“Oh, Jonathan. It was I who screamed. I saw a figure outside the window. A woman. She looked like...like Alithea.” She clutched at him and buried her face in his chest. When he attempted to break free, her tears started in earnest and she gripped him with more intensity until her arms completely encircled him.
“Nonsense, Anne. You’re being foolish. Someone is taking great strides to destroy my life and perhaps even Kent Park. I still think Payton’s uncle is involved in this. You men—” he pointed at the London party “—come with me. We will all begin a search in earnest.”
Small steps padded quietly along the hallway, and he strained to see past Anne’s head. The hurt look on Payton’s face when she recognized Anne in his arms left him trembling. “Payton!”
She jutted her chin out, turned on her heel and rushed back to her room, where she closed the door with less than a delicate hand.
* * *
Having nearly succumbed to his advances, Payton stomped her foot and hit the door with her palm. For a few minutes, she had believed they might have a true and meaningful marriage, but ten minutes later, she discovered Anne, once again, in his arms. Payton didn’t consider herself a fool; not for one second did she doubt Anne instigated these moments to upset her, but Jonathan wasn’t a naive young boy, either. He had to acknowledge Anne’s maneuverings. Did Anne remind him so much of Alithea that he couldn’t resist? Or was there more to their history?
Jonathan seemed a godly man. Was he?
She pouted as she made her way to the window. There she pulled back heavy velvet drapes and stared into the darkness. Figures on horseback roamed the night, and she spotted Jonathan at once. He had obviously formed a party of the men tonight instead of in the morning.
A light rap at her door startled her. “Payton, it’s Anne. Are you awake?”
Should she answer? Well, why not? After all, she was Jonathan’s wife now. “A moment, please.”
As they met in the open doorway, Payton stepped aside. Anne moved hesitantly through the door, where she crossed the floor to take the seat nearest the fire. She looked at the neatly made bed. “I’ve come to apologize.”
Payton’s brow shot up. “Anne, I am generally not an unkind person, but without Jonathan here, why don’t you speak in earnest?”
“Please sit down. I have a long story to tell and I would hope at the end of it, you might judge whether or not to trust me.”
Payton settled into the wingback chair and allowed the fire to reach out and warm her face. Or was it anger that brought heat to her cheeks?
“Five years ago, Jonathan and Alithea engaged in an argument not missed by any in attendance. His anger licked through Kent that night like a roaring blaze, and she dashed to the stables for safety. Once there, Birdie readied a carriage. She fled in the darkness and overturned at Bay Lane, the same place your parents lost their lives. I do not believe she would have lost control of the buggy had Jonathan not been chasing her on horseback, trying to force her return. I will give him his due, he tried to save her and ended up disfigured for it, but she should never have been in that carriage running for her life if not for him.”
Payton stared at the fire, her thoughts a jumble. “I didn’t realize. I did hear things...when his wife died.”
“I thought perhaps I could make his life a bit miserable and spoil his intentions with you...for your sake, of course. I do not want to see you in the bottom of the gully, where I am convinced Alithea’s spirit still walks the glen.”
“Surely you don’t believe such nonsense.”
“Perhaps not.”
Payton hadn’t witnessed a malicious side of Jonathan. Oh, she had feared him before she knew him, but he had never been cruel, only stern and unyielding. And she supposed strong principles must be behind the uncompromising demeanor. Yet, Anne had enjoyed personal moments with him, enough to know his inner self. “There must be a logical reason for the disturbances. But I appreciate you coming here and explaining how your sister died. He hasn’t shared with me any details.”
“You have a right to know. And Payton?”
“Yes?”
“You can be sure he did not only marry you as a favor to your father.”
The woman spoke in riddles. Jonathan had no special bond with her father other than that her father raised hounds for him. “What favor to my father?”
“Why, just before your father died on the road, he insisted Jonathan promise to do whatever he could to protect you. Didn’t he tell you?”
* * *
Payton heard the door to the sitting room open and close softly. Heard Jonathan remove his boots with a groan. Heard the sound of water splash into the bowl. Heard him sigh when he stretched upon the settee. His leg and shoulder must still hurt very much.
She could picture him struggling to fit his well-muscled body onto the dainty chaise. If she opened the door and invited him into her chamber, what would he do? He might not even acknowledge her, and if Anne were correct, he was more than capable of overpowering her in a way that could destroy her life—or what was left of it. She could always change places with him; she would fit tolerably on the chaise with room to spare. If only he had been honest with her about her father, she might invite him in once and for all, but the newfound knowledge of his lying roused a nasty attitude in her. One she would have to pray about to dispel.
She crept close to the door adjoining the rooms. “Jonathan? Are you awake still?”
“Yes.”
“May I come in?” She entered and immediately recognized a darkness settling in his eyes. He rose and crossed the small space. “You would be more comfortable in the bed.”
He hesitated and his lip curled at the edges, accentuating the scar. “I have no doubt.”
As she moved across the room, he reached out, but she continued past him to the chaise and settled onto it.
“But I thought—”
Payton, most of the time generous to a fault, would not makes excuses for lies. Her mother had taught her forgiveness for almost anything, but not lying. Why hadn’t he told her about his promise to her father? “Good night, Jonathan.”
