by Carla Kelly
‘Where do I find you?’ he asked.
She looked surprised and then flustered. ‘Ivy Cottage. We are his lordship’s tenants.’
‘Ivy Cottage?’
‘A little way along the lane between here and the village.’ She took her daughters’ hands and walked away. For all its mud-coloured ugliness, the skirts of her pelisse swayed from her generous hips in a most pleasing manner. He stilled. His blood hadn’t warmed to the back view of a woman in years. And nor should it be doing so now. The woman was his father’s tenant. She deserved more respect. And clearly, she was not that sort of woman. While she might be a widow, she was also most definitely a lady.
He closed the door. Ivy Cottage? He didn’t recall any rent-paying tenants anywhere on this blasted benighted property.
* * *
Twenty-five beeswax candles. Cassie stepped back to admire the fruits of her labours hanging from their racks. Hers and those of the wonderful little creatures who had also given them jars and jars of honey. Who would have thought a childhood interest could have kept them from the brink of disaster? Her throat felt a little too full. The prickle at the back of her eyes just a little too painful.
Sir Josiah St Vire had been a kindly old man and had professed a love of honey in his tea, her particular honey. The white clover that grew so well in this area gave it its delicate flavour. If this new landlord would also take honey and candles in lieu of rent as his predecessor had, they might survive another twelve months. His servant, Mr Royston, was certainly not a friendly sort. He’d practically frightened poor little Diana out of her shoes. He’d regarded Cassie herself as if he was Red Riding Hood’s big bad wolf ready to gobble her up.
Her face heated. Oh, no. Not another blush. As she had told herself the previous afternoon, the look in his eyes had not been appreciation. Young men never gave her a second glance once they’d taken in her towering height and homely features. The heat in Mr Royston’s expression had been annoyance at being thwarted.
When it came to women, it was her experience that men wanted everything their own way. Women were simply bargaining chips in their games of power. And when things did not go as planned, they turned unpleasant and vindictive. As her brother had, when she refused her first offer of marriage. He’d painted a pretty ugly picture of her future as his dependant. And as her husband had, when he discovered that even an earl could not guarantee his precious son the entry into polite society he wanted. No woman should trust a man to use his power wisely.
As a widow, she had the freedom to make her own decisions, to choose her own course of action. And she had managed very nicely, too.
She peered into the bottom of the tin pot standing in hot water over the fire in the little lean-to stable the girls had come to call her potting shed. Enough wax remained for a few small moulded candles and then her supply would be finished.
‘Good afternoon,’ a beautifully modulated male voice said.
She jumped and turned around. ‘Mr Royston?’
Looming. Over her. Her recollections had not played her false. In this small space, the man was disconcertingly tall and uncomfortably wide across the shoulders. He made her feel small, almost dainty. A most disconcerting sensation. He stared around him with obvious curiosity. While his face was too rugged to be called handsome in the common way, she was once again struck silly by his fierce manly beauty. She was also surprised to discover that the eyes she’d thought dark were a striking shade of emerald. Her stomach gave a jolt.
She bristled against the strange reaction. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Are you ready?’
Her glance flew to the clock on the mantel. It wanted two minutes to two. Dash it, she had lost track of the hours. She had promised the girls she would return to the cottage well before the appointed time of their outing. ‘I won’t be but a moment. We will meet you in the lane.’ Not exactly polite, but she was a single female and did not want any misunderstandings.
He ignored her hint, strolling around like a predator looking for prey, or the representative of a landlord looking for signs of neglect. Hands behind his back, he stared at the racks of candles suspended above his head. ‘So those are your hives in the lower meadow.’
Not a question. ‘Sir Josiah gave me permission.’ Oh, dear sweet periwinkles, if the new owner refused permission to use the field, she would need a new home for her bees. No easy matter, when he owned all of the land within walking distance. ‘I paid for the privilege in candles and honey. He thought the bees helpful for his orchards.’
Royston met her gaze with a frown. ‘Are these for your own use?’
As if she could afford such luxury. She lifted her chin. ‘Mr Driver sells the remainder of the candles and honey at the market in town.’
‘Hmm.’ He gave her a considering look. ‘Should we be going?’
She blinked at his rapid change of topic and brusque tone. ‘First I must remove the pot from the hearth and bank the fire.’
‘Allow me.’
Before she could protest, he had intruded himself between her and the fire and swung the crane clear of the dying embers.
Silently she handed him the rag she used as a pot holder.
‘Where do you want it?’ he asked, lifting the container with ease.
‘Outside to cool. I will deal with it later.’
He despatched the task quickly, while she untied her apron. Only to discover the tapes had become knotted somewhere in the small of her back.
After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped closer and once again she was aware of his impressive height and breadth. ‘Can I help?’ He pulled off his gloves to reveal large male hands, elegant hands, and not at all work roughened, like hers. A gentleman’s gentleman did not engage in rough work like gardening and candle-making.
She must either give him her permission or she must cut the ties and be forced to mend them later. She turned her back. ‘Thank you.’
Warmth radiated from him as his fingers busied at her back. Her insides fluttered each time his hands brushed against her gown. She forced herself to stand passively while he teased at the knot.
