Freedom

by Jenn LeBlanc

  “Well, um. Hmmm.” She tried to clear her throat once more but failed. She patted it gently with her fingers then tried again. Finally she whispered. “My name is Francine Larrabee, and I have no idea how I came to be in your wood, on your estate, or under your horses,” she said sardonically as she returned his gaze head on.

  She caught the heady scent of him, an intoxicating blend of clean male skin matched with a spicy soap and the tang of sweat, and her skin pricked in reaction. His very presence was dizzying. She floated between his half-raised arms, electricity sizzling across her flesh. She blushed as he continued to stare at her, a half-terrified look on his face. There was something else in those eyes—anger, yes; trepidation, absolutely. But beneath those: fear, longing…and pain. She desperately wanted to allay his anxious demeanor.

  “I was lonely,” she whispered. “I very much appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and if there is any way I can repay your kindness—”

  She looked down, breaking the connection, suddenly embarrassed by the expression on his face. She realized too late that she shouldn’t have said something like that to this obviously virile man who also happened to be a complete stranger. “I just meant that someday, somehow, I would like to repay your kindnesses toward me, even if it is just a token.”

  When she lifted her chin she took in more of him. She liked the way his hair curled slightly at his nape and wanted to run her fingers through the thick waves. She wanted to smell it, rest her cheek against it, float her fingers across his skin. Before she knew it, she was moving forward again.

  Francine realized how much pleasure she took in watching him. His movements made her skin over-sensitive, with a keen awareness that gathered in her belly. She could see he was concentrating greatly, his breath steady and determined, his muscles undulating the fabric of his shirt. She also noticed the outline of the large muscles of his legs against the fabric of his pants. She looked back up to his sharp white shirt, which fell open at the neck, and watched as his ribcage moved.

  Roxleigh realized his posturing had done nothing to faze her as she quietly swept forward like a spirit. She drew up to him, whispering closely so he could hear her over the rushing water of the fountain. He felt a ripple of tension extend from his core, lifting his arms and tingling in his fingertips. He tensed as he looked into her eyes and stood perfectly still, hands flung out, entirely unsure of her nearness.

  He nodded once, very aware of her proximity, and backed up a pace, then leaned against the edge of the fountain, drawing a broad smile from her. He cocked his eyebrow.

  “May I?” she whispered, quietly motioning to the fountain. Her eyes were sparkling, the color of the sea washing up on a sandy beach, and he nodded, captivated by the intensity of her gaze. She took three steps and sat on the edge of the fountain, then swept her feet over the side and into the water, sighing heavily as she pulled her skirts up to her knees.

  He watched her small feet, her delicate ankles and surprisingly muscular legs, as they lowered into the water. His gaze moved up as her legs descended, catching sight of the exquisite bones of her knee, the crease which circled the back of her leg and was covered with sensitive flesh. His mouth went dry and his stomach clenched as he imagined his finger running along that line. He jerked and turned, pushing away from the fountain as she looked up.

  “You don’t have electricity. How is this possible?” she whispered.

  He looked back at her, puzzled, then glanced at the fountain. “A siphon, from the cistern built by the Normans,” he explained before walking away. Good Lord. How am I to survive this? He strolled around the fountain, in desperate need of distance, watching her from the corner of his eye. It hadn’t been even an hour since he had considered her while taking his pleasure. Her skin was creamy and freckled, with a subtle hint of pink flushing the surface from the chill of the water. Her arms and legs were long and lissome, but not as soft as most women of age. Her limbs had the shadows of definition that hinted at exertion. She has strength, he thought excitedly. Could she possibly be a rider, or is she merely fond of walks? I did find her running through the maze--not exactly an acceptable form of exercise for a lady.

  He was mesmerized by her movements as she wiggled her feet back and forth rapidly under the water, then straightened her legs in front of her, letting the water run off her skin in rivulets, dripping to the surface of the pool and drawing quiet coos and sighs from her. He smiled at this small token of pleasure he had brought her, then scowled, wondering why he should care.

  He turned away again, his breath becoming more rapid. He felt her gaze on him and looked back over his shoulder. She smiled as she watched the chilled water running off her feet. His breath caught in his throat as he felt his loins tighten with need. Or was it want? How inconvenient. He turned toward her and spoke, attempting to strengthen his voice with the appropriate firmness. “Miss, you should not uncover yourself in such a familiar manner. It is hardly proper behavior for a lady,” he said stiffly.

  Francine frowned and pulled her feet up to the bench. She tugged the nightdress down over her toes and leaned her chin on her knees, wrapping her arms around her legs and inspecting him.

  That was a mistake. The way her lower lip jutted out in a frown made him want to nip at it. His lips pulled back from his teeth almost instinctively, as if to do so, before he turned his back once more. His chest tightened and he bent over, leaning his hands against his knees. Bloody hell! Breathe, damn you. He groaned. He’d never been affected like this. He glanced back at her.

