“Jones. What—?”
The coat rose high in the air above her, whipped down again as he swept past her. She spun, choking back air and words. Coat smacked against wood, through fresh smoke and flames leaping up from the beam they’d moved. She stumbled away—from the fire, from the swiftly moving coat as Jones worked to smother the flames.
The flames moved with her.
Her gown.
Shock scored her throat as flares of yellow and gold rode the cotton hem. The scent of burning cloth rose into the air, riding on curls of light, nearly white smoke.
With no weapon, no coat, she fought with her hands. Smacking at the flames, shaking the fabric. The burn on her palms and fingers made her breath hitch, but it was less than the burn of panic rising in her.
Tumbling to the ground, she tried to stomp on her gown and petticoats. A cry ripped from her throat. “Jones!”
He was there, throwing his coat over her feet, enveloping her legs in simple brown wool. Face grim, he spoke not a word. He only wrapped and bundled, gloveless hands working fast. Beneath the wool, beneath the cotton and muslin, the muscles of her thighs trembled with the need to run.
Yet running would only be worse.
When he pulled the coat away stray twists of smoke still rose, but the brilliant gold flames had disappeared. Every muscle of her body wanted to go limp, but waves of terror still rolled through her.
“Get out of this wreck.” Jones stood, moving toward the still smoking beam. His foot lashed out, spreading embers and coals apart. “To the grass.”
“I need to help.” She scrambled to her feet, stepped forward. Half-boots crunched on the rubble, and she looked down, searching for flame.
“Your skirt—” He stopped, glanced once at the blackened hem. Brows lowered, mouth tipped down. He went back to spreading embers, smothering flame. “It is too likely to catch flame. I can’t save you and the grain. Take your pick, my lady.”
She did, scrambling out of the wreck of granaries and to the brown, dead grass ringing it. Part of her wanted to reenter, to pull the burlap bags free. Instead, she watched as Jones hefted each one to his shoulder, hurrying to bring them out to the safe, grassy area.
Five burlap bags of grain. One by one, they landed at her feet.
As if they were a gift.
When he was finished, Jones bent over, hands on knees. His breath heaved in and out, but he did not hang his head to regain the rhythm. Instead, he watched the smoking beam, the embers.
“It happens,” he murmured. “The heat deep in the wood catches flame once it meets the air.”
“Yes.” She knew, and stared at the broken sections he’d spread so they would cool. The faint glow of red still burst to life in places.
“Your hands?” He turned his head, his focus on her now.
“Tender, but no lasting damage.” The vague sting of her hands didn’t matter just now. “Jones.”
He straightened, tall and sure, but those deep, clear brown eyes did not leave her face. “I thought—” Throat working, he swallowed hard. “My lady.”
“Don’t. Not anymore.”
“I beg your pardon?” The faint lines on his face became more prominent as he frowned.
“Please. Call me Cat.” It was everything to ask. He would not know it, but everything inside her opened just to ask.
Cat.” He breathed in once, a long, slow breath. “Why Cat?”
She was still for a moment, very still and silent, her gaze searching his face. Finally, carefully, to keep that open place from being unhurt, she said, “Mary Elizabeth Frances Ashdown was the first Baroness Worthington. Every firstborn daughter is named the same, in deference and in tradition. But my mother gave me another name, so I wouldn’t forget I am me before I am the baroness. Mary Elizabeth Frances Catherine Ashdown. I’m Cat.”
Did he see her? Her throat was tight, her heart racing beneath the confines of her stays. No one had seen Cat since her parents died.
That she wanted this spy, this Jones, to understand her, was something she could not think of now. So she pushed it away and concentrated on today. Just today, right now, in the bright light of a sunny morning.
Today, she wanted Jones to see Cat.
“Catherine.” He whispered it, the word barely a sigh on the air. His hand came up, blunt fingers reaching for her face, then falling away before he made contact.
“My parents only used Catherine for important occasions. When it was just us, it was always Cat.” She rubbed her hands on her skirt, however filthy it might be.
