Lady Anne's Lover (The London List)

by Maggie Robinson

  He mistook her silence and drew back, easing himself out of her. “You are all right, aren’t you? I wasn’t too rough?”

  “Hush, Gareth. It was perfect. I’m quite looking forward to doing it again, if you must know.”

  “Duw. Give me a little time to recover.” He glanced between them, a rueful smile on his face. “I am not the man I once was.”

  “You are all the man I need.”

  Now and forever.

  She hoped.

  CHAPTER 20

  Frost starbursts covered the windows when Anne rose. Beyond them, tiny flakes of snow had fallen in steady succession through the night to form drifts as tall as a man. But the sky this morning was a brilliant cloudless blue. It had snowed for three straight days, and this was the fourth morning she had risen wet and delightfully sore from Gareth’s attentions. She woke alone, however, because her bed was too narrow to support them both in slumber.

  Anne had half an idea to open up one of the bedrooms upstairs for nighttime dalliance, but the house was so cold it was hard enough heating the normal living space. Gareth’s world had narrowed to three rooms before she came—his bedroom, his study, and the kitchen, all of which were part of the original house. His bedroom ceiling was so low it was a miracle he didn’t knock himself unconscious every time he got out of bed. The room had been his since boyhood, and judging from the accumulation of things, he hadn’t thrown anything away in thirty-three years.

  Gareth still had not gotten around to straightening his study and bedroom. Her convalescence and seduction had taken up all his available time. The mess was at odds with how she thought a proper soldier lived. Didn’t everything have to spit-shine and gleam? He’d told her he’d lost interest in his surroundings once he thought he’d lose Ripton Hall, but it was well past time to remedy that.

  But not today. No one could possibly stay indoors when such a day beckoned. Anne’s experience with snow had been limited. Growing up on the mild Dorset coast, she could count on two hands and a foot the number of times it had snowed hard enough to leave a thick white coating on the downs for any length of time. Rain, yes. Anne was used to it and didn’t find Wales’s heavy precipitation unusual. But she was a little tired of being cold and wet indoors .

  But outside? The fields sparkled with diamond dust. She had an urge to forge her own trail through the virgin snow, gulp lungfuls of fresh cold air. Jump. She could be like those religious folk Gareth had told her about who thought God’s spirit moved through their bodies and made them dance with joy in church.

  Anne was joyful. She was uncertain whether it was God’s or Gareth’s hand that made her so, but she was happier than she’d ever been. Arms out, she took a quick spin on her rag rug and felt it shift under her feet.

  Anne sat back down on the bed. She didn’t trust her happiness. Something—anything—might go wrong. She had yet to tell Gareth who she really was. With any luck, she could gloss over the last two years of stupidity and he wouldn’t realize the depth of her degradation. If she never showed her face in London, people might forgive and forget what she’d done.

  Eventually.

  But probably not in her lifetime.

  What a mess. Much worse than any mess Gareth ever made.

  She was not going to brood about it all on such a lovely crystal-encrusted morning. If she could, she’d persuade Gareth to take a walk with her after breakfast. If necessary, she’d wear every article of clothing she had for warmth. They’d been shut up in the house too long, although it had been no hardship. They’d made long, lingering love. When they were too exhausted to continue, they’d played cards and read books aloud to each other. Gareth had a surprising collection of romance novels written by the popular Lady X. He’d claimed they were Cecily’s, but he seemed to enjoy the misadventures of the courtesans every bit as much as she did.

  Between the two of them, they’d attempted to make bread and floured themselves and the kitchen thoroughly. Oddly enough, Mrs. Smith had nothing whatsoever to say about bread in her cookbook, although there was a recipe for fried toasts. How did one get toast to fry if there was no bread first? In Eliza Smith’s milieu, everyone was no doubt born knowing how to make something so crucial. Not, alas, Anne or Gareth.

