Enchanting the Earl (The Townsends)

by Lily Maxton

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know. Ten or more.”

  “Oh.” The child looked disappointed. “I’ve only been alive four.”

  “You’ll be fourteen before you know it,” Theo promised. “And then you’ll look at your new responsibilities and wonder why you wanted to grow up so fast.”

  The child looked confused. Theo supposed he was getting a little too philosophical for a four-year-old.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Theo. What’s yours?”

  “Mary.” The child puffed up. “I’m named after a queen!”

  “So you are.”

  “Who are you named after?”

  “No one in particular. It comes from an old Greek name—Theodoros.”

  “What’s Greek?”

  Theo grinned, finding himself enjoying the child’s company more than he might have imagined. He wasn’t around children very often, and, as he didn’t see himself marrying, he didn’t see a future where he had any of his own. “Greek is a language, spoken in Greece, which is a country.”

  “A country?”

  Theo tried to think of a good way to explain it. Now that he thought of it, countries were quite arbitrary things. “Men set up boundaries…like lines…and some men rule—” He stopped when a ray of sun suddenly broke through the passing clouds, lighting upon the girl’s upturned face, illuminating curious, intelligent eyes that were as green as the grass after a rain storm.

  He felt something inside him crumble. Something snap, irrevocably, never to be put back together.

  “Theo?” the child asked.

  “Mary!” a voice called at the same time.

  It was the maid, Catriona. She rushed toward them, her face flushed. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said with a swift curtsy. Catriona grabbed Mary’s hand and led her away, while Theo watched, feeling numb.

  “You can’t run off like that,” Catriona was whispering to the girl. She glanced over her shoulder at Theo before turning away again.

  “But I made a new friend,” Mary protested.

  Theo never heard Catriona’s answer, because they were covering ground with remarkable speed, and whatever she said next was inaudible.

  His grip tightened on his cane. For a moment, he stood utterly still, while inside, it felt like he was breaking apart in all different directions. He wanted to follow Catriona and demand answers. He wanted to go to Annabel and confront her and demand, once and for all, the truth. A thing she hadn’t yet freely given him, and which he wanted fiercely.

  He wanted her to trust him.

  But it was useless. Theo already knew the truth. He’d never seen eyes like that before, and the child looked like her. Good God, now that he realized, the girl looked so much like Annabel it was painful.

  As much as he wanted to rail at her, as much as he was hurt that she’d kept such a massive secret from him, he could understand why she’d done it. Their world wasn’t kind to unwed mothers.

  No, the reaction that worried him the most was this raging, surging violence. He wanted to find the man who’d abandoned Annabel to raise their child alone, after she’d been abandoned so many times before.

  He wanted to find him, rip him limb from limb, and then stab him through the heart.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As soon as Annabel saw that Theo had left for a walk, she went to her sister’s chamber. Her pulse hammered in her throat the entire time—what in the world would she say to her? What in the world would they do?

  But problems didn’t get any smaller from willful ignorance. Unfortunately. She drew a deep breath and rapped gently at the door.

  Fiona opened it a crack and peeked out, assuring it was Annabel before she stepped back to let her in.

  Annabel stepped into the empty room. “Where is Mary?”

  “She’s with Catriona in the kitchen,” Fiona said.

  Annabel stared at the wall, her hands gripping each other tightly. That was good, she told herself. She wouldn’t be able to say what she needed to say if Mary was here.

  “Are you all right?” Fiona asked from behind her.

  “No,” she said on a shaky breath. “No, I’m not all right. Fiona…did you kill him?”

  When there was no answer, her stomach plummeted. She turned to face her sister, whose face had gone white.

  “How did you find out?” she asked.

  “Fiona!” she cried. “How could you keep this from me? How could you?”

  “I didn’t know if you’d turn me away if you knew…I had nowhere else to go.”