‘There,’ he said, stepping back.
She turned with a smile. ‘Thank you.’ Her breath caught in her throat at the intensity of his gaze. A veiled glance that took in not only her face, but her full length. Most men were usually intimidated by her height, but not this one apparently and her skin tingled with female awareness.
Brilliant green eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Do you need help taking it off?’
Oh, mercy, she was standing here like some besotted schoolgirl instead of a widowed lady of a certain age. She slipped the apron strings over her head, only to have him take it from her hand.
He leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers. A whisper of a kiss that had fire racing up her face to her hair line and her feet stumbling backwards.
He caught her upper arms in those strong capable hands with a smile that dazzled.
Her heart fluttered wildly. Her hand went to her throat.
‘Steady, Mrs Melford,’ he said, his voice deep and rich with laughter. ‘We don’t want you tumbling into the fire.’ He released her the moment he ascertained she had her feet firmly beneath her.
As firm as they were going to be around this man, since her knees were still misbehaving after his kiss. ‘Mr Royston...’ she began severely. ‘You are not to take such liberties with my person. Indeed—’
He glanced upwards and she followed his gaze.
Saints preserve her, she’d been standing beneath a beribboned bouquet of mistletoe. So that was why the girls had been giggling when she caught them coming out of her shed this morning. Lucy must have climbed on a chair to tie it to the beam. Naughty girl.
He reached up and plucked a berry as tradition demanded, tucking it into his inside bre
ast pocket.
Heavens, the man was wonderfully tall. The wind taken quite from her sails, she fought for words. ‘You will await me outside, sir,’ she said in her best reproving-the-children voice.
He bowed. ‘Certainly, ma’am.’
The moment he closed the door she sank down onto the stool and propped her forehead on her hand. What was wrong with her? Was she really so lonely, so needful of male company she would fall for the first man to give her so winsome a smile? She should never have accepted his offer to escort them.
She took a deep breath, damped down the fire and went outside. He wasn’t, thank heavens, standing outside her back door expecting her to invite him into her cottage. It would only need a villager passing by on the way to Padminton, their nearest town, for the same sort of gossip that had occurred when someone spotted Sir Josiah leaving her cottage to spring up all over again. She hurried indoors.
* * *
Adam swallowed a rueful laugh. Those little girls had caught him nicely when he knocked on the front door. He should have known the prim and starchy Mrs Melford would not have been part of a game to extract a kiss under the mistletoe. She hadn’t even known it was there. And yet he couldn’t regret the sweet contact of his lips with hers, the lovely scent of her, warm beeswax and roses. It was like summer on a wintery day.
He should apologise, but likely it would only make things worse. Besides, he did not feel sorry. Not the least little bit. He felt more aroused than he had for a very long time. Still, he had no business flirting with a respectable widow. One slip and he’d find himself being marched to the altar by her or by some ambitious relative.
Not that he suspected Mrs Melford of being some scheming chit on the hunt for a husband. Quite the opposite. She wasn’t worldly enough to have deliberately stood beneath a sprig of mistletoe expecting to be kissed. The woman blushed every time he spoke.
No, she was sweet and innocent and practically penniless. A charity case according to old Sir Josiah’s ledgers.
A darker thought intruded, one that had a pulse beating at his temple. Perhaps Mrs Melford was not an innocent after all. Perhaps it was another sort of payment her previous landlord had accepted in lieu of rent. Perhaps that was why she had blushed and looked uncomfortable.
If so, it was a good thing old Josiah had gone to his maker. He glowered at the cottage, contemplating men who took advantage of poverty-stricken gentlewomen.
The front door opened and Mrs Melford and her daughters emerged. Once again his gaze feasted on her gorgeously generous figure. The elegant turn of her neck beneath her ugly bonnet had him longing to taste that sliver of creamy skin. To feel the beat of her pulse against his tongue.
The devil! Had it been so long since taking a woman to his bed that he had lost all sense of decency? The woman deserved better. He forced himself to turn away, fiddling with Soldier’s bridle as if making an adjustment.
The little girls ran out of the garden gate and stopped when they saw the horse and cart. They gazed in puzzlement. ‘Are we going in that?’ Diana said. ‘We usually walk.’
‘It occurred to me that we might need help transporting the log.’
‘That’s Sir Josiah’s dog cart,’ Lucy said.
‘What a pretty horse,’ Diana said. ‘Can I drive?’
The pretty horse was his own mount. Sir Josiah’s carriage horses, while nice beasts, were likely to consider such a lowly task beneath them.
‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘There is only enough room for two up front. You and your sister must ride in the back and give directions. You will find a cushion or two back there for your comfort.’
‘It seems you have thought of everything,’ Mrs Melford said, helping Lucy up while he lifted Diana in.
Was she pleased about his perspicacity? Or not? It wasn’t easy to tell with Mrs Melford. He helped her in and climbed up beside her, clicking his tongue for Soldier to walk.
‘I did not mean to disturb your work this morning,’ he said by way of a peace offering, both for disturbing her work and perhaps just a little bit for the kiss. Only a very little.