  There would be somewhat soggy bread for breakfast, with enough of Cecily’s raspberry jam to conceal its flaw. But a cold day deserved a hot breakfast. Anne would scramble some eggs—she’d gotten rather good at that if she did say so herself. A little cream, pepper, and cheese made all the difference. She’d watched Gareth and followed his steps, so he wouldn’t starve once they were married.

  Anne washed and dressed, tying her hair back into a long tail. She’d learned over the past few days that Gareth liked to touch it as he talked to her, wrapping the wiry strands around his fingers. Anne had no need of curling tongs and papers. Her hair ran riot if not confined, just the way Gareth seemed to like it. He’d tossed her mobcap into a coal scuttle and forbid her to cover her curls, looking very like his cousin Ian in his stern opprobrium. Gareth didn’t want her to look like a good wife, prim beneath a lacy cap. Though if Anne wanted to fit in—to blend with their conservative neighbors, Gareth would have to get used to her camouflage.

  The kitchen was bright with sunshine and empty. Anne and the ancient stove were on much better terms now, and she efficiently fed it and set water on the boil for tea. Gareth had begged her to give up trying to make coffee, and she had agreed. She was smart enough to know when she was defeated, and did not want to poison him before she had a chance to marry him. She cracked three eggs into a brown earthenware bowl, fished out a bit of shell, then beat them silly. Slicing and mincing ham into bite-size pieces, pouring a tankard of ale, setting the table—all of these things she accomplished with newfound ease.

  Which was not to say she would not be very happy to hire a real housekeeper and a few maids soon. How delightful it would be to have breakfast brought to her in bed. A pot of chocolate laced with cinnamon and cream. A currant bun. She licked her lips and dropped a pinch of tea leaves into the teapot, wishing for slices of lemon. A fresh lemon would cost the earth in winter unless one had a conservatory.

  She heard Gareth bound down the stairs, straightened her apron and smiled as he entered the room. “Good morning, my lord.” She curtseyed as deeply as she had once to the King.

  Before she had been banned from court events. It had taken a great deal of effort on her part to shock the shocking monarch. Her father had been furious and beaten her accordingly.

  “Good morning, my lady.” This bit of nonsense had played between them all week. Anne was grateful Gareth was not titled, for if he was, he’d never marry her once he discovered who she was. He still might not. But she had promised not to think about unpleasant possibilities this morning, and she pulled out his chair.

  “You have outdone yourself this morning, Lady Anne. What have I done to deserve such largesse?” Gareth teased, shaking his napkin from a chased silver ring she’d found in the dining room sideboard.

  “I hope to fortify you, my lord. It is my intention to go for a walk in this splendid weather.” She poured the eggs into a hot spider, stirring them constantly so they wouldn’t stick. She’d learned that lesson from Gareth last week as she’d sat at the table, her bad foot propped up on a pillow.

  “A walk? What about your ankle? And I might lose a short little thing like you in a snowdrift.”

  “My ankle is fine.” To show off, she hopped on the slate, wincing only a little. “I’m confident you’d rescue me, hero that you are. I thought we might walk along Offa’s Dyke a little ways.” She’d studied his Welsh history books, boning up on her new home.

  Gareth snorted. “It’s a ditch, Annie, and bound to be impassable at this time of year. No, I think not. You’d wind up like a limpet around my neck as I had to carry you.”

  That vision was not as off-putting as it might have been. Gareth was rather lovely to hold on to. “One day I should like to see Llanthony Priory. Turner pa
inted it, you know. Other artists, too. It looks so romantic.” She plated their eggs and ham and sat down.

  “Good grief. That’s fifty miles from here. The west window fell out years ago. Why would you want to see a pile of old rocks?”

  “Because they’re old rocks? I have a fondness for old things, which is why I like you,” she said saucily.

  “Minx. I could be your father, I suppose.”

  What a truly hideous thought. “Never tell me you were pursuing women when you were a beardless boy of thirteen.”

  “I won’t tell you then.” He winked and speared some ham into his mouth.