  “I wouldn’t have turned you away,” Annabel said. It was the truth. She would never turn her back on her younger sister, no matter what she’d done, but God, she felt used. She felt like a fool.

  “How did you find out?” Fiona repeated.

  “Everyone is talking about it,” she said shrilly. “I heard it from an innkeeper in Oban. They’re looking for you. Colin’s family is adamant that you’re caught and punished. They want to see you hanged.”

  “But they don’t know I’m here.”

  “Not yet,” Annabel said. “But they’re searching the area.”

  “You thought we were safe here before.”

  “That was before I realized so many people were trying to find you. I thought you’d left Colin, and that he might search for you quietly to avoid embarrassment, and give up if he didn’t find anything after a while. It doesn’t sound like his family is willing to give up. If they question enough people, it could very well lead them here.”

  Fiona wrung her hands. “Then what do we do?”

  “I don’t know,” Annabel said softly. “I don’t know what to do. My first thought is to get you out of Scotland, but what if they’re watching the ports?”

  “I should have left,” Fiona said. “As soon as I fled I should have bought passage on a ship. But I wasn’t thinking clearly. All I could think about was getting to you. I was frightened, and shocked, and I kept remembering—I kept remembering—” She faltered.

  Annabel reached out to touch her sister’s hand. “It’s all right.”

  “No. I’ve only given them a chance to find me.”

  Fiona’s hand was trembling. “What happened?” Annabel whispered. “Why did you do it?”

  Fiona sank down at the foot of the bed. When she spoke, she didn’t look at Annabel. “Colin was not a…a nice man. I learned to avoid him, as much as I could, but Mary didn’t. One night, she accidentally crossed his path when he was in a foul mood. He pushed her down the stairs,” she said, her voice breaking. “He could have killed her. He could have killed my child.”

  Annabel’s heart clenched. “So you…”

  “I waited until he was asleep and I shot him in the chest. And then I left.”

  A startled laugh that was some cross between crazed hilarity and complete abandonment escaped Annabel.

  “I can’t say what came over me, Bel. It was rage and fear, and I just…I wanted him gone. I wanted Mary to be safe. I never wanted to worry that he’d harm her again.”

  “So you had provocation,” Annabel said slowly. “Did anyone see him do anything? Would anyone be willing to testify about his character? The servants?”

  Fiona shook her head. “He never hurt me where they could see. He was always so careful to protect his reputation. They all loved him, Bel.”

  Annabel couldn’t say what she would have done in the same situation—if she might not have done the same thing had her husband shown violence toward her child. But good Lord…was there any chance a jury would acquit her sister now? It wouldn’t have been a certain thing even if she’d shot him in the heat of the moment to defend herself. But that she’d waited until he was asleep and in bed…that she’d fled…that Colin was so well-respected no one would expect abuse…

  What an awful, awful mess.

  And the responsibility of it fell like a heap on Annabel’s shoulders. This never would have happened if Annabel had seen Colin for the monster he was. She’d
actually encouraged her sister when Colin had begun courting her. She’d actually thought it would be a good match. She’d been blind to who he really was.

  The weight of her mistake threatened to suffocate her, and she gripped Fiona’s hand more tightly.

  Her sister began to cry, soft tears hidden in the palm of her hand. Annabel pulled Fiona against her, cradled her sister’s head against her chest.

  “I’m sorry,” Fiona sobbed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shown up here. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “No,” Annabel soothed. “You did the right thing. I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect you.”

  As she should have done. As she’d failed to do.

  If there was still breath in her lungs, she wouldn’t let any harm come to Fiona.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Theo stalked the halls that night, not long after everyone else had retired. A perverse part of him wanted to run into Annabel—she hadn’t been at dinner—and he had no idea what his reaction to seeing her would be. He didn’t run into her, however. The halls remained quiet and dark and lonely, lit only be the wavering light of his lone candle.

  He found himself passing by Annabel’s bedchamber, everything in him stilling when he saw light spilling from underneath the door. But what had he expected? It wasn’t so very late. Was this what his treacherous heart hoped for even as his mind denied it?

