Nothing. Not a stitch. She was completely, utterly nude, except for her gloves, the thick woolen stockings squeezed into her sturdy boots, and the dark blue cap on her head—which she’d made all by herself today in a frenzy of haphazard knitting. Its lumps were giving her a headache, but that might also be attributed to Jack’s reluctance to cooperate rather than the generous size of her head.
Nicola had tacked special fastenings all the way down the front so the coat didn’t flap open and expose her legs. She’d been so nervous dashing here she hadn’t even had a chance to get cold. She was cold now, however, awash with goose bumps after those lovely odd kisses. They were as stimulating as those he had placed on her lips, perhaps more so, being unexpected.
She was not much interested in tea at this hour, but found herself sitting in the poky kitchen, curtains drawn, as Jack messed about with the stove. Gingerly, she pulled at a ribbon near her ankles, wondering if Jack would notice.
He did not. The blasted man was measuring tea into a sad brown teapot, so different from her pretty flower-sprigged one. Slip, slip, slip went the knots up over her knees. The cool air stirred beneath the red wool, and she crossed her legs. They gleamed very white in the flickering lamplight. Surely he would notice now.
No. He was fetching a pitcher of milk from the oak ice chest, avoiding her with unnerving determination. She cleared her throat, but of course no noise resulted.
Look at me, she screamed, silently as usual. Nicola tried to kick a boot off but the jammed-in sock prevented it from flying through the kitchen.
She twisted the silver frog clasp at her throat, revealing pale skin until the next ribbon. She had never felt so ignored in her entire life, which was saying something. Modest young women were generally ignored, forced to fade into the background, and Nicola had been the definition of modest for twenty-six years.
Not any longer.
She stood and pulled all the added ribbons free. Her coat slid to the floor, and Jack dropped the ironstone sugar bowl. Lumps of sugar bounced and exploded on the tiled floor.
“Holy Mother of God! What are you doing?”
Nicola thought the answer to that was obvious. She shook her unbound hair free of the wretched cap and smiled, wobbling only the tiniest bit.
Jack covered his eyes, then thought the better of it. His dark eyes peeked between his fingers, his brows raised in question.
“Nicola. Please.”
Please what? Put the coat back on or climb on the table like Christmas night? Nicola actually had a better idea, had formulated it this afternoon while she was so furiously knitting. She picked up the notebook.
You are an excellent artist. I thought you might sketch me for posterity.
“Posterity? If you mean mine, you’re going to kill me in about forty-three seconds. I won’t have time to draw a fingernail. I beg you, cover yourself before we ignore our better angels.”
At the moment, she’d prefer Jack to be a little devilish, but it was not to be from the stubborn jut of his bearded chin. Not quite as stubborn as he—or as brave as she had hoped—Nicola pulled up the puddled coat, draping it over her shoulders. It was not easy standing naked in Jack’s cottage, no matter how much she had practiced in hers. It had taken no little time to look insouciant about pulling at those grosgrain ribbons, and Jack hadn’t even paid attention.
Nonsense. I trust you not to touch me.
And she did, damn it.
You will have something to remember me by when you leave.
It wasn’t as if she was propositioning him tonight, not really. Nicola hoped the drawing would be inspiration, that he would glance at it several times a day—all right, more than several—and eventually act upon the lust she hoped it would trigger. She only had ten days to snare him, and imagined some of them would be Jack-less for various reasons. This was her best chance of getting through to him, or so she had thought earlier.
Clearly, she had lost her mind as well as her power of speech.
“I won’t ever forget you, ever, I promise. Please button that thing up.” Jack bent and began to scrabble about on the floor, picking up pieces of the sugar bowl and clumps of sugar. Nicola hoped he wouldn’t get them mixed up, swallow the wrong one, and kill himself.
A broom stood in a corner. With all the dignity she could muster, she stiffened her spine, fetched it, and began to sweep. The movement of her arms naturally resulted in her coat falling off one shoulder, giving Jack a very clear picture of what he was missing.
