Redeeming Lord Ryder

by Robinson, Maggie

  It was true—they had very little time alone unless they were out walking. With the distinctive exception of last night, Nicola thought, her blushes rising. It was nice to know no housekeeper was hovering in an adjacent room, no villager ready to report them.

  The empty parlor featured a large brick fireplace, absent a mantel, and a freshly sanded floor. The sharp odor of wood shaving was pleasing, and Nicola took a deep breath. Beneath each window was a seat large enough for two to examine whatever came to hand in comfort.

  No, not comfort. Jack was very close to her, too close, his breath a warm cloud in the frigid cottage. Nicola could smell his cologne and admire his eyelashes. She was forgetting why she was there, until Jack thrust the package into her hands.

  Chapter 18

  Jack felt a palpable frisson of excitement. He loved learning new things. Even if he never met another mute or deaf person in his life to test his skills, he would share this with Nicola.

  “The botany book is mine. I decided I needed the diversion. Unless you want to read it first. But this is for you. Us. Here!” He handed her the large stiff illustrated card.

  “It’s the British Manual Alphabet,” Jack explained to Nicola, who puzzled over the sturdy cardboard between her gloved hands. “Fingerspelling. Writing in the air, as it were, instead of your notebook.” He thumbed through the accompanying slender book his secretary had sent.

  “According to this monograph, some form of sign language has been in use for hundreds and hundreds of years. Isn’t this interesting? One used to have to point to a body part that began with the chosen letter, b for brow, etcetera. Where would one point for zed, I wonder? There are various alphabets listed in here, but we’ll concentrate on British. The Americans use something altogether different. Just like them, always rebellious.”

  Nicola studied the card, which had illustrations of two hands in various positions. She pulled out her notebook from her coat pocket. I feel slightly overwhelmed.

  “Don’t worry. We won’t have time to learn sign language and all its nuances, but I thought it might be amusing if we had a secret code. Something to thwart our minders whose ears are always pressed at the door.”

  Nicola rolled her lovely blue eyes.

  “What, you don’t think I can learn this? There’s an American university dedicated solely to educating the deaf and mute. I assure you I am as good as any American student, even if I left Oxford early. To prove it, I’ll take a vow of silence with you. Starting, um, tomorrow. We’ll communicate solely with our hands.” A very provocative thought flitted across his mind, and he shoved it away. This was serious business.

  Jack hoped he was not biting off more than he could chew. It would be a hardship not speaking, but Nicola had been so afflicted for months. Could he learn all the hand signals by tomorrow evening? Much of the next day would be devoted to work here in this cottage. But he’d never needed much sleep—which was a good thing, since he got so little of it now what with his nightmares.

  Nicola shook her head. You overestimate me. I will need more time to study.

  Relief swept over him. He was usually a fast learner, though a day or two more would be welcome.

  “All right. It’s Tuesday. I’ll be busy here every day until Friday from dawn to dusk. Shall we say Saturday to meet and test out our new skills? I’ll come for afternoon tea.” The next-to-last day of the month. Sunday night would be New Year’s Eve, and Jack wondered how Nicola intended to ring in 1883.

  It might be fun to be silent, relying upon fingers and facial expressions. Lips too—wasn’t it tradition to share a New Year’s kiss at midnight?

  Jack was getting ahead of himself. If he truly wasn’t going to speak when he saw her, he should make his plans now just so he could be clear.

  “I am giving a New Year’s Eve party,” he said with sudden decision. “Will you come?”

  Is the Countess going to be there?

  “Not if I can help it. It will be a private celebration. Just you and me. Do you dare to venture out and join me?”

  Nicola bit a lip. What if someone sees me?

  Puddling’s streets rolled up awfully early, but New Year’s Eve might be different. Did the villagers entertain each other? Jack tried to imagine mousy Mrs. Feather dressed in faux diamonds blowing a horn and failed.