  He waited outside the door for too long, wondering if he should knock or just go back downstairs and try to go to sleep, no matter how elusive a thing it was.

  But the decision was taken from his hands when the door creaked open, and Annabel’s tired face appeared.

  She didn’t look surprised. She must have heard him approach. Which meant she’d also heard him lingering as he battled with himself. Which meant his foolishness was on full display.

  “Do you want to come in?” she asked.

  And then, despite his indecision, he was in her bedchamber, exactly the place he shouldn’t be, and shutting the door behind him, exactly the thing he shouldn’t do. And then his qualms were for naught because it was over, and done, and they were alone.

  He couldn’t stop himself from glancing around the room. It was small and untidy, which he might have suspected. But he couldn’t work up any sliver of annoyance at the fact. There was a joyous abandon in the way foolscap teetered precariously on the edge of the washstand and the way shards of colored glass littered a small end table—pieces of a broken treasure no one else but Annabel would pay much attention to.

  But as much as he would have liked to examine the room, his gaze was always drawn back to the woman. She was wrapped in a dressing robe, her hair trailing down one shoulder in a braid, looking neater than it usually did.

  With her hair in a clean braid rather than a messy chignon, the lines of her face stood out more prominently. So unusual—the high forehead and sharp cheekbones, the thin, wide mouth and large eyes, almost fairy-like in appearance. Not a pretty, ethereal fairy, but an earthy one, with mud on her hem and stubbornness in her stance. The kind who might drag an unsuspecting human into a dance until their feet bled. Her face was too sharp to ever be soft, too severe to be beautiful.

  She was better than beautiful—she was interesting, at least to Theo. He could have stared at her for hours, studied her like a painting, guessed at her secrets, one by one.

  But he already knew the biggest one.

  And instead of telling her that, instead of demanding answers, which was what he’d told himself he’d come here to do, he found himself uttering something else entirely.

  “Does the offer to practice still stand?”

  Her lips parted, and she inhaled softly. “I thought…”

  “What?” he asked, leaning toward her inadvertently, wanting to catch the sound her breath made when it eased between her lips.

  “You seemed quite adamant that you didn’t need practice.”

  “But if the lady I kiss deems otherwise, perhaps it’s her opinion I should listen to.”

  “That would be wise,” she agreed.

  He stepped closer to her.

  “But I wasn’t entirely truthful.”

  His pulse kicked up. “Oh?”

  “Your kissing was quite acceptable.”

  Disappointment flooded through his veins.

  “But,” she continued, “I suppose that doesn’t mean we couldn’t do it again. Just to be certain my first impression was correct.”

  “Yes,” he said, relieved, “I think that would be the logical decision.”

  If there was a time to back away, it would be now, but her pull was too much and he was too tired, and for once he just wanted to forget there was a world outside these darkened windows, that there were any moments aside from this one. He wanted to let himself pretend that he had no past to remember and no future to look toward.

  In this moment, he was not a former soldier, not haunted, not wounded, not desperately trying to hold himself together for his family.

  He was just a man.

  He closed the distance between them, until they were almost touching, but not quite. He could feel the rustle of fabric against his chest when she took a deep breath, felt the soft gust of air against his cheek. He had the idle thought that their bodies had been made for each other; she matched him, thigh to thigh, chest to chest, mouth to wanting mouth.

  He let his cane clatter to the floor. His fingers touched her arm at the elbow, trailed down to tangle with hers. He found himself pulling her slender hand toward him and studying the shape of it by the candle light.

  “Several years ago, Robert and Eleanor begged me to go with them to a fortune teller’s tent at a fair, and the woman read our palms.”

  Annabel’s eyes were as dark as moss as she looked at him under lowered lashes. “That sounds frivolous.”

  “Dishearteningly so,” he said with a slight smile. “They wouldn’t stop begging, though. Younger siblings can be tiresome.”