He ran his hand through already-wild hair. “Really, you might as well put a bullet to me. No, I will not sketch or paint any part of you. Sit down this instant.” He grabbed the broom from her and a cloud of sugar sparkled into the air.
Nicola complied, allowing the coat to fall open again. Jack struck himself on the head and kept sweeping, muttering about deserved punishment and hell on earth. He was agitated, and it would have been almost amusing, if he hadn’t been so thoroughly resistant to her advances.
Nicola did not know enough about men or seduction, and it appeared she wouldn’t be learning anything new tonight. She decided not to take Jack’s rejection of her too personally; she had, after all, interrupted his footbath and caught him in outlandish pajamas. No man liked to be seen at a disadvantage. The trouble was, no matter what Jack wore—his ill-fitting work clothes or his colorful paisley costume—she found him very attractive.
The feeling had appeared mutual. Which was why he, she supposed, in his quest to uphold his stupid honor, refused to look at any part of her except for her boots as he swept the sugar crystals off them. Nicola was slightly encouraged, but annoyed as well.
He did like her. But not enough.
Or was it too much? Was he putting her up on a pedestal she’d like to jump from and knock down?
Time was ticking away. With irritation, she began to fasten her coat. It had been easier to pull the ribbons loose than to tie them with gloves on, so she removed them. Her palms were damp, her fingers less than dexterous. But she managed to conceal her naked body, losing her one chance at love. Grim, she shoved her hair back in its cap and stood.
Jack needed a cap of his own—his hair was every which way. He still looked too good to her, clutching the broom with violence. She walked toward the kitchen door, ready to put this embarrassing display behind her.
“Wait! I’ll go home with you!”
That was all she needed, having to dig deep and pretend nothing had happened for two-hundred twenty-six steps. Well, to be truthful, nothing had happened. Nicola shook her head and was out the door before he could find shoes to put on his long bare feet.
Puddling was silent. The night sky was lit by scores of bright stars, but she felt no astronomic temptation tonight—she needed to watch where she was going and not fall on her rump. She’d been foolish enough surprising Jack; she didn’t need to be found en deshabille on the street by a Puddlingite out walking his dog.
Nicola counted each step as she hurried down the road. She’d left her cottage in darkness, so the neighbors wouldn’t suspect what she was up to. Not that they were apt to. Never in their wildest dreams would they believe their wordless Guest was trying to woo another one. Nicola had been a model patient.
Until Jack arrived and aroused her womanhood.
Now that she knew what she’d been missing all this time, she was verging on anger. And the worst of it—she’d fallen in love with someone she could never have.
She kicked a chunk of ice in her path, and it skittered away to thunk up against a garden gate. A dog inside the cottage took exception and let out a volley of barks.
Where was she? In front of the Countess’s temporary home, and Wellington had an excellent set of lungs. Nicola ran the last of the way, forgetting to count. She let herself into her cottage, tore upstairs, and threw off her coat. The result of what she’d thought had been ingenuity—reversing the
bright-colored wool to the dark fur—had made her bottom itchy.
No good deed goes unpunished. Although what Nicola had been engaged in was not precisely a good deed.
Her nightgown lay pristine upon the coverlet. She pulled it over her head, then worked the boots off. There. She was ready for bed, if she could regulate her heartbeat. A cup of tea might have come in handy. A soothing book. Something with a happy ending and plenty of kisses.
She allowed her hand to tug up her nightgown. Nicola had no one to give her kisses, but she could touch herself, couldn’t she? She was not in the habit of doing so, but she could see no clear reason not to, now that she knew what Jack had taught her.
She imagined a broader hand, one with some work-roughened skin. A hand that had more practice than hers did, that knew where to touch. The exact spot. Yes, there. A hand that could cause all the twists of anxiety to dissolve, push away the foggy, half-remembered past. A hand that would keep her safe, cradle her, cure her.
No one heard her cry out or saw the tears stream down her face.
