Charity Begins at Home

by Alicia Rasley

  He was ruthless, Charity realized with a thrill. "I'll climb down myself," she promised, afraid he might try to sweep her over the window sill. She waited until he had descended. "Move back," she whispered into the cool air.

  "Charity, I have to hold the ladder for you. I'll look the other way, I promise."

  She was too disoriented by the whole experience to question any part of it. So, glad of her tree-climbing skills, she stuck one foot out the window and found the ladder rung. Then, all too aware of her billowing cotton nightgown, she made a quick descent into his arms. She couldn't deny the tremble of her body but sought instead to disguise it. As he set her down on her bare feet, she said, "Oh, it's so chilly! And the grass is wet!"

  Immediately he pulled off his gray riding coat and draped it over her shoulders. She pulled it close around her, savoring the warmth of him in the linen. "Will you give me your boots also?"

  His brows drew together, but a smile quirked the comer of his mouth. "A heroine should not make such complaints when she's being abducted. Your concern should be for your virtue, not your feet."

  Even in dazzlement, Charity retained her pragmatism. "Well, young Lochinvar, unless you want my brothers also concerned for my virtue, you'd better move this abduction farther from the house."

  He tugged her through the shrubbery edging the side drive and down the service lane. Outlined against the darker sky was the patient Giotti, laden with saddlebags but still somehow dignified. As his master approached trailing a young hostage, he dropped his head as if disavowing any acquaintance.

  Drawing deep breaths, Charity leaned against Tristan's arm as he adjusted the saddle. She was too athletic to attribute her breathlessness to anything but excitement. And it was exciting, to be stealing away while the rest of the sensible populace slept off a Midsummer Eve, to be out in the misty air in her nightgown, to feel the hard warmth of a man against her, though she could barely make out his features in the darkness. "Where is my horse?"

  In answer, Tristan put his hands on her waist and hoisted her into the saddle. Before she could protest, he sprang up behind her, reaching around her for the reins, leaving one arm snug about her waist. He nudged the horse into a trot and they left the safe confines of Calder behind them. "I don't provide mounts for my captives. Only champagne."

  It was all too outrageous to protest and too magical to resist. So she leaned back against him, savoring the hard support of his chest and the security of his arm around her. Above, a half-moon silvered the clouds and cast pale light over the hills. The air was scented with wildflowers, the night alive with the songs of crickets and the rhythmic beat of hooves. She was drowning in sensual delight, and with a longing sigh realized there was more to come.

  More to come: the glow of the great Midsummer bonfire off in the dark south sky, the little grove of silver birches arching toward the brook, the soft blanket he spread there, the strawberries bursting sweet in her mouth, the champagne drunk from the bottle for lack of glasses. And Tristan, his eyes alight, stretched out beside her, his callused hand caressing her bare arm. He spoke Italian slowly and sensuously so that she was able to understand nearly every word. It was so much like a fantasy that she knew she would never believe it in the morning. So she simply savored it, lived it, knowing that soon she could do no more than yearn for the vanished dream.

  "Why are you doing this?" she whispered, and the moment broke into shards like a mirror.

  "Midsummer madness." Her distrust, her disillusion couldn't dismay him. He uncurled her fist with gentle fingers. "You want me to do it. And I want to do it. Must there be some other reason?"

  But she knew better; she knew him better. He once spoke of friendship, but friendship was never so dangerous. This was temptation. And this was deliberate. This must be his revenge, to make her regret her refusal for the rest of her life.

  As soon as she formed the thought, she dismissed it. Tristan wasn't cruel; he wouldn't hurt her so deliberately. Perhaps he meant this as a lesson, a lesson she had to learn: that desire felt like fear; that love frightened as well as fascinated her.

  Her feelings for him were so paradoxical she could only express them in a clumsy riddle. If he could solve it, then he could know her. She said, "Abduction—it's not an act of friendship. More of passion."

