She tried to remember if there was some special phrasing she should use to get him to obey her but, without knowing his true name, she didn't have much leverage. And being honest with herself, she admitted she didn't want him to leave. That half of herself that she'd never had the chance to know, her father's blood--the creature before her represented a window into a world her mother had always tried to keep tightly locked away from her. Imogen wanted to ask him a thousand questions, only she had nothing to bargain with. Save what he'd already asked of her.
His fingers touched her cheek, even though she hadn't heard him approach.
She hadn't made up her mind yet. She couldn't retreat through the door, so she stood there under his touch. He pressed closer, and his lips--as soft as she remembered--touched her earlobe. He wasn't much taller than she was. Imogen kept her eyes shut, trying to decide the wisest path. She probably should have shipped him back to Boston as soon as she realized what he was, but it was far too late for that now.
He kissed her, his mouth tasting of sweet hay. She pressed her hands back against the door to keep from touching his skin. She whimpered, and then felt a surge of embarrassment at her audible reaction.
"How long?" he whispered.
Her marriage hadn't left her with a desire to seek out a lover; Henry had never exhibited much interest in her, his passion saved for his horses and his memories of Bella. And Imogen wasn't the sort to jeopardize her standing in the community by indulging in affairs. It was difficult enough to garner acceptance among the local landowners without a man nominally in charge of the farm. She opened her eyes and looked into the warm brown ones so close to her own. "A long time. It's not wise for a woman in my position to become involved."
He drew back. "Is that a no?"
He didn't smell quite like a man, she noticed, but then again, he wasn't one. Her blood pounded in her ears as if it recognized that he shared her heritage, as if it recognized the likeness in him. She could tell him no and he would be bound to leave her alone, but his offer was so very tempting. Any liaison between them would be on her terms, under her control, and in the end he would leave with none the wiser. She licked her lips and said, "No one can know about this."
A glint appeared in his warm eyes. "Two nights, then,"
"What will you promise me in return?"
"I will cause no trouble for this household," he said, "and none will know I was here with you. In return for two nights."
Imogen considered that offer as his fingers slid along her braid, the pale hair simply unraveling at his touch. He lifted a hank of it to his lips and regarded her with a raised brow. "A deal," she whispered.
"A deal, then." He grinned, and added, "You should know I would never have dreamed of causing you harm, darling, not after you removed my bonds. And the fence, that was not my doing."
Imogen shook her head, disgusted with herself. She shouldn't have assumed he intended mischief, no matter what her mother had told her of his kind. But now she was bound by her word. Even half-blooded, she could no more go back on it than he could have.
His hand stroked her cheek. "I only sought you out meaning to barter work for clothes, darling, but you looked so lovely lying there. I couldn't resist trying to steal a kiss."
Imogen gazed up at him, unsure what she should do or say.
"It won't be so bad," he said, his dark eyes dancing with laughter. "You might even like me."
Imogen took a deep breath and, as she had no intention of backing down, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
PART 2
He seemed to doze, although Imogen wasn't sure. The pinkish light of dawn stole along his pale skin and brought out reddish glints in his dark hair. She'd seen many more handsome men in her life, but he was still a pleasure to look at. He hadn't bothered to draw a glamour about himself either, which would have made it harder for a human woman to resist him. That pleased her, as if it meant he dealt truthfully with her.
His hands were still red and raw, as well as the soles of his feet. Having endured that sort of reaction herself, Imogen ached to see it. She touched a finger to his reddened palm.
He opened one dark eye. "Time to go, is it?"
"Who put those shoes on you?" she asked. "How long ago?"
He propped himself up on one elbow. "Ten years. Not a fond memory at all. Better to talk about last night. Did I not say you would like me?"
The night had been far lovelier than she'd expected. Despite looking years younger than Henry, he was likely older and more experienced in such things. She wondered briefly if he was ageless, like some of the Fair Folk were said to be, but was afraid to ask. "You did warn me," she finally admitted.
"And now I must go, more's the shame," he said. "No longer night, is it?"
None of the maids would come in, she knew. No fire to lay in the summer, and she always went down to breakfast. But tempting though it might be, it would be a mistake to give him more than the terms of their bargain. "Yes, you should go."
She thought he looked disappointed, but he dutifully pressed a kiss into her palm, and then rose naked from her bed. Then, remembering his ostensible reason for seeking her out last night, she said, "You could take some of Henry's clothes. From the dressing room, I mean."
His eyes followed her pointing finger. "Truly? I am willing to work for my keep."
"It's all right," she said, clutching the sheet to her chin as she sat up. He inclined his head and then disappeared into the dressing room.
Imogen found herself staring at the white-painted door and feeling dazed. She'd taken a lover, something she'd never intended to do. All her self-control had gone out the window when he'd come close, and for the first time she understood how her mother could have done such a thing. Her serious mother, who had traveled across an ocean with a sickly infant to start her life over, away from the censure of English society. It had cost her dearly to bear his child, but she had done so and never looked back. Imogen closed her eyes to gather her scattered thoughts.
"You're fond of pink." His voice floated out from the dressing room, laughter in it.