He was suddenly close to her, his lips just there. So very close she could barely breathe. “Yes, I can see Cat in there.”
She flew at him, at the arms already open for her. At the lips pressing against hers before she could think. Around her swirled the scent of burnt wood and grass, but inside her heart there was only Jones.
Need, sweet and painful. Sorrow, because they could never be. Gratitude, for all that he was. They rose and swamped her, as much as his arms enclosed her and his mouth consumed her.
Through all of that was relief and the vision of her blackened skirts.
“I am not kissing you because you saved me.” She said it against his mouth, pressing him closer as she rose to her booted toes. “I am kissing you because I want you.”
“Cat.” His single word was lighter than a growl, darker than a whisper.
…
His legs gave way.
She didn’t know what her words did to him. Couldn’t know.
She could not feel the heat and pain and bloom of love that stirred in him.
Jones released her and staggered, righted himself, and faced Cat. Her chin was set, the stunning butterfly-blue eyes trained on him. The flush kissing her cheekbones was as alluring as her reddened lips.
But she was not his.
He spun away and walked through fire-browned grass, eyes intent on the bags of grain. He could not look at her now, or he would forget the choice that must be made. Yet some part of him was left behind, pulled from his body as he brushed past her. A piece of him he could not name or see, but would always be missing from his heart and residing in her.
The burlap grew large as he came close, yet the slumped shape and textured fabric blurred in his vision. Just for a moment. As if a bit of rain had obscured his vision.
He blinked. The rain ceased, leaving his vision clear and vivid.
“Jones.” The ragged whisper flew on the air, piercing his heart. “Do you not want me?”
“Not want you?” Pivoting, every muscle of his body fighting him, Jones wheeled on her. “I can’t breathe when I look into your eyes. I can’t think.”
Suddenly he was in front of her again, hands cupping her cheeks. Her skin was warm, smooth. Everything a young lady’s skin should be.
Everything his rough hands were not.
He stepped back, tried not to kiss the lips parted on a deep breath.
“Go to the Abbey, Cat. Or the cottages. Bring someone back to retrieve the grain. I’ll wait until I see you coming back—but I can’t stay to assist.” He raised a hand, palm up. “Wycomb.”
“Yes. Of course.” She wasn’t trembling, but vibrating. Rage, lust, fear—any and all of them might have coursed through her. He could not know which, based on the bright light in her eyes. “I’ll bring someone to retrieve the grain.”
“Good.” There was a tree beside them, and he found he needed the substance of it to support him. “Good.”
She didn’t move.
“Wycomb has signed the marriage contracts.” Everything about her was suddenly bleak. Eyes, mouth, shoulders, body. “Hedgewood.”
A knife had been plunged into his heart. A second time in his belly. It was the only explanation for the pain that ripped through him.
She reached toward him, let her hands fall again. “I feel as if I should never see you again, and yet cannot do without you.”
“I feel the same, Cat.” He laughed, though it was mirthless to his own ears. “But
you are Hedgewood’s.”
“I belong only to myself, and I don’t understand love. I don’t.” She shook her head, then stared straight at him with iridescent eyes that arrowed into his soul. “But if I did, it might be you.”
He couldn’t speak. He could only kiss her with everything in him, all of the heat and pain and love that swirled in a rioting mass he could not control.
Soft skin met his palms as he cupped her face. Ripe, ready lips pressed against his and turned his heart inside out. He breathed in and his body shuddered as her scent—violets and vanilla and lily—crowded his mind.
“We cannot stay here.” The words tore from his throat, but he did not move. “If anyone sees us—”
“I know. My uncle.” She turned her head so that her cheek lay against his heart. She would hear it beating, hear the frantic need in him. “I know you are a spy, Jones. But why are you spying on Wycomb?”
She lifted her head and set those eyes on him.
