But how could you say that to a man about his brother? Especially when you didn’t even know why you wanted to say it. There could never be anything between her and Grant, because she would never marry him, and he would accept nothing less. It brought a certain exquisite torture to walking beside him.
“I like your illusions,” she confessed at last. “But they are only illusions.”
Whatever he would have replied to that was lost in the exclamations of three ladies approaching from the direction of the market, all declaring their joy in seeing him and begging him to dispel the ridiculous rumors of his arrest.
“I can imagine the rumors,” Grant said smoothly, “but the whole thing was born of misunderstandings, since put to rest by Major Doverton and myself.”
“Then you will still christen Edward on Sunday?”
“Of course.”
Kate had eased herself out of their circle and meant to melt away in a somewhat uncharacteristic manner. But Grant merely tipped his hat to the ladies and moved on with her.
“You don’t need to escort me, you know. I am now perfectly safe,” she pointed out.
“I know. But, selfishly, I like your company.”
“Your congregation will talk.”
“Let them.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “You’ll be doing your father’s work for him and losing your place here.”
“I don’t believe that.” He raised his hat to people across the street and murmured greetings to a family of lower social standing who passed him wreathed in smiles. “I really do have work I need to catch up on for the rest of the day, but perhaps you might consider lending me your horse and riding with me again tomorrow morning?”
“That would be most obliging,” she said calmly, although her heart beat like a debutante’s accepting her first dance. “Gladiator needs the exercise, and I have no intention of letting Peter ride as soon as tomorrow.”
Grant smiled. “I always said you were a good woman.”
“No, I’m not,” she said at once. “Peter is an excellent groom and I have no desire to lose him.”
Chapter Twelve
The following morning, Kate met Grant at the stables and rode with him up to the abbey, where once she’d won a ladies’ watercolor competition and swapped paintings with Gillie Muir.
“Do you still have it?” Grant asked, as they rested the horses amongst the ruins. He strolled beside her, trailing his hand along the old stone walls and fallen boulders, as though he could thus absorb their history.
“Actually, I do. Though I doubt Gillie kept mine.”
“Because her husband was the man you loved when you were a young girl?”
She smiled without looking at him. “How did you guess? Did he tell you?”
“No. But you’re different with him. And he cares about you.”
“You don’t ask if I love him still,” she observed.
“I don’t need to. I know you don’t, not as Gillie does.”
She bent her head to a wild rose growing through a ruined arch and inhaled the perfume. “You can’t possibly know that.”
“Some things about you, I do know, without you having to tell me.”
“Some things you guess,” she corrected.
“No,” he insisted. “Come, don’t you know me better than you should on such short acquaintance?”
She stole a quick glance at him. “Perhaps.”
“There is a bond between us. I don’t truly understand how or why, but I felt it as soon as we spoke.”
Although secret pleasure seeped through her, she said outrageously, “That was mere lust, Mr. Grant. But being a clergyman, you have to justify it with something finer.”
“No, I don’t,” he disputed. “I am as subject to lusts of the flesh as the next man.”
“Then you don’t lust for me?” she mocked. “I am disappointed not to say offended.”
“You know I do. Don’t make me show you.”
“Perhaps I want you to show me.”
He smiled, turning to face her. They stood very close together. “Will you marry me, Kate?”
“You know I won’t.”
“Because of Vernon?”
She kept his gaze with difficulty, because this was the first time he’d mentioned his brother in this way. “No. I won’t marry anyone.”
She waited for him to ask if Vernon was still her lover. She wanted to tell him he was not, but at the same time, it would infuriate her if he had to ask. He claimed to know her, so of all things, he should know this.
He didn’t ask, but instead, cupped her cheek and bent his head. Anticipation spun through her stomach. She lifted her face to his, parting her lips. Grant didn’t move, just stared at her mouth. His breath caught, and she knew the moment had passed.
