One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  “Where would you like to settle? Kent? Somerset? Hampshire?”

  Charles hesitated a split second. “America.”

  Rose raised a hand to her mouth, then slowly lowered it to her lap. “America?” Her voice trembled. “But…  why?”

  “I’m sure you can guess. Lots of land. Cheap. And there, no one will care that I wasn’t born into the nobility.” Maybe they wouldn’t even care that he couldn’t read. “I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you.”

  She blew out a long breath and swiped at her eyes. “It makes perfect sense, actually, and I’m glad you told me. I just wish…”

  “What?”

  A tear trickled down her cheek. “That you didn’t have to cross a vast ocean in order to achieve your dream.”

  “I don’t relish the thought of leaving behind my father and friends.” He wiped away her tear, hoping she understood that he’d miss her. Probably more than she knew. “England is my home…  but it’s not my future.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, then pasted on a brave face. “I think I understand.”

  Charles released the breath he’d been holding. Now Rose knew everything. And yet, her forehead wrinkled as though she still had questions. “What is it?” he said. “You may ask me anything.”

  “I am curious,” she began slowly, “as to whether there’s another reason you took the position as Lady Yardley’s steward.”

  “Aside from the salary and the experience?”

  Rose nodded soberly.

  “I suppose it’s more respectable than my previous position, but I’m not concerned with impressing anyone.” Except Rose, perhaps. “Why do you ask?”

  She stood and wrung her hands. “I came across something yesterday. I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been, doing something I shouldn’t have been doing.”

  The conversation was growing more interesting by the minute. “That’s not like you at all, Rose,” he teased. “I’m intrigued.”

  “It will probably sound silly to you.” She faced the fire, as though she couldn’t bear to look at him. “But I found some sketches.”

  “I see.” In truth, he was as perplexed as ever. “Drawings?”

  She turned and looked at him. “Yes. Three of them.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Were they…  alarming?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Er, indecent?”

  “No,” she answered quickly. “Nothing like that. They’re quite proper, but…”

  “But you find them troubling. Why?”

  “They’re of you.”

  “Me? Why would someone want to draw me?”

  She blushed prettily. “Well, you are quite…  handsome.”

  “You must be mistaken. It’s probably just an odd resemblance.”

  “I’m certain it’s you.”

  “It can’t be. I’ve never posed for a drawing.”

  “Still, someone could have sketched you as you worked. Or perhaps from memory.”

  He shook his head. “Do you have the drawings? May I see them?”

  “I put them back where I found them. I didn’t want Lady Yardley to know I’d been snooping around her library.”

  He rose from the bench and paced. “So you were doing a bit of investigating. Looking for clues as to your mother’s whereabouts?”

  “Yes.” She hung her head. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I’m growing increasingly desperate. Then I came across the sketches…  and I didn’t know what to make of them.”

  Understanding dawned—slowly. “Did you think that Lady Yardley and I were…”

  She wrung her hands. “I thought it would explain why you’d accepted the position as her steward.”

  “You mean, why she’d offered it to me.” He tried to ignore the stinging in his chest. Rose believed that he and Lady Yardley had an arrangement of some kind. He couldn’t blame her for jumping to that conclusion. “Clearly, there were men more qualified for the job. Even if one ignores my difficulties with reading, I have little in the way of experience.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that was the reason she hired you, Charles. Everyone must know how capable and hardworking you are. She is lucky to have you on her staff.”

  “Even if I’m not in her bed?”

  A crease appeared between her eyes, and pain flicked across her face. “I think I should go.”

  God, he was an ass. “Wait. I shouldn’t have said that.” He guided her toward the bench and sat beside her. “I don’t know who drew the sketches or if they’re even of me. But I can tell you that I’m in no way involved with Lady Yardley.”

  “I realize it’s none of my concern,” she said. “But I confess I’m relieved.”

  Odd, she sounded almost…  possessive. A ridiculous thought, and yet it made his heart beat faster.

  “While you were in the library,” he said, “did you find any information about your mother?”

  “No.” Her voice was flat. “Nothing.”

  “You mustn’t give up. Lady Yardley knows something…  otherwise, she wouldn’t have acted so strangely when you inquired about it.”

  “Do you want to know what hurts the most?”

  He laced his fingers through hers and nodded.

  “Mama took the time to write to Lady Yardley. And yet, in the six years since she left, she hasn’t had the inclination to write to me—her daughter. She hasn’t inquired about Owen, Olivia, or me. She probably doesn’t even know she has a granddaughter. I think that’s so sad.”

  The anguish on her face gutted him. “It is sad. But you must not take her lack of correspondence for lack of caring. My own behavior is a prime example. I didn’t write to you even though I care about you. Very much.”

  She gave him a watery, grateful smile. “Mama can’t use the excuse of being a poor reader and writer.”

  “There could be other reasons why writing to you is difficult for her. The most important and courageous conversations are often the most difficult to initiate. Your mother must know something of the pain she’s caused you. Perhaps she doesn’t know how a letter from her would be received. Maybe she thinks that you’re better off without her.”