Imogen clutched the sheet tighter. She spotted her abandoned housecoat on the rug, dashed over and drew it on. As she tied the sash, he emerged from the dressing room wearing a pair of Henry's old trousers and what must be the most decrepit shirt he could find. The trousers were too big, but braces held them up. He set a worn pair of boots on her table and began to roll up the shirt-sleeves. He glanced at her, one brow raised.
"I don't like pink," she managed. "My husband did. I wore it to please him."
"Ah," he said.
For a moment, neither spoke. Imogen curled her bare toes in the rug. She had never been in this situation before. She had no idea what he expected her to do or say.
"So I shall go," he said. "Thank you for the clothes." He turned and walked out of her room, wrapping a glamour about himself that would likely keep others from seeing him, although it failed with her.
Once Imogen had gotten her feet moving again, she dressed in her oldest work clothes and the still damp boots she'd worn the day before. Paddy was the first to greet her when she walked down to the stables. "That damned horse was out of his stall last night."
She stopped in her tracks. "Is he there now?"
"Yes, looking innocent, he is." Paddy took off his cap to run fingers through his gray hair as Imogen tried to decide what an innocent expression looked like on a horse. "But don't be surprised if you find the fences torn down," Paddy said.
"We already had fences down," she reminded him. "We've been hospitable. There's no reason for him to cause us harm."
Paddy just shook his head, and went on to review the schedule for the day.
"We need to get the fence repaired," she said. "Can you spare any of the boys?"
"Not until after the race," Paddy said.
She'd expected that answer. "I can work on it myself."
"Not a job for a girl." Paddy knew, of course, that whenever he said t
hat it would almost certainly goad her into action, wise or not.
"I'll see if I can get a start on salvaging what's left."
She went back to the house and grabbed her Wellingtons and a canteen full of water, then headed out to the west meadow on foot. The late July sun promised a warm day, and she was perspiring by the time she'd reached the far end of the meadow, so she tugged off her jacket and laid it over one of the steadier rails. The breeze carried the scent of the pine and larch trees that stood over on Hammersly's side of the fence to the west of the stream. As a girl, Imogen had believed those trees haunted. Even now she had her doubts about them.
She set down her canteen and plotted her morning's work. Since the rails all appeared to be salvageable, she started with those. She'd managed to drag several of the downed rails into a pile when she spotted someone walking across the meadow toward her. She squinted in the bright sunlight and then sighed.
"Don't you ever rest, darling?" he asked when he got close enough. "Me, I'd rather be in bed still, but..."
She shook her head, exasperated. "I've work to do. What are you doing here?"
He regarded her with raised brows. "You mean here on this farm? I do believe you had me brought here."
"No, I meant in this pasture," she clarified.
"Well, you did tell me no broken fences," he said. "So I came to see to this one, as I don't want you to think I've weaseled out of the terms of our bargain."
Imogen didn't think it fair to hold him to the bargain retroactively, and he hadn't caused the fence's destruction. But he had said he was willing to work, and she could use the help. She pointed out one of the rails that had fallen into the stream. "Could you help me lift that out of the way?"
Between them they carried the fallen rails to one side and stacked them neatly. When they'd set down the last of them, she wiped a gloved hand across her brow. "Do you have a name? Other than your horse name, I mean."
His eyes laughed at her. "You don't like it?"
She had no intention of calling him Whirlwind. "A name I can say without feeling foolish."
"Guaire," he said.
She tried out his name mentally and decided it suited him. It sounded Gaelic though, which meant she had no chance of being able to spell it correctly. "Thank you."
He smiled at her again and then casually asked, "So, why does Paddy hate this Hammersly fellow so much?"
She went over to get her canteen. "Was Paddy talking in front of you?"
"People will say almost anything in front of a horse, Ginny."
Imogen was tempted to say something sharp, but ground her teeth and kept the urge under control. Only her mother had ever called her Ginny. Not even Henry had done so. She took a sip from the canteen and then politely offered it to Guaire. And as he reached over to take it, she saw for the first time that his palm was worn bloody. She grabbed his wrist and turned his hand to survey his blistered and raw skin. "Why didn't you pick up some gloves?"
"They'll heal," he said dismissively. "There were no gloves in that wardrobe of yours, save some dainty white things that look like a lady's only far too big for your delicate hands."
No, she'd turned every last pair of Henry's useable gloves over to the stable hands, save for his dress attire. "Why didn't you pick up a pair in the stables? I'm sure they're lying about everywhere."
He shook his head and his hair fell over his eyes. "I'll not steal from your men."
Imogen bit her lip. "I'll see if I can find a pair that would fit you."
"Thank you." He nodded, wiped the blood from the canteen with his sleeve, and handed it back to her. "Hammersly?"
"His lands march with mine," she told him. "On the other side of this fence, in fact. He wants my land, and he's willing to stoop pretty low to get it."
"And how low is that?" he asked. She explained about the mortgage, at which he looked as scandalized as she'd felt. "They had a bargain with your husband, Ginny. I don't see how they could sell his word away."
"They don't have the same scruples you do." She leaned on one of the solid posts. "Hammersly has offered to pay it off if I marry him. Of course if I did so, the entire farm would become his property, so it's no real gift at all."