  The parish hall was a possible party venue, but the ancient Fitzmartins probably went to bed when the sun set. Most of the cottages were all too small for any sort of expanded festivity, and the Sykes estate would likely be off limits due to the newlyweds’ reluctance to share their space with anyone. He’d seen Tristan Sykes and his red-headed bride in the bake shop the day before Christmas, but they had been so wrapped up in each other that they hadn’t noticed him. Jack hadn’t been anxious to listen to another lecture anyway.

  He was going to defy the governors every chance he got, no matter who tried to talk him out of it.

  “We can practice. Do reconnaissance as it were. I’ll sneak out tomorrow night and observe any activity. Barking dogs, sleepwalking grandmothers, any peculiar nocturnal doings, and report to you at midnight on the dot.”

  Nicola’s expression told him she knew where his real interests lay.

  “I swear I will not lay a finger on you until you ask me to.” He was fairly certain she might, hopefully tomorrow evening.

  What if you get caught?

  “What can they do? Put me on a diet of bread and water? It’s just about that already.”

  They can send you away.

  She looked properly disturbed at that. Excellent.

  “I have some experience sneaking around at night. I was an adolescent boy once, you know. I’ll be careful. Then you can try on Thursday. By New Year’s Eve, we’ll both be experts.”

  Aren’t we supposed to be asleep at that hour?

  “I’m usually up.” It suddenly occurred to him that Nicola probably wasn’t. There were no shadows under her eyes. “But I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”

  No, it’s all right. Two nights won’t kill me. I can sleep in as long as I wish.

  Ha. Of course. While he was getting dragged out of bed before the cock crowed, Nicola was snuggled under the covers. How different her Puddling experience was from his. Better rest, better food—and he liked to think he was enhancing her stay in some way too.

  If Jack had his druthers, he would see her for more than two evenings. Why hadn’t the idea come to him earlier? They could have had more unfettered time together if they had been meeting in secret.

  But it wasn’t until last night—until the taste and touch and scent of her imprinted itself on his mind—that it seemed so necessary to see her.

  Not to take her virginity, however. That would best be left to within the bonds of matrimony. If he could straighten out, be normal—

  Once again, he was getting ahead of himself. Surely he could give her pleasure, though, and derive his own from her artless responses.

  “We are in agreement then. Tomorrow night I’ll tiptoe to Stonecrop Cottage. Leave the door open for me.”

  Nicola blushed. Jack could watch that pink tint wash over her cheeks for hours. She was like the subject of a watercolor painting, muted with her fair hair and light eyes, yet unexpectedly compelling.

  Enough. Would she notice he was getting aroused? He folded his own instruction card and slid it into his pocket. Then he rewrapped the monograph and hers in the brown paper, and put his botany book inside his coat so it couldn’t be confiscated. It was, after all, contraband, although he would have preferred some Principe de Gales cigars and a pint of brandy.

  “Don’t let Mrs. Grace see this, or the jig will be up. Can you find a good hiding place?”

  I think so. Until recently, Mrs. Grace left my things undisturbed. But lately—

  She looked up at him with those trusting blue eyes, then returned to her notebook. I thi
nk she suspects there is something between us.

  “She’s right, I hope,” Jack said, his voice a touch gravelly. “But you must throw her off the scent. Stick your tongue out when my name is mentioned and gag. Pretend you don’t want her to let me in for tea. And hide your notebook too.” He imagined Nicola tucking the little notebook into her corset near her heart and just about expired from desire.

  A part of him wanted to declare himself, but he felt foolish. And unworthy. Despite his material advantages, he had little to offer a wife but his miasma of depression.

  Funny, though, when he was with Nicola, his mood was instantly lifted. She acted like a tonic to him.

  According to the vicar and the doctor, all change came from within. His demons were still there, waiting with their sharpened talons to be wrestled. No matter how sweet and sincere Nicola was, Jack couldn’t depend upon her for his cure.

  He had fourteen days left—he was at the precise halfway mark. It was inconceivable to him that he’d known Nicola a mere two weeks. Less, really, for he’d met her on his second day. His feelings were too intense for so short a time, but he couldn’t help how he felt.

