There was a note of humor to his words and Chloe tried to decide if he was teasing her again. His expression was serious, but his eyes belied it.
“But,” he continued as he filled her glass, “I am a little foggy on the ‘certain sensibilities’ issue. I have considered it from a number of angles, and I think I may have some ideas.”
She tilted her head to one side. How could he possibly know what she was thinking? She gave him a smile. “Enlighten me, sir.”
“Well, were I a marriageable miss, I would lament the loss of my independence. Surely giving over your autonomy would be a difficult thing, and giving it to a stranger, even harder.”
He did have an inkling! She raised her eyebrows in surprise and took another gulp of wine. “Well done, Mr. Rush. Have you any other insights?”
“Oh, dozens,” he assured her. “Would you like to hear them?”
“Please. I am all breathless anticipation.”
“Then, were I an ingenue who had been well loved and protected all my life, doted upon by parents and a brother, I might have misgivings about leaving their tender care for an unknown fate.”
She gave him a reckless grin. She had him now. “If you are assuming that is true of me, then you are mistaken. My rearing was not so pampered as you would believe. Some might think I’d be better off to leave the tender care of my family.”
He shook his head. “Not I, Miss Faraday. After all, better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”
Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. He had listened to her—had actually understood what she had meant. Damned by her own words! She stared down into her wine. “There may be a kernel of truth in that, sir,” she admitted.
“And I am just getting started.”
“There’s more?”
“Much more. For instance, were I a…well, you know. I’d have to admit to an apprehension of childbearing. There is, of course, the inherent danger of losing one’s life, but even more so in the certainty of pain. It is one thing to endure pain with good grace, and quite another to volunteer for it.”
Good heavens! She had no idea that men ever thought of such things. And, in all honesty, she hadn’t thought of it. “I must say, Mr. Rush, that was not one of my myriad reasons.”
“Really? Well, that is interesting. Even as a male, I would think twice before subjecting my wife to childbirth.”
“That is very…compassionate of you,” she said, a warm glow filling her as she finished her wine and he filled her glass again.
He put the empty bottle aside and went to the larder. “I have a surprise for you, Miss Faraday.” He brought a bowl of dewy washed strawberries and a dish of clotted cream to the table, along with a bottle of light white wine. “I found a patch down by the stream and thought you might like some.”
She chuckled to think of this rough, scarred gamekeeper hazarding a slippery bank to pick berries. The man was a paradox. If this behavior was common for a gamekeeper, she was surprised there were not more debutantes eloping with servants. “I adore strawberries and cream,” she admitted.
They talked for a time about the merits of strawberries over raspberries, and whether peaches were best eaten fresh or in pies. But it was his pithy observation that apples, being a “for bidden fruit,” are tempting no matter how they are eaten, that started her giggling. She realized she was growing a little light-headed.
When he raised the bottle to pour again, she held up one hand. “No, thank you, Mr. Rush. I’m quite giddy as it is.”
“But this is a celebration. And if you insist upon returning to Litchfield, a farewell.”
Her happy glow dimmed. It was the right thing to do. She knew it was. So why did it make her sad? She’d be back in her own bed, back to comfort her mother and back to make certain George didn’t pay for her folly.
And would never see Mr. Rush again.
He lifted her chin on the edge of his hand, dipped a strawberry in cream and popped it into her mouth. “But I think there is more to your reservations than we’ve discussed. Will you tell me, or shall I guess?”
Her mouth full of strawberry and cream, she couldn’t answer. As she struggled to chew and swallow, he leaned back again and said, “I recall you made veiled reference to ‘sharing intimacies,’ and that you desired friendship beforehand. Is that not so?”
She did not like the turn the conversation had taken, but all she could do was nod. She started to rise from her chair, but he clamped his large hand over her shoulder and held her in place.
“I would like to explore that word. Intimacy. Hmmm. Could you mean shared secrets? Could you mean the intimacy of living in close quarters and knowing one another’s…less lovely side? Nudity? Bodily functions? Lack of privacy?”
