There was a hard edge to his voice that Poppy wasn’t sure she cared for and didn’t think she understood. “I see.”
He exhaled roughly. “Back to secrets and danger and adventure. Back to subversion and subtlety and subterfuge. Back to recklessness and risking everything and…”
Poppy smiled sadly as he trailed off. “What do you want, Alex?”
He stopped short and looked confused.
“What do I want?” he repeated. “What do I want?”
“Yes.” She took his arm and steered him off the path towards a small hill just above a creek. “What do you want?”
Alex’s brow wrinkled in thought as he stood on top of the hill. “Quiet. Peace. Freedom.”
She smiled and sat down, patting the grass beside her.
“And being a spy doesn’t allow that?”
He sank down on the ground beside her, his posture as burdened as his manner.
“I don’t know. Once, I found freedom in it. Exhilaration. Purpose. But now…”
“All is changed?” Poppy finished his sentence as she reached out and covered his hand with hers.
He nodded, swallowing repeatedly. “All is changed. Four and a half years trapped in the hold of a ship is what my life as a spy brought me, no matter the good I did before. No matter how many lives I may have saved or plots I may have prevented, no matter how it thrilled me once before…”
“Alex…”
“I don’t know,” he whispered, closing his eyes and tilting his head back in the noonday sun. “It’s as if I can’t remember that life. I can’t remember who I was or how I managed it all. Every time I think of Trace, all I can remember is that hold, and knowing that there would never be anything else as long as I lived.”
Suddenly, Alex shuddered and lowered his head, blinking hard as if to erase something from his sight, then pressed his hands against his eyes and leaned forward.
Poppy shook her head and gripped his arm, pulling him towards her with a tug.
He surprised her by almost falling towards her, and she cradled him against her. His body shook faintly, the tremors vibrating into her frame with more effect than it seemed to have on him. There was nothing to do but hold him, rub his arms gently, and murmur the vague sorts of nothings that the one in need never truly hears.
“Tell me, Alex,” she whispered. “You can tell me.”
But he only shuddered and closed his eyes tightly in her hold.
“I take back everything I ever said about your ability to cook, bake, mix, blend, or roast anything at all, Poppy. On my honor.”
Alex smirked as Poppy raised a brow at Rook and chuckled at the snort he heard from her.
“The only reason you’d do that, Rook, is to get a second baked apple,” Poppy scolded, folding her arms over the apron she’d donned over what she’d called her best calico.
She looked like a farmer’s wife thus, all warmth and friendliness, and generous despite having nothing to share. Her color was high, and her hair sensibly pulled back, though slightly disarrayed now, her apron stained with the general mess a kitchen brings. He’d never have thought it before with how long he’d known her, and all the times he’d seen her in her finery, but this look suited her rather well.
She tossed a grin at Gent after he’d made some comment about Rook that Alex had missed, and he was struck by the brilliance of that smile.
It might not have dazzled anyone the way it could have in a ballroom under the glittering influence of candles and jewels, but there was something enchanting about such a smile in such a setting. Something amazing, and there was raw delight in being so surprised.
Dinner at Branbury had been an evening to remember, though he could not honestly say that he recalled any particular topic of conversation. He and Stanton had escorted Poppy up to the house, and she’d seemed somehow delighted by an opportunity to wear something fresh and to feel more a fine lady than she had in some time, though there had been nothing fine or fancy about her. Nor had her company been anything of significance, though if she knew the station of some of their companions, she might have had some reservations.
On the other hand, she might have only been emboldened more by it.
After all, he himself was a lord, and she had never bitten her tongue in his presence.
He did recall that she’d wanted to explore as much of Branbury as she could, seeing as she was a tenant of the estate, and she was completely unashamed to ask questions about Lord Cartwright, now she knew that he had ties to the rest of them.
The life of a covert operative was one of half-truths and diversionary tactics, and they had employed both equally on that subject. Lord Cartwright had ties to the government, everybody knew that, though he was wildly considered a boring old man whose time of influence had passed. The greatest scheme of all time had to be the fact that he was, in fact, the most important man in England, apart from the King and prime minister, and at times, even they were not so crucial to the security of England as he.
But no, the truth about Tailor would remain a secret each of them would take to their graves.
If Poppy were put off by their clear reticence to discuss him in earnest, she hid it well. She’d praised the décor, admired the scope of the house, and approved of the sensible furnishings, which she claimed spoke well of the man who owned it. Or, she added with a knowing look, of his wife.
None of them would argue that point.
The meal itself had been decent enough, though hardly a fine one, not that any of them had cared overly much. It was a refreshing change to be properly dressed, he in clothing he’d borrowed from his cousin, and to be reminded, even faintly, of how they all had once lived.
And yet there had been relief in returning to the cottage and sitting easily around Poppy’s well-worn table while they feasted on baked apples.
Relief, comfort, and the strangest sense of home. How had he come so far?
“Well, I think we’d best return to Branbury before we are all dozing contentedly around Poppy’s table,” Fritz said as he rose with a groan. “You all know how Rook gets when he’s had too much to drink.”
“Hard to tell,” Gent said with a tilt of his head. “Most of the time I suspect he’s inebriated, so when he truly is, there’s not much change.”
