‘Yes. Believe it or not, to me he appears in good humour. When he is angry he is a lot less affable.’ Although she had intended those words as a joke, they set alarm bells ringing in Jamie’s mind.
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’
‘If you want to.’
‘Of course I want to. We have another storybook to create, don’t we?’ Lord, how he wanted to kiss her goodnight.
‘Then I shall see you tomorrow, Jamie. In our usual place.’
Our usual place. How splendid that sounded. ‘Goodnight, Cassie.’
* * *
For the next fortnight they met every day for two blissful hours, Cassie writing a new adventure for Orange Blossom while Jamie translated her words into whimsical pictures which delighted them both. Sometimes they rode idly along the riverbank, sometimes they shared stories over the home-baked delicacies she brought them, and sometimes they sat in surprisingly comfortable silence, gazing up at the clouds and the ethereal patterns they made in the sky. It was almost sheer perfection. Almost, because the spectre of that one, passionate kiss hung over them. Unspoken about and yet so prominent in her mind at least. When the Reverend Reeves was once again summoned to the diocese in Norwich, Cassie suggested they spend the whole day together to work. By midday, they had done precious little actual work as they had ridden over the entire length and breadth of the Markham estate talking. Jamie had an idea about dragons which she knew would make a good story.
It was Jamie who suggested they deposit their mounts at his brother’s stable for a well-earned rub down and some oats, so they set up his easel and her pens on their favourite spot by the river beforehand, intending to stroll back horseless after they had eaten some lunch with Letty. The beautiful Countess of Markham was thrilled to see her and made no mention of her father’s outrageous sermon. Even when Cassie tried to apologise, it was cheerfully waved away. ‘Who cares about such nonsense? Jamie tells me the pair of you are actually going to try to get your storybook published. How exciting!’
‘We might. One day.’ They hadn’t seriously talked about it since the night in her bedchamber.
‘Cassie is concerned about putting her name to it as her father would disapprove.’ Jamie made a disgusted face at the mention of her father before taking another bite of his food.
‘And Jamie is convinced attaching the name Warriner to anything is doomed to see it fail. I need a nom de plume and Jamie needs a nom de pinceau—which is apparently French for paintbrush.’
‘Whatever names you choose,’ Letty replied knowledgably, ‘they must be memorable in order to stand out on the cover. No Smiths or Jones for surnames. And no Johns or Janes for the Christian names either. You need something with a bit of dash—it is a great shame you will not use your own name, Cassie, because Cassandra is the perfect name for an author.’ She dipped her spoon in her pudding and licked it thoughtfully before grinning. ‘Why don’t you amalgamate both your names? Seeing that you are now a partnership.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
Letty ignored the stern look Jamie shot her and continued to speak to Cassie as if he did not exist. ‘What I mean is, as you are both keen to maintain your anonymity by using pseudonyms, why not create just the one. Cassandra James—the talented new author and illustrator of humorous storybooks for children. People in London will fall over themselves to buy them. The pen name will be a delightful nod to your real selves. A marriage of sorts.’
Despite the obvious attempt at matchmaking which had Jamie scowling across the table, Letty’s idea did have merit. Cassandra James. It was a lovely name and she enjoyed the sound of the syllables. Cassandra James. It was almost musical. However, it was not just the nom de plume which excited her. The idea that they could publish a book, and one that people would actually pay for, opened up a world of possibilities. A way to fund her future independence in a quicker way than squirrelling away the odd coin from the frugal housekeeping money. Such a possibility seduced her. ‘I rather like it, Jamie. But it is up to you. Do you feel uncomfortable with the idea of being published as a woman?’ Because if he didn’t, Cassie now knew she needed to find a way in which he would be happy to have the book published. It was her ticket to freedom.
He shrugged as he wiped his hands on his napkin. ‘My vile father always said I painted like a girl—pretending to be one for the eyes of the world will have him spinning in his grave. I rather like that idea.’
