eyes fluttered closed.

  “Open your eyes, Sarah.” His breath fanned her face even as his finger outlined the contours of her mouth.

  Sarah struggled to obey his commend. He was so close she could smell the soap he used for shaving, and suddenly she wanted to reach up and place her palm against his smooth cheek. She felt so queer, sleepy and excited at the same time.

  As his finger caressed her full bottom lip, new sensations invaded her body. She wanted to close her eyes and bask in the warmth he was creating, but his gaze held hers captive. His hand moved to her eyes, stroking the delicate slant of each brow.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his breath warm against her face. “You have eyes that can look beyond and capture a man’s soul.”

  For an instant, panic filled her. She didn’t want to capture anyone’s soul. But her body was mesmerized by his touch and his eyes refused to let her look away.

  Nick saw her anxiety and leaned forward to press a kiss against her hot cheek. He reveled in the taste of her and, as his senses heightened, he realized she would be even more intoxicating as a lover than he had first thought. His fingertips threaded through the silky softness of her hair, knocking her small lace cap to the ground. He caressed the edge of her ear, then his fingers skimmed back to her face leaving fiery traces in their wake.

  Still holding her eyes captive, Nick let his finger wander down her cheek to her throat. He felt her pulse leap frantically at the base of her neck and his finger continued its journey. Her eyes grew wide as his hand slowly moved from neck to shoulder and then lower. Her breath quickened, but like a small animal caught in a trap, she couldn’t move, and the thought to simply say Stop or to push his hand away never entered her mind.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, she felt his finger continue its lazy pattern, each time inching lower, each time retreating until frustration and desire raced through her veins.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  His smile deepened and the promise in his eyes intensified. “Please what?” he teased. “Please stop?” His finger moved back up toward her shoulder. “Or please continue?” This time when his hand dipped lower, it found its goal. Slowly, purposefully, his finger circled her feminine peak, and when his thumb brushed over her hardened nipple, Sarah felt an arrow of exquisite desire akin to pain shoot through her. Her eyes fluttered closed, and deep within her soul her womanhood blossomed for the first time. She felt the warm damp rush as his hand closed over her breast and his lips began to feast on her neck.

  “Say my name,” he commanded as his teeth raked down her throat. “You always call me Mr. Beaumont.” His hand moved to her other breast, finding the tip hard and aching for his touch. “I want to taste my name on your lips.”

  Sarah struggled to find her wits, but as his mouth hovered a breath above hers, their eyes again met in passion. “Nicholas,” she whispered. “Nicholas Beaumont.”

  He took possession then, his lips moving purposefully over hers. His tongue traced the contours of her mouth and then urged her lips to part. She tasted of wine and passion and madness, and he drank to quench an insatiable thirst. A small sound, perhaps a sigh, escaped their lips and Nick took the kiss deeper. Like a starving man presented with a banquet, like a pauper presented with wealth, there was a strange desperation stirring within him. And suddenly he realized that no matter how much he took he would never have enough of her.

  Slowly raising his head, he studied her upturned face. Her eyes were closed, her thick lashes dark streaks across her pale skin, skin that glowed with the luster of satin. He could feel the frantic pounding of her heart beneath his hand. Then her eyes fluttered open, and in their smoky violet depths he found what he had created; yearning, desire, confusion. But in the fleeting instant before her eyes closed again, Nick saw the innocence that was the very core of her being.

  She was his now, he knew from the way her body arched toward him. But the triumph was missing, replaced instead with an aching desire to cherish and protect. His hand was unsteady as it rose to brush a stray curl from her heated face. Why am I dong this? His conscience picked at his brain. Have I become so jaded with easy women that now I am reduced to seducing innocents? The honeyed taste in his mouth turned suddenly bitter.

  Sarah felt Nick’s withdrawal and her eyes flew open. One minute he had been tempting the very soul from her body and now he sat on the opposite end of the blanket. Her passion-laden eyes filled with confusion as she watched him set out the dishes Mrs. Hempsted had prepared. What had happened? What had she done? Her tongue touched lips that were suddenly parched.

  Nick looked up and took her gaze like a kick to the stomach. You don’t know what you ask for, my sweet, he thought silently. There’s nothing I’d like more than to lose myself within your honeyed sweetness, but you’re worth so much more. Much, much more than I could ever give you.

  “Are you hungry?” He kept his tone light and forced a smile.

  Sarah straightened and felt the heat in her veins turn to ice. How could he sit there and act so calm when her heart still threatened to leap from her chest? He refilled her wineglass and extended the offering, but as their fingers brushed, Nick instantly withdrew.