Stanton chortled and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Surely with this rather soft brewed mead, he’ll not be too overcome.”
“Alex can’t hold his liquor,” Gabe pointed out, “so we had best check with his status presently to know Rook’s.”
Alex rolled his eyes and waved his cousin off. “I’ve always been able to out-drink you, cousin, and under the table at that.”
Gent made a face and rose swiftly. “And Rogue drinks that horrid stuff from Prussia that takes one’s breath away. Strong boast, Alex…”
“Alex has always only boasted what he is able,” Poppy pointed out with a sly smile, her eyes on him. “Apart from racing with me.”
The others made loud cries of approval, while Alex coughed in mock effrontery.
“What?” he demanded, laying his hand flat against the table. “Have you forgotten how many times I trounced you solidly in a footrace?”
“You trounced a young lady of quality?” Gabe shook his head in disapproval, moaning softly. “Alex, that is most unseemly, and downright rude.”
Rook nudged Gabe hard. “Those mean the same thing,” he whispered loudly.
Gabe nodded at that. “It bears repeating in multiple ways for emphasis where Poppy is concerned.”
Alex looked at his cousin with suspicion, as did everyone else. “That’s not like you. Why are you being polite?”
“Because I have great sympathy for Miss Edgewood,” Gabe informed him, and the others, who scoffed loudly.
“Really?” Poppy giggled.
Gabe inclined his head with great respect. “Really, Miss Edgewood. You were attached to my cousin at one time. You have my sympathies.”
Laughter filled the room, and Alex
threw a soft chunk of apple at his cousin, who caught it easily with his mouth, bringing a round of applause from all.
“Now I know it’s time to depart,” Fritz muttered, smiling wryly. “Up, boys, and make your farewells to our esteemed hostess.”
“Oh, lord,” Poppy laughed as she removed her apron and folded it. “That makes me sound rather grand for a woman who does her own hemming.”
Rook stepped forward and bowed deeply. “And a very fine hem it is, too, Poppy.”
Cap surprised them all by cuffing Rook on the back of the head once he straightened, and Poppy covered her mouth as she snorted a laugh.
They all bid her goodnight, and obediently traipsed out of the cottage, nodding at Alex and smiling their amusement.
Well, if he’d ever been hoping for approval from his colleagues and friends on the woman he’d loved, he had it now. She’d won them over so handily and completely that he felt that he was the outsider instead of she.
But that was Poppy’s way, and always had been. She held power over everyone that came into her sphere.
She’d always had power over him.
Once they heard the door latch, Poppy exhaled loudly and dropped herself onto her stool by the fire. “I am very fond of them, Alex, but I am so tired, I’m strangely glad to see the backs of them.”
He shrugged, propping his legs up on a chair. “Not so strange, I’m glad to see the backs of them, too. It’s a common enough emotion where they are concerned.”
She grinned at him, giggling softly, then craned her neck from side to side. “It was good to dine somewhere other than here, though. And I never imagined Branbury to be so reserved a place. From the outside, it looks like any other grand house, but within…”
“You’ll find Lord Cartwright enjoys defying expectation,” Alex told her when she trailed off. “Even if it’s not in the direction one thinks it will be.”
Poppy looked at the fire, her smile turning soft. “I’ve met Lord Cartwright, as it happens. I didn’t think I would, knowing he is a man of government in London, but he comes every spring and sees all of his tenants personally. He seems a very trusting, capable man, and one with sense and taste. I like him immensely, not the least because he isn’t at all domineering and leaves me alone here.”
Alex smiled to himself. “Yes, he tends to do that.”
“He certainly does,” Stanton added, snorting softly and shaking his head.
Poppy turned to look at each of them, scowling playfully.
“I refuse to be included in conversation that I alone do not fully comprehend, you two. You both apparently know him better than I, but I’m asking no questions. Speak of Lord Cartwright the man, not the spy, or find a new topic.”
Stanton stared at her, then turned to Alex. “She’s very direct.”
“Always was,” Alex told him. “It’s one of the greatest and most maddening things about her.”
“And I refuse to be excluded from conversation when I am sitting within earshot of it!” Poppy laughed, clasping her hands before her.
“Then I’d best be about settling the animals for the night and myself as well, or I’ll say something that may injure me permanently,” Stanton said, heaving himself up and out of the chair. He nodded at Poppy, smiling fondly, then nodded at Alex with a smirk before leaving the cottage, the latch echoing almost ominously.
The sounds of the fire crackled a warm, familiar sound, and Alex smiled at the comfort he found in it.
“You worked hard today,” Poppy murmured from her place by the fire. “Are you exhausted?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Alex told her, laughing a little. “But not from any injury. More from weakness, I think. And the laughter of the day did me good.”
Poppy smiled fondly, rubbing her hands together a little. “I hoped it would. You need to laugh more, Alex. You need to smile and feel warmth. I think that might help you heal.”
His smile faded slightly, but he nodded in thought. “It just might.”
“Alex…” she began hesitantly, and he knew where her query was headed.
“No, Poppy,” he said with a hint of bite to his tone. “No.”
