by Lara Temple
‘He might be a she,’ she said, kneeling on the grass to arrange some flowers to provide cover for her near-drowned victim.
‘Even better if it is. I feel very gallant now. I probably saved you from a dunking too. I think I have earned my breakfast. Shall we...?’
He held out his hand to help her up, but she looked about the trees around them with a slight frown at the chattering birds.
‘Perhaps I should wait until he...she...is dry.’
He conceded defeat and joined her on the grass. The bee hadn’t moved. If he...she...hadn’t been clinging so decisively to the leaf Kit might have suspected their rescue had come too late. He wondered how long they would have to wait to discover if the insect was alive or dead. He had no intention of testing the fates by prodding it.
‘How long does a bee usually live?’ he asked.
‘Oh, two months or so.’
He wrapped his arms around his knees. ‘We might be here awhile, then.’
She threw him a grin that did more to dispel his embarrassment at his behaviour than her assurances.
‘You needn’t stay, Kit. You must be hungry after your swim.’
‘You saw me swimming?’
She nodded, her eyes back on the bee. He watched her profile, the strong line of her chin and nose and that lush pout of her lower lip. His mouth watered.
He wasn’t hungry; he was ravenous. He’d come down to swim precisely to counter this plaguing hunger, only to have the fates drop its cause on top of him. And now he was engaged in a bee-watching vigil with his tormentor while imagining her beside him in the water, their bodies hot against each other in the cold bite of the sea. He would stretch her out on top of him, the cool sand at his back, her warm, firm thighs encasing his, her breasts glistening from the sea...
‘Do you know how to swim?’ he asked, trying to prise his mind from that image.
‘Yes. Grandfather’s batman taught us when we were in Portugal. I am quite good. Not as good as you, of course.’
She gave him another quick, sidelong smile. Half-shy, half-teasing. He tightened his hold around his knees.
Milly, realising his masters were going nowhere for a while, plumped down between them. He stretched to the full extent of his wolfish frame, then gave a contented sigh and panted into canine abandon.
This was how he could be, Kit thought. If they were married. Keeping vigil over near-drowned bees with a woman who could write as if she’d walked through history and manage people as if she’d taken lessons from Napoleon. A woman who was fiercely loyal, who cared for people far more than she wished to, and whose body was a source of agony for him in a way he had never experienced.
And who had chosen him for her first kiss.
That shouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, but it did. It was like a hand reaching through fog. The urge to clasp it and let it guide him was almost overpowering.
He’d been from one end of the known world to the other and he’d never felt...this. He was more content to sit with her in silence, watching over a bee, than going to explore the world in search of his next treasure.
He had no idea if this was what his parents had shared or what poets went on about. It felt outside the bounds of the known. A mix of dark and light and deep, deep water.
He was afraid it was here to stay and that scared the hell out of him.
It scared him even more that he had no idea what she felt.
For all he’d come to know her, she still kept rooms and rooms of her fortress carefully under lock and key. She’d explained her tie with Julian, but that was only on the surface. Underneath she was passionate, excitable, and she was fighting every one of those tendencies—had probably been doing so for years.
It would be something of a miracle if Julian—who cared for her, no matter what he might say—hadn’t sparked some answering emotion. For all he knew, the two of them, equally defensive and defiant, frightened of the future and themselves, were a hair’s breadth away from that tipping point that might bring them together.
And he had just given Julian the means to explore that possibility.
He shouldn’t have.
He tried to focus on the rhythm of Milly’s puffing breath, on the chatter of the birds that was becoming less energetic as the sun rose in the sky. On anything but the chaos the silent woman next to him kept unleashing.
It would be madness to allow this strange sinking to continue. Seductive and dangerous. It was time to kick his way back to the surface, fill his lungs with fresh air, and assess the situation in a rational light.
He couldn’t do that around her. Whatever this was—rampant lust, love, a reaction to finding himself wallowing in the cursed Carrington swamp—he needed distance.
‘Oh, look!’ she exclaimed, pointing to the bee.
The furry, tubby little thing was flicking its wings.
‘There,’ she said, her voice rich with contentment, her lips parted in a smile. ‘I told you she was alive. She merely needed to recover her strength.’ Milly buffed her hand and she smiled down at the dog. ‘Yes, you’re a good dog. You have more than atoned for knocking me onto your master, haven’t you, love?’ she cooed, her voice pouring warm honey over both of them.
Kit gave a silent groan and sank his head onto his knees.
* * *
Genny watched Kit bowing his head and thought of the last time he’d caught her cooing, over little Leo back in London. It felt so strange that they were the same people. If someone had told her that love could transform her, she would have scoffed.
But she felt different.
Happy.
She knew it was about to end...that tomorrow the guests would leave and so would Mary and Kit and that the clock was ticking down to heartbreak. But right here, right now—she was happy.
Her throat tightened. The sun was burning her eyes.
She gave Milly one last pat and stood up. ‘I’ll have Cook give you a fine bone, Milly. And you’ve earned your breakfast too, Lord Westford.’