Chapter 28
December 31, 1882
Jack had fought with himself all day and did not find a worthy opponent. Fought on his knees in church, immune to the vicar’s sermon. Fought at the disappointing-as-usual luncheon table, Mrs. Feather measuring out a precise inch of butter for his bread. Fought on his brisk afternoon walk around the village, a perfect blue sky overhead which failed to cheer him. Even fought when he found himself back in the churchyard on “their” bench. There had been no message for him, nor had she appeared in church or anywhere he might have bumped into her.
He didn’t deserve a message or a glimpse of her profile in the pew. How could he have treated Nicola so abominably last night? True, he hadn’t expected to be disturbed, but her presence should have brought him joy. She’d offered—well, he couldn’t get the sight of her bare body out of his mind, though he hadn’t really tried hard. It was one of the reasons for the self-argument.
And another—he’d made her feel unwanted, possibly ashamed. Drove her out of his cottage like a fleeing Cinderella, though she’d left no glass slipper behind. He’d stood barefoot with his broom, his feet glued to the sugar-dusted floor, incapable of stopping her.
But Jack had done as she asked after all. From memory. He didn’t need her in front of him, her soft white skin lit by candlelight. Those indelible brief seconds had burned into his brain. As soon as Mrs. Feather poked her head into the parlor to let him know his supper was in the ice box and wish him a “Happy New Year,” he’d leaped from his chair to find one of his notebooks.
There were plenty of blank pages from the middle on—he’d not been inspired to create anything earth-shattering or world-changing since his first-week-Puddling boots. His previous notations resembled hieroglyphics to him, so disengaged was his mind from industry. He might never right himself, and the financial consequences of that meant nothing to him at the moment. He’d had more than his fair share of success—look where that had led.
To here in his old battered chair, he supposed, fingers smudged, a random thumbprint in the corner. Nicola gazed up at him from her page, hope in her eyes. Her wavy hair partly covered one small but exquisite breast, just as it had last night. The puddle of fluffy fur at her feet made her appear to be rising out of nature itself. She was slim but not thin, her delicate curves more beautiful than the fantasies he’d allowed himself.
He had held her and carried her, seen her sweet thighs and the mound of golden fuzz. Jack had had plenty of time to think about what she’d look like without clothing, but his imagination did not measure up to the reality.
And he’d turned her away!
For her sake, as well as his. Someone needed to protect her.
So his battle had been fought, and he’d both lost and won. It was New Year’s Eve and had been dark outside for hours. He doubted Nicola would expect him to call for her, which gave him more time to get his drawings done. He posed a naked Nicola reclining on his sofa, her coat acting as a blanket. Jack drew her sleepy-eyed and half smiling, purely wanton. He’d never live long enough to see such a sight, but nothing could stop his hand from sketching it.
More pages followed. Naked Nicola in his kitchen sipping tea, with only Mrs. Feather’s apron tied around her waist. Nicola reading in this chair, her legs crossed. Nicola on his bed, her hair spread across his pillows.
Enough. Jack slammed the book shut, wondering where he could hide it from Mrs. Feather. She’d never understand his mechanical formulations, but the nudes of Nicola were self-explanatory.
Feeling unusually superstitious, he couldn’t bear to toss the drawings into the fire. He’d heard of primitive magic—spells cast, pins inserted in straw dolls. Burning Nicola’s images would be unlucky, he was sure.
For a rational man, he was losing his wits.
He checked the mantel clock. It was close to midnight, when the supernatural didn’t seem so impossible. The new year was almost upon him, and he recollected the country traditions. Suddenly knew what he must do.
He would be Nicola’s first-footer, intercepting her on the lane if she was hare-brained enough to come to him tonight as previously planned. It was bad luck for a blonde woman to be first to cross the threshold, and he needed all the good luck he could get.
He was still dressed, and shoved a handful of coal from the hod into his pocket. Gathered the few slices of remaining bread. It was the best he could do—in his greed, he’d eaten most of yesterday’s fresh loaf. Filled a flask with water. Wrapped a pinch of salt in his handkerchief. He had no mistletoe, but a few coins in his pocket—a very few—would fulfill most of the myth. He’d just have to remember to exit by the kitchen door after he arranged his offerings.