  She was disappointed and relieved when he rose and moved to lean against the curving trunk of a birch. But at least he recognized this as a riddle. He tilted his head inquiringly to the side. "Passion. You keep using that word. You implied last week that I didn't feel sufficient passion for you. I wondered then what you meant." When she remained silent, he added, "I expect you meant did I want to take you to bed."

  She was glad of the dark that hid her fierce blush. That wasn't the solution to her riddle, not really, only a little piece of it.

  In the same impersonal tone, he continued, "Passion. Well, if that is what you wanted all this time, we might have avoided all this grief. Of course I wanted to bed you. I spent the requisite amount of time admiring how small and yet how strong you are, and wondering if you'd be as good at that sport as you are at, say, climbing trees. I imagined what it would be like to kiss that lovely mouth and feel your lithe little body open to me. I still imagine that, as a matter of fact. There, does that make you happy?"

  She felt his anger blazing across the darkness and didn't understand it. Blindly she shook her head, her loosened hair spilling to her shoulders. "It's just—that is what has been missing. You have been so good, so kind to me. But no passion."

  His breath came out in a harsh laugh. "If you knew how difficult it's been for me. Come here, Charity."

  Warily she regarded him, a dark form against the pale tree. He had not come to help her up or hold out his hand to her; he only waited. Slowly she stood, slowly she crossed the separation. Only when she stood beside him did he reach out to her and draw her in.

  The wind shifted, and the strains of an ancient melody came on the breeze. They must still be dancing at the bonfire, she thought. Tristan was still against her for a moment, listening to the ghostly music, then he eased her into a slow, sensuous dance in the meadow.

  We have never danced before, Charity thought, and yet they moved together as if they had long been intimates. This was a dance like none she'd ever known, with the breeze teasing her nightgown and his hands teasing her bare arms, and the moon casting its faint radiance on them. Still moving to the music, Tristan bent his head to kiss her, lingering tenderly at her mouth and drawing her even closer.

  After that first kiss, Charity leaned weakly back against the support of his arms and lifted her head, wordlessly seeking more. But his eyes burned so hot she couldn't see him, and she closed her eyes as he bent closer and trailed kisses across her cheek to her mouth. With the sweet pressure of his kiss, of his body against hers, her resistance slipped away. She knew the swell of his desire, her own pulsing response

  And then he let her go and stepped back, breathing hard. "I don't know what that's meant to prove," he said before she could protest. "That I, like any red-blooded man, am aroused by a nubile girl in my arms? That you are also aroused? Is that some sort of epiphany for you? Charity, men and women are meant to feel this way. It's how the race survives. The physical connection—oh, it's the easiest connection of all, and the least important."

  She tried to step back from that harsh assessment, but the birch tree was behind her. She let it hold her straight-backed, and read in his somber eyes that he couldn't mean what he said. "It's so trivial to you?" she whispered.

  His dark eyes softened, and he drew her back into his arms. He didn't try to kiss her, only to hold her, his cheek against her hair. "Oh, it's important. But because it's you I'm holding. Otherwise it would only be a moment."

  "I knew . . ." She couldn't complete the sentence, even in her own mind, because once she said them the words couldn't be taken back. And she had already caused so much pain by making irrevocable actions based on fleeting, if fierce, emotions.

&nb
sp; But Tristan wouldn't let her rest in this half-understood haze of contentment. "Ah, Charity, it's such a lovely night, and you are so beautiful. Tell me what you want. Let me give you what you want."

  His husky voice thrilled her as much as the caress of his callused hands on her bare arms. "I want—" She closed her eyes tight, letting the darkness conceal her wantonness. "I want you tonight. To kiss me and to hold me and to—"

  She couldn't finish, but she didn't need to, for he was already obeying, drawing her down onto the soft blanket, sliding one hand along the sensitive nape of her neck, the other along her side to the curve of her hip. She tasted his lips for a long minute, then he withdrew to kiss her neck, the hollow of her throat. "Let me," she whispered softly as he started to unbutton her nightgown.

  But he pushed her ineffectual hand away. "No, cara, you have no work to do here. I will take care of it all. You just rest—"

  And she did, letting the sensations wash over her, surrendering to his seduction. It was new to her, this surrender, but she knew, as she knew nothing else, that Tristan would not hurt her.

