by Deb Marlowe
She stared blankly at the housekeeper’s note complaining of the rising cost of candles. A bitter laugh worked its way out of her chest. Beeswax could become as dear as diamonds and still not jolt her as deeply as the sight of Mateo Cardea’s arms around the Eagle’s Etta. The sight had been a jagged knife to her heart and to her faith in her friend. And Mateo had only twisted the blade deeper when he made his suspicions clear.
Abruptly, she pushed away from the desk and crossed to the window. Staring out over the beauty she had coaxed from the earth, Portia forced herself to acknowledge the truth. Through a span of years, a disastrous marriage, neglect and isolation, some part of her old schoolgirl self had survived—and she still suffered an infatuation for Mateo Cardea.
It must end here and now. Any lingering softness or longing must be locked tight away. She thought she might go a little mad if Mateo also thought of her as helpless and weak. So she would meet him as a woman—composed, controlled, in charge of her own life, and to some extent, his as well.
She could not suppress a smile at the thought. Of all the men in her life, Mateo might be the only one she had never been able to best or ignore, but she had the whip hand over him now. Keeping it might not be easy, but it could prove to be a great source of satisfaction.
With a flourish, Portia threw open the casement. Breathing deeply, she acknowledged the subtle siren’s call of the gardens. Abruptly, she decided to answer. Turning, she strode out of the library, and headed for the stairs. ‘Dorrie!’ she called. ‘I’ve changed my mind! I’m going out!’
In general, Mateo’s mood suffered when he found himself landlocked for any length of time. It seemed some part of him always listened, yearning for the timeless thrum and endless animation of the sea.
Today, though, the beauty of the day and the peace of the country conspired to silence his craving. A wonderful mosaic of woodland and farmland comprised this part of Berkshire. His mount stretched out beneath him, light on his feet. The faintest breeze blew across his face. It all made for a pleasant enough morning, but not enough to distract him from his pensive musings.
Dramatic, Portia had called him. Hardly the worst label that had been handed him. Hell, he’d been called everything from rascal to reprobate. But through months of war and a longer struggle to keep a business literally afloat, he’d always maintained his reputation for cheerful roguery. Even through the heat of battle, his crew teased time and again, he’d kept a fearsome grin on his face and his wit as sharp as his blade.
That had not been true in the last months. He’d been on the verge of a major business coup when he’d been struck hard by the grief of his father’s passing. That unexpected tragedy had been difficult enough to deal with, but swift on its heels had come the reading of the will, and, with it, the added afflictions of anger and betrayal. They made for unfamiliar burdens, but Mateo had embraced them with a vengeance—as anchors in a life gone suddenly adrift.
He and his father had always had their differences. Leandro Cardea had been a serious and driven man, determined to live up to the ancient merchant tradition of his family. Mateo’s lighthearted manner had at times driven him mad, as had his ideas for the business. Their disagreements had been loud; their heated debates, on the future of shipping and how best to steer the business in the hard years after the 1812 war with England, had been legendary. Mateo had been constitutionally unable to submit to the yoke of authority his father wished to confine him in, but despite different temperaments and differing opinions, he had thought they always shared the same end goal: the success of Cardea Shipping.
He did not know who he was without it. His first steps had been made along the teeming Philadelphia docks. He’d spent his childhood in that busy, dizzy atmosphere, learning arithmetic in the counting houses and how to read from warehouse manifests. He’d grown to manhood on board his father’s ships, learning every aspect of the shipping business with sweat and tears and honest labour. His adult life had been comprised of an endless search for new markets, new imports, new revenue. For years he had worked, struggled and prepared for the day that he would take the helm of the family business.
And now he never would. So, yes—he had grabbed on to his anger with both hands and held tight. But it was an unaccustomed affliction, and it had grown heavier and more burdensome with each passing week. It would be a relief indeed to set it aside, but was he ready?
Not quite. Portia had been convincing last night. Something inside him wished to believe her, but he had a need to question her closely, and a rising desire to compare stories.