  “I want to believe that her lack of communication doesn’t denote a lack of concern…  but I’m not certain. I thought I knew her, but I really didn’t.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I thought she loved Papa. And us. But then I saw her…  with another man…  and woman.” She blushed scarlet. “That’s not the behavior of a loving wife and mother.”

  Jesus. No wonder Rose had been so troubled and withdrawn. “She wasn’t faithful to your father, true. And perhaps she hasn’t exactly been the model of a loving mother. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t love you, or that she doesn’t still. She is human—just like the rest of us.”

  Confusion marred her beautiful features. “It almost sounds like you’re condoning what she did.”

  “Not at all. Betraying one’s family is the worst sort of offense. I’m only saying that her disappearance has less to do with you than it does with her. I suspect she’s fighting her own demons.”

  Rose slouched a little, as though she were suddenly exhausted. “You may be correct. Somehow, no matter how anxious I feel, you’ve always been able to bring me a measure of peace.”

  He slipped an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him. The downy-soft fur of her collar brushed his neck, and a few tendrils of burnished hair stroked his cheek. “I’m glad you feel a little better. And there’s no need to despair. After all, you’ve only just begun your search. Don’t forget, I’m here to help you.”

  “At least until you set sail for America.” Her voice cracked on the last word, breaking his heart.

  “I won’t leave until I’ve helped you find the answers you’re looking for.”

  It was a promise he had no business making. He’d been saving for the journey for years, looking forward to starting his future. The last thing he needed was something—someone—ho
lding him there on England’s fair shores.

  Rose shook her head. “I would never ask that of you. This is my quest, not yours, and who knows how long it will take?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Finding the truth about your mother is important to you. And you…  well, you’re important to me.”

  Her eyes widened, and the trace of a smile played around her mouth. Damn, he’d revealed too much.

  “Thank you,” she said simply, then stood. He expected her to pull on her hood and prepare to leave, but instead, she pointed at the ladder across the room that led to his loft. Eyes alight with curiosity, she said, “Another room?”

  “Just a small loft.”

  “It looks so cozy. May I see it?”

  He tried to remember if he’d folded the quilt on his mattress that morning, and shrugged. “If you’d like—as long as you won’t be offended by a man’s sleeping quarters.”

  She glided to the ladder and poised her foot on the first rung. “Hardly. I have a brother, after all.” He walked to the base of the ladder as she began climbing, and she spoke to him over her shoulder. “I’m not likely to swoon if I catch a glimpse of your nightclothes on the floor.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that,” he said.

  “Ah, you’re the tidy sort.”

  “Not exactly—I sleep naked.”

  Chapter Eight

  Naked? Dear Jesus.

  Rose couldn’t even pretend to be unaffected by Charles’s casual revelation. Her mind filled with images of him sprawled on a mattress with nothing but a thin linen sheet twisted around his hips…  if there even was a sheet.

  She gulped and stepped onto the next ladder rung. Or, rather, she tried to.

  The toe of her boot caught in the hem of her woolen skirt and she stumbled, falling forward. Her chin smacked a rung, jarring her teeth. Her legs tangled in her heavy cloak and skirts, and her heart pounded, spurred on by a potent combination of embarrassment and fear.

  Just before she would have landed in a heap on the floor, Charles leaned forward and swept her into his arms. She gasped and clutched at his jacket, suddenly secure against the solid, warm wall of his chest.

  “Are you all right?” His low, soothing voice calmed her nerves.

  Pain radiated from her chin, but her pride was the real casualty. “Just rather embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be.” He carried her back to the cozy spot in front of the fireplace and slid the bench aside with his boot. Then he sat near the fire, letting her rest comfortably on his lap. Actually comfortable wasn’t the correct adjective to describe what she was feeling. Though several layers of wool separated her bottom and his thigh, it felt very wicked to be perched on his leg. And also very wonderful. Her face was level with his, their noses just inches apart. She wanted to lean in, touch her forehead to his, and trace his lips with her fingertip.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “Hmm?”

  He gently placed his hands on either side of her head and narrowed his eyes as his gaze roved over her face. “Your face hit the ladder, didn’t it?”

  She sighed. She wasn’t normally prone to accidents. Of all times, why did she have to be so clumsy tonight? “The side of my chin.”

  He touched the right side of her jaw. “Here?”

  Wincing, she said, “It’s just a little tender.” In truth, it throbbed like the devil.

  “Let me see.” He angled her head toward the fire to get a better look, then brushed his fingers lightly over the sore spot. “Can you open and close your jaw?”

  She did a fish imitation and immediately wished she hadn’t.

  “That’s very good.” His eyes gleamed with mischief, stirring strange feelings in her belly.

  “Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired.” She pouted to show her displeasure, but it was difficult to be angry with him when he looked so…  so…  delicious.

  “Forgive me.” Turning serious, he brushed a tendril of hair behind her shoulder and slid his fingers down her neck. “The injury isn’t serious, but it’ll leave a nasty bruise.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps. A little powder should cover it.”