He stood as well, stretching, his eyes glinting in the sun. ‘Thank you, Generalissima.’
That stung a little—she hadn’t meant to sound high-handed.
‘I wish you would stop calling me that.’
‘I meant it purely as a compliment this time, Genny. It is a tribute.’
‘It doesn’t feel like that.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand why you are ashamed of being brilliant. You won’t tell anyone you’ve written some of the most wonderful tales I’ve read in a long while. You roll into a ball like a hedgehog the minute I pay tribute to your considerable skills...’
‘Scheming skills are hardly something to be commended for.’
‘Of course they are. Politicians and generals are commended for them all the time. If you were a man you wouldn’t be hiding your light under a bushel. The only reason you couldn’t give Napoleon a run for his money is because you’re too compassionate. Believe me, he wouldn’t have stopped to pull a bee from a pond.’
Embarrassment and curiosity warred with a strange sense of hurt. She didn’t want him to admire her. She wanted him to love her.
Quite desperately.
* * *
He should have known praising her intelligence would send her running. She was beet-red now, and looked ready to kick something in embarrassment. She was already shrugging off all the pleasure of the moments they’d shared, tucking herself away.
Except he wasn’t ready to let this moment slide. He wasn’t ready to let them slide. Because there was a them. Where they were heading he didn’t know, but there was, for the first time in his life a them...us.
He should let her go, but instead he crowded her against the garden wall and cupped her cheek, angling her face so that she had to look at him. Her eyes were shadowed, wary, but there it was—that wistful ne
ed that was always there. Carefully hidden, but there. That was the bridge that would either let him in or keep him out.
‘Genny Maitland is smart,’ he half sang, his eyes holding hers. They were defiant, but he could see the hurt beyond the defiance and didn’t stand down. ‘“What is it to be wise? ’tis but to know how little can be known, To see all others’ faults, and feel our own.”’
She blinked, and he saw curiosity warring with hurt. ‘Who wrote that?’
‘Pope, sweetheart.’
‘Well, it is not accurate at all.’
‘Of course not. You are a model of arrogance and selfishness, employing all your considerable powers for evil ends. I daresay you only rescued that poor bee so he could help you infiltrate the hive and secure all the honey for your nefarious purposes.’
‘Oh, the bee...’ she said worriedly, trying to move past him, but he caught her waist, stopping her.
‘She flew off while you were busy claiming how evil you are. Another plot foiled.’
Her mouth flickered into a smile. ‘You must be dreadfully bored if you are resorting to flirting with me again, Lord Westford.’
He knew very well what flirting felt like—and seduction, and lust. This felt like all and none of those. He wished it did. He didn’t want to accept the implications of it being something else entirely.
‘I’m not bored in the least, Genny,’ he said in all honesty.
Terrified, but not bored.
He bent his head, just grazing her cheek with his mouth.
Not smart, not smart, sang the voice of caution—and was tossed into the pond.
She shivered against him, and her voice was breathy when she spoke, but her words were pure Miss Genevieve Maitland.
‘I don’t think this is wise, Lord Westford. If any of your guests were to wake and glance out of the window you might provide them with rather more entertainment than you wish.’
He glanced over his shoulder at the row of windows twinkling in the sun. He was tempted to throw caution to the winds. More than that, he wanted her to want to throw caution to the winds and surrender to impulse. He wanted some sign that she was as confused, overwhelmed, and entangled as he.
But Genny, with her cautious eyes on the windows and her cautious mind on consequences, was not that.
He sighed and stood back. Sailing into the wind required a great deal of tacking. And patience.
‘Come. Breakfast. I feel I’ve earned it twice.’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘That morning walk certainly did you good, miss,’ Susan said as she secured another pin in Genny’s thick hair. ‘You’re looking much more the thing, if you don’t mind my saying so. Now, hold still while I fasten your gown.’
Genny sat obediently, staring at the tell-tale colour in her cheeks. It had been flowing and ebbing all morning. As had her mood.
The morning had turned out to be quite, quite different from her expectation. She wasn’t quite certain what to make of Kit Carrington’s attitude to her, but she knew, as clearly as she could feel her heart thumping away, that she was in love with him.
He’d saved a bee for her.
She ought to be more affected by his actions on Serena’s and Mary’s behalf. Well, she was. By freeing them, he’d freed her. But he’d saved a bee for her and sat with her while it dried. And in that calm, companionable silence her heart had ceded its last plate of armour.
She loved Kit Carrington. It was no longer avoidable, negotiable, deniable. It just was.
He’d been good to Julian, though she was quite certain Julian had done his usual best to be annoying.
He thought she was smart, and not merely in a devious way.
He’d even found some merit in her devious ways.
He was, quite simply, marvellous.
And she was a fool.
She wished she were far more devious. Then she wouldn’t have drawn his attention to the perilousness of their position in the garden. She would have kissed him in full view of whoever cared to glance out of their window on a beautiful sunny morning.
