Cupping the back of his neck, Jack massaged the tense muscles, fingers digging deep into cold, unyielding flesh as he continued to stare in silent contemplation at the withering fire, searching for answers amidst the crackling flames.
As a man accustomed to having women swoon over him left and right, he did not know what to make of Beatrice’s obvious disdain. She was not completely immune to his charms - their kiss had proven that - but she certainly did not like him. She’d been quite honest on that front. A bit too honest, really. Why, if he were a weaker man, a man predisposed to vulnerability, perhaps, he might even say his feelings were hurt. They weren’t, of course. Jack’s good shoulder stiffened at the very idea. No woman had the power to hurt him, let alone a widow who was known by all of king and country as ‘Mad Lady Bea’. A cruel sobriquet, to be sure, but not one completely without merit.
Locked away in her house, closed off from the world and all its inhabitants, he feared Beatrice had gone a bit mad. Then again who wouldn’t, given the circumstances? She’d suffered a great loss at a young age. A loss that encompassed more than just a dead husband. She’d lost her future. Her innocence. Her hopes and her dreams.
At least that is what she believed.
Kicking snow onto the flames, Jack turned his back on the smothered fire, eyes glinting with steely determination as he looked over the stables to Stonewall’s gabled rooftop. It was his job to convince her otherwise. A job he was surprisingly willing to undertake given that he’d never before gone out of his way to woo a woman.
Then again, Beatrice was no ordinary woman.
He didn’t know the how or the why of it, only that she infuriated - and aroused him - as no other female ever had. There was something about her… something delicate and soft that made him want to protect and defend. He wanted to erase the worry from her eyes. Turn her frown into a smile. Hear the musical note of her laughter and know it was because of him. Feel her body writhing against his and know she burned for him… only for him.
“Bloody hell.” Jake stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening as the truth of it all slammed into him with the force of a bullet. He clutched his chest and staggered back a step as the blood drained from his face, leaving him breathless and dizzy. Bloody hell. He’d finally gone and done it, then. The one thing he thought he could never do. The one thing he vowed to himself he never would do.
He’d fallen in love.
CHAPTER NINE
Beatrice managed to avoid Jack for the rest of the day. She remained hidden in a long forgotten parlor on the east wing of the mansion; cloistered away with a hot cup of tea and a thick book until the light faded from the windows and her stomach growled with hunger.
She walked quickly by the exposed windows, ignoring the snow that had fallen throughout the afternoon and now glinted on the tree branches like a dusting of glittering diamonds, illuminated by a full moon that hung heavy in the night sky. Her skirts swished around her ankles in a whisper of pale fabric as she darted from room to room, navigating Stonewall’s twisted interior by memory and candlelight.
At one time, not so long ago, each room she passed would have glowed with the light of a fire but without the staff or the wherewithal to gather wood, all the fireplaces remained dormant save the one in her bedroom, the great hearth in the kitchen, and, at her request, the one in the library.
Young Tom did what he could, but between caring for the horses, fetching water, and shoveling snow he had his hands full. Anna and Sadie as well. The truth of it was an estate the size of Stonewall could not be carried on the backs of three servants. Thirty, perhaps, but not three. Sooner or later it would crumble… it was inevitable.
A fretful frown tugged at the corners of Beatrice’s mouth as she wondered what would become of Tom, Anna, and Sadie then. They’d stuck with her through all the rumors and the whispers, and in doing so had surely alienated themselves from any other household that might consider taking them in.
My fault, she thought in silent anguish as she came up short in the dining room, one hand seeking the back of a chair for support while the other closed around the nape of her neck. Anna, Sadie, and Tom had stayed with her when no one else would. They had understood her when no one else could. And how did she repay them? With a pittance of a salary and a roof over their heads. A roof that was growing heavier and heavier with every passing day, for despite the extravagance of their surroundings their food was disappearing, their warmth was fading, and any hope Beatrice had that she would ever return to her former self was quickly vanishing, especially given the events earlier in the day.