  Insight dawned with painful clarity. I’ve disgusted him. Sarah fought back the tremors that started deep within her soul. I let him touch me and never uttered a protest. Her breast still throbbed with unsated desire and her mortification grew.

  Nick filled a plate with the tasty delicacies and handed it to her. This time Sarah was aware of the subtle way he kept their fingers from touching and her eyes grew hot and stingy. Her hands tightly gripped the china plate as she fought for control of her senses. With eyes huge and wary, she watched Nick fill his own plate and then turn his gaze toward the stream as he began to eat. He doesn’t even want to look at me. She felt the tears gather but blinked them away. She’d not shame herself further by crying.

  With slow deliberate movements she speared a stem of asparagus and carefully placed it in her mouth. The vegetable turned into a huge chunk of wood as she struggled to chew.

  “So,” he said finally, keeping his eyes fixed on the stream before them. “Do you plan to marry when you return home?”

  Sarah felt the few bites she had managed to swallow threaten to come up, and desperately she struggled for composure. Her hand pressed hard against her stomach to quell its churning. With quiet dignity she set her plate aside. If I mean nothing to him, then he’ll mean nothing to me. She thought, wondering how long it would take her brain to convince her heart of the rightness of her decision.

  Her eyes settled on the sparkling water, and it was easy to blame the sun’s glare for the tears that gathered but refused to fall. “I think that it shall be my fate to remain a spinster,” she said quietly. “In Salem, marriages are rarely completed without a dowry.”

  Frowning, Nick turned to face her. “What of the land you spoke of? Surely there is someone who would profit from its acquisition and as such would take you to wife.”

  Sarah shook her head, but refused to meet his gaze. She’d not give him the satisfaction of knowing her heart was being torn asunder. “I’ve never wanted the land, and its ownership has caused me nothing but heartache.” She managed to keep her voice calm and sure. “My stepbrother Samuel covets that ground and so I’ve com
e to the conclusion it must be his. He and Elizabeth will put it to good use.” For several moments she remained silent, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. “Samuel has never come right out and asked me, you realize, but in my heart I know this will bring him peace.”

  “That land was meant as a gift for your husband,” Nick argued, uneasy with the quiet determination of her voice.

  “That is not to be.”

  “You could still take a husband.” Nick leaned forward. “Remember, I promised to settle five hundred pounds on you when I return you to your home.”

  “I can’t take your money.” Her eyes grew dark from the insult of his words. Did he really think his coin could ease the burden of their parting?

  Nick smiled. “But you must. It is the answer to your needs, and I would think a very tempting dowry indeed.” He watched her delicate brow arch in dispute. “Just consider it a gift,” he added quickly. “A gift from me to you for services rendered.”

  Sarah felt the pain of his words slice through her like a cut that for a heartbeat refuses to bleed. He considered her a harlot, a woman with no pride, someone to be paid for her favors.

  “Surely,” Nick continued, “there is some gentleman who you would consider.”

  Sarah shook her head, determined he would never know the source of her pain.“There was a man once . . .” Her words were soft and strained. “I imagined myself his wife and cared for him greatly in my mind . . . but he did not return my feelings.” She looked up and found Nick’s eyes cold and angry. Not understanding why, she shrugged her shoulders and then stared down at herhands. “I could never be married and know that my heart would always belong to another.”

  Nick frowned at her quiet stance. Had she been thinking of someone else when their lips had met? Had she allowed his caress so she could pretend it belonged to another? He looked down at his plate and had the sudden wish to throw it, food and all, into the river.

  “Mr. Beaumont,” her voice stammered.

  “Nick!” he shouted. “Why do you find it so impossible to say my name? It’s Nick!”

  Sarah felt the tremors that had lingered just under the surface begin to rise again. “Nick . . .” she hesitated. “How long does a picnic have to last?”

  He jerked to his feet with angry motions. “If you’re finished,” he gestured to her full plate, “we could go back now.”

  Sarah nodded gratefully and, dumping the food Mrs. Hempsted had so carefully prepared, handed back the empty plate. With quick, efficient motions Nick repacked the hamper. The blanket was clenched into a bundle against his chest and he motioned her to the carriage.

  Sarah struggled to maintain her composure. He can’t wait to be rid of me, she thought, watching him carelessly toss the blanket into the back of the carriage. He can’t wait to get home and have me off his hands.

  They rode in stormy silence and with each rock of the carriage Sarah felt shame wash over her in huge, consuming waves. No wonder he thinks of me as a harlot. She struggled not to cry. I played the part well. But the worst, she realized as Nick left her at his grandmother’s front door, was that given the chance, she’d let him do it again.