She sighed heavily, her brow wrinkling in distress. “How can I help you if I don’t know?”
“You don’t need to know,” he grunted, averting his eyes. “And you don’t need to help. I’ll manage.”
She said nothing in response, but he could feel the tension from her more than the warmth of the fire. There wasn’t anything he could do about that. He could not discuss the darkness with her. He could not bring her into it.
He would not.
Alex cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “You’re going to lose most of your workmen tomorrow.”
“Am I?” she asked, sounding only mildly concerned. “Why?”
“They return to London,” he said simply. “We’ve made good progress on the harvest, finished most of the repairs, and they have things to see to in London that are relatively urgent.”
Poppy’s lips pursed slightly. “And you?”
One side of his mouth lifted in a smile. “I remain. I told Cap no.”
Her brows shot up. “You did? You’re not going back to being a spy?”
Alex slowly shook his head, feeling the ease with which he breathed since giving Cap his answer.
“Alex!” Poppy sat forward with some urgency. “What did he say?”
“He asked me to reconsider,” Alex reflected, his eyes unfocusing momentarily. “Said he understood, would give me some time, but asked me to reconsider.”
“And will you?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. I imagine I’ll toss it over and over in my mind for the next few days, see if my mind and heart will change, and perhaps find myself longing for that life once more. But for now…” He looked up at her and smiled, his heart suddenly warming within him. “For now, I’ll just stay here and take a little more time to heal. With you.”
Poppy’s lips parted in surprise, and then relaxed into a gentle, delighted smile.
Chapter Eleven
Alex was staying.
Why that was important confused and bewildered her. There was no way he could possibly return to the life he had once had in the spy world. He needed to heal a great deal still, and everybody knew that. Apparently, even Cap had known that, insisting that Alex not commence with their work until he was well and whole, but the expectation had still been there.
But they were gone now, and Alex remained.
Indefinitely.
Poppy’s cheeks suddenly flushed, and she had to press a cool hand to them, scolding herself for being absolutely ridiculous and rather silly.
There was no reason for her to be so delighted or to get so excited about the idea. Alex was her responsibility until he was strong enough and well enough to fend for himself, and they were old friends. He was slowly returning to life and activity by working her farm, apparently in exchange for the room and board, which made him a hired hand of sorts.
Nothing remotely resembling their former attachment had been mentioned or experienced, and she was not about to bring it up.
“Miss Edgewood!”
Poppy groaned to herself, then turned with a polite smile to see the approaching figure of Mrs. Blaine, the most doddering busybody in Moulton or anywhere else. If the determined expression on the scrawny woman’s face was anything to go by, Poppy would be in for it now.
“Miss Edgewood,” Mrs. Blaine said again, smiling tersely as she reached her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Blaine,” Poppy greeted, looping her basket over one arm. “It’s lovely to see you.”
Mrs. Blaine waved her spindly fingers dismissively. “Enough with the pleasantries. Miss Edgewood, Mrs. Kennard’s maid, Sara, told my maid, Jessie, that Eddie Hall saw men in your fields two days past. Far more than your usual two or three.”
Poppy kept her expression as mild and unaffected as she could, though a laugh threatened to well up. “Indeed, Mrs.
Blaine? And what were these men doing?”
Mrs. Blaine’s eyes widened meaningfully. “Harvesting, Miss Edgewood.”
“Well, it is that time of the year,” Poppy allowed, feigning ignorance. “Perhaps Stanton hired more than usual this time.”
“But Miss Edgewood,” Mrs. Blaine continued, leaning forward, “can you afford so many workers? With your limited finances, it will be quite a strain, I fear. And you, not having a fresh dress in so long, dear…”
Poppy forced a bare imitation of a polite smile at the busybody’s remarks.
“We will make do, Mrs. Blaine, as we have always done. We must have a good harvest to improve matters, and the additional men we had will aid in that.”
“I hope so, Miss Edgewood, for your sake.” Mrs. Blaine tutted and reached out to pat Poppy’s arm, though it felt more like slapping. Her eyes suddenly narrowed on Poppy’s cheeks. “You look flushed, Miss Edgewood. Are you quite well?”
“Indeed,” Poppy replied quickly, “just the exertion of the day. So much to do and not much time, you know. I must return to the farm and take care of matters, and in my haste, I tend to flush.”
That did not seem to appease Mrs. Blaine, and she hummed absently.
“Not healthy, my dear. What is so urgent about…?” She paused to peer into the basket. “Bread, produce, linen, and something wrapped from the butcher? And quite a bit more of it than you are used to procuring, is it not?”
What wanted desperately to be a shriek became a low hum of would-be amusement, and Poppy’s smile became more strained than ever.
“I thought I might cook for the workers today, Mrs. Blaine. A show of appreciation and gratitude.”
“Rather generous for a woman who cannot afford to feed herself most of the time,” Mrs. Blaine responded with a sniff, looking suspicious, “but I’ll not naysay your Christian tendencies towards your fellow man.”
“Thank you,” Poppy muttered dryly. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Blaine, I’ll go indulge in those tendencies in the hopes that I might improve myself in the meantime.”
Fall from Trace Page 13