  Maybe it was another sure sign that he was unbalanced.

  Blast it. He’d never been one to dwell over mistakes—in his experience, they always led to greater opportunity.

  None had resulted in death before, however.

  He felt a tapping on his arm. What is wrong?

  How long had he been sitting here in the cold, lost in thought? Wasting his precious time alone with Nicola? What the devil was wrong with him, and would it ever, ever go away?

  “Sorry.” He was going from euphoria to dismal reality.

  What if she never regained her voice? What if he was stuck reliving the train tragedy at the least opportune times? Maybe he’d have been better off if he’d never come here and met her.

  Chapter 19

  December 27, 1882

  Nicola yawned. Her book had ceased to hold her attention about an hour ago. All the words had clumped together, and she wondered if she needed spectacles. Her corset was killing her as well, forcing her to sit upright in her chair with no hope of relaxation. It had been tempting to greet Jack—if he did indeed come—in her dressing gown, but that way led to madness. She didn’t trust herself, and wasn’t sure she could trust Jack either. Not that she expected him to repeat the delights of Christmas night, but for all his swearing to be entirely honorable, she doubted she would let him be if she got the chance.

  She had a secret seduction weapon: peaches.

  The glass dish and its contents glistened in the low lamplight. She’d helped herself to one juicy slice and could see why Jack had consumed them so rapidly in the pantry that day. Mrs. Grace was an excellent cook, who had confided to Nicola that she usually did not get to show off her skills for the average Puddling Guest. Most Guests were forbidden to find any enjoyment of a sensual nature, which seemed very harsh.

  The goal was moderation in all things. For Jack, that had resulted in a kind of anxious boredom. Nicola thought the nature of routine lent itself to Jack dwelling too much on the train accident. He needed stimulation, a goal to get lost in. He had too much time on his idle hands.

  Well, she supposed his hands were not precisely idle at the moment, at least during daylight. Her walk had taken her by Primrose Cottage earlier. The sound of hammering and hollering had been almost deafening, and the aroma of varnish had been strong. None of the workmen were visible, so busy were they inside like a colony of ants completing the cottage. A new “victim,” as Jack termed him, was due a week or two into the New Year.

  Or the new Guest might be a lady, someone she might befriend. The Countess was lovely, but she and Nicola had little in common. The woman was so innately grand that she was a trifle fearful of her.

  She was beautiful too. Nicola was not a jealous sort of person, and even wondered if that sort of regal beauty might be a curse. Despite her quick wit and attempts at frivolity, the Countess clearly wasn’t happy.

  Nicola stole a glance at the clock. Five minutes after twelve. Jack was late. Had he been caught? Or worse, tripped on the ice? She pictured him flat on his back in the dark, injured or unconscious. There was blood—

  The image was so real it made her shiver. Nicola had never been fanciful, believed in dreams or second sight or premonitions, but her own blood ran cold.

  If he didn’t arrive in ten or so minutes, she was determined to put on her boots and go out looking for him. Perhaps he’d only fallen asleep in his chair as she would have done were she not encased in steel.

  The creak of the front door gave her enormous relief.

  “Nicola,” he whispered.

  Right here, she wanted to say. Instead, she rose and met him in the front hall. He was dressed in dark tweeds as if he were attending an elegant country shooting party. A black knit scarf concealed half his face. Nicola was grateful she was wearing her second-best dress, because he looked very fine.

  He unwrapped the scarf and bowed with dramatic flourish. “Lor—uh, Jack at your service, milady, come to report.”

  She tugged him into the parlor by a sleeve. Sit, she mouthed.

  Jack did as he was told, stretching his long legs out in front of the fire that Nicola had nursed throughout the evening. She’d drawn the curtains for their privacy.

  “I say, this is very cozy after a wretched day in the salt mine. What a time I had—well, I don’t want to bore you, but I shall never make a carpenter.” His eyes lit. “Can those be peaches?”

  She grinned and nodded.

