Redeeming Lord Ryder

by Robinson, Maggie

  “It’s a bit like dancing. You dance, don’t you?” He imagined Nicola in an off-the-shoulder ball gown, twirling about a parquet dance floor, much like the one at Ashburn. When she got overheated, he’d lead her through the French doors to the terrace for a breath of air. For a kiss in the garden. For more if he could get away with it.

  I haven’t danced in a long time either.

  “We’ve got to remedy all that. Let me ask around the village tomorrow. What size is your foot?”

  5

  “I shall do my best to find something that fits. You’ll be my Cinderella.” At that moment, Jack’s stomach betrayed him with an alarming gurgle.

  You’re hungry?

  “I’m always hungry. I’m half the man I used to be.”

  Sit still.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  It was cozy sitting in the kitchen—Jack could have stayed here all night, if he wasn’t already aware of the consequences of that sort of folly. Spending tomorrow in the cellar held no appeal. The air between them was more companionable than sexually charged, and he was at peace with that. After staring a Nicola’s nude portraits for three days, it was almost a relief to see her covered by wrinkled menswear, trouser cuffs rolled up exposing her ankles, which he steadfastly refused to stare at.

  She was the soul of efficiency as she fixed him a sandwich and brewed a pot of tea. A tin of cake came out of the pantry too, and Jack felt a flare of domestic bliss.

  He was, God help him, in love.

  Chapter 31

  January 6, 1883

  What a showoff! But a glorious figure nonetheless. Nicola couldn’t hope to keep up with him. Her ankle, while as good as new when she walked, felt somewhat weak as she skated at her turtle-like speed. She wished the frozen stream had an iron railing to clutch for support, or better yet, that she had a strong arm to cling to.

  But she didn’t want to hold Jack back anymore. He’d done his duty, squiring her back and forth at a snail’s pace. It was obvious he needed more, and she’d released him with a smile.

  He was pure masculine beauty, his face lifted to the watery sun, his hair tangling in the stiff breeze. He was hatless, as usual. Nicola suspected he knew exactly how attractive his disordered dark hair was. And the rest of him was not hard on the eye either.

  For so large a man, he glided with athletic grace, his movements economical and sure. He had none of the wobbly spins or hesitations that plagued her—she felt as adept as an elephant in an omnibus, stomping on toes, squashing passengers, and being unable to come up with the correct amount for the fare.

  Skating was like dancing? Ha! Nicola had fumbled and fallen too many times to count, but she’d finally waved Jack and his gentlemanly assistance off. There was no reason her clumsiness should infringe upon his enjoyment. He needed the exercise. He had too much energy to contain, his mind and body always busy. Puddling’s limited five streets were insufficient to stimulate him.

  In three days he’d be released upon the wider world. There were more than five fascinating streets in London—too many—enough to deplete the most excessively active person.

  He’d declared the Puddling routine useless. But to her surprise, instead of London, he told her yesterday at tea he planned to spend the rest of the winter at his property in Oxfordshire, away from the hustle and bustle. He’d not seemed overly fond of his country property before, and she wondered why he’d changed his mind.

  Jack promised to write. And she’d refuse his letters. Best to make a clean, very thorough break.

  Would he continue to practice the British Manual Alphabet? It was unlikely he’d run into someone else who knew it. The idea of their having a secret language—which neither of them really understood—had been fun, but it wouldn’t be practical for Nicola’s future. Fingerspelling was tedious and slow, and she still required a pencil and paper to jot down the letters to make complete sense of Jack’s words, especially when she didn’t guess correctly. Her memory was not as good as it used to be.

  She felt a pang. A serious pang, which poked right into her unprepossessing chest. No matter what Jack had said, the earnest looks he gave her, the tender touches, she wasn’t going to tell him who she really was. She could say she didn’t want to burden him with a lover who couldn’t speak, which contained an element of truth.

  She would tell him so in a letter once he was safely out of reach, making it clear that their affair—such as it was—was finished. In the meantime, she would eke out every second of pleasure with him before Puddling’s gates opened to release him.

