by Sandra Heath
Rafe nodded. “I intend to, but I fear she is rather set on waiting until Christmas Eve. Because it’s her birthday.” The last words were uttered in imitation of a whining female tone.
“Right now she isn’t in any position to set the terms. Damn it, man, she needs this match to keep herself out of the nearest Bridewell! Give her an ultimatum! An immediate wedding, or the whole thing is off.”
“It’s easy to see why you are the darling of the fair sex,” Rafe murmured coolly.
Sir Quentin flushed. “I’m merely being practical.”
“Yes, well, I think you can leave that side of things to me. I want to coax the lady into my bed, not send her screaming to the nearest sanctuary.” Rafe smiled. “Relax, dear fellow, for I’m not without finesse when it comes to matters amatory.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Rafe helped himself to another slice of toast, which he buttered liberally and spread thickly with marmalade. “You worry too much, Brockhampton. Everything is going to go splendidly, you mark my words. Now then, I suppose you wish to stay here awhile, on account of a certain lady?”
Sir Quentin flushed. “I would appreciate the opportunity to further my cause with her, yes.”
“An odd situation, you must agree. You hanker after the mother, while I desire the daughter.”
“Cora Preston has a rather low opinion of me, I fear. I could see the doubt in her eyes when I told her Felix Reynolds hadn’t left any money in my safekeeping.”
“Doubt, but not certainty, which means she wonders the same about Reynolds himself. So don’t give up yet, my friend. Faint heart never won fair lady.”
“Hmm.”
“I’ll see that a guest room is prepared for you.” Rafe rose from his chair. “Well, I’ve finished now and must get ready to go over to Fairfield Hall. I sent word earlier that I would call this morning.”
“I could do with a decent sleep. Even my bruises have bruises after that damned journey,” grumbled Sir Quentin.
Rafe paused. “I have an idea. I mentioned the Bonfire Night assembly at the Royal Oak. Well, you must be my guest.”
“I can’t abide country assemblies!”
Rafe spread his hands. “Do you or do you not wish to insinuate yourself in Cora Preston’s good graces?”
“I do.”
“Then show some good grace of your own, for she adores socializing of any description.”
Chapter 18
Autumn leaves lay in abundance on the sloping, tree-clad slope as Emily and Jack rode away from the Hall after morning service. They made their way east across the open acres of the park toward the narrow, winding valley of the River Teme, into which the horses had to pick their way with care.
They moved upstream along a fern-edged path right beside the river. The sound of flowing water echoed pleasantly between the trees, and the air was good to breathe. The fiery colors of the season blazed across the landscape, and here and there the dark green of holly or other evergreens showed. There was a light breeze, and leafy shadows dappled the ground as the sun slanted through the branches. Birdsong was shrill in the valley, and occasionally the raucous cries of pheasants followed the horses from the edge of the park.
Emily could not help glancing at Jack as he rode beside her on her late husband’s red bay hunter. He wore Geoffrey’s purple coat and leather breeches as well, but in spite of this, somehow he did not put her in mind of the man she had lost. Perhaps it was his blue eyes and flowing blond locks, which were so opposite in every way to Geoffrey’s dark eyes and cropped dark hair. Jack was a natural horseman too, at ease no matter what mount he rode.
She saw how his body flexed gracefully to the motion of the hunter, and then she thought again of last night and the way that lithe but muscular body had responded to her ... No, she mustn’t think like this! Jack Lincoln was here for the moment, but would soon be gone again, so she would be playing with fire if she allowed anything to happen. Rafe had to be her future now; the letter from Sir Quentin had reminded her of that!
Jack was aware of the change in her, a further withdrawal since the breakfast table. Then there had been shy embarrassment, but now there was almost a wall between them. What had happened? he wondered. He didn’t know about the letter from Sir Quentin, so his unhappiness was considerable as they rode farther and farther into the winding valley, where the noise of the Teme became louder as the valley sides steepened.