‘I was finished.’
Taking him literally. As she should. No lady would acknowledge his teasing not-quite kiss. Though she perhaps should have slapped his face. Which made him think of something troubling, both to him as a man and as a brother. ‘Do you have family nearby?’ Some male relative responsible for the welfare of the ladies of this household.
‘Not that I think it is your business, Mr Royston, but I have no family to speak of.’
Not speaking of family did not mean one did not have any, it simply meant one didn’t intend to admit to them. ‘I am sorry,’ he said and meant it, because the likelihood of the next owner of Thornton keeping a tenant who paid no rent was highly doubtful.
‘Perhaps there is a suitor among the local gentlemen?’ A man who might rightly call him out for his wicked behaviour.
‘Marriage is the last thing I want. Never again will I put myself beneath a man’s thumb.’
He winced at her vehemence. Her marriage must have been unpleasant indeed. Stifling the urge to press her further, he brought the horse to the stand and handed off the reins to her. Soldier being the perfect gentleman, unlike the only other male present, waited patiently for him to open the gate to the field that gave way to the woods beyond. Adam leaped up and set the horse in motion once more.
‘Is your employer of a mind to reside at Thornton?’ she asked, as if sensing the direction of his earlier thoughts. He liked that about her. The way she reasoned and contemplated, even if it did lead to uncomfortable questions.
Part of him, the landlord part, wished he had given her his real name yesterday and closed the door. The other part, the male-on-the-prowl part, was glad she had looked adorably flustered and deliciously feminine on his doorstep—so unlike his usual female company—and had tempted him to fall in with her mistaken impression.
‘He won’t,’ he said.
‘You are very certain,’ she said doubtfully. ‘Perhaps he might offer it for lease?’
A case of straw-clutching if ever he’d heard one. He could try to let the house and the land, but who would be fool enough to rent Josiah’s mess of an estate when it required a significant investment to put it right? It would be unkind to get her hopes up only to dash them again. ‘He won’t.’
‘You are in his confidence, then?’
He hated how disappointed she sounded. ‘As the Earl of Portmaine’s land steward I am party to all such decisions.’ An accurate description of his duties on behalf of his father these past five years, so not exactly a lie even if it felt like one.
‘Mr Royston,’ Miss Lucy called out.
He turned in his seat. ‘How may I be of service, Miss Melford?’
She giggled at his formality. ‘Can you put me and Diana down so we can show you the way to the lovely holly tree we found? And the ivy.’
Perhaps there would also be mistletoe. He decided not to ask.
He jumped down and walked around the back. ‘Out you come, ladies.’
Once on the ground the girls set off at a trot while Soldier flicked his ears back and forth as if trying to decide if he was displeased by this new turn of events.
‘This way, Mr Royston,’ Miss Lucy called over her shoulder.
Fortunately, the path she chose was wide enough and the snow hardened enough by the cold these past few days to accommodate the horse and cart.
‘In view of Lord Graystone’s intent to sell, it is kind of him to allow us to raid his woods,’ Mrs Melford said, sounding disappointed.
Kind was not the correct word. Lustful. Deceitful. All of those suited the case much better.
‘I should thank him,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think? I would not be amiss in my courtesy.’
And then she would
know what a deceitful lustful fellow he was.
‘His lordship left for home first thing this morning.’ Or he should have.
A frown furrowed her brow. ‘And yet you remain?’
‘Not for long. I have one more task to finish up and then I, too, will go.’
‘And you are positive he plans to put Thornton up for sale in the New Year?’
For a moment he wished he could ignore his duty to his father and the estate and let her stay. To what end? To make her like him more? To take advantage of her sweet nature? Oh, he really didn’t deserve her to look on him as any kind of saviour.
‘I am sorry,’ he said and was surprised by the genuine regret in his voice.
Chapter Two
Gazing at Mr Royston halfway up the tree, Cassie had trouble believing that a man who could kiss so tenderly beneath the mistletoe in her shed could hack down holly boughs with such ease and vigour. No doubt his thick leather gloves helped protect his hands from the worst of the prickles, but she was sure he had received more than a scratch or two.
‘Stand clear,’ he shouted from his perch.
She grabbed the girls by their hands and pulled them back. The branch hung on its neighbour for a second, then landed beside four other slender branches bearing clusters of vivid red berries amidst shiny dark green leaves.
Mr Royston landed beside the pile. He gave her an odd look. ‘What is that tune?’
Oh, she must be humming, something she did without thinking when she was happy. Something that hadn’t happened often beneath her husband’s roof. And when it did, he’d found it annoying.
‘It’s a Christmas carol,’ Lucy announced and promptly broke into song. ‘“The holly and the ivy...”’
To Cassie’s surprise, Mr Royston joined in with a beautiful baritone and the woods echoed with the first verse followed by the chorus.
‘I suppose that is a hint for me to cut down the ivy next,’ he said, pretending to grumble.
‘This way,’ Lucy said, dashing off.
Mr Royston winked. ‘Her enthusiasm is catching.’ He put his hands on his hips and looked down at the branches. ‘Is this enough for your purpose?’