Kate stepped back, but he followed, claiming her mouth with sudden, yet tender passion. She clung to his wrist as he caressed her cheek, opening to him. His kisses were a revelation, and she was becoming dangerously addicted. When she pressed nearer, he took her properly into his arms, kissing her eyelids and cheeks, and the lobes of her ears before returning to her mouth.
It was sweet and heady, and when his hand slid around to cup her breast, she gave a little moan of sheer pleasure, her mouth opening wider in total surrender. He took it, plundering her mouth and her curves until she trembled.
And then he tore his mouth free, and kissed her neck as though inhaling the scent of her skin.
“For God’s sake, marry me before I explode,” he said shakily.
Laughter trembled on her tingling lips. “I won’t marry again. I won’t be owned.”
He raised his head, his eyes thrillingly dark and clouded. “I could own you now if I choose to. Deny it.”
“I do deny it. You would take only what I choose to give.”
He touched his forehead to hers. “Kate, that would always be the case.”
“You haven’t been married,” she pointed out. Reaching up, she pressed a quick, hard kiss on his lips and slipped out of his arms.
*
Early the next day, Cornelius said goodbye to Tris and the Muirs, then stepped into Lord Wickenden’s travelling coach to be driven quietly out of Blackhaven for his father’s estate at Filby. Tris was right. He should rest up for a week and then go to London and face the old man. Get it over with.
With frequent changes of horses, he could probably have made it to Filby by nightfall, but since he wished to avoid the major posting houses, he took the journey by easier stages, finding a snug little inn in which to spend the night. It was such an out-of-the-way, unpretentious little house, that he did not anticipate meeting anyone who might have heard of him let alone met him.
Until he walked into the taproom for a glass of ale and saw Dickie Crowmore sitting at the corner table busily writing, a mug at his elbow.
Cornelius stepped back out of the room, unseen.
It had been a year since Cornelius had seen Dickie, but he was sure it was him, narrow chest and shoulders above the table, and too-thin legs sticking out underneath. His nose was long and pinched, his eyes narrow, and his mouth downturned and mean. And yet, somehow, he was not an ill-looking fellow. Or an ineffectual one. Just not a very congenial one.
Dickie was ten or so years older than Cornelius, so although they’d moved in the same milieu, they’d never been friends. Cornelius had never cared for him, in fact. There had been an odd sense of entitlement about him that grated. Not entitlement to the fine things money can buy—their entire class shared that view—but a sense that he could say and do whatever the hell he liked to anyone. A bit, in fact, like old Lord Crowmore, whose heir he was.
The world said Dickie had been hopping mad with fury when old Crowmore had married again. Society had, in fact, waited with glee for the new young Lady Crowmore to produce an heir and put Dickie’s nose out of joint once and for all. Now, with the old man dead, Dickie finally inherited, and from what Tris had let fall, he was being entirely ruthless about ensuring
that no late babies, of the old baron’s blood or otherwise, should threaten that inheritance.
All this, Cornelius remembered in a flash as he effaced himself.
“Changed my mind,” he told the innkeeper as he came across him in the passage. “I’d rather be quiet. Could you bring some ale and some supper to my chamber instead?”
“Of course,” beamed the landlord, who must have been delighted to have two members of the quality staying with him at one time. Cornelius was glad he’d been discreet enough to use his Christian name as a surname, just in case the innkeeper was prone to gossip.
As he made his way to his bedchamber, he speculated hard on what the devil Dickie Crowmore was doing here. Tris had been sure he was in London, sending bullies to do his dirty work for him. Tris had turned the tables, sending the ruffian back to claim his fee with a lie that Lady Crowmore was dead.
Had Dickie missed the would-be assassin’s news? Or had he come up here to be closer when the news did come?
So, did he think poor Kate was dead or not?