“He is a spy as well.” He didn’t hesitate. Trusting was idiocy for a spy—a fact he knew well. Yet this was her. Cat. Trust had slipped through cracks before he could stop them up. “I will not say more about it, but know your uncle has fought well for this country. He has also—” Jones stopped.
“I don’t need to be told.” She stepped away from him, the arms that had pulled him in falling away. “He has done horrible things as well. I know Wycomb.”
He couldn’t speak. If she thought Wycomb had committed horrible deeds, what would she think of him? He had committed unspeakable acts himself. Jones stepped away, hoping she would not think of his actions.
She had. He saw it clearly in her eyes.
“I do not judge, Jones.” Lashes fluttered over blue irises. “I cannot know what is required of either of you. But I know your heart, and I know Wycomb’s. I see your actions, and I see his. There is no comparison.”
“You cannot possibly understand, my lady.”
“I know you, Jones.” A small, ungloved, filthy hand gripped his shoulder. “And bloody hell. Call me Cat. I didn’t kiss you so you could revert to ‘my lady.’”
He laughed, because there was little else to do. She brought the laughter in life, even when it was hard. He dipped his head, kissed lips that were waiting for his. “We are stupid to linger. I cannot stay here to ensure the flames are out and still take the grain somewhere dry.”
“No. Others will move the grain if I call for them.” She stopped and stared into his face. “Once they do, you will be gone to me again, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well.” She laughed, though the sound was pained. “Do not mince words.”
“My lady. Cat.” He wondered if he could ever say “Cat” without feeling as if he were an interloper. “I must always remember my country. Before family, friends, heart, and home, my country must come first.”
“You realize your country encompasses family, friends, heart, and home, yes?” She shook her head, a small half smile lifting a corner of lips that were perfect for kissing. “Go, Jones. I will procure the men needed to move the grain and extinguish whatever flames are hiding beneath the ash.”
…
Jones could not leave the shadows.
It stung, hiding this way. Removed from the men shouldering the bags of grain, from the smoldering wood once again being spread out and doused with water for safety.
Removed from Cat.
Wycomb stood at the edge of the wreckage, polished boots embedded firmly in the heat-deadened grass. Arms clasped behind his back. The specks of silver in his dark brown hair glinted under the mottled sky above.
Jones dared not move.
“Thank you, Mr. Hopwood, for having your boys cart the bags to the village.” Cat’s voice floated to him. A small hand, still covered with soot and without a glove, lay softly on the sleeve of a wizened old man.
“’Tis our pleasure, m’lady.” The man scrubbed a hand over his face. The next words slipped away in the wind.
Whatever they were, Cat’s smile bloomed in response.
His heart seized. Hands gripped rough bark. He could not step into the open and bask in that glow, could not assist Hopwood’s broad-shouldered sons haul the grain to the cart.
Wycomb stood just there, straightening his cuffs and standing at the edge of the scene as if it were his property.
Rookeries. What was he involved in?
“Mary Elizabeth.” Wycomb’s sharp words carried above the wind and activity. “Come.”
Her head turned toward him, her shoulders tensed. But Cat did not move. Instead, she spoke again to Mr. Hopwood, gesturing toward the cart now swarming with large boys situating bags of grain.
Jones smiled at her refusal to heed Wycomb’s instruction, his light laugh fluttering the fern inches from his face. It died again as Wycomb gripped her arm and tugged her to the horses they’d arrived on. She didn’t fight, but her chin lifted—and the long fingers curling around her upper arm pressed sharply enough that she winced.
Jones swiveled, set his back against the tree. He could not watch. His body strained with the need to wrest her from those biting fingers, every muscle vibrating.
He could not show himself.
Fisting his hand, he pressed it into his thigh. Hard. Harder. Pain would be his reminder to focus.
If Wycomb saw him here, in the wilds of Oxfordshire, he would know he was under investigation.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The floor was frigid, despite the warm night and the soft glow of the tall candelabra. The rough flagstone scraped her bare feet. She’d walked the cloisters as a girl, as her father had—as the monks had, centuries earlier. Meditation and prayer, estate problems to solve, family quarrels. All those thoughts and more were thick in the air under the domed ceiling.
