THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1794 - CHARLOTTE

by Karen Hawkins

  She bit her lip. She’d wager ten guineas that even in cold water, his skin would be warm – searing, even. She stirred restlessly and peered back over the wheat.

  A voice in the distance lifted on the breeze. It was Simmons once again, but he was speaking to someone, his voice coming closer.

  Charlotte lifted up on her knees and peered through the tall grass in the direction of the house. She could just make out Simmons walking down the path, Aunt Verity following close behind, her face flushed as she fanned herself with a lace handkerchief.

  “I vow, but I cannot believe she’s been gone such a time and no one told me,” Aunt Verity said in a waspish tone. “Was no one worried about the poor thing? She’d been gone for hours!”

  “As you know, it is Miss Charlotte’s way to disappear for hours on end.”

  “On a horse! The groom said Angelica hasn’t been ridden today.”

  “We didn’t know that, did we?” he said in a waspish tone. “I’m certain we’ll find her at the lake. It’s where she used to go.”

  Oh no! They are coming here! And Marco is— She turned to peer back at the lake, but he was gone, although the water was lapping against the bank as if recently disturbed.

  Where was he? Perhaps he was underwater, rising his hair. She lifted higher on her knees when a rustle in the grass made her turn. A thick arm wrapped about her waist and twisted her back to her cloak-bed. She was now on her back, a warm body against hers as she stared up at a head outlined in sunlight. “Mar—”

  He covered her mouth with his hand. “Shh!”

  And indeed, she could hear Aunt Verity’s drawling tones by the lake, asking why on earth Simmons had thought to find Charlotte in such an untamed, damp place.

  Marco bent close to her ear and whispered, “Just be quiet. They will return to the house soon enough.”

  Charlotte cast a wild glance his way, noting that he’d managed to put on his breeches, but not his shirt. She grasped Marco’s wrist and tugged his hand from her mouth. “How did you know I was here?”

  Reluctant amusement warmed his eyes. “You are not a very good spy,” he whispered back.

  “I wasn’t spying,” she returned, irked because he was partially right. “I was here first. I fell asleep and when I woke up, there you were.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “An hour.” Or longer. She wasn’t really sure. “I was due for a fitting and didn’t wish to go.”

  “No wonder your aunt is looking for you.”

  Aunt Verity was still chastising Simmons, but Marco was right, having found no one at the lake, they were returning to the house, their voices fading.

  Charlotte and Marco waited. She could feel the length of him pressed to her side, his bare chest against her arm. It felt good. So good she didn’t wish it to end.

  And yet, if Marco had his way, it would.

  She frowned. She was tired of Marco deciding everything for them as if he were the only one capable of decisions. Perhaps it was time she made some decisions of her own.

  Simmons voice faded and soon there was no sound but the buzzing of the bees and the stir of the wind.

  “There.” Marco started to get up, but she was quicker.

  She slipped her arms around his neck and held him there. “You invaded my fort, so now you must pay the price.”

  “What price?”

  “A kiss. Two, if you don’t do it properly the first time.”

  Every vestige of humor left his face. He tugged her arms from his neck. “No.”

  Freed, he sat upright and started to stand.

  “Wait!” She sat up, too, and yanked at the lacings of her gown. It was a front laced gown, which she preferred as it allowed her to slip into her clothes on her own whenever she wanted to go for a walk or else.

  He looked as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “What are you doing?”

  “You can see what I’m doing. I’m untying my gown.”

  “Why?” He had the same look in his eyes as the deer she sometimes startled when riding through Balesboro.

  She tugged her gown free, pulling out one arm, and then the other, shivering more from her boldness than anything else. “You bathed naked in the lake. Now it’s my turn.”

  “No.” His brows lowered. “It wouldn’t be safe. Someone might see you and—” He clamped his mouth closed, looking adorably mulish. “No.”

  “I either want to bathe in the lake, or I want a kiss.” She pushed her gown to her hips and then stood. The heavy skirts fell to her ankles, leaving her wearing nothing but her thin, lace chemise.

  She reached for the tie at her neck.

  “You won’t do it,” he said firmly, as if his harsh tone would make it happen.

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  “No well brought up young lady would ever—"

  Her chemise fell to her feet, the fine lawn ruffling in the breeze.

  Face red, Marco grabbed her and swung her onto the ground, his warm body covering hers. His face was dark with fury. “What are you doing?”

  “This.” She slipped her arms back around his neck and kissed him. She didn’t kiss him gently, but with the blazing passion that even now flooded through her. God, but she’d wanted this, needed it even.

  Marco moaned once and then, lost forever, he followed her into the madness. His hands moved over her, cupping her breasts, sliding down her stomach and then back. His bared skin against hers felt deliciously decadent and she urged him on, following instincts as old as time, seducing him even as she was seduced.

  For the life of him, Marco couldn’t remember a single argument he’d made to Charlotte as to why they had to end their flirtation. But then right now, he couldn’t think about anything except how sweet she tasted, how her breasts filled his hands when he cupped them, how the silk of her skin drove him mad with desire. She was as succulent and sweet as a ripe pear, and he was determined to taste her.