The strawberry was halfway down her gullet and she coughed. He thumped her back with a gentle but firm pat, and kept talking. “Yes, I suppose intimacies could mean any of those things. But do you know what I think?” He paused while she cleared her throat and managed to shake her head.
“I think you mean something else entirely. I believe, in polite circles, it is called ‘the marriage bed.’”
Now she really was mortified. Her cheeks burned as hot as coals.
He held her wineglass to her lips inviting her to drink to soothe her throat. “So I have a question for you, Miss Faraday. By ‘sharing intimacies,’ did you mean the marriage bed? Is it the act of making love that has you in a dither?”
“M-making love?” she managed. “But that’s just it, you see. How can one ‘make love’ if one does not even know who their partner is? Or if there is anything in them to love.”
“Ah, I begin to see. So it is not sex that repels you, but sex with a stranger?”
She opened her mouth and then closed it again. How could she explain it?
“So your ideal mate would agree to forgo the marriage bed until after you deem him worthy?”
“Yes! I mean, no. Oh, you have misread me entirely. Simply put, I do not want intimacy at all!” she said before she could stop herself. To cover her words, she stood and began clearing the table.
“Interesting. Now we are getting to the crux of the matter, I think. Allow me to take my musings a step further.” He paused and watched her for a moment and finally asked in a soft, thoughtful voice. “Are you afraid of intimacy, Miss Faraday?”
Something cold landed in the pit of her stomach and the memory of Marianne’s tears rose to haunt her. “I…I am not afraid, sir. But I do dread that sort of…imposition upon my person.”
Mr. Rush’s dark eyebrows rose and the corners of his mouth twitched. “Imposition?” He stood and caught her by the hand as she came back to the table for the remains of dinner. Slipping one arm around her and using the other to tilt her face up to his, he whispered, “I could have sworn you did not consider it an imposition last night when I kissed you and had you nearly naked in my bed. Nor this afternoon when you threw your arms around me.”
His lips descended to hers, as soft and cherishing as angel wings. She held her breath as the moment drew out and when he released her hand, she brought it up to caress his cheek. She wanted to kiss him forever—just to stand there, surrounded by his warmth, safe in his arms, and willing to follow where he led.
Lifting his mouth from hers, he said, “But I can understand why you would not want to be imposed upon by me, Miss Faraday. Just the sight of me must repulse you. But to—”
“No!” she cried. Looking at him now, she realized that his ruined face was somehow noble. She saw courage and honor and integrity there. And in his rough hands and worn clothes, she found a simple pride and honesty that made him more handsome to her than any London dandy dressed in fine worsted and satin brocade. He was not repulsive in the least, and the longer she knew him, the more handsome he became. “You are not repulsive, Mr. Rush. You are beautiful in my eyes.”
Oh dear! She’d fallen in love with him! How could this have happened? This was so…so completely inappropriate that it staggered
her mind! Her mother would fall into melancholy, her stepfather would beat her, and George would look at her in disgust. Such an alliance could not be good for either of them.
She ran for the loft.
Chapter Nine
Anthony stared after Chloe in amazement. Beautiful? He was beautiful in her eyes? Then what had he said to upset her? He followed her to the ladder and called up to her.
“Miss Faraday? Chloe? Come back. We need to talk. There’s something I have to tell you.” No doubt about it now, she had to know his name.
“No!”
Her angelic face appeared at the top of the ladder, and just as he was about to climb it, she seized the top rung and dragged it up after her.
“Chloe! Please listen. I—”
But the hatch slammed shut. “Go away!” came her muffled cry.
Of course he couldn’t go away. They were running out of time. They would have to leave here by tomorrow afternoon if they were to be at the Litchfield parish church in time to be married. He had to make her listen now, or she’d never go through with it. And God knows she still might not, even knowing the truth.
