Jade Lee

by Winning a Bride

  He didn’t answer. He just opened his eyes and shot his mother a look. It begged her silently to leave him alone. Sometimes a man just needed to be stupid.

  She understood. She raised her hands in surrender and backed away. “Miss Josephine asked to see you, so I brought her. And now I’ll be going back to my baking.” She rolled her eyes at Josephine. “Maybe the boy will come back to his senses once he’s got food in his belly.”

  “And maybe the man just wants to be left alone to work,” he shot back.

  His mother’s only answer was a low chuckle as she waved her good-bye and departed. Which left him alone with her. She wanted to talk. That’s what all women wanted, and right now that was the furthest thing from his mind. So he glared at her and stomped over to a bucket of water. He’d brought it to wash what was left of the sturdy stone table that was part of the inside wall. But even in his fury, he didn’t want to stand in front of her covered in stink. So he grabbed it and wet the cloth. He cleaned himself quickly with angry swipes, but in the end it was useless. No cloth could get him clean, so he discarded it and grabbed the whole bucket and upended it over his head.

  The water was cool and clean. A sweet delight, but it recalled to his mind the way they’d cleaned each other in the creek. They’d waded to the deepest part of the water and washed each other with their bare hands. Then their mouths. And then there had been no more cleaning. Just sweet erotic play that ended up with him embedded so deeply into her, he lost himself. That was the problem, he decided. Last night, he’d lost himself in her and he would never, ever recover.

  He dropped the bucket, then wiped the wet from his eyes. When he could see, he looked at her. She was wetting her lips while her eyes had taken on a hungry cast. In this way, they fit. He’d more than proved that last night. But in all others? He turned his back on her, half to stop himself from looking at her tight nipples, half to hide his thickening cock from her.

  “I meant to have this cleared by today. But yesterday—”

  “I don’t care. Are you all right? I couldn’t stay. My father and Mr. Montgomery—”

  “I know why you couldn’t stay.” Damn it, did she think he wanted to hear all the details? He knew she was engaged to marry Montgomery. He knew she couldn’t be seen standing on the side of the river with her heart in her eyes. That’s what haunted him. The sight of her, wet and terrified. For him. She’d been terrified for him, and then that damned Scot had taken her away. Made him want to kill the man, but he hadn’t been able to do that. It wasn’t his place. And he couldn’t talk about it now, so he nodded to her, his body and his words stiff. “Of course I’m fine. Come back tomorrow when I have this done.”

  “What are you doing?” Her voice was husky, and he tamped down the feelings that were running riot inside him. He wanted her, and if what had happened yesterday was any measure, she wanted him too. But to her father, Will would never be anything but a damned, worthless Crowle.

  “Will—” she began, but he cut her off.

  Keeping his back to her, he gestured to the room at large. “This was what I wanted to show you. But tomorrow, after I had time to clear it.”

  “This?” she asked. “But why?”

  “It used to be the stillroom of the castle. A long time ago. Do you know what a stillroom is?”

  “Of course. It was where medicines were made. It was usually attached to…” He heard her step to the window. She could have taken two steps to the side to walk through the wall. “To a garden out back. For herbs and the like.”

  Unable to resist, he turned to look at her. The sun was on her face and in her hair. Her skin shown fair and clear. She was a beautiful woman, but most of all, he saw her quiet. She didn’t show it often, but he knew how to bring it out in her. It was when she was thinking, her mind leaping ahead to figure out his puzzle.

  Lord, he wanted to go to her. He wanted to lie down with her in the sunshine and love her until she could do nothing but gaze at him. Instead, he crossed to his satchel, pulling out the heavy tome and unwrapping the oilskin that surrounded it. Without any more pomp than that, he extended the book to her.

  “Here. This is what I meant to give you. And this room and garden if you want it.” It was a lie. He didn’t own this room or this garden. And it was a fair question if he owned the book. By rights, it was probably his brother’s. But for now, he had say over who used it, and he gave it to her.