And, he vowed, he would not stay long, echoing Nicola’s words to him last night. There would be no lingering glances or tender touches or scorching kisses.
Then he remembered—he was supposed to gift her with something beyond the traditional items too. Well, why not his notebook? She could dispose of it as she wished, and he would not be driven mad by the images within.
His overcoat barely buttoned over the lumpy parcels tucked into his suit pockets, but Jack wasn’t afraid of the cold. The bells on the church tower began to peal, and he devoutly hoped none of his neighbors would be out on the road to hear them more clearly.
It was a fine, clear night. The cottages between his and Nicola’s were mostly dark, and no wild revelry was apparent. Puddlingites were practical people. They had to get up and go to work Monday morning, New Year’s Day or not.
Would her door be unlocked? A spare key was kept under an empty flowerpot in his front garden in case of emergency, and Jack assumed the same would be true for Stonecrop Cottage. The governors required access at all times for surprise inspections—it was one of the rules stated in the Welcome Packet. Jack had been lucky so far that no one had barged in to catch him staring blankly at a wall, feeling sorry for himself. He was meant to be busy. Active. According to Dr. Oakley, too much time to brood was not helpful to his “condition.”
He arrived at Nicola’s in less than two-hundred twenty-six steps, only slightly out of breath. The cottage was in full darkness, and Jack wasn’t sure whether he should be grateful or not. His scheme had been hasty, and the results might not be what he wished for.
The door handle turned but wouldn’t budge. With a silent curse, Jack rooted around the bottom of the doorframe and nearly knocked over a clay urn. Beneath it was the key. After a few fumbles, the front door opened, emitting an eerie creak. Mrs. Grace had fallen down on her hinge-oiling duty.
He hoped Nicola would not wake up and be alarmed. He stood in the hallway, getting his bearings. Listening. The cottage was as quiet as the rest of Puddling.
Despite the lack of light, he’d been inside often enough to find his way into the kitchen, where embers in the fireplace still burned. He t
ossed the fresh coal over them, and lay the bread slices and water on the table. Carefully, he unfolded his handkerchief, stopping the salt from scattering. He placed a coin in next to the bread and stepped back to admire his handiwork by the revived fire.
Mrs. Grace mustn’t be the first to find the New Year’s bounty on the table. Jack didn’t care if she had a lucky year ahead. He would go upstairs and wake Nicola, apologize for the lack of party. Apologize for everything.
He hoped she wouldn’t bash him on the head with his notebook.
Jack lit a candle and crept up the stairs. He knew which room was Nicola’s, would know even if he hadn’t been upstairs before by the scent of lily of the valley. A sweet, delicate scent, perfect for her. He wished it was not winter so he could shower her with beribboned nosegays of the stuff.
The bedroom was chilly, yet she had thrown off the blankets. She lay in the center of the bed, curled into a ball, her nightgown riding up to her thighs. She wore an absurd nightcap over her glorious hair, and he longed to yank it off.
Jack had not made any particular effort to be quiet, and it was a bit unnerving to watch her sleep so soundly. He could be anyone, come to do her harm.
Of course, she had locked up the cottage for the night, and Puddling was as secure a place as any in Britain. It was literally walled off from access by the main road, and pretty much unknown to the outside world. The villagers knew which side of their bread was buttered and would never hurt a Guest.
“Nicola,” he whispered.
There was no response. She slept on, her lashes flicking. Jack took a few steps closer, where the candlelight caught the gilt strands of her fringe.
He really could stand here for hours, watching the shadows dart, listening to her steady breathing. There was a blessed intimacy in his vigil, one that was unhampered by misunderstanding or past mistakes.
However, every minute he was here put them both in danger.
“Wake up. Happy New Year.” He placed a hand on her shoulder.
Redeeming Lord Ryder Page 17