It would have been quite a scandal, and Kit, being Kit, would have offered to marry her. Poor Lady Sarah would have had to roll up her tents and cannon and depart the field.
Society would have been sorely disappointed, of course. Probably even vindictive. Charlie’s impeccable birth had balanced out Serena’s indifferent Maitland lineage, but that lineage would do nothing to help Kit’s standing in society. He might believe he did not care, but he might yet change his mind. Especially if there were...if there were children.
She’d never indulged in the thought of children. But now the idea caught her by the throat with yearning and terror. She didn’t want any children—she wanted children with him.
He would be a good father. She’d never been on any other ship where the men didn’t merely respect their captain, but love him. Kit would know what to do when she was weakest. He would love their children when she was afraid to. He would check her when she tried to rule them for their own good.
But they very well might look like her, not him, and they too would have to negotiate the shoals of society. While his and Lady Sarah’s children would sail through the eye of a needle with their perfect looks, and their wealth, and their much-mended pedigree. Lady Sarah would be another perfect piece for his collection. The jewel in the Carrington crown.
‘There you are, miss. As pretty as a picture.’ Susan stood back, pleased.
Genny eyed herself, thinking that there were all kinds of pictures, not all of them pretty. But she thanked Susan and hurried downstairs towards the breakfast room.
She wanted and did not want to see him again so soon. She...
‘Good morning, Miss Maitland.’
Genny closed her eyes briefly before turning, donning a smile as she did so. Lady Sarah even descended the stairs like a work of art.
‘Good morning, Lady Sarah. Did you enjoy the excursion yesterday?’
‘We did indeed. Though you were missed. As was Lord Westford. I trust nothing serious occurred to keep him here?’
‘I don’t know, Lady Sarah. I spent the day in my rooms,’ she lied.
‘Ah, of course. I do hope you are recovered?’
‘It was merely a megrim. Nothing serious.’
‘But not pleasant.’
‘No.’
Lady Sarah paused two steps from the bottom and did not seem inclined to proceed. ‘I was wondering if I might ask your advice, Miss Maitland.’
No.
The word jumped into Genny’s mind and she very much hoped it did not show on her face.
‘I was about to go in to breakfast.’
‘It will only take a moment.’
‘Very well. This way.’
Inside the library, she stood by the door while Lady Sarah wandered along the shelves.
‘Papa said you were raised in Spain. With all the soldiers.’
‘My sister and I lived with my grandfather when we were young, that is true.’
‘It doesn’t show in the least on your sister.’
Genny didn’t know whether to smile or spit. She opted for the smile. ‘Thank you.’
Lady Sarah turned and smiled back—a surprisingly warm smile. ‘I like you better.’
Genny blinked.
‘I like it when I don’t know what people think. It’s boring otherwise. You’re only a few years older than I, but you are...different. You do not seem to need anyone. I wish I was like that. Maybe if I’d grown up like you I would be.’
Well, this was a turn-up for the books.
‘I don’t think you would have enjoyed that, Lady Sarah.’
‘You have no idea what I would enjoy.’
‘At the moment, I think you would enjoy becoming Lady Westford.’
The words were out of h
er before she could check them.
Lady Sarah’s eyes widened. ‘You are direct. Yes, you’re quite right. I don’t think life with Lord Westford would be boring.’
‘It might be when he returns to sea and leaves you here.’
‘Not at all. I rather fancy having such a lovely house to myself, to rule as I see fit. Papa has very definite ideas about his household, and one reason I am still unwed is because I do too. I won’t exchange my father’s house for another cage. When I leave it, I want to go somewhere I can breathe. You can understand that, can’t you?’
God, yes, she could.
‘Wouldn’t you worry about what he was doing while he was away?’ she asked.
‘You mean other women?’
Genny prayed the thump of heat she felt in her chest wouldn’t bloom into a blush. She had actually been referring to the danger of Kit’s enterprises but, as Lady Sarah had supposed, it was probably the women that would occupy her mind.
Lady Sarah frowned at the tip of her pink silk shoe. ‘I think I might—a little. But men always have mistresses, don’t they? Papa does. His current one is quite nice...certainly nicer than Mama ever was. I feel sorry for her, though. She isn’t his first and she won’t be his last. That is the wife’s advantage.’
‘True.’
‘Are you Lord Westford’s mistress?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Genny said, her voice a little hoarse.
‘I saw the two of you this morning. In the garden.’
Oh.
‘Have...have you told anyone?’
‘It is hardly in my interest to do so, is it? He would have to marry you—which isn’t in his interest either. If it were he would have done so already. I noticed it from the start. We were in the garden, and you were carrying a basket of flowers, and he took it from you and...smiled. He has a different smile for you. So does Julian Carrington. I learned to watch for those signs from Mama. She was good at spotting those things. I daresay it came from watching Papa all those years.’
A confused mix of anger, guilt and the sharp piercing pain of hope shoved through Genny’s heart.