The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like an insult than anything else.
Guaire regarded her steadily. She didn't know what he expected her to say, so she turned back to consider the pile of rails. "I need to get the fence back up," she told him. "If any of the mares wanders through the gap to his land, I'll never get them back."
"No need to worry over that. I asked them not to," he said. "Figured you wouldn't want 'em to."
She surveyed the pasture and noted that the mares and foals were, indeed, at the far corner.
Guaire's eyes returned to the missing fence span. He gestured toward the stream bed. "The problem is the stream, not the fence. You need a deeper bed, you see. Dig it out."
"I don't have the men to do that."
"I can do it," he said. "I've nothing else to do with my days."
Imogen regarded him with a furrowed brow. "What do you want in trade?"
He shook his head. "You should not have asked, Ginny."
And she realized then he hadn't been offering a bargain. He'd simply offered to do the work, with no strings attached. But now he was tied to the deal; he had to make an offer. She could either accept or refuse, but there it was.
"One night," he said.
"For all that work?"
"Well worth it, in my mind," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "Well worth it."
***
Imogen left Guaire that afternoon with a request not to damage his hands too badly, which he seemed to take with the same lack of seriousness he brought to everything else.
"The damned horse is gone again," Paddy told her in a sour voice as he walked by with Faithful on a lead rope.
Imogen wondered if he had any idea where Guaire had been all day...and the previous night. Rather than ask him, she surveyed the two-year-old he led instead. The Special Stakes required that she list three of her two-year-olds, although Blue Streak would be the one to run. Faithful and Hawk's Cry were her two spares. "How are they doing?"
"Blue Streak shaved three seconds off his time today," Paddy said.
"I wish I'd been there to see it."
"Race day, soon," Paddy said. "If he takes the race, you'll have enough to buy that paper back, girl."
Enough to bring it up to date, at least, and pay the stakes for the next race. "That's what we have to hope for," she said. "How did Faithful do?"
Paddy shook his head and patted the two-year-old's neck. "This one just doesn't have his heart in it. We'll keep at him, but I don't know if he'll ever improve."
A shame, in her opinion, since Faithful's bloodlines were every bit as good as Blue Streak's, both colts having been sired by Dalmation out of winning mares. "Perhaps next time," she told Paddy and headed up to the house.
***
Imogen capped off her afternoon trek to town with a stop at the drug store. She'd arranged for a shipment of oats and a handful of fence posts, ordered the new bit Paddy requested and handed Mrs. Dougherty's list to the grocer for delivery. She'd even found a pair of gloves at the hardware store over on Caroline Street that should fit Guaire. She deserved a small extravagance.
Her heels clicked on the tile as she walked toward the case where the soaps and lotions were housed. The two clerks were near the back of the back of the store speaking with their employer's wife, so Imogen perused the neatly lettered signs in front of each stack of soap, trying to decide what fragrance she'd like to try. She'd used plain oatmeal soap for years, and thought that perhaps the time had come for a change.
She'd decided on the jasmine-scented soap and glanced up when she heard feet approaching. She was surprised to see Mrs. Menges herself come over to wait on her.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawkes," the older lady said. As always, Mrs. Menges wore a stylish outfit, a light green day dress
with full sleeves and ivory lace adorning the high neck. She leaned closer. "Have you heard the news?"
Not being one of Mrs. Menges' circle, Imogen usually didn't talk much with her. She was surprised to be approached now. "I don't suppose I have," she admitted.
"Well, I thought you would want to know," Mrs. Menges said. "I have it that Sanford's prime two-year-old colt split a pastern yesterday."
"Mohawk?" Imogen flinched. "How terrible. An injury like that could keep him out of racing for the rest of the season."
Mrs. Menges nodded in a conspiratorial fashion. "But good news for the other stables in the Special Stakes, isn't it?"
Imogen laid one hand over her mouth, working out how that improved her horse's chances in the race. The bell on the store's door rang, and Mrs. Menges looked past her as another customer entered the store. A flash of annoyance crossed the woman's face.
Imogen turned and too late saw that the new customer was William Hammersly. The store was too narrow for her to evade him. He strolled over to where the two of them stood, and greeted them each politely.
Imogen reminded herself that she must keep calm, and managed to return the greeting with passable civility. She wished she'd remembered that the store was directly across Broadway from the Trust building. Hammersly--or that driver of his--could have seen her enter.
Hammersly smiled at her as he stripped off his doeskin gloves--much finer things than the ones she'd bought for Guaire. He laid them on the glass of the case and glanced down at the soaps inside it. "If you need a recommendation," he said in a silky tone, "I prefer the jasmine scent."
Imogen clenched her jaw, offended that he would say such a thing in front of Mrs. Menges. But she had to keep her temper under control or risk destroying the woman's store. She turned to Mrs. Menges instead. "I'll take two of the oatmeal."
Hammersly's brows drew together in apparent vexation, which lightened her mood considerably. As Mrs. Menges started to wrap the soaps for her, he stroked his fingers over his gloves as if they were a pet animal. "Wouldn't you like to join me for supper this evening?"
Iron Shoes Page 3