  She took the book, studying his face for a moment before looking down at the heavy leather tome. “The Leechbook of Bald?” She crossed quickly to the stone table and set the book down, opening it slowly and reverently. “How old is this?”

  “I don’t know. The original was written centuries ago. That’s a copy with pages added by others. The last entries are by my great-grandmother.”

  She flipped carefully to the back and gently stroked her fingers over the feminine writing. “Why would you give this to me?”

  He shrugged. He’d meant to think of exactly how to show her this. He’d meant to prepare his explanation. But she’d appeared a day before he was ready, and so he could only answer honestly. “You said you needed a hobby, a task of some sort. We don’t have a doctor in the village. Nearest one is an hour’s fast ride.”

  “I can’t be a doctor.”

  He stepped forward. “Are you so sure? You once told me about following around an old woman in India. That she was the one who made potions and the like for the servants.”

  “Magic potions. And most of it was nonsense.”

  “But you followed her around. You learned what she taught.”

  He watched her swallow, her gaze drawn back to the book. She turned the pages, scanning recipe after recipe. Her fingers traced over potions to cure warts, medicines against a cough, treatments for any number of ailments. She didn’t speak, her thoughts absorbed by what she read.

  Unable to stop himself, he stepped close enough to fill his lungs with her scent. “You told me you were fascinated by that woman,” he said. “The stories behind her potions, the belief she had in herbs.”

  “It wasn’t medicine. Not from a doctor.”

  “And why can’t that be medicine? Up until six years ago, we had a witch-woman that we turned to. The doctor came for the serious illnesses, but it was the witch-woman who treated the little problems. And truthfully? Most people thought she did better than any London trained doctor.”

  “But…” She abruptly twisted to look at him. “You want me to be a witch-woman?”

  He shrugged. “A woman who knows treatments. There are more books. This was my great-grandmother’s, but the witch-woman had maybe a dozen more. We could probably buy them from her son. If you were interested.”

  She didn’t answer, but her body told him the truth. She’d drawn closer to the text, reading page after page. She was interested. More than that—she was fascinated.

  “This information,” she said softly. “It shouldn’t be lost. We should definitely buy those books.”

  “Then you could read them. Maybe mix some of the potions and see if they work.”

  She lifted her head. “But that’s a massive undertaking.” She flipped back to some of the early pages. “Look, some of this isn’t even in English. Or at least not the English I understand.”

  “But you can translate it, right?”

  She bit her lip, her eyes going back to the page. “I could try. I could sort it out, I think. Maybe.”

  “And maybe then you’d have something important to fill your time. Not stitching some silly design for another cushion that no one will use. But real medicine for people who need it.”

  “This is not medicine. I’m not a doctor.”

  He touched her arm. He couldn’t stop himself. “You don’t need to be a doctor. Just a woman who mixes potions. Someone who figures out what works and what doesn’t. That’s something you can do. And something we desperately need.”

  She looked out at the garden, seeing the wild tangle of growth there. “You think I can gr
ow these herbs here? But I’m not a farmer. I don’t know how—”

  “I know how. And others too. There’s a boy—Harry—he’s of an age to be getting into mischief if he’s not occupied. We could hire him to make your garden. He just needs supervision.”

  She nodded slowly. “I could do that. And maybe I could mix some of these things. The potion for sores, maybe. Or something to smooth wrinkles.”

  He smiled. He could see the interest sparking sharp and clear in her eyes. She was willing. He stepped back from her then. He stood back and just watched her as she turned page after page, frowning and thinking the whole time. In the end she nodded, her gaze finding his. He expected her to say “thank you” then. Or perhaps start detailing her plans. She had them already, he knew. But instead she said one word.

  “Why?”

  He blinked. “Why what?”

  “Why would you show me this? Why would you ask me to do this? Here and now?”