“Chloe!” he attempted one last time. Nothing.
Blast! He was hardly in shape for such antics, but only one solution occurred to him. He loosened his cravat and went out the back door. A sturdy elm stood close to the cottage and some of the upper limbs overhung the eaves. He jumped, grabbed one of the lower branches and swung himself up into the crotch of the tree.
Favoring his good leg, he climbed higher, his boot slipping on the bark once and leaving him dangling precariously over the privy. He tried not to think of the consequences of falling there. When he was finally level with the loft, he realized he was going to have a difficult time edging along the eaves to the dormer window. As it was, his leg was throbbing and felt as if he’d done some damage when he’d slipped. But this was no time for hesitation.
The branches closest to the eaves would not support his weight, so he had to climb a little higher and swing himself onto the eave. He landed with a solid thud and his injured leg gave way. As he started to slide he clutched for a handhold, finding one in the narrow rain gutter.
Finally hoisting himself into a sitting position, he edged along the eave toward the dormer window. A breeze stirred the narrow branches and they stung his cheeks and tangled in his hair. Good God! How could something that appeared so simple end up being such a trial?
The meager light from Chloe’s window was all he had to go by. He had been making a fair amount of noise, so he wasn’t surprised when the window opened and Chloe peered out. She’d changed to her nightgown and made a little squeak when she saw him. She ducked back inside and pulled the panes closed.
Damn. Well, he’d come all this way. He wasn’t about to let a thin pane of glass stop him now. A moment more and he was on the sill looking through her window. He couldn’t see her and he wondered if she’d snuffed her candle.
A sharply applied elbow and the glass shattered. He reached through the broken panes and undid the latch.
“Chloe?” he called. He blinked, trying to accustom his eyes to the darkness.
“Go away, Mr. Rush.”
“What did I say? How did I injure you?”
“It…it wasn’t you. It was me.”
He remembered her words. He would remember them as long as he lived, because they had the ring of truth and were more precious to him than gold. You are beautiful in my eyes. She was not blind. She saw him as he was, and did not find him lacking. He would have loved her for that alone.
He made out her form at the opposite end of the room. Moving closer, he saw that her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, gleaming in the moonlight streaming through the window behind her. She was like a fairy princess—fragile, beautiful, ethereal—as if she might disappear if he frightened her.
“How could it have been you?” he asked. “You did nothing.”
She only shook her head and backed up another step. “Go away.”
“No, Chloe. I climbed that tree—” he gestured to the window he’d come in “—and you’re damn well going to listen to what I have to say. We need to settle this now.”
“We have nothing to settle, Mr. Rush.”
He lunged at her and caught her in his arms before she could retreat again. “I think we do,” he said, looking down into those green eyes that had haunted his dreams for years. “You say you want to go home. That you need to face your betrothed with your rejection. And you say that, among the many reasons, it is mostly because he is a stranger to you. But what if he were not a stranger, Chloe? What if you knew him, and did not dislike him entirely?”
“I…I cannot say. How can I know such a thing until I am faced with it?” She looked up at him and there was a plea in her eyes. “I do not think I could go through with it, though. After all, it is still marriage.”
“Ah, Chloe,” he murmured into her hair. “I wish I could dispel your fears.”
Her breath caught in a little sob and his heart twisted. How could he let her go? How could he allow her fears to destroy her chance of happiness. And his? This damned lie he’d been living for the past few days had trapped them both. If he told her the truth, she’d no longer trust him. If he didn’t, she’d hate him when she found out.
“Chloe, forgive me,” he began, “but there’s something you don’t know. Something that could make all the difference—”
She looked up at him and laid one finger over his lips. “I know all I need to know, Mr. Rush. You told me that once, and you were right. I know the kind of man you are.”
“But—”
“I’ve made a dreadful mistake in thinking I could run away from my problem, and I must rectify that mistake before I can think about the future. This mess is of my own making, and nothing to do with you. Do not take responsibility for my actions, sir.”