The water wasn’t wide, but neither was it shallow in the center. Certainly it was too deep and swift for horses to cross. Rocks and boulders were scattered everywhere, forcing the current to find a way, sometimes roaring over white rapids, sometimes sliding strongly through like a liquid mirror. Several fallen trees had been swept downstream in times of flood, and now, bleached by the sun of several summers, they were stranded high and dry on banks of pebbles.
Beech and oak overhung the path, with scattered clearings that in springtime would be clothed with bluebells. On the far side of the water, the valley slope suddenly became more gentle, opening to an area of flat sunlit rocks that looked very inviting—a perfect place to sit and rest.
Emily reined in her mare and glanced at Jack. “This paltry stream can hardly amount to anything in your much-traveled eyes, Mr. Lincoln, but it is the best we can offer.” Her voice was almost lost in the racket of the water.
“I find it very pleasing, Mrs. Fairfield. The Andes can be a little too majestic at times.”
“Well, majestic is hardly a word to describe Shropshire,” she replied.
“Do not belittle your county, Mrs. Fairfield, for to my eyes this spot is charming.”
The faintest of smiles made a fleeting appearance on her lips. “Geoffrey and I used to come here quite often, especially in the summer. We’d sit on a flat rock a little farther upstream, near a packhorse-bridge. I thought we might pause there awhile now, to rest the horses?”
“By all means.”
She looked away. “The path crosses over at the bridge, then separates into two. One fork leads to an old ruined watermill, which is a few hundred yards farther upstream from here; the other leads to the disused gatehouse you probably noticed on your way from Temford. We’ll take that route, and ride back through the boundary woods to the Hall. Will that be in order?”
“Of course it will, Mrs. Fairfield.” He wished she would relax a little, for she was making him feel more uncomfortable by the moment. Last night, before those final moments in the long gallery, they had been easy in each other’s company; now everything had changed. He felt as if he were going backward instead of forward with her, which made it impossible for him to know where to begin regarding his promise to Felix.
She moved her mare along the path, which was narrow and quite dangerous in places because the land on this side of the Teme was so steep. An electric-blue kingfisher darted before them, a silver fish in its beak, and there was a movement by the treeline on the far bank as a deer was caught unawares by the riders’ approach.
The packhorse-bridge was a simple stone arch, low and without a parapet, and as Emily led the way across, Jack was very conscious of the water rushing by barely a foot below. On the far side the path divided in two as she had said, the one fork swinging away upstream toward the second mill, the other curving in the opposite direction toward the road, some half a mile distant.
Emily dismounted reluctantly on the grass where the path divided. She didn’t want to prolong the time spent alone with Jack, but the horses needed to be rested awhile after the rigors of the riverside path. Jack dismounted as well. He noticed how swiftly she slipped down from the mare, without giving him any opportunity to be the gentleman and assist her. She was strengthening the wall between them; no, she had virtually placed battlements along it! But he said nothing as they tied the horses to a bush, then made their way down to the flat rocks by the water.
They sat down, and she removed her riding hat. The sun brought out the rich golden brown of her short hair and made her hazel eyes seem
larger. She wore an older riding habit, sky blue wool trimmed with black braiding, and the color stood out charmingly amid the autumn tints all around.
He discarded his top hat and gloves, then leaned back against a rock. The sun beamed down, and the air was unexpectedly warm. He felt that his neckcloth was too tight.
“Mrs. Fairfield, would you mind very much if I loosened my neckcloth? I am woefully unaccustomed to such things, and feel well nigh choked in this heat.”
“Of course you may, Mr. Lincoln. I hardly see the point of standing on ceremony in a place like this.” She forgot herself and smiled.
He did not merely loosen the neckcloth, but untied it completely, so the ends lifted gently in the breeze that glanced off the water. He undid the throat of his shirt as well, and she saw again the Inca necklace gleaming rich gold against his skin.