‘Right, then. It’s settled. Orange Blossom and the Great Apple Debacle by Cassandra James it is!’ Letty tossed her own napkin on the table. ‘I happen to know a publisher in London. My father invested heavily in his fledgling business years ago so he owes my family a favour. Even if it is not the sort of thing he publishes, he will be able to point it in the direction of someone who does. Give me your story and paintings and I shall send them to him this very afternoon. By the time I have finished, books by the talented Cassandra James will be famous.’
Her excitement was infectious and Cassie suddenly wanted to go along with the idea before she had time to think about it and decline. How marvellous would it be to see her story as an actual book, and one perhaps which hundreds of children might enjoy? Aside from the potential money it might make, it would also be another guilty little act of defiance against her overbearing father, yet another reason to do it. ‘Do you have my journal, Jamie?’ He still hadn’t brought it back to her and she was hoping he hadn’t mislaid it.
‘Yes.’
‘Splendid. Chivers!’ Letty was already ringing the bell. The butler appeared through the door as if he had been stood outside poised for such a request. ‘Chivers, I will need to send an express to London this very afternoon. Can you get someone to fetch Mr James’s charming horsey paintings, which are piled by his chair in the drawing room, please?’
‘Have you been rummaging through my things again, Letty? I’ve told you a hundred times, do not touch my painting equipment.’ Jamie looked pointedly at Cassie as if he were greatly put upon. ‘There is no privacy in this house. Something which has got worse since my brother married this witch.’
‘I did not see Miss Reeves’s journal there, Jamie. Where, pray tell, is that?’
The Countess was grinning again and Cassie swore she heard Jamie actually grind his teeth. ‘Oh, I think you know, dear Sister-in-law. Let us not play this game again.’
‘Honestly, I do not know.’ Although it was obvious she did. ‘Come along, Jamie, Chivers hasn’t got all day. Tell him where to find Miss Reeves’s small, brown leather-bound journal.’
The butler’s eyes were darting between the pair of them like a spectator in a tennis match. Letty was grinning and Jamie was scowling. A good ten seconds of impasse ticked by until Jamie grunted what sounded like. ‘Nightstand.’
Poor Chivers appeared confused. ‘I did not catch that, Mr James.’
‘Yes, do speak up, Brother dearest.’
‘It’s on my blasted nightstand, Chivers!’ He stood up, looking charmingly annoyed. ‘Come along, Cassie. We have work to do.’ Then he limped away as smartly as his injured leg would allow.
Cassie thanked Letty for lunch and hurried after him down the hallway. Instead of exiting towards the back door in the kitchen, Jamie veered down another passageway. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I need to fetch some more paint. I am running out of blue.’ He opened an ancient-looking door and disappeared down a narrow staircase. With nothing better to do, Cassie followed his retreating back and was surprised to find herself in a rabbit warren of a cellar. There were literally doors everywhere. He grabbed a burning lantern before he opened one. Inside was an artist’s store cupboard which even Michelangelo would envy. Hundreds of tubes of paint, brushes and jars were cluttering the shelves. As he began to rummage for the exact shade he wanted, he quickly turned towards Cassie. ‘I could probably do with more paper as well. Would you mind grabb
ing some from the cupboard next door? It’s piled to the left as you walk in. Be careful. It’s a bit of a mess.’
Cassie did as he asked, pushing open the heavy oak door expecting another cupboard—except it was hardly a cupboard. More a cavernous room. Piles of paper and easels of varying sizes were stacked haphazardly against one wall. Everywhere else was evidence of Jamie’s art. Beautiful pictures were piled on or against every available surface. It was like Aladdin’s Cave.
Cassie couldn’t help herself. To have such an unexpected opportunity to see his work, to witness first-hand the things he could paint but never say, was a tantalising insight into a man she was becoming inordinately fond of despite her better judgement. Shamelessly she began to flick through them, amazed by the level of intricate detail he could create using just a brush and his own extraordinary talent.