* * *
What a plan. How had he believed this could ever work? She was stubborn, opinionated, far too emotional to be sensible, naive, pigheaded, childish and downright insufferable! And he had taken her as his wife. The uncle? Had the uncle been real, or was he someone Payton had hired to finagle her way into Kent Hall permanently? No, he knew enough of her to understand that wasn’t true, but why, then, was she driving him mad, little by little, day by day? Kiss by kiss. He punched the pillow and slammed his head against it.
The outlandish kiss in front of the assemblage...if only he had not kissed her. A brotherly peck would have been more than sufficient. Until that moment, he had been able to control his feelings. But his pride and indignation singled out her behavior with Wallace, behavior that mimicked Alithea’s with Patrick Dowdy the night she died. Kissing another man!
Five years ago he had walked in to discover Alithea entangled with Dowdy just as she had been with Wallace before their wedding. The man had been kissing her, fondling her. He had chased her to the stable, mounted Ebony, who was the mount closest to him, and rode after her carriage. Dowdy had whipped the horses as they fled. As Jonathan rounded the bend at Bay Lane, he heard her screaming at Dowdy when the carriage rolled over and over. Down the gully they’d floundered.
When he fought Patrick Dowdy, the man had pulled a dagger, stabbed him repeatedly in the arms as he tried to protect himself and then slashed Jonathan’s face. With one stinging blow, Jonathan had smashed the side of the man’s head, stopping any further attack, but the damage had been done. Dowdy snatched Ebony’s reins and galloped away, leaving Alithea and Jonathan bathed in blood and lies. Jonathan hadn’t the heart to ruin his dead wife’s reputation by reporting the truth.
He hid the wounds on his arms and blamed the axle of the carriage for the gash on his face.
Was Payton merely another Alithea—a woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted? If so, what did she want? She had been adamant at the beginning she wanted no part of living at Kent Hall. He shook his head. He would not believe the worst. After all, this entire charade had been his doing. One day, if he worked hard enough, she might view him as a man disposed to love her, anxious to love her, longing to love her. In the meantime, he would respect her privacy. Another bed would be moved into his quarters. No one would be the wiser but Mr. Kenny and Mrs. Brewster. He would have long drapes hung in front of her bed. She would have her own area, and he could sleep at night close enough to protect her but without having to watch the face of an angel.
* * *
Sleeping on the chaise each night would soon have her aching in places she did not even appreciate existed. She would speak to him in the morning about a better way to continue their pretense. Once she reached her twenty-first birthday, she would answer to no one. She was loath to do so now.
Hitting the back of the chaise—hard—she twisted around until it was nearly bearable. She moaned softly. At long last, on her wedding night, she drifted off to sleep—alone.
Chapter 10
Payton slid quietly into her chamber. Empty. Jonathan must have awakened early and was now gone. For the past four days he had been up early and out on his land. Avoiding her? Surprised by her disappointment, she slid into her chair, slipped soft slippers onto her feet and glanced in the mirror. Was she sufficiently attractive for her handsome husband?
Her husband—the word made the hairs on her arms tickle her skin in a pleasant way. Would he stay married to her after her uncle was no longer a threat? A few more minutes and she would play new bride again, smiling and flattering the last of their guests, praying Jonathan would join, not only in the charade, but in what life had to offer them.
On the stand by the window where she had discarded them, her bouquet of white roses lay crumpled and nearing death. Fingering the petals, she recognized their love would die, too, without nourishment. It might never have life in the first place. And after what Anne had told her, she was more confused than ever. She lifted the silver comb he had brought back from her parents’ cottage and skimmed her fingers over the cool smoothness. Her hand shook. She pulled the comb through her hair and shivered as she recalled the night of the ball. She was married, whether or not she liked it, whether or not love ever became part of it. And, in truth, she didn’t know how that made her feel. When she closed her eyes, his lips were still warm on hers. But how could that be? He had not meant the kiss, had not meant the tenderness. He had kissed her to show her who was in control.
She glanced again at her image and despised the frown staring back. The kiss had embarrassed her, had embarrassed their guests and should have embarrassed Jonathan. Now, his indifference wriggled under her skin. Before she could control her temper, she threw the comb so hard, she cracked the edge of the mirror.
* * *
Storm thundered across the meadow, his mane flying against Jonathan’s hands. Jonathan stopped abruptly and slid from the saddle. The sun pushed the cold away and, for a moment, he thrived under the warmth of the rays. More warmth than the marriage offered. He knelt to pick a dead flower from the ground. Dead, like his hopes. Only the kiss remained, a reminder of what he was missing. Of the love he was sure he’d felt breathed from her lips to his. But she had shut out any opportunity he’d had to comfort her and apologize for humiliating her. That’s all he wanted to do. He would have held her until she slept, but no, she’d have no part of him. Were all women so fickle they couldn’t decide what they wanted? Well, until she knew, they would live under pretense.
The five days since their wedding he had slept in her room and she in the sitting room. If only Payton would come to him. He would pet her, shower her with gifts, give her anything she wanted.