  “That’s just like you.” A heart-stopping smile spread slowly across his face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are brave. It’s what you invariably do—cover up the hurt and press on.”

  She swallowed hard. “It’s just a little bump on the face, for goodness sake.”

  “I know. But it’s okay to tell me if it hurts.” With that, he cupped her cheek in his hand, leaned in, and brushed his lips over her bruised chin. He lingered there for several seconds, nuzzling her neck and sprinkling kisses over her flushed skin. “How does that feel?” he whispered against her throat.

  “That…  doesn’t hurt a bit.”

  “Ah, then my bedside manner is improving?”

  “Markedly.”

  He lifted her off his knee, placed her gently on the small rug in front of the fire, and sat facing her. “Good. Because it’s very important that you follow doctor’s orders.”

  “I see.” She gulped. “And what might those be?”

  “First, you must absolutely avoid ladders from here on out.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot make any promises where that is concerned.” Now that she knew what Charles wore to bed—or rather, didn’t wear—she was more determined than ever to see the loft. “What other course of treatment do you recommend?”

  “A little snow applied to the bruise will keep it from swelling.”

  “Snow?”

  “Allow me.” With panther-like grace, he sprang to his feet, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and strode to the cottage door. He ducked outside and returned a moment later with his handkerchief knotted around a snowball.

  He returned to her side and placed the cold bundle against her chin. Ash crawled into her lap, nestling his head against her knee.

  “He definitely remembers you.”

  “That day, the storm—it was so long ago.”

  “Maybe. But you’re not the sort of person who’s easy to forget.” His low, gruff voice sent delicious shivers through her limbs. He set down the cold compress and took her face in his hands. “I know it isn’t right for me to want you, but God help me, Rose, I do.”

  His admission thrilled her to the core. “I want you, too.”

  “Then you are as much a fool as I.” He rained kisses over her cheeks, brow, and neck as if he didn’t want to miss a single spot of exposed skin. His lips hot against her temple, he murmured, “The hour grows late. I should walk you back to the house.”

  The regret in his voice mirrored her own. “I have a little time.”

  “Excellent.” With skilled fingers, he undid the clasp at the neck of her cloak and pushed yards of heavy velvet off her shoulders. His gaze raked over the revealing neckline of her gown, heating her skin and leaving her breathless.

  As he swept a stray curl off her shoulder, he growled. The cat leaped out of her lap and scurried away.

  “Tsk. You frightened Ash,” she teased.

  “What about you?”

  “You could never frighten me.” Reaching out, she touched the longish hair above his collar, loving the way it curled around her fingers.

  Heat flared in his dark eyes—and for a moment she thought she’d offended him. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re safe with me, Rose. I would protect you from all else—fire, storms, and any evil that might harm you—but I can’t protect you from me. And I may be the biggest danger of all.”

  “Nonsense.” She leaned forward, wantonly brushing her breast against his arm and savoring the tingling sensation it stirred. “You would never hurt me.”

  “True. But you and I together—we are trouble.”

  As if to demonstrate, he pressed his lips to hers and took her mouth, plundering with his tongue and leaving her dizzy from desire. With a tormented moan, he wrapped an arm behind her and hauled her body flush with his
. As though intent on proving how dangerous he was, he slid his hand over her shoulder, down her breast, and tweaked a taut nipple through her bodice. She gasped, wishing he’d do it again, but his hand roamed lower, over the curve of her bottom. Boldly, he pulled her hips against his, letting her feel the evidence of his desire.

  Which only served to stoke her own.

  With calloused fingers, he traced the neckline of her gown, lingering on the swells of her breasts until she was boneless from the pleasure of it. The teasing little circles he made on the skin just below her ear left her dizzy…  and longing for more.

  She lay back on the soft rug and Charles followed. Their mouths and bodies seemed perfectly fitted for kissing—and more. The leg he slung over hers, so muscular and male, made her want the weight of his entire body on hers, with nothing—not even a scrap of clothing—separating them.

  Inexperienced and unschooled in passion, she simply surrendered to her instincts. Arching toward him, she grabbed fistfuls of his jacket and pulled him closer still.

  He moaned softly into her mouth, sending ripples of delight coursing through her limbs. Somehow, she’d broken down the fortress surrounding this virile, handsome man. She’d made him forget all the reasons they shouldn’t be together—even made herself forget. He cupped the back of her head and slanted his mouth across hers like he was a starving man…  and she was a feast.

  “Rose,” he murmured into her neck, “I want you so badly that I forget myself.”

  “As do I.” Her voice was raspy to her own ears. “When I’m with you—no matter where I am—I never want to be anywhere else.”

  Charles lifted his head and glanced around the room, as though he’d momentarily forgotten they were sprawled on the floor of his cottage, their legs entwined. “Damn it.” He closed his eyes for a moment, clearly disgusted with himself and with what he’d done.

  With what they’d done.

  Sitting up, he said, “Look at this place and see where you are.” He seemed angry with himself and at her—but why?

  She pushed herself to sitting and, suddenly chilly, turned her body toward the fire. “As I said, I would be happy anywhere with you. The place matters not to me.”