  “And what was your fortune?”

  “Mostly she spoke of wealth and adventure,” he said. “I think she told me what I wanted to hear. But I remember she called this line the heart line.” Theo traced the line with his thumb, gratified when he heard Annabel’s soft gasp. He lowered his head and pressed a gentle, gentle kiss to the inside of her palm.

  “What did she say about your heart line?” Annabel asked quietly.

  “I don’t remember,” he said with rueful amusement. “As a fifteen-year-old, I was much more interested in the wealth and adventure part. But your heart line is quite deep. I would guess you’re passionate.” He was cheating—he already knew she was passionate. And not just physically, but about things and people—her ex-actress of an aunt, Rabbie Burns, broken shells and ugly Highland ponies and this castle and the people around it and the very land itself.

  He was almost jealous—he was trying to make his world smaller, trying to restrict it to just the essentials, just the people he had no choice but to care for and protect, and here she was, resigned to a remote corner of the country, just like him, but her world was infinitely larger.

  “I would guess you have no notion of loving by degrees.” He caught her intent, startled gaze. “Sometimes a dangerous trait.”

  “Why?” she asked, her voice just a whisper of sound.

  “Love is cruel. It takes hostages with no thought or feeling, no mercy. It doesn’t care what mere mortals want. It doesn’t care when it breaks them.” What was he saying? He knew nothing about love. He just knew he liked the way she tasted.

  She was quiet for a long, long moment. Then she said, words trembling between her lips, “We might make a poet of you yet.”

  He tasted her again. He kissed her heart line, a little nudge of retaliation for her quip, and then traced his tongue along its length, reveling in salt and skin.

  She shivered, and he felt the tremor through his hand. He wanted to learn her, like a piano or harp; he wanted to know what places and what touches would elicit the reactions
he desired—the soft sighs and gasps, the quivering excitement.

  He wanted to know what pleased her, so he could give her pleasure.

  But why?

  This wasn’t why he’d come here. He’d come to discuss the child. He wondered what exactly he thought he was doing—was this an offering? Let me please you. Let me touch you. Trust me.

  Please.

  Please.

  Please, trust me.

  It didn’t matter if she trusted him. It wouldn’t change a thing.

  And still, he wanted some small piece before she left. He wanted her to reveal her secrets on her own. He wanted to do what he could to help her with this one thing, her child, because he couldn’t give her her home. And he wanted to offer her the only thing he really could—his body, damaged though it was, because it was still less damaged than his soul.

  “And this is your life line,” he said huskily, unsteadily. “Quite long.”

  He traced it with his thumb, pressed it with his lips, sealed it with his tongue.

  “I don’t think this is how the fortune tellers do it,” Annabel said lightly, though he could hear the strain beneath her voice. He liked that he could do this to her, liked that he could make her want him with barely a touch.

  “I’m a poor fortune teller,” he admitted. He tasted the vein that throbbed in her wrist. “But not so poor at this, I hope?”

  …

  Annabel couldn’t answer past the dryness in her throat. All she could do was watch him, bowed over her hand like she was a queen and he was offering his life to her, his loyalty, his body. She sighed when he pushed the dressing gown from her shoulders, and then again when she felt his lips touch her wrist and the inside of her elbow.

  He was kissing her in places she hadn’t even realized were sensitive to that kind of touch.

  He breathed against her shoulder, in deep, out like a silent exultation, and then kissed a warm, moist trail along the neckline of her chemise.

  Her hands found his coat and clutched it, ready to pull if he drew away, ready to pull him back to her.

  He didn’t draw away. He nuzzled her throat and the hollow between her ear; he nipped at her lips as he caressed the skin exposed by her chemise. And then he exposed even more skin by tugging down the neckline until her breasts spilled out, tightening as they were exposed to the night air. He cupped the weight of one breast in his palm, flicked the beaded nipple with his thumb.