Presently, the innkeeper’s wife brought him up a tray of fresh soup, beef, and vegetables with some sweet-smelling bread and ale. Unlike her husband, she seemed disposed to chatter, so Cornelius kept her engaged in conversation until she let fall a few remarks about her other noble guest, a lord no less.
“Lord Who?” Cornelius asked, as if he didn’t know.
“Crowmore,” the landlady said proudly.
“A very fine gentleman, I’m sure. What brings him to this part of the world?”
“I believe he’s going to Blackhaven to take the waters there.”
Cornelius feigned a tut of sympathy. “Ah. He does not keep well.”
“And just sustained a shock, apparently. Already grief-stricken for his poor uncle who died just a month or so ago, now his aunt, the late gentleman’s wife, has upped and died! And her only a beautiful young thing of just eight and twenty.”
“Tragic,” Cornelius agreed with growing excitement. So at least Dickie had heard Tris’s message. But he wasn’t meant to go himself to Blackhaven. He was meant to talk all over London about Kate’s death and thus betray himself before Kate returned. Besides which, the man was evil and shouldn’t be allowed near Kate. Maybe he should write to Tris, or Vernon.
Burying his face in his ale mug, he considered gloomily the idiocy of brothers who pursued the same woman. Mind you, he could see the attraction. He would almost certainly have had a go himself if Vernon—and Tris—hadn’t been in there first. He meant to be hundreds of miles away from that fight before it happened.
He’d write to Tris first thing tomorrow morning, before he left the inn.
However, he woke when it was barely daylight, to the sound of carriage wheels rumbling across the inn yard, and when he bolted painfully to the window, clutching his wounded shoulder, he saw a departing coach lumbering toward the gate. It bore the Crowmore crest.
And at the road end, it turned north toward the Blackhaven road.
“Oh damnation,” Cornelius said, tugging painfully at his hair in an effort to think. A note just wouldn’t do, would it? What if the weasel got there first, hid, and pushed Kate out of a window or something?
Opening his own window, he yelled across the yard for Wickenden’s coachman. When the man appeared, bleary-eyed from sleep, Cornelius called, “Change of plan! We’re returning to Blackhaven.”
*
Kate knew he was there from the moment he emerged from the trees behind her. It was as if the very air changed, thickening with excitement as it blew between them, causing her spine to tingle and her stomach to tighten. All the little hairs at the back of her neck stood up. But it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. In fact, the anticipation was oddly thrilling.
Not that she betrayed that for an instant. Seated on a stool before her easel, she carried on painting, glancing from her work to the vista before her, the hills sweeping down to the shore and the calm, gray-blue sea making its stately, inexorable way closer to the shore. She loved the uneven shapes of the craggy rocks contrasting with the even, square castle at the corner of her picture, and the tidy little town spilling down to the harbor.
She was rather pleased with the way she’d caught the colors and the light on the sea, and her perspective was pretty good. She wondered if she should attempt to paint in Little and her young man, whose name was Edwin Gage, who sat on the blanket in front of her, pretending to pack up the food. But in fact, she’d no real idea where to put her brush next, for she couldn’t think with Grant behind her.
At last, Little dragged her gaze from Edwin and noticed the curate. She bobbed her head in greeting, and Kate laid down her brush in relief. She could finally admit to noticing his presence.
“Are you examining my work, Mr. Grant?” she drawled without turning.
“No,” he murmured. He stood so close his breath stirred her hair. “At the moment, I’m too fascinated by the delicacy of your nape and the line of your shoulders.”
She couldn’t help the heat that surged through her body. Perhaps he would imagine it was the warmth of the sun. To be on the safe side, she still didn’t turn.
“There is no need for flattery, sir,” she said tartly. “I am immune. In fact, I dislike it excessively.”
“I would never dream of flattering you,” he returned, bending as if to gaze at the picture. “You smell of orange blossom and the sea, and I ache to kiss you just there.” His fingertips touched the base of her nape and flew along to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Before she could prevent it, her lips parted in a small gasp of shock and pleasure, which she tried to cover by turning to face him at last.