  That meant the last of the peaches would come out of the pantry. Nicola was not going to let him leave without taking her to bed.

  She had more confidence—and experience—in her potential as a lover now. The days since Christmas had brought her excessive wonder and a determination to bring things to their natural conclusion, no matter what heartbreak was ahead for her.

  He must not ever find out why she couldn’t speak. That would ruin everything that had happened between them, leaving a bitter aftertaste that no amount of peaches could overcome. She’d managed to keep her secret so far.

  She would invite him to share her dinner tomorrow night. Most of the disapproval of their relationship had abated—Puddling believed Nicola was impervious to Jack’s charm, that they were just convenient acquaintances, clubbing together out of neighborly propinquity. And anyway, he was going for good.

  They didn’t suspect that she’d crept out at night to Jack’s cottage those two embarrassing times, and he had crept out to hers a few more. As he had suggested, she’d worked hard to convince Mrs. Grace that she didn’t really care all that much about him, rolling her eyes when his name was mentioned, sighing in exasperation when he was at her door just in time for tea for the past two days, complaining in her journal about him to the poor old vicar. If she heard “Don’t worry, he’ll be gone soon” one more time, she was likely to burst out into giggles.

  If she could giggle. It seemed she was capable of making some noises now, a very encouraging sign. If only they could be formed into words, she could be free of Puddling and all its well-meaning restrictions.

  And then what would happen? A return to Bath sounded awfully flat. Nicola did not want to go back to her parents’ house after experiencing considerable autonomy here. Why, she even knew her way around a kitchen now! She was a child no longer and didn’t care to be smothered in her parents’ concern for her marriageability.

  A woman was meant to wed, or at least that’s how Nicola had been raised. She’d never given the premise or its inevitability much thought before the accident, but now she wondered if she could manage on her own.

  She rather thought she could.

  Her mother’s letters still bore news of Richard, as if it hadn’t been his idea to break off their engagement. Would he want her back if she could talk again? It didn’t matter—Nicola didn’t want Richard. Anyone after Jack would seem too…tame. Anyone after Jack would be…not Jack. She blinked back a tear, telling herself her eyes were simply reacting to the cold air.

  Straightening her shoulders, she tried to balance herself, holding fast to her fur muff. Maybe that was part of the issue; she was too stiff. Wooden. And scared. Jack was far ahead, moving his long arms up and down like a skating soldier. He looked like he was born to fly.

  She hadn’t been on ice in years, and then it had been a flooded cement rink made for the purpose. Puddling Stream was not as ideal. It had frozen in stages, and there were bumps and divots along the bank, undulating ripples destined to trip her up again if she wasn’t careful. Soft spots to be avoided too. Jack was going so fast it was as if his blades weren’t even touching the ground.

  She envied his fearlessness. She’d never been much of a skater, should have told Jack she had no interest in freezing her posterior off, much preferring to sitting in her parlor with him. It was so frigid ou
tdoors, the sofa by the fireplace and a hot cup of sweet tea would have been heaven. But then Mrs. Grace would have been hovering, and the chance to be truly alone with Jack for as long as she could would be gone.

  She had him to herself for such a short time. While he might drop in to say good-bye on the last morning, there would be no opportunity for intimacy. No stolen kisses with Mrs. Grace planted in the room, no heated glances. They might joke with their fingers, if Nicola could remember the correct positions of the letters.

  Two more full days left to accomplish what she needed. Her heart was breaking already.

  But Nicola must appreciate and be grateful for her surroundings, heartbreak or not. Heavy ice-covered branches lined the banks and met overhead, giving her the feeling of being in a diamond-encrusted tunnel. The sky was silver, the sun a faded white disc. It was too cold for birdsong. The only sound was the cut of their skates into the ice and the resulting crackle.