If the way she’d acted around Jack were any indication, she was getting worse, not better. The lady Beatrice had been before the death of her husband would never have allowed a rake like Jack to kiss her in such a fashion and she certainly would not have enjoyed it. Yet she’d unmistakably - and unforgivably - been a willing participant in the kiss. More than that, she’d been a participant in her own seduction, giving in to Jack’s charms after only a cursory token of resistance. The fingers at the nape of her neck tightened, gathering the wool shawl she wore over her dress into a fistful of fabric as her mind went to war with her heart.
Was it so wrong to want to feel something again? To feel anything again? For months she’d existed as a ghost, drifting silently through the empty halls of Stonewall, turning more and more into a shell of her former self with every passing day. Like a flower deprived of the sunshine it so desperately craved she’d been slowly withering away, both in body and in spirit.
After Jeffrey’s death it had been easier to feel nothing. By closing herself off from everyone and everything she cared about she’d ensured she would never feel the pain that came with losing a loved one ever again, but now she was beginning to fear that without pain there could not be love. Without tears there could not be laughter. Without despair there could not be hope. Without passion… without passion there could not be life. Jack’s kiss had shown her that, if nothing else, and as much as she was loathe to admit it, she knew he was right. She had been hiding.
From herself.
A flash of movement suddenly caught Beatrice’s eye. She turned to the large picture window, staring out through the glass to the quiet landscape beyond. The dining room was situated at the rear of the estate, which meant any views afforded out the arched windows were of fields and forests. Her soft soled shoes echoed on the hardwood as she hesitantly crossed the room, breath fogging the cold, clear glass as she stared out at the snow.
Beyond the window all was quiet and still. Nothing stirred in the trees or disturbed the canopy of freshly fallen snow. Huffing out a pent up breath, she shook her head, amused at her own overactive imagination. What had she expected to be lurking outside on such a chilly night? Old Saint Nicholas or -
A fox.
Beatrice’s breath caught as a sleek red fox danced nimbly across the snow, its tiny black paws seeming to float on top of the ground. Its pelt was sleek. Its tail full and bushy. When it stopped in the middle of the field and turned its head to the window, Beatrice found herself staring into the same pair of inquisitive golden eyes she’d seen the night Jack arrived.
“You,” she whispered, entranced by the magnificent creature despite the eerie chill that raced down her spine. “I remember you.”
The fox, it seemed, remembered her as well. Without a hint of fear it padded silently forward, ears tipped up, eyes shining bright with curiosity and a glint of unmistakable wisdom. It stopped shy of the window, elegant head tilting to the side as it sat back on its haunches.
“What do you want?” she asked.
The fox, being a fox, said nothing, and Beatrice gave a quiet laugh as she shook her head. “Look at me, talking to an animal and a wild one at that. Perhaps I am crazy after all. Go on then.” She made a shooing motion with her hand. “There is nothing for you here.”
The fox yawned and, lifting a paw, began to groom itself with tiny flicks of its tongue.
“Well I never.” No
t sure what to say or do, Beatrice remained by the window, watching in disbelief as the fox finished its grooming and began to play. It leaped in the air, sleek body twisting as it chased its own tail before coming down in a crouch, gaze fixed on something in the snow. When it suddenly pounced Beatrice screamed; a tiny, short burst of sound that had the fox skittering sideways before it swiveled its neck and stared disdainfully at her over one shoulder as though to say, now why did you have to go and do that?
“I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you. I… I am having a conversation with a fox.” Slapping a hand to her forehead, Beatrice felt for a fever, for surely that was the only thing that could explain what was happening. Except her temple was cool to the touch and when she pinched her arm she jumped from the pain of it, revealing the fox was no vision brought on by a dream.