  She tilted her head, watching him, her brow furrowed. He could see her taking him in and her inspection only drove his passion higher.

  After what seemed an eternity, he straightened and continued around the fountain, brushing past her quickly. He faced away from her, straight as an arrow, his arms crossed over his chest. He took a deep breath and turned toward her, bending one knee and resting his boot at the edge of the fountain, tapping his thigh with his clenched fist.

  Francine reached toward him with one dainty hand, then drew back sharply when he raised his arm to block her. “Just—give me a moment,” he said slowly, pleadingly, as his breathing began to slow. He was fighting to keep from being overwhelmed by his baser instincts, but just the smell of her at this point was enough to send him over the edge. Even so, he couldn’t force himself to move away again.

  How could the sight of one small, feminine ankle be enough to send all his blood rushing to his groin? He felt a deep pressure begging for release and he hoped he could steady his body enough for the passion to recede. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen at least that much of a woman’s body before, and more. He was well practiced in the art of pleasure, but even more practiced in the art of discipline, and as such his body shouldn’t react to this girl without his permission.

  He saw her blush and turn her head from the corner of his eye, and even that small movement caused her scent to waft toward him. Lavender and rain. By all outward appearances, she was well bred and well learned. She should have had the proper studies in comportment and manner, but she seemed to have misplaced them. He looked down to see her toes at the hem of her robe, and he exhaled.

  She waited so patiently for him. After a time he lowered his arm, attempted to relax his muscles,,and raised his head. He lowered himself to the edge of the fountain and leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, his hands clenched.

  “You don’t seem to have morals,” he stated bluntly.

  Her jaw dropped and her spine straightened. He shook his head, to ward off her coming protest, then turned toward her. “When I—we found you, your manner of dress was that which would befit a lady. You were—are clean,” he said, with a gesture to her countenance. “Your hair was made properly; your corset was such that you could not have dressed yourself. I should know because I had to remove it to allow you to breathe.”

  This is not a proper conversation for an unmarried gentleman to have with an innocent girl. His speech was entirely too person
al, but he couldn’t help it; he had an unwarranted desire to discover more about her.

  She blushed and started to turn her head away, but he clenched his jaw and bid her hold his gaze. She bit at her lower lip, ducking behind her knees. He could see just her clear blue eyes peeking out at him and tried to steer the conversation to a more acceptable subject. “I thought I heard you speak French,” he offered, hoping she would give more in explanation.

  He waited--patiently, he thought—to no response.

  He shook his head and closed his eyes. It must have been the madness. But wasn’t the doctor’s assessment based on the fact that she wasn’t speaking? Or was it the way she spoke that had him more concerned? She was certainly an infuriating paradox.

  He stood, circling the fountain again. He didn’t know much about mental frailty. He only knew that those whose minds were in disrepair were taken from their families, never to return. Maybe he should trust Dr. Walcott; maybe she should be sent to Bedlam. He watched her, sitting peacefully on the other side of the fountain. No, it wasn’t in him to relegate her to that.

  He was restless and wished there was some way he could ease the tension. There is one way—he could throw her down on the grass here in the clearing and have her. He lifted his head, and she smiled at him. Mistake.

  The twilight ended, but the moon and stars were bright enough that he could see her from the far side of the clearing as he paced, the moonlight reflecting into her face from the clear fountain water. She didn’t budge, just watched as he moved toward her again. Perhaps he would slake this desire.

  No—the woman is damaged. He shook his head as he admonished himself.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered forcefully as he approached. She held her throat, hands shaking. When he saw the fear and anger wash across her face he halted in his advance. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me as though I have a broken wing. I don’t know what has come over me, I don’t know what to say to you. I am afraid every moment that I am doing something wrong which will cause me to be sent away from here and I don’t—” Her breath caught. “I don’t have anywhere to go. In all my life, I cannot remember ever feeling as safe as I do right now, in this strange place, and I don’t understand why. Because regardless of your actions”—she turned on him and pointed—“your demeanor has been less than welcoming.” Her voice cracked as she whispered. She took a deep breath and rubbed her throat with her hands.

  He sat down and leaned toward her, trying to hear.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you tonight. I have just been cooped up on the second floor of your—your palace, and I needed to get out,” she pleaded. “I saw you earlier on that black horse, and you looked so free. I just wanted to feel the same. That’s why I came out tonight. That’s all.”

  He stared at her for a long moment as she pulled her knees up again. “I understand that feeling,” he said, with a half grunt. “I hate being holed up in the manor—it is a manor, not a palace, mind you, but the, uh, compliment is well taken.”

  She made no reply.

  “You have been held on the first floor, not the second,” he said a moment later, as an aside. “I never considered that you would see me riding Samson. It scares the hell out of my staff, tears up my hands.” He paused, rubbing his palms together, shocked at his own familiar tone.