She wished she was not so very conscious of everything about him, but even though she was trying her best to be indifferent, that was the last thing she was succeeding in being.
He made himself comfortable against the rock, then glanced around. It really was an enchanting place, and he could well believe that she and her husband had come here often. Upstream, beyond the bridge, he could just make out the ruins of the water mill she had mentioned. It was just a few crumbling stone walls now, with the rotting, moss-covered remains of the wheel tilting precariously into the very race from which it had once drawn power.
The silence between them weighed a little, and he searched for something to say. “Did your husband paint only portraits, Mrs. Fairfield?” Dear God, he thought, how feeble the question sounded!
“Generally. Why do you ask?”
“Because I was thinking how very picturesque a scene the old mill makes.”
She smiled, with a spark more warmth and naturalness than hitherto. “Geoffrey thought so too, and I admit that he did attempt to paint it. But he was dissatisfied with the result. He said he could not achieve the quality of the water, so he destroyed all the work he’d done. I was sad because I rather liked it.”
Their eyes met again, and she looked away so quickly that this time it became too much for Jack. “Mrs. Fairfield, have I offended in some way?”
“Offended?” She tried to sound surprised, but her eyes admitted something different.
“You are quite clearly ill at ease in my company, more so now than even at the breakfast table. Please do not deny it, for I know this to be so. If it is because of last night—”
“Yes, in part it is, sir,” she said quickly. “Those moments in the long gallery should not have happened, Mr. Lincoln, and I would regard it as a great courtesy on your part if you behaved as if they did not.”
He knew he had to tread carefully. “But nothing did happen, Mrs. Fairfield. You were upset, and I offered a little comfort, that is all.”
Her gaze became accusing. “That is not all, sir, and we both know it.”
He could not deny it a second time, and so glanced away. “And if I admit it, what then? Nothing really took place, certainly nothing that I would ever speak of elsewhere, so if that is your concern...” He drew a deep breath. “No doubt you are thinking of your betrothal?”
“Of course I am, sir, for it is to take place the day after tomorrow. I should have kept it more in mind last night, but I was upset and ... Well, I do not think I need to explain, do I? I wish to forget all about it, and now that I have told you how I feel, I trust that will be the end of it.”
How stilted and self-conscious she was, he mused, and how unflatteringly doubtful of his status as a gentleman! “Mrs. Fairfield, you do me a grave injustice by doubting my honor in this. If it is your wish to forget all about this, then of course I will speak no more of it.”
“Please don’t be angry with me, sir,” she said quietly. “If I have seemed to insult you, I apologize with all my heart. It isn’t you that I doubt, but myself.”
His eyes flew hopefully to meet hers. “If that is—”
“Please, don’t say anything more!” she interrupted. “Please, I beg of you. Nothing has changed, I still wish to forget everything that happened last night.”
She was lying, for it wasn’t what she wanted at all. She longed to be taken into his strong arms, to be kissed and made love to, here by the river ... The truth flustered her, and she began to get up, but suddenly he prevented her.
“Please, don’t go,” he begged.
She tried to pull her arm away. “Mr. Lincoln, this is not...”
“You have asked me to forget what happened last night, and I have promised that I will, but first I have to tell you how I feel. There is no one else here, just the two of us, and I want you to know ...” He gazed into her eyes, unable to say anything more. But surely she could see into his very soul? Surely she knew how deeply he felt about her, even though they had still not known each other for more than a day?
“This will do no good,” she replied, again trying to pull away from him.
The sun on her hair and in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips, the fragrance of lavender that seemed to be part of her—all of these things combined to make him her jailer. He couldn’t release her, wouldn’t release her...
“Mrs. Fairfield—Emily—exactly why are you at such pains to forget last night? I cannot and will not believe that it is solely on account of Warrender.”
Her eyes were accusing. “Shame on you, sir, for you know why! I am no shrinking virgin, but a widow who enjoyed her married life to the full, so I am well aware of your thoughts and feelings last night!”