  "Mia cara, mi' amore, tell me what you want. Tell me."

  She heard her soft voice saying words she had never imagined saying, that she wanted to touch his bare skin, that she wanted them to be naked to the night air. And whatever she asked, he gave her, gently and lovingly gratifying every wish. This is what I meant, she thought gratefully, this is passion. And it was only the night breeze across her fevered body that recalled her. The cool brush across the heat he left reminded her of who she was, and who he was, and why they could not go on. For an agonized moment she was caught between desire and decision, and then, inadequately, she touched the back of his dark head, the crisp curl of his hair, and whispered, "No more."

  He rested his burning cheek for a moment between her breasts, then sat up and pulled his shirt on. She sat hugging herself, her face flaming. "Are you angry?"

  She heard rather than saw the smile quirking his mouth. "No."

  He felt around the ground and produced her nightgown, pulled it over her head, stole a kiss as her mouth emerged, and eased her arms into the sleeves, sliding it down past her hips. His hands were efficient where they had once been evocative, and she felt the loss as well as the comfort. He tugged the gown straight around her legs, pausing to tickle her bare feet. "I want only what you wanted."

  "Only?" she echoed plaintively.

  "Perhaps just a little more." She heard the Italian lilt again and knew he was smiling.

  That decision had taken all her strength, and when he drew her to her feet, she swayed against him. He guided her to his horse and helped her into the saddle, then returned to their bower to gather up the blanket and picnic basket. He was the practical one now, tidying up after their incomplete passion.

  As they rode back to her home, she rested her head against his chest, hearing his heartbeat's reassuring rhythm, his soothing murmur. But she also heard the echo of his demand in the cool night. Tell me what you want. "Tristan—" She took a deep breath and tried again. "Tristan, I know now that I was wrong. I shouldn't have done what I did. Not tonight, I don't mean that. When I told you that you couldn't give me what I needed. When I told you I wanted more."

  "Hush, sweeting." His arm tightened around her waist as he forestalled her confession. "This isn't the time for that. And you don't have to justify anything. We did nothing shameful."

  "I know!" she cried, looking up at him to prove her lack of shame. "I don't feel that. I feel—I feel regret, that I hurt you before, that I didn't explain how frightened I was, that I didn't let you have time to discover that yourself. I want to—"

  "Not yet. Sweetheart, don't say it yet."

  The ragged edge of his plea silenced her. He didn't want to hear whatever avowal she was about to make. Sulkily she said, "You don't know how hard it is for me to ask."

  "Don't I? I do. I know you always anticipate what others want and never think to ask for yourself. I know. But not tonight, Charity, Not tonight."

  And with that, and a gentle good-night kiss at her window, she had to be content. She nestled into her lonely bed, watching the breeze stir the drapes where he had been, waiting for the despair to take her. But she waited in vain. She had asked and been refused, and her heart hadn't broken. She didn't even want to cry. He didn't mean to hurt her, she knew that now, and his denial wasn't meant to make her despair. Tomorrow, she thought as she fell asleep, tomorrow I will ask him properly. On bended knee.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Charity awakened with a warm sense of well-being, and after a moment's concentration remembered why. Tristan had swept her away last night for a midsummer rendezvous. It was decidedly improper and deliciously wicked. And she knew what she always hoped, that he could take her to other worlds just by taking her in his arms.

  Her maid entered with chocolate and a handful of wildflowers with a note tied to it. "His Lordship— the handsome one— brought it over this morning," Jenny said, plumping pillows while trying to read over her mistress's shoulder.

  Charity smiled and held the note up. "Go ahead and read it.”

  "That's not fair. It's not in English!" Jenny gave the pillow a disappointed smack and drifted out the door.