  She ran her hands over his chest, each stroke driving him wilder and madder. He moved on hand to his breeches and, without breaking the kiss, loosened them and soon kicked them away. Now he felt all of her, naked and writhing, and damned it if it still wasn’t enough.

  Charlotte reveled in the rough skin of his hands, in the wildness of his kisses. His tongue met hers, and she answered him with such fervor that he moaned against her mouth. She had no fear, a slave to her own wild, heated passion. Her thighs grew slick with her desire, and she moved restlessly against him.

  He broke the kiss and lifted up on his elbow, panting heavily. His eyes had never been so dark, his expression so intense. “Roll over,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  A wicked smile touched his lips.

  Trepidation flickered through her, as heady as the passion. God, but she loved the uncertainty of life, of love, of this man. She rolled to her stomach, and he pushed her hair out of the way. He pressed a kiss to her neck at the top of her spine and then, with one kiss after another, he made his way down her back, to the rounded cheek of her ass. As he did so, he murmured what he was going to do to her when he finished. He told her all the ways he would take her, and how many times he would make her cry his name. Each kiss was both torment and tease. And she was possessed, fully and completely, her body heating, her thigh growing yet slicker as she writhed under his ministrations.

  He stopped and lifted up on his arm. Desperate with want, she started to turn toward him, but he imprisoned her against him, his hand warm over her breast, her back against his chest. “Can you feel this, my love?” he whispered, his voice more growl than else. He slipped his hand between her thighs and showed her what madness pleasure could be.

  She gasped, but he didn’t stop, moving his hand, the roughness of his calloused fingers never still. He stroked, insistent and firm as she arch wildly against him. It was such an intimate touch, and heated longing grew inside her.

  He must have sensed she was ready, for just as she gasped his name, he flipped her to her back and took
her with a rough passion that she answered in kind, one hand clutched in his thick hair, the other tight on his arm as she met him, thrust for thrust. Somewhere in the madness, there was a faint pain, but it was obscured by the waves and waves of pleasure that wracked her as he possessed her.

  Oh God, nothing had ever felt so good. She clung to him, unable to think, struggling to breathe as he buried his face in her neck, gasping her name as he collapsed beside her.

  For the longest time, they remained where they were, entwined and breathless. Charlotte soaked in the feel of him, aware of every sensation, every feeling. She savored the weight of his shoulder where it rested against hers, the warmth of his skin, the stickiness of her thighs, the sweetness of his breath where it brushed her bared neck. I could stay here forever and never want for another thing.

  But that wasn’t true of course, and to her chagrin, her stomach rumbled.

  Marco lifted his head. “You, my lady, have worked up an appetite.”

  She opened one eye. “A gentleman would have ignored that.”

  He laughed and moved against her, his thigh rubbing hers as he buried his face against her neck to murmur, “What more must I do to convince you that I’m no gentleman?”

  She slipped her arms around his neck. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  “Oh, I will.” He pulled her closer and rested his head on her shoulder as he ran his hand lightly over her stomach and then up to her breast. Back and forth he trailed his fingers, stirring her body back to life.

  This time, she ignored the trembling. As much as she hated to destroy this perfect moment, there were things that must be dealt with, and soon. She took a steady breath, and then said quietly, “This changes everything.”

  His hands tilled. “It cannot.”

  “But it has.”

  He lifted up on his elbow, his brows knit. “Charlotte, we—”

  “Yes. We. Not you, making decisions for us. But us, making decisions for us. That’s what a ‘we’ is.”

  He frowned. “I was doing what was best for us.”

  “No, you were doing what you thought was best for us. There is no one answer to life. Caroline’s death taught me that.”

  He was silent a moment, his gaze never leaving her face. “Then what do you think?”

  “I think we are still discovering things about one another.”

  “That’s an optimistic way to say we don’t know one another well enough.”

  “It means that even were we to live together for a thousand years, we would still be learning things about one another. The other day, my aunt admitted that my mother doesn’t know everything there is to know about my father. They are deeply in love and have been together for decades.”

  “We’ve had such a short time.”

  “A very short time. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a good, wonderful chance that we should take.”

  A reluctant smile curved his mouth. “So we’re a chance, eh?”

  “All relationships are.” She cupped his cheek. “And I want to take a chance on this relationship.”

  “What about your mother? You said she would never forgive you if you broke with family tradition.” He cupped her face. “You wouldn’t be truly happy if your family broke with you. I don’t want to be the cause of that.”

  “Then we’ll have to see to it that she doesn’t overreact.”

  “She may not see it as ‘overreacting.’”

  Charlotte smiled. “Perhaps we’ve given her too little credit. Either way, it’s a chance I must take. A chance we must take.”

  He looked as if he wanted to believe her so badly, and yet was afraid of doing so. “Charlotte, little one, you make it seem so simple.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “Most likely it is not.” He drew in a deep breath.

  She watched as he thought through her words. She could almost see the thoughts flickering through his mind.

  Into this quiet, he surprised her with a chuckle.

  “What?”

  “You said you didn’t have the mark of Nimway.”

  She looked at him. “I don’t.”