“First Jack, and now this,” she muttered as her eyes closed for a fraction of a second before opening to find the fox still staring at her. “What could possibly happen next? An invading army of pirates?” She smiled at the fox. To her astonishment, he smiled back. Or at least he seemed to. The corners of his mouth lifted, revealing a sharp row of canines that glinted white in the darkness. Beatrice shook her head in disbelief. “I do not know-”
“What happened? Are you hurt? Why did you scream?” Hair disheveled, shirt only halfway buttoned, Jack all but flew into the dining room, the force of his momentum so great it carried him into a chair. The chair fell to the ground with a resounding crash, causing Beatrice to scream again as she whirled around, one hand going to her pounding heart.
“You frightened me half to death!” she accused, glaring at Jack as he slowly picked up the chair and tucked it back under the dining table.
“I heard you yell.” His gaze darted around the dark room, searching each and every corner before settling on her face. “I thought you were in trouble.”
“The only thing troubling me is your presence.” She turned back to the window, spine stiffening as she felt Jack come up behind her, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight.
He peered over her shoulder. “What are you looking for?”
Beatrice shivered as she felt his breath warm the back of her neck. Awareness rippled over her, followed closely by a bite of dark desire that nearly had her pressing back against Jack’s hard chest before she caught herself.
“There was a f-fox,” she said, hating that her voice trembled but unable to do anything to stop it. “Playing in the snow, right outside this window.”
“You screamed because of a fox?” he said, his tone filled with a skeptical edge that instantly set Beatrice on the defensive.
“It was a very unusual fox. You - you would not understand unless you saw it for yourself.”
“Well I do not see anything now… except for you,” he whispered huskily before he skimmed a hand through her hair, gathering up the heavy length and pushing it over her shoulder, granting himself access to the slender curve of her neck.
“What - what are you doing?” Beatrice gasped, bracing her fingers against the window sill as she felt the hot brand of his mouth on the sensitive part of her neck where collarbone and shoulder met.
“Tasting you,” came his murmured reply.
“I - I can see that. But why?”
“Why not?” he countered as his hand trailed lower, then lower still until he cupped her derriere through the thin fabric of her dress and squeezed.
She arched away from him, breasts pushing against the window, a tiny hiss escaping between her lips as the cold glass touched her hot, aching nipples. “Because you… you think I am mad in the head.” Just like everyone else does.
His mouth stilled. “No,” he said quietly. “I never thought of you as mad. Troubled, perhaps. Burdened with a broken heart, certainly. But never mad. Look at me, Beatrice. Look at me,” he insisted when he attempted to turn her and she resisted, knees locking into place.
Slowly, reluctantly, knowing she had no other choice, she did as he asked, pivoting until they were facing one another. Jack drew her close, brushing a curl behind her ear as he stared down at her.
“What?” she said defiantly even as her eyes threatened to be overwhelmed by tears. “What do you want? What are you even still doing here?” Anger flooded her voice, brought on by a drowning sense of helplessness she could not escape, no matter how hard she tried. “There is nothing for you here. There is nothing for anyone here.”
“There is you,” he said simply.
She went perfectly still. “What? What did you say?”
“You said there was nothing for me here, but you were wrong. There is you, and I am not leaving unless you come with me.” He gently cupped her jaw, lifting her chin when she would have turned her face to the side. “You think because something horrible happened to your husband you do not deserve laughter or happiness or love. But you are wrong, Beatrice. You deserve all of those things and so much more.”
“You - you do not know what you are talking about. I am honoring my husband’s memory-” she began, only to fall silent when Jack’s countenance grew unexpectedly dark.
“Honoring his memory? No.” The grip on her shoulder tightened. “What you are doing here... shutting yourself away, punishing yourself for something over which you had no control… you are not honoring your husband’s memory. You are dishonoring it.”
Overwhelmed with emotions she’d managed to suppress for the better part of two years and was now being forced to face against her will, Beatrice’s face flooded with color. “What would you know of honor?” she cried. “You are nothing more than a black-hearted scoundrel! You are a cruel man and I hate you. I hate you!”
“But not,” Jack said as he searched her eyes, “as much as you hate yourself.”