  But Charity had the benefit of Miss Falesham's instructions and Tristan's recent tutelage. " 'I cannot sleep a minute this night. My mind and heart are filled with the memory of your lovely golden'—corpo, corpo—" She had to resort to the Italian lexicon on her night table to translate. "Body, oh, my word, I'm glad Jenny isn't Italian. 'Your lovely golden body and your delicious mouth.' I should burn this, Tristan Hale." But she couldn't, for the closing read, Forever your worshipful captive, T.

  She rose with renewed purpose. She had made a mistake, and it was her responsibility to correct it. But the timing wasn't yet auspicious, not so early in the morning. If he truly hadn't slept all night, Tristan would need to rest to be in a receptive mood. So, humming the closing aria from Cosi fan tutte with its chorus "happy forever after," she descended to the sunny breakfast room.

  She was glad to see Francis in the same mood as he sat buttering his toast and whistling. "I gather you got the answer you desired," she remarked as she took her seat.

  "It was as you foretold: my noble sentiments got me nowhere, but once I explained my baser motives, she fell into my arms."

  "No caveats at all?"

  "She did worry that she is older than I, but I assured her that I am much more mature, so we will achieve a balance."

  "Oh, Francis," Charity sighed. "You are incurably honest. It's fortunate that you don't intend a career as a rake."

  He offered her a slab of sirloin, but when she declined, he speared it himself. "I wanted you to be the first to know, but I had to content myself with Barry as a confidant. You must have been dead asleep. I banged on your door but you never answered."

  She lifted her teacup to her lips to hide her guilty blush. "Barry was sober enough to listen?"

  "He nodded at the appropriate moments. Up early this morning, even, unlike you. Did he tell you he plans a walking tour of Wales when his examinations are done?"

  Charity decided not to worry what mischief Barry would get up to with all of Wales at his disposal. "A wanderer, he is. Just like his elder sister! I hope to be off soon too—but not to Wales. Italy. Much more adventurous."

  Francis's mouth tightened, but he didn't bother to repeat his edict that traveling to Italy, even with Miss Falesham, wasn't a proper adventure for a young lady. "You know you have a home here, no matter that I many. Anna already loves you as a sister and—"

  "Well, of course this will always be home," she said gaily. "But now I can leave it—and you— in loving hands. I can go away in good conscience."

  "I haven't much to say about it after today, I suppose," he said gruffly. He reached under. his chair and brought up a package wrapped in striped paper. "Here. If you're to be a wanderer, you might as well learn from the best."

  She took th
e gift but only stared at it.

  "Come, girl, have you forgot it's your birthday? You are one-and-twenty, and my guardianship is done. Not that you've ever needed any guarding. But I will be glad to be liberated from all those unfortunate devils and their eternal applications for your hand. Well, open it."

  "Francis—" Her mind filled with memories of other birthdays, when Ned would wake her at dawn proclaiming, "We're a year older!"

  Sensing tears, her brother took the package and ripped the paper off. "I know you say you don't want to celebrate it. But some birthday you'll get over this and want to be cosseted and gifted. And you'd likely never mention your change of heart, so we shall injure you unwittingly. Accept it, Charity, and have done."

  It was time to move out of Francis's house, she thought resentfully as she took the red leather-bound book, for he had learned to read her too well. Journals, the gilt letters on the cover said. But the frontispiece was more enlightening. "To Miss Charity Calder, on the occasion of her coming of age. May your journey through life be a meandering one. Lady Hester Stanhope."

  "Francis, where did you get this? It's her travel journals! Privately printed! Endorsed to me!"

  Without a thought to good manners, she opened the book there at the table, reading of the famed explorer's journey through the Middle East. She hardly heard her brother's offhanded admission. "Oh, we correspond, you know. She was kind enough to read and comment on that monograph I wrote on Pitt the Elder's feud with Robert Walpole. She was Pitt the Younger's niece, you'll recall."

  But Charity was already deep into an account of how the Druse tribe of Lebanon adopted Lady Hester and made her their prophetess. She was surely the only former debutante, Charity decided, to have become a religious icon.

  "Some parts are rather raw, but now that you are a mature adult, I expect you will pass them right up as tedious. Page eighty-four," he added as Charity began flipping through the book.