  They had this winter world all to themselves, not counting a few hardy sheep on the snowy hillside across the way. Years ago, the stream had powered a small mill, its brick building abandoned when the price of wool dropped. According to Mrs. Grace, nearly every cottage in the village still housed a loom in the attic, though the residents’ current prosperity depended on the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation.

  Jack, for all his fearlessness on the skating front, was not going to be one of its successes. He still didn’t sleep well and continued to be distracted and depressed. Nicola knew he made an effort to be cheerful around her, but sensed the darker undercurrents beneath his sunny smiles. Jack shouldn’t have to live with false bravado. She was too aware of what that felt like.

  Nicola was tired of being good. Being patient. Just once she wanted to break as many rules as she could in one fell swoop.

  Tomorrow was the night. Or the day after, if her courage failed her.

  And then…she would write to her father, asking him to find a modest cottage in a modest village for her. Not too far from Bath for the sake of her parents, but not too close for hers. She’d hire her own charwoman, someone who would not live in. Nicola valued her privacy and could prepare simple dishes to keep body and soul together after her apprenticeship with Mrs. Grace. She’d become an eccentric, if silent, spinster, free to develop an interesting reputation.

  Nicola nearly looked forward to her future. But Jack wouldn’t be in it. Her eyes filled again, and she was smart enough to know this time it wasn’t from the cold.

  He was so far ahead of her now, she’d never catch up. Nicola looked about for a place to rest her aching feet. The skating boots Jack had borrowed for her were too snug, and her toes were throbbing. There was a stitch in her side too. She was full of excuses for her poor performance and smiled at her cowardice.

  What would happen if she pushed herself? Took long, low strides, her arms swinging by her sides? Raced as if the devil himself was after her?

  She would fall on her arse again, that’s what.

  Nicola brushed the snow off a flat rock and sat, wondering how long it would take Jack to realize she was not right around the bend behind him. She didn’t want to spoil his pleasure; he’d had so little of it.

  Glancing around, she saw a neat farmstead on the Puddling side of the frozen water, its fields covered in white, its outbuildings square and sturdy. Not too far away was the school set within a stone wall, its bell ringing fitfully in the wind. It would be very hard to concentrate if school was in session, but it was Saturday.

  They’d run into a group of village children unlacing their skates earlier. Jack had spoken to them, their faces crimson from the cold and exertion, their voices breathless. For a man with no children of his own, he’d had an easy way with them. He would make a good father, always keeping their interest with his creative inventions. Nicola let out a sigh.

  And waited. There was no Jack on the horizon. How far down the stream did he intend to skate? All the way to Sheepscombe? She couldn’t feel her fingers despite her warm fur muff and gloves.

  If she were moving, perhaps she wouldn’t feel so frigid. Her bottom was like a block of ice at this point.

  Nicola stood, her feet awkwardly going in two different directions. She could do this. Just take it slow and steady. She aligned her toes and took a few steps, regaining her balance. Jack had likened skating to dancing, and she’d taken the requisite lessons with a French dancing master, even if her social life had not included many balls. Sober Richard thought such activities frivolous, though his political career could have benefitted from casual social conversation. She knew many deals were done over dinner tables and dance floors.

  One glide in front of the next, nothing too ambitious. Her eyes were fixed on the whorls of ice beneath her to avoid the major bumps. It took all her concentration to get to the turn in the stream. Once she did, she looked up.

  And saw a dark form sprawled a few feet off the ice, bright blood staining the snow. A leafless tree stood, a complicit witness to the accident.

  It was her nightmare vision come to life. Nicola screamed.

  Chapter 32

  January 7, 1883

  The room was so dark when he opened his eyes, Jack wondered if he’d gone blind. In any event, he had a blinding headache.

  He’d been foolish, racing to get back to Nicola, convinced that something was wrong when she didn’t turn up behind him. He pictured her falling again, immobile on the ice, unable to call for help.

  There was something wrong all right. He couldn’t move. It was he who was immobile.