  Anne wouldn’t ask if his first conquest had been Bronwen when they were little more than children. She was unaccountably jealous of the dead woman. Bronwen had known a different Gareth from the man who sat eating his breakfast across the table—a man with no silver in his hair, two strong arms, and all the optimism of youth. Anne thought she preferred the current version. This Gareth had suffered and was more apt to understand her predicament when she finally told him.

  They ate, bickering over where to spend the morning. Gareth was all for going back to bed, the wretch. Tempting as he was, Anne longed for some fresh air and exercise that didn’t involve sweeping out coal dust from hearths or airing sheets on a frozen clothesline. At last, Gareth leaned back in his chair and pushed his empty plate away.

  “I have it.”

  Anne got up to clear the table. “What do you have?”

  “You like old rocks, and there are some on Ripton land. An ancient chamber tomb. Most likely covered over with snow, but we can brush it off and go inside.”

  “You want to take me into a barrow?”

  “Oh, it’s not underground. Some of the rocks have fallen away and one can stand inside and carve one’s name on the walls, as I, I’m sorry to say, have done, rascal that I was. Ian and I used to crawl into it and pretend we were dead Neolithic warriors who could magically come back to life. If there were ever bodies inside, they’re long gone.”

  Anne shuddered. “Well, that’s a relief. How far away is it?”

  “Not fifty miles, I can assure you. No more than a mile or two. And the view of the Wye Valley is good—as romantic as you can wish, Lady Anne. The path will not be clear for walking, though. I think we should ride.”

  “Is Penny fit enough?”

  “I think so. Part of his trouble is that he’s been cooped up most of the winter. The exercise will do him good, too. Let me help Martin get the horses saddled. You’d better dress warmly. There will be wind on the ridge.”

  Anne hugged Gareth before he could put on his coat. “Thank you! I’m looking forward to seeing more of your land.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Our land. It will look better in the spring. You’ve never seen so many wildflowers and daffodils as we have here.”

  Spring couldn’t come soon enough. By spring, she’d have her money and Gareth could get his stud farm started. Martin wouldn’t be the only groom, and she’d have help in the house.

  She went to her room and took Gareth’s mother’s green riding habit from the trunk at the foot of the bed. Its thick wool would be supplemented by her warmest underthings and a gray dress thrown over the black one she had on. ’Twas a good thing the habit was a little large on her, else she’d have trouble closing the intricate frogging. She put on an extra pair of stockings and pulled on the boots.

  Anne left her hair down, wrapping her head in a plaid scarf instead of donning the jaunty feathered hat that matched the habit. Feeling a little like an overstuffed sausage, she walked past the dirty dishes on the table and went outside. She’d be sorry later to come home to a disorganized kitchen, but the washing up could wait.

  Martin helped her mount Penny, silent as ever. Anne could not feel comfortable around the man, no matter how much Gareth depended on him. But then she was not a good judge of character, or she would never have run off to France with Charles Marshall.

  Oh, heavens. The most inconvenient thoughts were plaguing her today. Her unsuitable suitor Charles had already found another heiress to elope with and seemed none the worse for wear after Mr. Mulgrew’s fist collided with his weak chin.

  “You and Penny are two peas in a pod,” Gareth said with a grin as they picked their way through a snow-covered track.

  “I’m like a broken-down old horse?” Anne asked with indignation. Penny took offense at her disparagement, snorting a cloud in the chilly air.

  “No, no. Your coloring. I guess I’ve always been partial to redheads and I just never knew it.”

  Anne patted Penny’s neck. “The cheek of the man. And I’m sorry I insulted you. You’re a lovely old fellow, with plenty of go left in you.” She would have encouraged the gelding to prove it, except she didn’t know where she was going, and worried that he might lose his footing on the slippery trail.

  “I’m glad you wore your hair down for me.”

  Anne’s hand went to the wool scarf covering her ears. “I feel like a farmwife.”

  “And so you shall be in a few weeks. Think how practical you’ve become for a society miss. Though you can’t make coffee worth a damn.”

  “I’m not here to be insulted. Penny and I can turn right around and go back home.”