Cat sent her current concerns winging into the night to join those that had come before.
Beyond the arcing mullioned windows lining the corridor, Jones would be waiting in the night. In the house, behind stone walls carved for the original abbey, Wycomb was seeing to his own business. Aunt Essie would be embroidering or netting, perhaps reading. The servants and Mr. Sparks—as much her family as Wycomb and Essie—would be busy with their evening tasks.
She could only pace past stone columns, past elaborate windows, past columns again, and through dim light. So much swirled inside her. Need, temper, fear, sorrow—all of it building. Pressure pushed against her rib cage, against her lungs.
Her home. Her people. Wycomb. Marriage to Hedgewood.
Jones.
And her father.
Fingers curling around a carved stone column, Cat stopped walking to stare into the night beyond the windows. She could see nothing except her own reflection, and vaguely, the reflection of the intricate walls of the original abbey behind her.
“Why couldn’t you trust I would do what was right?” The whisper rose from her lips. Words and sound torn apart. They would go unheard, because her father was not there to hear them.
He had never told her it would all be held under trust. She had run everything in his last year of life. She and Mr. Sparks. Yet her father had never told her the properties would be withheld for so long. A little while she might have suspected. She was not yet of age when he died. But thirty-five? Now she was contracted to Hedgewood.
It could be worse, but it could be better.
It could be Jones.
Whether he owned nothing more than the clothes on his back or an estate larger than hers was unimportant. She knew his measure.
He’d saved a stranger from abduction, before he knew her.
He accepted the task of spying on another spy when he knew it would be difficult.
He put out fires and saved strangers’ grain, because it was right.
She also wanted him. Everything in her body ached, exquisitely tight and ready for something. That moment. The one she’d heard the maids whisper and giggle about.
She breathed in, held it. Skin hot, belly tau
t with need, she stood in the faint wash of candlelight and wished for Jones.
“The tenants’ roofs are much improved.” Cold words slid into the night, raising the hair at the nape of her neck.
She whirled, resisting the urge to flee as Wycomb stepped from the shadows into the light from the tall candelabra set at the end of the long alley of cloister.
“Uncle.” The light Kashmir shawl she wore over her gown was not enough protection from his frigid eyes.
“I discovered a group of laborers finishing one of the cottage roofs, and noted that nearly all of them have been replaced.” He moved slowly down the long, narrow hall, boots striking the flagstones with precise measure. “How do you suppose the roofs were paid for, Mary Elizabeth?”
She did not answer. She was not inclined to lie, but she did not care to answer with the truth.
“Did you countermand my direction and approach the trustees?” He stood directly in front of her now. Close, so close, looking down at her. He did not touch her, but he did not need to—fear spiked just the same, sending her stomach twisting and churning.
“No.” She swallowed hard, but raised her chin to meet his gaze. She was standing on the floor thirteen generations of Ashdowns had stood on before her. That floor had survived war, famine, politics, bloodshed. There was strength beneath her feet, if only she was willing to use it. “It was my pin money—mine to use as I see fit, with no one to direct how I spend it.”
“I see.” Soft words, no less icy than before. “Yet it was against my command. You deliberately deceived me, doing what you chose.”
“Doing what was right.” She set her bare feet, straightened her shoulders. “Eventually, Ashdown Abbey and all the rest of my inheritance will be mine to control.”
“No, it will not.” He began to circle her, slowly. She felt his blue eyes on her, never letting up, never leaving her. “You will marry the Marquess of Hedgewood.”
“Yes, and then it will be mine.” She turned on a bare heel so she faced him. “You signed the contract stating that if I marry Hedgewood, Ashdown Abbey will be mine.”
He stopped his circling, eyes narrowing. Then, very softly, “But still under trust.”
The Lady and Mr. Jones Page 16