I need your help, she’d said, and she’d mentioned something about her own dilemma. It set his mind awhirl, with curiosity and, worse, a growing sense of suspicion. His father’s heavy-handed manipulation blared loud and obvious, but could Portia truly have been unaware of her part in it?
As he’d already done hundreds of times, Mateo dragged his memory for details of the thwarted marriage scheme Leandro Cardea and the Earl of Winbury had attempted nearly nine years ago. Their timing had been preposterous. Mateo had been completely occupied with his sleek new schooner, and the opportunity for fortune, glory and adventure that privateering would give him and his crew. The notion of a marriage had been his father’s last, desperate attempt to steer him from that course. Ever the rebel, Mateo had laughed at the idea—and at his father’s clumsy choice of a bride.
Portia Varnsworth? A girl-child she’d been, with plenty of pluck, but no more appeal than a younger sister. At the time he’d hoped she’d been just as incredulous as he. He’d written to her with that assumption, and certainly her response had reassured him. She was far too young to contemplate such a thing, she’d replied, and entirely too caught up with a landscaping project on her father’s estate. And there was the Season for her to look forward to the following year. Mateo had sighed in relief and promptly forgot the entire scheme.
But he had thought of her occasionally, over the years. He remembered her shy smile and her willingness to listen. He’d been surprised and curious at the news of her marriage, and sympathetic when he’d heard of her husband’s death. Had anyone asked, he would have confessed to remembering her fondly.
Until the day he’d sat in the solicitor’s office and heard that his father had left the controlling interest in Cardea Shipping to her. Instead of leading the family legacy into the future, he would be working for Portia Varnsworth.
Mateo’s shock had been complete. Doubt and suspicion had sprouted like weeds in his mind. And if he hadn’t been so angry, he would have laughed at the—once again—impeccable bad timing of the thing.
At the thought he urged his mount to a quicker pace. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, someone had to quickly take control of Cardea Shipping. Ahead must be the lane that would take him to Stenbrooke. He took the turning, but after only a few minutes’ travel he found himself distracted. Gazing about him, Mateo realised that, of a certainty, there was one thing about his childhood friend that had not changed.
Portia Tofton, née Varnsworth, was a gardener. Digging, planting, pruning, cutting, Portia had never been happier than when she was covered in muck. Looking about, it became clear that she had continued to indulge her beloved pastime here at Stenbrooke.
The lane he followed led first through a wooded grove, immaculately kept and dotted with the occasional early-blooming clump of monk’s hood. Eventually, though, the wood thinned, giving way to a sweeping vista of rolling hills. Ahead the path diverged. To the left, over the tops of a grouping of trees, he caught sight of a peaked roof. On the right nestled a jewel of a lake, edged with flowering shrubs and spanned by a rustic stone bridge.
Mateo marvelled at the beauty of the scene. Then he spared a moment’s empathy for the hardship some sea captain had endured in transporting the obviously exotic specimens.
He shook his head. The landscaping work here was awe-inspiring. Surely Brown or Repton had had a hand in it. Had Portia kept this up herself after her husband’s passing? But of c
ourse she had. Care and attention to detail were evident in every direction.
It was ongoing even now, he noted, catching sight of several labourers grouped on the far side of the bridge. Standing thigh-high in the lake, they were repairing one of the arches, judging from the steady ring of hammer against stone. He watched them idly until he reached the fork in the lane, and then he turned his mount’s head in the direction of the house.
Until suddenly his brain processed what his eyes had just seen. He hauled on the reins, startling the animal, and spun him swiftly around. Raising a hand, he cast his best weather eye towards the lake again. Yes. One of the labourers had moved to the edge of the stone pedestal and into view. A labourer in skirts.
A sharp bark of laughter broke free. Yes, he mused, men did die. Enterprises failed, empires grew and nations were born. Mateo had learned that lesson the hard way. One had only to look about with an unjaundiced eye to know that change and upheaval were the only persevering truths in this life.