Before he left for the day, he ordered a bed be moved to his room. Mr. Kenny brought Birdie from the stable and assisted Mrs. Brewster in the details before their guests arose. If Payton wanted brother and sister, she would get it. But how long would that be sufficient for a young woman? Would she not desire children, a real and true family? And if she did, that would mean her leaving him, like everyone else in his life. Well, he’d have none of that.
His arms stretched above his head as he scrutinized the land. His land. He owed it to his tenants to give his full attention to the day-to-day workings so they could all live good lives. His preoccupation with Payton had kept him from his duties. No more.
He mounted Storm and headed for the glen. He would ride all day if necessary to clear her from his head and to avoid facing Payton and his guests and start the falsehood again. He was not anxious to return to the manor.
* * *
Payton remained out of doors as her last guest entered his carriage and rode away. Anne had been the first to leave the day after the ball, which surprised Payton. Anne never seemed far away from Jonathan.
And now he was absent. Perhaps business had distracted him from his household duties.
She retreated to the house, where she quickly donned her breeches and the black boots, which supported her tender ankle well. She brushed at a smudge on the leather and sighed deeply. A spot. A blemish. Just like her. A blemish on his life. A fool’s errand he had become embroiled in from a sense of honor to her father and nothing more. She stomped her foot and cried; the ankle was still tender. She drew on gloves and slipped into her jacket. Allowing her hair to fly loose, she liked the way it covered the sides of her head. Only small curls peeked out as reminders of the fire.
After grabbing a buttered wedge of pumpernickel bread from the kitchen, she dashed for the stable and soon stood opposite Birdie with Winter ready for a long ride. She would put Jonathan, their guests and even Kent out of her mind for a few hours. Birdie helped her up, and she immediately pulled the bit to turn Winter out of the stable. The horse’s muscles moved them hastily away from the one place that tortured her mind while drawing her back again and again.
Winter galloped and spit up dirt with her hooves, but Payton had no intention of reining her in. The wind blew her hair, kissed her lips with the pure freshness of the morning and lulled her toward the glen, where she could sit in what was left of the soft grass while Winter ate her fill. Though the nights were cold, the days of late had an almost balmy warmth of which she couldn’t wait to feel on her face.
* * *
Jonathan stretched again, tired from the sleepless night, as the sun tickled his face and encouraged him to loll on the crisp grass and forget how strangely his life had changed. A month ago he had been in charge, loved no one, answered to no one, and now, now he was a husband. Or a protector? A brother? He wasn’t quite sure which.
Storm lifted his head and Jonathan did the same. A rider. Perhaps one of his guests come to drag him back. He eased behind the skeletal network of wild raspberry bushes.
The rider drew closer but settled far away from Jonathan, obviously unable to see him. But he saw her. Payton. When Winter shook her head, sending her mane flying in the air, Payton did the same, and he smiled at her wild abandon. She dropped easily from the saddle, tethered Winter and dropped onto the bank of the brook, where the grass was mostly short and dry. And she, like a foal, rolled on the ground with sheer joy. From what he knew of her, she was no doubt thrilled to be out of a confining gown.
He laughed. If she could see herself. If she knew he was watching, she would probably scratch his eyes out, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. At times, she behaved like such a child, like a favorite little sister, but at others, she proved herself to be a remarkable woman, a beautiful woman full of life and wonder. Before long, she slept peacefully.
With as much stealth as he could muster, he rose and walked quietly
to her side. Still she slept. At last, he stooped next to her and brushed the hair from her eyes. She started and blinked. Then she drew up on an elbow, eyes wide with surprise. “Jonathan?”
He frowned. She was upset to see him. “Yes, Jonathan. Your husband, Payton.”
Pulling up fully to a sitting position and hugging her arms around her knees, she glanced away, her eyes drawn to Winter. “I am aware you’re my husband, Jonathan.” Her bottom lip trembled, and he longed to soothe her, tell her everything would be all right, but he wasn’t sure she would appreciate his efforts. Nor was he sure it was true.
He picked a strand of ryegrass and nibbled the tip; it was too dry, but he continued to hold it in his mouth. It helped to keep him from grabbing her and kissing her as he would have liked. Every fiber of his being longed to hold her. “You’re out early. Have the last of our guests gone home?”
“Without your help, yes, they have.”
“I didn’t think you wanted me there playing house with you.” He cleared his throat. He had to stop goading her into an argument each time they met.
She looked away. “I didn’t expect you to play house with me, Jonathan. I simply thought you would want to be hospitable. Not to worry—I told them you had work to attend on the property.”
“Oh.” She could have made him look bad to their guests, but she had chosen to offer a polite explanation to release him from his duties. That hurt more than a slap.
At last, he moved so that he knelt in front of her and she didn’t turn away. He reached cautiously for her hands, lifted them to his face and touched them ever so gently with his lips. She shuddered and glanced down.
“Payton, I am a man of limited experience with love. I have no idea how to tell you what is in my heart.”
Her eyes welled. He had made a mess of things once again. “Please don’t cry. I don’t ever want to see you cry.” Winter nickered and huffed as if calling him a liar.
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