  He raised his arms in a shrug. “Because it’s been six years since we had a woman to tend to the village. Because you would take to this; I know you would. But you were never allowed. You’ve been told since you were born that you are to live in London and marry a rich lord, but that’s not what will make you happy.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  He stepped forward, touching her arms and drawing her to look at him. “I can know that because you’re like me, Jo. You need solid work to do and space in which to do it. Just like me.”

  She looked into his eyes, and he saw a yearning there. A desire to do everything he wanted. To stay here, to grow her garden and make her potions. To be with him at night and stand by his side during the day. He saw it all in her eyes.

  Or he imagined what he wanted to see because a moment later, she shook her head and drew away. “It’s isn’t real,” she whispered. “And it isn’t for me.”

  “What?”

  She stretched her hands to the open air, to the overgrown garden, and then finally to him. “Everything you’ve said, everything we’ve done—Will, it isn’t real. None of it was real.”

  “Of course it was! Every damn minute of it!”

  “Then why—after all this time—do you only come courting me after my father announces his intention with my dowry? Look me in the eye, Will, and tell me you don’t want me for my land.”

  “It’s Crowle land,” he snapped. It was an automatic reflex, and it was the absolute worst thing in the world he could say. He meant to continue. There was more to that sentence, but he didn’t express it in time. Damn it, some things were hard to say! But by the time he managed to frame the words in his head, she was already walking away.

  Sixteen

  Josephine stumbled ahead, surprised that she could walk at all. It’s Crowle land. No, it wasn’t, she screamed in her head. It was her land. It was in her dowry and therefore hers to dispose of as she willed, along with her hand in marriage. And at the moment, she’d rather give the whole damn lot to a flea-bitten tinker than let Will have it.

  “Jo!” he cried again, but she didn’t answer. She just kept walking. Until he abruptly stood in front of her, gripping her arms as he held her in place. He was still half naked, his hair still wet. He was a beautiful man, but all she saw were his eyes. They were dark, and they were tortured. “That’s not what I meant to say,” he said.

  “Yes, it is,” she said, a sob catching in her throat. “All of it—it was simply about the land.” Then she abruptly shoved him backward. He rocked on his heels, but he didn’t leave her side. “God, I was such a fool!”

  “Yesterday wasn’t the first time I asked for your hand in marriage.”

  His words were so abrupt, so desperate, that at first she didn’t understand his meaning. But eventually it penetrated her misery enough for her to focus on him. She frowned. “What? When?”

  “The first time was three weeks to the day after you came to the creek that first night.”

  “When I was howling like a dog?”

  He flashed her a quick smile. “I thought you were amazing. I wanted you even then, but I was still so angry. It took me three weeks before I had the nerve to speak to your father.”

  She shook her head. “You couldn’t have. We’d only spoken a few times.” That wasn’t exactly true. By the end of three weeks, they’d made their midnight assignation a nightly event. But there hadn’t been anything romantic in it. She’d been a girl with big London dreams. He’d been a man with some education and an open mind. They’d talked of everything, but in that time, he’d never so much as touched her hand. “You didn’t want me. You didn’t even touch me.”

  “I burned for you, Jo. Burned.” The way he said it—with his eyes so dark and so intent—made her want to believe him. Could he have wanted her even back then? “But I’d wanted to court you as was proper.”

  She struggled a moment, thinking back. In the end, she didn’t believe him. She couldn’t possibly have been so blind as to miss a man who burned for her. “No,” she said firmly. “At midsummer festival, you made your opinion very clear.”

  He huffed out a breath. “Do you remember what it was like when you first came to Yorkshire? The villagers—the crofters and everyone in the area—they all hated you.”