  “And deprive yourself of the wonders of all this?” Gareth tilted his head in the direction of the distant snow-capped hills. They had climbed up gradually so that a ribbon of river was just visible as it cut through the frosted fields below.

  “It is beautiful here,” she agreed.

  “Just like you. And Penny.”

  “Oh, stop. I am as round as the King with all these layers of clothes on.” She was almost too warm under the brilliant sun.

  “Treasonous words, I think. Hm. What should a major in His Majesty’s army do with a traitor? There’s nobody about to hear you scream for mercy.”

  “I shall defend myself. With a hatpin.”

  “But you’re wearing a headscarf, my love.”

  “A wise woman always has a hatpin somewhere on her person.” It was a habit she’d gotten into and had proven useful on more than one occasion.

  “I am shaking in my boots. We shall see who will best whom just around that stand of trees.”

  “I shall puncture your pride at the first opportunity.”

  “You may puncture me anywhere you wish, Lady Anne. As I’ve told you time and again, you have bewitched me.” He gave his eyebrows a devilish wiggle and she couldn’t help but laugh.

  Gareth brought Job to a halt after they passed a clump of twisted fir trees. “Our journey has ended. There it is.”

  Before her was a wide flat slab of stone upon three pillars that looked like a giant’s kitchen table. The fourth leg had fallen to the side, yet the top stone had not tilted. There were smaller rocks wedged in underneath and all around. The wind was so stiff on the rise that the snow had blown off the rocks, leaving the lichen exposed. Anne’s kerchief fluttered up over the back of her neck and she shivered.

  It seemed a holy place, quiet save for the gusts. To be buried here was a waste though, when one could no longer appreciate the view—mountains and river, valley and woods. A few scattered stone farmhouses and their enclosures below proved that life still went on.

  “All of what you see down there used to belong to my grandfather. No longer, I’m afraid. My father sold off all he could, but in the end it made no difference.” There was no bitterness in Gareth’s voice, just resignation.

  “Maybe we can buy it back.”

  He shook his head. “It belongs to Parry Lewys now. I doubt he’ll be interested in doing me any favors once he learns I’m suspected of killing his future bride.”

  Bronwen again. When would she leave them in peace?

  “We should have brought a picnic lunch,” Anne said, trying to change the subject. “That stone looks like a perfect spot.” “You’d sit on a grave and dine? You are a little witch.”

  “You told me no one is in the chamber.
”

  “If they are, they’re long past bothering us. Some say this tomb is thousands of years old.”

  “Well, then.” She slid off Penny, landing carefully in the slush. She wouldn’t want to slide and tumble down into the valley, not when her life was turning its corner. “Boost me up.”

  “Thunderbolts will strike us both.”

  “Nonsense. You said you and Ian played here.”

  Gareth stood behind her as she grabbed onto the mudstone slab. Just as he did when he helped her up the cellar stairs, he used a knee to lift her high enough to pull herself up. Her well-padded bottom was still not enough to protect her from the cold rock, but she grinned down at him. “Come join me and I’ll give you a kiss.”

  “I’ll take the easy way.” He went around the cairn, scrambling up fallen stones until he was by her side. “Pay up, witch.”

  “With pleasure. I almost hate to close my eyes, though. The view is indescribable.”

  “I can’t believe you’re at a loss for words.”

  “I have much better things to do than talk,” Anne said, and proceeded to show him exactly what they were.

  There was something to be said for making love under the boundless sky, even in chilly temperatures. Gareth broke their embrace briefly to grab the saddle blankets from their horses, spreading one out on the rock and covering them with the other. They didn’t remove their clothes, of course—they might be madly in lust but still possessed some shred of sense. It was January, after all. Anne clung to Gareth in their cocoon, his weight warming her the way no fire could. He kissed her with a serious intent that was quite at odds with his usual playfulness. Perhaps the spirit of the place had sobered him, though Anne felt no sadness here, just an awareness of nature without and within her. The world was vast, yet at the same time absolutely safe. For the moment, at any rate. She would not worry about what might come.