  He blinked. “But . . . you do. I saw it. It’s on your shoulder right where—

  She sat up, straining to look.

  And there it was. An oval mark, paler than Caroline’s had been, to be sure, but an oval just the same. Shocked, she looked at Marco. “I’m the Guardian.”

  “Apparently so.” He pulled her back into his arms. “You didn’t know.”

  “I never saw it. It . . . it didn’t used to be there!”

  “Well, now it is. Perhaps the sun brought it out like a freckle.”

  He tucked her against him and rested his cheek against her hair.

  “Perhaps,” she said, although she didn’t believe it. She was the Guardian. What did that mean, she wondered. What if . . . what if it means whatever I want? For some reason, the thought made her smile. She wasn’t the only one with the mark. Mama had it, too. Charlotte had seen it whenever Mama had worn a ball gown with a low shoulder.

  Marco sighed. “You may have been right, Charlotte. Perhaps I was hasty in assigning us to failure.”

  “Oh, you were hasty. You very hasty.”

  He chuckled. “Then let me show you how unhasty I can be.” He bent to kiss a trail from her neck to her shoulder, sending shivers through her yet again.

  Chapter 12

  Marco stepped back from the pillars and ran his fingers over the smooth, polished stone. They were almost done. It was late, but he was too restless to sleep, his thoughts churning over his time with Charlotte. So he’d used the energy to finish his work. He’d sanded and shaped, chiseled and polished, even as he considered all Charlotte had to say. Oddly enough, letting his mind wander had loosened his muse and the faces had appeared under the tip of his chisel without him having to make a single sketch.

  Pietro came inside, yawning widely. “Did you get the basket of scones Cook sent?”

  “I did. That was very kind of her. I’d ask you to relay my thanks, but I’m sure you already have.”

  Pietro grinned. “I have indeed. I—” His gaze fell on the statues. “You’re almost finished!”

  “I have. The faces are almost done, too.”

  Pietro slowly walked around the statues. “Once the Queen sees this, she will want you to make fifteen new fireplaces for her palaces.”

  “Ah yes. About that.” Marco picked up a rag and dusted his hands. “Let me ask you something.”

  The stonemason cocked a shaggy brow.

  “Suppose there is no reference to the Queen. No commission. No . . . anything.”

  “Why would that happen? You’ve done a magnificent job with this work. There’s no reason why Mrs. Harrington wouldn’t recom—” The old man’s face froze. “Oh.”

  Marcus tried not to look guilty. And indeed, he didn’t feel guilty, but he wondered if he should. “I can still make my way even without Mrs. Harrington’s recommendation.”

  “You won’t if she tells everything that you’re not to be trusted with their daughters,” Pietro said hotly. He cursed heavily. “I knew this would happen. The way you two look at each other, it was just a matter of time. You’re just like your father.”

  “My father was happy,” Marco said sharply. “Maybe that’s all I need, too.”

  “And your family?”

  “They are already wanting to make their own way in the world, and could have been all along. Perhaps I should just let them.”

  “It will make things harder,” the stonemason warned.

  “I know.”

  “You might never make a decent commission again.”

  “I’m well aware of it. But whatever I get paid, I will not stop sculpting. It is who I am.”

  “Well, if you’re determined to do it, then so be it,” Pietro said sourly.

  Until that moment, Marco didn’t realize that he had already made up his mind. It was with a bit of surprise that he said, “I am determined.�
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  Pietro threw up his hands. “I suppose there’s nothing more to be said. It won’t be easy, but it won’t be the end of the world, either.”

  “Exactly. I can work in other countries, where I’m not yet known, and build my reputation there. I think Charlotte would enjoy traveling, and—”

  Pietro threw up his hand. “Good lord, I don’t need to know all of your thoughts on the subject!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just excited.”

  “That’s good to see. How do you think Mrs. Harrington will take this news?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, whatever she does, I’m sure you’ll come about.” Pietro sighed. “You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think you should do what you must. And wherever you go, I’ll be glad to join you.”

  “Thank you,” Marco said, touched by Pietro’s dedication.

  Pietro, his face suspiciously red, jerked his head toward the statues. “Now finish those up, will you? If we have to make a quick getaway, it would be better not to have to haul slabs of stone with us.”

  “We should be able to install it tomorrow.”

  “Good. I think I’ll let Cook know I’m not long for her world. She will be truly sorry to see me go and will most likely ask me to spend the night. She has a nice bed, she does. And lots of pillows.” Pietro ambled toward the door. As he did so, he cast a final glance at the pillars, and then stopped. A smile split his face, the like of which Marco had never seen.

  “What is it?” Marco demanded.

  “Your figures have changed since you first designed them.”

  Marco rubbed his shoulder where it ached, “What’s changed?”

  “Everything about them, now that I think about it. You’ve made them a bit—” He held his hands in front of his chest. “—bigger.”

  Marco frowned and stepped back to look at the figures. “You’re crazed. This is exactly how I sketched them.”

  “Verdemente. Maybe I’m remembering it wrong.” A noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort broke from the stonecutter. He slapped a hand over his mouth and pretended to cough. As soon as he could speak, he blurted out, “Until morning then.” And then rushed off.