  “I’ll only eat them if we share.”

  The fruit disappeared in no time, Nicola eating rather fewer spoonfuls than her guest. Jack ate with greedy enjoyment, his eyes half-closed, a beatific smile on his face. When he had scraped up all the available juices, he licked his lips and Nicola felt a certain twinge.

  His kiss would taste of peaches. Did she dare rise up and sample?

  No. No and a thousand times no. Every lesson her mother had ever taught her about dealing with men came rushing over. A lady did not make the first move, though she’d broken that rule more times than she cared to count already. Jack was a charming, tempting, very bad influence, and she had to hold herself aloof.

  If she could.

  “Thank you. You are a veritable goddess for feeding me. I’m so hungry I’ve stopped being hungry. Does that make sense? Of course, it doesn’t. Now, for my evening adventure. Though I must warn you, it wasn’t very exciting, which is all to the good for our purposes.”

  He loosened his necktie. Seeing him here at her hearth, casual and smiling, made her heart flutter. Oh, self-control was hopeless. Trying to focus, she pinched the skin at the base of her thumb. It wasn’t painful enough to make her stop thinking of Jack’s wicked kisses. She might have to resort to stabbing herself with a knitting needle.

  “You know I’m a man of science, and measurements are of interest to me. There are two-hundred and twenty-six steps between our cottages, counting crossing the road. You might have to take a few more tomorrow night, as your stride will not match mine.”

  Of course not. Nicola was considerably shorter than Jack, although she was apt to be so nervous she might run instead of walk.

  “You do know which cottage is mine, don’t you?”

  Nicola had never visited, but could read as well as anyone. All the cottages in Puddling had name plates. She nodded. Of course, looking for Tulip in the dark might prove difficult, so she’d simply have to do a dry run tomorrow and look for landmarks.

  “There are seven houses on my side of the lane between us, ten houses on this side,” he continued, “one of which appears to have a wakeful dog. Three doors down from here—the Countess’s Wellington, if I’m not mistaken. In Lilac Cottage. I spied a black cat on a wall, who must have been quite cold to be left out on a night like t
his. It ignored me, as cats are wont to do, and we can blame it for the dog’s barking if we must. I don’t think the Countess will much care. She’ll keep our secret if she discovers what we’re up to—I think she’d be delighted to be a co-conspirator.”

  Yes. After Christmas lunch, the Countess might think of herself as a matchmaker. Nicola wondered how the woman spent her days when she wasn’t out walking her dog. What was her Service? She couldn’t picture those jewel-encrusted fingers winding yarn.

  Jack let out a yawn, which he hastily covered. “Sorry. Where was I? All of the cottages were uniformly dark on both sides of the street. No one was up looking out a curtained window, not a single sweet Puddling soul.”

  But now you have to get back home undetected, Nicola wrote in her notebook.

  Jack’s face fell. “You don’t want me to leave already, do you? I have something to show you.”

  Would you like some tea?

  Jack snorted. “What I’d really like is a snifter of brandy. Not that I drink to excess, mind, but the situation here in your cottage is ideal for unwinding and putting the world away. Respite. It’s so cozy, and of course, the company is perfect. I feel like we’ve known each other forever.”

  Yes, Nicola knew what he meant, which was ridiculous, really. She didn’t even know his true name, nor he hers. Despite him telling her about his boyhood, there was so much he had left out. She wasn’t acquainted with his friends or his hobbies, or even what his favorite book might be. Apparently he was interested in botany, which was a difficult subject to study in the wintertime.

  Their friendship—as he called it—was the oddest thing.

  Yet. Yet. Nicola had never met a man she liked so well, who made her feel all things were possible.

  She left him to fix the tea, having prepared the tray some hours ago. There were cherry jam tarts and slices of that drunken fruitcake on a plate, covered by a napkin. She’d have to be scrupulous in the cleaning up, so that Mrs. Grace wouldn’t notice her kitchen had been tampered with. If necessary, Nicola would confess to having a midnight snack. A huge midnight snack.