  She grimaced. She remembered. It was bad enough constantly feeling like an outsider, but it had been much worse than that. She’d heard names like “tart” and “upstart.” Their carriage was routinely vandalized, and once when Josephine had gone into the village, a gang of boys had thrown rotten fruit at her. She’d sported the bruises for a week. She knew because Will had found the boys and made them till a field as punishment. They’d worked from dawn until dusk every day in the hot summer sun until her bruises had faded. And in all that time, he had stood over them, lecturing them on what it takes to be a man. He’d said that a man doesn’t hurt women. He cherishes and protects them.

  She’d fallen in love with him then. Looking back, she saw it so clearly now. But that was also the first night he had not appeared at their spot on the creek.

  “You talked to the boys and the villagers. You changed things around. And then Papa had the idea for the mid-summer festival—”

  “That was my idea.”

  She blinked. Of course it had been his idea. Papa understood the value of engineering, of the canal, and how he could make the land profitable. But Will was the one who understood the people and how to relate to them. This was his home, these were his people. And he had been right. The festival had turned around the mood of the village.

  “Megan and I played Lady Bountifuls,” she said. They’d dressed in new clothing, all purchased at the village. It had been so much fun delivering lavish baskets of food while Will trailed behind with a cartload of pigs—all gifts from Lord Lawton. Yes, Papa had gifted people with pigs, and then they’d thrown a huge mid-summer festival with dancing and drinks that lasted throughout the night.

  Everything had all turned around then. The grumbling stopped and the vandalism, too. People smiled, at least to their faces. There was still resentment—some of it continued still—but everyone agreed that at least the Lawtons threw a great festival. And it had all been Will’s idea.

  She looked at him, knowing that for all the problems between them, he did what was right for the village. He respected the land and the people. Which brought them right back to where they’d started this argument. He did everything for the land not for her. And it had never been more clear than on that night.

  “I went to dance with you and you turned me away,” she whispered. “You said you wanted me gone, never to return.”

  He bit his lip, and she saw anguish in his eyes, but he didn’t disagree. She’d come to him late, well after midnight. They were all in the main village square, everyone dancing and a whole lot more. She wasn’t supposed to have any of the local ale, but she’d sneaked some anyway. And then she’d sauntered over to where he stood on the side. Flushed and bold from drink, she had asked him to dance. She knew he had respons
ibilities. It had been his task to watch over the proceedings, to make sure that no one got too wild, but he’d managed a few dances. With his mother. With other unmarried girls. She’d wanted him to dance with her.

  So she’d approached him. She’d taken his hand and tried to pull him out into the main square. But he’d looked at her sternly, and then he’d leaned down to whisper into her ear.

  “It’s a party, sure,” he’d said, “and we’ve shared many a sweet night. But don’t mistake things here, Miss Josephine. We all want you back in London, and the sooner the better. You don’t belong here and you never will.”

  His words still stung, and she blinked back tears. She took a shuddering step and pulled back from him.

  “You said then that I didn’t belong here.”

  “I lied! Damn it, Jo, you fit here!” He gestured wildly to the stillroom and garden. “And you fit here. With me.” He tugged her into his arms, wrapping them around her as he settled his cheek against her forehead. She didn’t want to go to him, but in this he was right. Their bodies fit perfectly. He’d proved that in a variety of glorious ways. Then he spoke, his voice low as it rumbled from his body into hers. “Did you ever ask your father what the cost of that festival was?”

  She frowned. Money was not something ladies ever discussed. But yes, she had wondered at it. And when she’d mentioned it, her father had simply laughed and told her it was worth every groat. She’d assumed he meant because of the change in the villagers. Because after that festival, the tide had turned on accepting the Lawtons into the area.

  Will exhaled in a gruff sigh. “You, Jo. You were the cost for the festival.”

  She pulled back enough to look at his face. “I don’t understand.”

  “It took me three weeks to gather the nerve to ask. Three weeks, and in that time, your father had seen something. He knew how I looked at you, and he’d seen you looking back.”

  Yes, she supposed she had. She’d been so young then, and even the excitement of London in the fall couldn’t compete with their nightly talks by the creek.