He really did see beauty in everything and his choice of composition was staggeringly romantic. Vivid sunsets, delicate butterflies, intricate cloud formations. Birds, deer, trees and plants. All of the prettiest things nature had to offer, except people, and all painted with the gentle, loving care of a man who could not say it, but felt it all so deeply. She could see as much clearly with every detailed, considered and romantic brushstroke. It was obvious he truly loved creating such beauty.
Another part of the feeble dam she had constructed around her heart washed away on a wave of affection so strong, it staggered her. Leaving Captain Galahad behind when she inevitably left Retford was going to be the hardest thing Cassie had ever had to do. He was the only true friend she had ever had—yet there was no point in trying to pretend otherwise, he was so much more than a friend. At least, she wanted him to be more than a friend and occasionally she thought he might feel the same way as well.
There were those oddly charged moments when she caught him staring at her, for instance, when he would quickly look away, but not before she had seen his blue eyes swirling with some undecipherable emotion. The way his hands lingered on her waist or ankle when he helped her on to her pony. The way he glared at his sister-in-law every time she hinted there was something between them, which she did at every available opportunity and each time Jamie became flustered, grunting one-word responses. By his own admission, a sure sign he was nervous. And then there was the way he painted Miss Freckles. The tiny caricature was so pretty, with her wild hair and big brown eyes, Cassie wondered if that was how he saw her. The real her.
It was obvious that the fictitious Captain Galahad was hopelessly in love with the intrepid but silly heroine they had created. It positively shone out of his painted turquoise eyes as he gazed across the paper at the woman who appeared oblivious to his feelings. Miss Freckles, she noticed, never gazed at him with the same adoration. Her eyes were always turned towards Orange Blossom or Stanley or whatever scrape she had currently dragged him into, almost as if he was insignificant. Perhaps that was how he felt. He was so sensitive about his limp after all and had felt the urge to prove himself better than those scoundrels enough to kiss her that one time...
That thought brought her up short. Was Jamie’s art imitating life? Was there a chance he had deep feelings for her, too? Things he could never say with words—only paint? And perhaps his kiss—because it had been a very heartfelt and passionate kiss, regardless of his claim to the contrary—was tangible proof? Maybe he had concocted the whole story about proving a point to cover up the real truth? Unless she was being ridiculously fanciful again. If she were really as intrepid as Miss Freckles, or even the shameless flirt Orange Blossom, she would be bold.
She might be bold enough to instigate another kiss to find out if he was truly immune to her charms as a man proving a point would be. She could sneak into the cupboard next door, slide her arms around his waist and whisper something seductive close to his ear.
I was wondering, Jamie, if you would allow me to conduct a little experiment...
Which, of course, she wouldn’t. Cassie was ultimately a coward despite being her mother’s daughter. The trouble was, the more time she spent with Jamie, the less guilty she felt about her fanciful daydreams involving him, her and the magnificent sunset they rose off towards together. She supposed she should try harder to stop thinking such wanton thoughts, seeing that they would only confirm her father’s worst fears for her rotten soul and get her into a mountain of trouble, but the simple truth was where Jamie was concerned she couldn’t find the motivation to care.
A vibrant study of a flower caught her attention and she pulled it up level with her eyes to get a better look. In the centre of the fat pink rose was a bumble bee, the wings appearing almost translucent and, if she was not mistaken, every fuzzy hair on its striped back individually defined using the finest of brush strokes. No doubt exquisite, but the pale glow from the lantern outside was too weak to see them properly. Cassie took a step backwards to try to catch some of the light on the picture, her hip grazing against something hard in the process. Whatever it was, it moved. She heard it slide to the floor on a whisper. Then the door violently slammed shut behind her and her heart literally stopped beating in her chest.
Chapter Twelve
Jamie found the blue he needed, then remembered he should also stock up on some black paint as well, as he was going through it at a rate of knots getting Satan the deep, opaque colour that did his temperamental horse justice. He stuffed everything he needed into his pocket and left the little storeroom.