Perhaps that explained, then, why he should be struck with unexpected delight at the odd tableau before him. It was something of a relief to discover that some things never did change.
The ghost of a smile flitted about his mouth. It was even more of a relief to once again find pleasure in a simple, unexpected moment. He let the stranglehold on his anger slip—just a little—and spurred his mount towards the lake.
Chapter Three
‘That’s done it now, Mrs Tofton.’
Portia’s ears still rang from the blow of the mallet. Her foreman’s voice sounded tinny and distant, though he loomed close by her side.
‘You can let go. That’s the last one.’
She did, shaking out the strain in her arms and stepping back. The damaged pedestal of her stone arch bridge was nearly repaired, she saw with satisfaction.
‘Aye, that does it,’ Newman echoed her sentiment. ‘A bit of mortar and it’ll be right as rain.’ He turned as another man splashed up. ‘We’ll not be needing another block after all, Billings. You can throw that one back in the cart. We’re nearly done now.’
Billings turned, but cast a resentful eye back towards the bridge. ‘Can I be gettin’ back to the orchard now? New branches don’t train themselves.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Portia grasped her water-logged skirts and started back towards shore, as well. ‘Thank you, Billings. I am sorry I had to tear you away from your trees.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps next year we shall be able to hire some more permanent labourers.’
‘Aye, well, and if you do, let them waddle after Newman here. I’m fine alone in the orchard, but if you be wantin’ a crop this year or next, you’ll be lettin’ me get on with me work.’
‘Oh, go on, you old crosspatch,’ she said, smiling over her shoulder at him. ‘Newman, can you finish up on your own? I suppose I must get back to the house and change before our company arrives.’
‘You’ve left it a bit late.’ Billings shifted his burden and spat casually into the water. ‘Leastaways, you did if your company’s dark, broad as that yonder oak and near as tall.’
Portia’s gaze followed the thrust of his chin towards the shore before the impact of his words truly hit her. With a gasp, she splashed to a halt and dropped her skirts. A horse stood tethered near the pony cart they had used to transport stone and supplies, and striding down the slight incline towards the water came Mateo Cardea.
Tall and strong, with sun glinting off his dark curls and shining boots, he advanced with a purposeful tread. Portia’s mouth gaped open as he failed to stop at the shore’s edge, but the chiselled lines of his face were set and determined. Without hesitation he strode right into the water and towards her. She stared, noting his furrowed brow and the large straw hat dangling from his fingers.
Water sloshed around her knees as he drew to a halt in front of her. Her breath caught.
And then he smiled.
Unfair! The cry emanated from the vulnerable part of Portia’s soul, the one that she had spent just this morning locking away. It was a nonsensical notion, but the sudden pounding of her heart felt eerily like the bang of a fist on a closed door.
Where was the angry, brooding man who’d hurled insults at her last night? She searched his face, but the stormy countenance and dangerous gaze had fled like clouds before sunshine. And left only the visage that had fuelled her adolescent dreams for years.
The real irony was that it was a face that might have been made for anger and brooding. Bold, dark eyes flashed under arched brows and amidst a longish, angular face. The great Cardea nose might have overwhelmed any other man’s features, but on Mateo was balanced beautifully by his wide, sensual mouth and irresistible tangle of curls. Masculine splendour shone down on her, warmer than the rays of the sun. And suddenly Portia wobbled, as weak in the knees as if she truly had spent too long in the heat.
Mateo stepped close and grasped her arm.
Billings snorted as he sloshed past them. ‘Coming through, Mrs Tofton.’
Newman followed without comment, and without turning his gaze in their direction. Portia barely noticed. She watched, mesmerized, as Mateo’s other hand lifted, rose and disappeared above her head. She jumped, startled at the gentle touch of his fingers moving in her hair.
‘Forgive me,’ he said softly. ‘But—’ Brown and capable, his hand hovered before her face, holding a large chip of stone. Comprehension dawned, along with a flush of embarrassment. She suppressed it and watched him toss the thing into the water. Grasping the straw hat where it dangled beneath their arms, he offered it up. ‘You’ll want your hat, Peeve,’ he said quite casually. ‘Your nose is turning red.’