  She reached out and grasped one of his hands before he knew what she was doing. They were much larger than hers. Turning his hand palm up in hers, she gently stroked the rough calluses with her thumb.

  He sucked in a breath as he froze, watching. “But—but I cannot help it.” He exhaled strongly, then in a whisper, continued. “It’s that feeling of freedom and peace, and I—I have no right to keep you from yours.” He was breathless now. He was breathless now, his mind reeling from her touch and his disclosure. He reached out with his other hand, gently touching the abrasion on her forehead, then traced his fingertips down the frame of her jaw.

  She smiled and he retracted his hands abruptly, folding his arms across his chest. She hid her face, resting her forehead on her knees.

  “It’s my understanding that Mrs. Weston has made arrangements to have some garments made for you, and that should ease the trouble. It shouldn’t take long, but until then I must insist for your safety and out of common decency that you keep yourself covered as much as possible, and that you remain in the private areas of the manor. I have business associates that visit, not to mention all the servants and others within my purview. If they saw you, your reputation would be ruined, which would be a shame, because you will obviously make a fine wife someday—after we figure out where you belong or, I suppose, once we get you to where you belong or—” He realized he had rambled so far from the point that he finally drifted off into silence with a sigh. Why did he feel so terribly uncertain? He rubbed his fingers across his eyes and sighed again.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “For?” he replied, not looking at her.

  “For everything. I don’t expect anything from you, and I very much appreciate what you have done.” She reached out to touch his arm. “I will repay you somehow.”

  “No, you won’t.” He looked directly into her eyes as he spoke, ensuring she understood his intention. “What I give, I give freely and expect nothing in return. The fact is, we don’t know to whom you belong and it wouldn’t be proper to just ignore your needs.”

  “To whom I belong?” Her head cocked to the side and her eyes widened, then she nearly yelled but for the broken voice. “To whom I belong! I belong to no one!” she tried to scream, but no sound came from her throat.

  He panicked and tried to explain. “I meant your father or husband…of course. I already assumed you weren’t a servant, not dressed like—” He stiffened when she reached out, grabbing his arm frantically as the color left her face.

  In one swift move he stood and threw one of her arms over his shoulder, scooping her up to his chest. Already panicked by her pallid skin, the shock of her hand on his bare neck was enough to startle Roxleigh into a dead run. He skidded through the maze, slipping around corners as he held on to her, his boots slick on the lawn. The feel of her fingertips in his hair sent a shiver from his extremities straight to his middle, causing him to shift his grasp, pulling her higher up his chest and tighter to him as he lurched slightly going up the stairs.

  He went all the way to the first floor without pause and burst into the private parlor with a yell. “Weston! Ferry! Meggie! Where the hell are you?” he yelled as he ran to the door, then stood at the crest of the grand staircase looking out over the entry. “Weston!” he bellowed, as loud as his lungs would allow.

  She came up next to him. “Your Grace, you found her!”

  “Yes, and it would have been quite nice to know she needed finding,” he answered with a scowl.

  Mrs. Weston followed him to the guest suite, running to keep up with his long stride. Roxleigh laid Francine carefully on the bed and she looked up at him with gentle eyes as she reached out, grasping one of his arms before he could move away. She held her right hand straight and flat, the tips of the fingers to her lips, and then moved it forward, but he only stared at her in confusion and worry. Then she mouthed the words thank you, and made the motion again.

  He nodded to her, taking slight comfort in the fact that her pain seemed to have eased, and turned to Mrs. Weston. “We will discuss this on the morrow. Tonight she needs rest, and you will watch her,” he said, emphasizing his potential displeasure should his wishes be disregarded again.

  “Yes, Your Grace, of course. I’ll not leave her side,” Mrs. Weston replied, her voice quivering, and she went to warm a kettle on the fire.

  Roxleigh left Francine propped up on a few pillows, waiting for Mrs. Weston to come back to the bed. When she did, he left and Francine reached for Mrs. Weston’s arm. With her right hand she made a fist and motioned in a circle over her heart, mouthing the words I’m sorry. Mrs. Weston’s expression flushed with confusion as Francine
repeated the gesture, then understanding broke across her face.

  “No, dear! No! I am sorry. I should have been close by your side the entire time. I never should’ve left you, and I won’t make the mistake again,” she said.

  Francine knew that Mrs. Weston had no idea what had happened tonight in the garden. All she knew was that Francine had disappeared and been returned in the arms of an angry duke. There was no way for her to know of the time shared in the maze, the amount of care he took with her. Mrs. Weston did not know that it had actually been the best night of her entire life, the first night she’d ever felt truly free.

  She considered Roxleigh’s actions. No man had ever cared for her. She never had time to deal with them, and frankly they all seemed uninterested and a bit scary. But this one was different. He was concerned, not merely for her health but for her well being. He touched her without moving, her body aware of him regardless of proximity. She could feel him everywhere, and just the thought of him sent blood rushing to the surface of her skin.