‘Cassie, did you find the paper?’
The passageway was empty and silent, and he assumed she must have headed back upstairs without him. He could hardly blame her; he did climb stairs pathetically slowly. More like a feeble old man than one supposedly in his prime—but his damaged thigh muscle found that particular movement the most challenging of all, so he supposed stairs would always be his nemesis. The flash of temper which always accompanied any reminder of his infirmity was tinged with self-pity. Obviously Cassie, despite her inordinate patience with his blasted physical limitations, occasionally felt constrained by him. Hence she had skipped up the stairs smartly rather than wait for him to hobble along with her.
The fresh dose of self-pity mixed with the awkward self-consciousness which his brother’s meddling wife had sowed with her thinly veiled hints about his relationship with Cassie. When you put those two states together, he found his previous buoyant mood significantly deflated. He had been so looking forward to spending a whole day with her, rather than the few stolen hours she managed in the afternoons. Riding, chatting, laughing. He was always happier with her by his side, even if he was just a friend. He had managed to convince himself that was better than not having her in his life at all. But as usual the truth crept in when he found himself looking at her longingly and wondering what if?
Jamie returned the lantern to its hook and scowled. In all honesty, maintaining the charade of being happy with their state of affairs was proving more and more difficult with every passing day, not helped by unsubtle hints from his family suggesting it was quite apparent he wanted more. Today, over lunch, had been positively cringeworthy. Letty’s well-meant and playful words had wounded.
Partnership! Marriage of sorts! As if he could seriously contemplate a marriage of any sort in the state he was in. The final humiliation had been having to admit to keeping Cassie’s journal on his nightstand like a lovesick milksop, another glaring clue to his intense feelings towards her. Although only he knew he had taken to sleeping with it tucked beneath his palm, a little part of his freckle-faced temptress to help ward off the demons of the darkness which still lived inside his own broken head. At least he hoped only he knew.
What was worse was that he really only had himself to blame. He knew damn well his relationship with Cassie could only be platonic—yet he still hoped and yearned for a miracle. Hoped that one day he would miraculously wake up fully healed and nimble, the hated limp gone and his irrational nocturnal behaviour gone with it. But
miracles had proved to be decidedly thin on the ground as far as he was concerned. Annoyed, Jamie stomped loudly on the first step and then stopped abruptly when he heard a strange noise. It sounded like sniffing—or perhaps sniffling.
Definitely sniffling.
Quiet, almost imperceptible sobs which he might never have heard if his military training and years of covert missions had not made him acutely aware of the slightest sound out of place.
‘Cassie?’ He started back the way he had just come, wondering if she might have got herself lost in the cavernous and winding cellar. It was highly plausible. Jamie and his brothers had played hide and seek down here for hours when they were children. ‘Cassie, are you still down here?’
He heard another snuffle and realised it came from the paper store. If she was in there, why didn’t she answer him? ‘Cassie!’ The shout went unanswered.
Unless she couldn’t answer him. Perhaps something had fallen on her or she had tripped? There were all manner of easels and canvases in that room, things which he had been meaning to properly tidy up since he returned home from the Peninsula and could never quite find the incentive to. Thinking of Cassie hurt sent a chill through him as he grabbed the lantern again.
‘I’m coming, Cassie!’ He tried the handle repeatedly before acknowledging it was futile. The blasted door wouldn’t move, which meant something was wedged behind it. Very probably an easel because he had carelessly stacked them next to the door for his own selfish convenience. If one of the bigger ones had knocked her on the head, she could well be out cold.
Or worse.
Jamie put his shoulder against the ancient oak and put his full weight behind it, enough to open the door a crack to see inside. She was on the floor and, by the looks of things, hunched up in a ball because she was in agony. If she had broken a bone because of his slapdash organisational skills, he would never forgive himself.
A Warriner to Rescue Her Page 16