“But I am responsible,” he said. Good God! If he’d only written her a letter or come to introduce himself, none of this would be happening now. “And if you leave, Chloe, I swear I will come after you. You see, I—”
Again, she stopped him. But this time she pressed her lips against his instead of her finger. Yes, she would have to know. But did she have to know now?
There was a fleeting moment when she could have stopped the way her heart was pounding. When she might have been able to step away from Mr. Rush. But it was gone so quickly that she scarcely noticed its passing. Her lips were pressed to his, and nothing else mattered. Right or wrong—gamekeeper, hermit or king—he was the man she was destined to love.
He broke the kiss and tightened his arms around her. “Chloe, you are making a mistake if you think I can let you go. I cannot. I warned you what would happen next time.”
Had he meant that to be a warning? To her ears, it was a benediction. She gave him a shaky sigh and rubbed her cheek against his crisp linen shirt. “I won’t turn back this time, Mr. Rush.”
“My name is—”
She raised on her tiptoes and spoke against his lips. “Hush. Not now. If I do not know it, Steppapa cannot beat it out of me.”
He groaned and lifted her in his arms. “Chloe, how can I make love to you when you are calling me Mr. Rush?”
Why was he so insistent? What did his name matter anyway? “Find a way, sir, or you will have to turn back.”
“Never,” he growled as he carried her to the bed and laid her on the coverlet.
He stood beside the bed, tossing his cravat aside, then unfastening his shirt and lifting it over his head. Her heart leaped to her throat as his chest came into view, every bit as stirring as it had been in the barn.
He looked awkward for a moment and she realized he could not remove his boots standing. He would have had a bootjack in his own room to help. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he drew his good leg up to rest on his knee and tugged at the heel. She had assisted George once when he’d pulled a muscle at cricket, and she knew she could help Mr. Rush. She slipped to her knees before him. Cu
pping his heel in one hand and the toe in her other, she wedged the boot off and tossed it aside.
When she turned her attention to the other foot, he placed his hand on her shoulder. “You do not have to do this, Chloe. Give me a moment, and I’ll be done.”
Was he embarrassed to need her help or ashamed of his crippled leg? She smiled at him and shook her head. Gripping this boot like the other, she gave it a firm tug but stopped when he winced.
She tried again, using finesse this time, and the boot slipped off easily. He stood and lifted her to her feet. He looked as if he would say thank you, but he kissed her instead—her forehead, her temples, down the line of her cheek to the corner of her mouth. His tongue traced her lips, urged her to accept him. And she moaned when he drew the very breath from her, calling up all her hidden secrets, all her buried desires.
He stroked her back, his strong fingers pressing her closer until she could feel the length of him against her—the solid planes of his chest, the strong swell of his thighs, the hard bulge that pressed into her belly. Her knees went weak and she pushed her fears back. She wanted this. It was all she’d ever have of him and she would not cheat herself of it.
He fumbled with the ribbon of her nightgown and then pushed it over her shoulders, allowing it to drop to the floor. She shivered in the night air seeping through the broken window. When she looked up at him, he had frozen, just looking down at her, his lips parted and a soft smile playing on his lips. She returned his smile, her confidence restored.
He bent to nibble at her earlobe and she suddenly lost patience. She fumbled with the waistband of his trousers and he responded with a sharp intake of breath.
“Chloe, no—”
Too late. She had them unfastened and was pushing them, along with his drawers, down over his narrow hips. He grabbed for them, but they were already beyond his grasp. She was a country-bred miss, and was not shocked by the sight or size of him. Or the fact that he was already in a full state of arousal. But she was shaken at the sight of his mangled leg. Livid scars ran up his thigh from his knee to his groin. A bandage still covered a small section at midthigh and was stained with a ragged patch of fresh blood.
Broken Vows, Mended Hearts: A Bouquet of ThistlesPaying the PiperBattle-Torn Bride Page 15