The blood that had rushed to Beatrice’s cheeks drained away. She sagged back against the windowsill, arms falling limply against her sides. “Leave me.”
Something flashed in Jack’s eyes. Something she’d never seen before. “If I leave you this time, I am not coming back. I want to fight for you, Beatrice.” He expelled a ragged breath. “But how can I, when you will not even fight for yourself? Tell me not to go. All you have to do is tell me and I will stay. I will stay for as long as it takes.”
Beatrice lifted her tear drenched eyes to his. “We hardly know each other,” she whispered brokenly. “How can you care so much?”
“How can you care so little?” His thumb swept across her cheek, catching her tears and flicking them away. “Tell me to stay. I know I am not what you want, but I can promise I am what you need. We may be strangers, but my heart knows who you are. It recognized you the first moment I saw you and deny it all you want, but your heart recognized me as well. Tell me,” he repeated, eyes flashing with golden fire. “Tell me.”
She turned her head to the side, staring blindly at the wall, lips stubbornly sealed together, wanting to say the words Jack was demanding but too terrified of what they would mean to speak them aloud. She felt the depth of his feeling for her like a wave, but instead of lifting her up the weight of it threatened to drag her back down to a place she’d vowed never to venture again.
How could she risk her heart when it was still broken? How could she embrace one man when she’d not yet let go of another? The answer was she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. And so she clung to her silence like a life raft, using it to hold her head above water.
She felt Jack’s gaze burning into her. With a vicious curse he stepped back and flung up both arms, his expression contorting into a dark scowl of disgust. “You’re a bloody fool, Beatrice Tumbley, and I cannot help you. No one can.” He stormed from the room, slamming the door in his wake.
Air rattled out of Beatrice’s lungs in a long, gasping breath. Whirling around, she leaned against the windowsill, forehead falling against the cold glass with a hard thud that did little to ease the pounding in her head or the pain in her heart. The urge to call Jack back, to admit her fears and let him soothe her sorrows, was so strong she nearl
y succumbed, but old hurts not yet healed held her back.
A soft mewling cry had her rocking onto her heels, gaze flicking to the snow covered clearing outside the window. The fox sat in the middle of it, still as a statue, bushy tail wrapped around its slender black legs.
“What do you want?” Beatrice slapped both palms against the glass. “Just tell me what you want!”
The fox stared directly into her eyes. It whined, a high pitched keening sound that struck a chord somewhere deep inside of Beatrice’s very soul.
“Have you lost someone too? Is that it?”
Another whine, this one longer than the last.
“I do not understand you,” she whispered helplessly. “I do not know what you are trying to say.”
On some level Beatrice knew it was the very definition of insanity to be having a conversation with a wild animal, but all it took was one glance into the fox’s intelligent eyes to know the sleek red creature was more than it appeared. It looked past her, and when she turned her head to follow its gaze discovered it was staring at the door.
“Jack. Does Jack have something to do with this? Is Jack why you are here? You appeared on the same night he did. Were you trying to warn me about him?”
The fox snarled, lips peeling back to reveal a row of razor sharp teeth as its fur bristled.
“No, not a warning,” she said hastily. Her fingertips trailed down the window, leaving a trail of smudged prints on the glass as her mind whirled with possibility. “But you do have something to do with him, do you not?” Perhaps it was Beatrice’s imagination, but she thought she saw the fox incline its angular head ever-so-slightly. “Do you… like him?” she ventured.
The fox blinked.
“Do you think I should have asked him to stay?” Beatrice held her breath as she awaited the fox’s response. He remained stoic, giving no indication he’d understood a word she had said and Beatrice, finding herself at her wit’s end, released a self-mocking laugh as she stepped away from the window. “I have done it, then. I have well and truly gone - did you just nod?” She jumped back to the window, fists thudding against the glass. “You did! I saw it. I know I saw it. I know I did,” she whispered. “Do it again. Please.”
Regency Christmas (Holiday Collection) Page 21