She lost her fight with the advancing tide of warmth. And just the thought that he might notice turned a simple blush into a spiralling wave of heat. She tried calling herself to task. She’d meant to demonstrate her complete indifference to his anger, to present a picture of a woman occupied with her own pursuits, fully capable of commanding her own destiny. She had not meant to blush like a girl at his first words or to meet him standing knee-deep in the lake.
But this was the Mateo of her youth—and somehow their bizarre situation seemed fitting. He towered over her, one eyebrow elevated, a matching wry grin pulling at the opposite corner of his mouth. Portia drew a long, shuddering breath. It struck her hard—that oh-so-familiar gleam in his dark eyes, full of good-natured mischief and just the smallest hint of irony.
She pulled abruptly away from his touch and struck out on her own for the shore. ‘Don’t call me that, please.’
He followed, literally in her wake. ‘I will not, of course, if you dislike it. But I assure you that today at least, I meant it only in affection.’
‘Nevertheless.’ Portia climbed the springy bank, bent down and grasped her shoes.
‘Shall I call you Mrs Tofton, then?’ he asked with a quizzically raised brow.
She heard the unasked question. He wondered why she did not use her hereditary title. And deliberately she did not answer. ‘That is my name,’ she answered in the same tone. ‘But why don’t you just call me Portia, as you used to?’ She summoned a smile. ‘I beg your pardon for meeting you in such disarray. My foreman said we had to act quickly to prevent further damage to the bridge, and I’m afraid I cast all other considerations aside.’
She lowered her gaze as he drew close, and caught sight of his ruined footwear. ‘Oh,’ she gasped, ‘your boots!’ She glared up at him. ‘Whatever possessed you, Mateo? There was no need of that.’
‘But it was necessary—after my display of spectacularly bad manners, I feared you would strike out for the opposite shore at the sight of me.’ He still held her floppy hat. With delicate movements, he lifted it high. Moving slowly, as if he worked not to frighten her, he settled it on her head.
She stood stiff and ram-rod straight. He followed the line of ribbons with his fingertips and began to tie them under her chin.
‘I suppose I could not have blamed you if you had,’ he spoke low and h
is jaw tensed. ‘I owe you an apology, cara. No matter the situation, I should not have lashed out at you like that.’
She flinched at the old endearment. He was too close. She was too flustered. She’d wanted him to look at her, see her, but she’d imagined it at more of a distance. Portia’s heart began to flit inside her chest like a bird in a cage.
She pushed his hands away and stepped back. ‘I’m perfectly capable of tying my own ribbons, thank you,’ she said irritably. She breathed deep, needing to regain control of her wayward emotions and the situation. You aren’t a love-struck young girl any more, she reminded herself fiercely.
‘There is no need for an apology.’ There, that was better. Her tone, at least, sounded tightly controlled. ‘The circumstances are highly unusual. I suppose anyone might have jumped to the conclusions you did.’
His dark gaze roved over her. He said nothing for a long minute, just watched her closely while she fiddled with half-tied ribbons. ‘Ah, but I begin to see now,’ he said. ‘Anyone might have suspected the worst, but you didn’t expect it of me.’
Some heavy emotion weighted his voice. Guilt? Sorrow? She wished she knew which she would have preferred it to be.
‘And that changes much of what I thought would pass between us.’ His brow furrowed as he stared down at her. ‘And what do I do with you now, I wonder?’
Portia stiffened. ‘Not a thing! It’s not your place to do anything at all with me. In fact, I’d say the shoe was quite on the other foot.’
He winced. ‘I deserved that, did I not?’
‘And far more.’ She raked her gaze down the length of him. ‘Hard as you may find it to believe, Mateo, I’ve had important things on my mind—and not a one of them involved a scheme to trap you into marriage.’
He returned her speculative gaze. ‘Do you know—I think it would have been better for me, had you been the villainess I suspected you to be.’