“As I am equally aware of yours,” he countered. She had also given herself away during that brief embrace, and he wanted her to admit that she had been as aroused by him as he had been by her.
“You surely do not want me to say more than I already have?” she whispered.
He took her by the arms and leaned forward so that his lips were only inches from hers. “I don’t think you understand how I feel about you, Emily. All you believe is that I lust after you, and that I would take advantage if I possibly could.”
“No, I—”
“Yes, Emily, you do think that! But it isn’t the truth. I feel much more for you than mere desire. I want to shield you, look after you, cherish you, spend my entire life at your side ... I love you, Emily, that is the truth. Believe me, there is such a thing as love at first sight, for my heart was bought and sold from the moment I saw you ...”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Please, don’t...” she whispered.
“If I do not say it now, then I may never have another chance,” he replied, his tone much more gentle. Her tears broke his heart, and broke his resolve as well. He had meant to stand by his promise to forget all that had passed between them in the long gallery, but it was impossible. Just as it was equally impossible to let her remain at arm’s length. He pulled her toward him, found her lips, and crushed them with a kiss that was so filled with raw, undeniable emotion that it robbed him of finesse. It was a kiss that came from his heart—and his soul.
She tried to resist, to force him away and make him stop. But he didn’t stop, and gradually her resistance began to dissolve into submission. Her lips parted, softened, responded. She sank against him and returned the kiss.
For a long, long moment they were locked in each other’s arms, their lips joined. Neither of them wished to break the wonderful sexual spell that wound around them both, but end it they had to, and as he drew back to look into her desire-darkened eyes, he made a fatal error of judgment. “Please don’t marry Warrender, Emily,” he begged.
Cold reality returned to Emily, and with it the debts, the threat of jail, the prospect of shocking and shaming revelations about Geoffrey. It was too much! With a gasp she wrenched herself free and scrambled to her feet.
“Emily ...” Jack stretched a hand toward her, but she stepped back.
“I... I think it is best if you leave the Hall immediately, Mr. Lincoln.”
“Leave? But...”
“Tha
t is my last word on the matter! You will not spend another night under my roof!” With that she fled to the horses and remounted, then galloped off along the path that led toward the disused gatehouse.
Jack got up to stare helplessly after her. What an unspeakable fool he’d been! If ever a man wished he had held his tongue, it was he. Emily Fairfield might want him as much as he wanted her, but she was not an easy conquest at all.
Chapter 19
Jack decided not to pursue Emily. She had made her wishes very plain, and this time he had to accept them. He’d muffed the situation, and had rightly been given his congé.
He tossed his hair back and raised his face to the sun, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’ve let you down, Felix,” he murmured, then went to his horse and remounted. His spirits could not have been more low as he gathered the reins, then paused to decide which route to take back to the Hall. He followed in Emily’s wake, riding slowly in order not to run the risk of catching up with her. The bay moved up the gentle incline into the trees, and the noise of the rapids faded away, soon to be heard no more as once again the trees folded over him.
The slow, gentle clip-clop of hooves upon the path seemed to be ticking away his remaining time at the Hall, and suddenly he could not bear it anymore and turned the horse into the ferns and long grass. He was so deep in thought—and self-recrimination—that he paid little attention to where he was going. It wasn’t until he almost struck his head on a low-hanging branch and paused to look around that he realized he had lost all sense of direction.
The sun had gone behind a cloud, and there were no shadows to indicate to which point of the compass he was moving. He was lost. He glanced around, but there just seemed to be trees wherever he looked. Trees, more trees, and not a sound of human activity, even in the distance.
He glanced above the branches, hoping to see a curl of smoke that would show him the way to the gatehouse, but there was nothing. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?” The words reminded him of his search for Emily only the day before. He listened, but there was no response to his call. He shouted again, but still there was nothing. Which way should he go? With a sigh he turned the horse to the right and rode on again.