  He tried wiggling a toe. Whether he was successful or not, he couldn’t tell. All of him felt stiff and sluggish, as if he were encased in wet sand. He closed his eyes, since there was no point in keeping them open, remembering the sudden slip and flip through the air, the obdurate black tree waiting to stop him.

  Was he lying in his coffin? No, a bed, even though the mattress seemed to be made of stone.

  Jack wrestled with the quilt to free an arm so he could touch his sore head. He was apparently turbaned like some sheikh. Where he could reach, he patted down the rest of his body and discovered he was strapped to a wooden board, thick lashings of leather cutting into his bare chest.

  No wonder he was so uncomfortable.

  Jack didn’t think he was in Tulip Cottage. The whole place didn’t smell right. Not that the odor was bad, just different. Odd spices and laundry soap and…dog. Damp dog.

  “Hey!” he called out in the darkness. A muffled bark came from beyond the door, so his nose hadn’t failed him.

  The door burst open, a shaft of light falling into the room.

  “Jack, you’re awake!”

  His ears weren’t failing him either. The woman’s voice was scratchy. Soft, barely above a whisper. Silhouetted by the lamplight behind her, he couldn’t see her face, but he knew. It was Nicola.

  And she had spoken.

  Perhaps he was dead after all.

  “Ham, please wake Dr. Oakley and tell him his patient is alert,” she rasped.

  Who was Ham? It didn’t matter. Nicola was here, still in her skating costume, her fair hair loosely braided over one shoulder. She resembled an angel he didn’t deserve.

  “Come closer,” Jack said. “Is it really you?”

  Her shadowy form hovered over him. “It is really I.” She clasped his hand and squeezed.

  “Where are we?”

  “Ham Ross’s farm at the bottom of Honeywell Lane. He heard me when I found you.”

  “Heard you. You are talking,” he said in wonder.

  “And screaming, I’m afraid. My throat hurts, and Dr. Oakley has forbidden me to speak.”

  “And she’s not paying a bit of attention to me,” the old doctor said, coming into the room bearing an oil lamp. “Go finish your tea, Miss Nicola. The honey in it will do you good. Ham’s own bees, you know.”

 
“No, thank you. I’ll stay.”

  Jack tried to sit up, forgetting that he was tethered. “What’s wrong with me? Why am I tied up like this?”

  “Just a precaution. You slammed into a tree, my son. Head first. We thought it best to keep you still until all your parts are back in working order.”

  Good God. Was he paralyzed? He tried wiggling his toes again and again couldn’t tell.

  “If you insist on staying, hold the light for me, will you, my dear?”

  Nicola took the lamp and she was limned in gilt. Jack blinked against her beauty, then the glare. Dr. Oakley tutted, then held Jack’s eyelids open with two fingers.

  “Hm.”

  “Hm what?” Jack asked.

  “Your pupils are enlarged, and don’t quite match. Do you feel dizzy?”

  Did he? Apart from being trussed up like a Christmas goose and the horrible headache, he was fairly jubilant. Nicola was talking! Well, whispering. It was a post-Christmas miracle.

  “I’m not sure. Can one feel dizzy lying in bed?”

  “I assure you, one can. Is the room spinning? Can you see more than one of me?”

  Jack didn’t want to look at the doctor when golden Nicola was right there. He focused on the doctor’s nose. “No, sir. Just you.”

  “That’s an excellent sign. I examined you while you were unconscious, and I don’t think you’ve broken any bones. You have a hard head.”

  “So my mother always told me.” An awful thought leaped into his hard head. “You haven’t notified her, have you?”

  “It’s my understanding she’s in the south of France. And it’s the middle of the night, son. I thought it could wait until morning.”

  When Jack had signed himself into Puddling, he’d had to list next-of-kin. As tempting as it might have been to declare himself an orphan, he did not.

  “I believe so, yes. For the winter. I don’t think she needs to be disturbed. She wouldn’t be of any use at all. Not good in the sickroom, my mother.” Quite the understatement. “I’m sure I’ll be tip-top in no time.” He took another stab at the toe-wiggling.