She should probably have eased her shawl farther up, too, but she didn’t wish to discourage him from following his desires.
“You may not kiss me anywhere at all,” she said lightly, although her gaze showed a distressing tendency to cling to his half-smiling lips. She forced it upward to his eyes, and God help her, that was no better, for they were thrillingly warm, with that strange clouded gleam that came only with desire. “I am playing chaperone to my maid and Mr. Gage.”
“He works in the hotel,” Grant observed, straightening, to both her relief and disappointment. “Are you fostering Miss Little’s romance?”
“Of course not,” Kate said crossly. “The wretched girl would leave me if she married him. I merely borrowed him to carry all my things up here.”
“Of course you did,” Grant soothed, grinning. “You see, this is one of the reasons I like you so much. No other lady of my acquaintance would even notice her maid’s flirtations, let alone promote them. In most cases, it would be grounds for dismissal.”
“Well, I won’t need to dismiss her or write her a reference if she marries Mr. Gage,” Kate retorted.
“Do you think she will?”
“No. She has only known him a week, and we shall we be leaving soon.”
He came around in front of her, frowning. “You shall? When?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know yet. But no one stays in Blackhaven forever, do they? Except curates, perhaps.”
“Ouch.” He held her defiant gaze. “Walk with me.”
“I’m busy,” she protested, lifting her brush once more.
“Then send them away.”
She opened her mouth to blister him, as she did anyone who tried to command her or her servants. But, of course, he hadn’t commanded. His tone had merely suggested, though perhaps with a hint of urgency. The trouble was, she didn’t feel in control of this relationship at all, and that was dangerous. It made her want to lash out and hurt him. Even when he didn’t deserve it.
She threw her brush down, splattering water and paint over her picture. “Little, go for a walk while I quarrel with Mr. Grant. Mr. Gage, look after her, if you please.”
Edwin sprang up with alacrity, holding out his hand to help Little to her feet. The pair scampered off toward the woods, although Little kept glancing anxiously back over her shoulder.
>
“He will have to polish his shoes again when he returns to the hotel,” Kate observed. “Do you think they will enjoy a passionate tryst in the woods?”
“I don’t believe I care.”
“You could marry them forcefully for their sins.”
He dropped on to the blanket beside the basket and stretched out his long legs. “I don’t want to marry anyone forcefully. Even you. Especially not you.”
“Good, for you must acknowledge now that I would make a positively dreadful clergyman’s wife. Beside my scandalous reputation, I am ill-natured and addicted to hedonistic pleasures. I would be the talk of Blackhaven, and make you so by association. I would ruin your career and your life.”
It was a fairly comprehensive self-denunciation, and had the added merit of being quite true. But it didn’t have the effect she intended.
His eyes gleamed with more amusement than anything else. “Do you love me?”
“Of course I don’t. I’ve known you little more than a week! Besides, what has love to do with marriage?”
“For me, everything. For you… Don’t you think marriage would be much more fun if you loved your husband?”
“No,” she said baldly. “I am going to be a disreputable and happy widow.”
“Disreputable in what way? Will you take lovers?”
“Of course,” she said airily. “I’ve already offered you the position.”
Quick laughter shook him. He reached out his hand. “You are outrageous. Come and sit with me.”
Reluctantly, and yet with a drumming heart, she rose and walked the few paces to the blanket and lowered herself to a kneeling position facing him.
“Why would you take a lover, Kate? Pleasure? Companionship?”
“Why else?” she said carelessly.
He leaned forward and took her hand from her lap, where it had been twisting the fine muslin of her gown. “I would give you those things in marriage,” he promised. “What is the difference?”
She gazed at her hand in his, watched the caressing motion of his thumb on her skin, and allowed herself to feel every sensation. She ached.
The Wicked Lady (Blackhaven Brides Book 2) Page 16
