The space was darker, damper, instantly several degrees cooler, and the air was thick with the dust of construction. In the light that shimmered down from above, she could see planks of wood piled against the wall, waiting for whatever he intended to do.
“This was the kitchen in the original keep,” he continued. “Beyond that door is a storage room, also original.”
“That door surely isn’t original,” she observed. The wood construction looked simple, new. The iron of its handle modern.
“Correct. That was one of my first improvements. Anything made of the original timber has long since rotted away. The reason the beams of the great hall still exist is that the hall is of more recent provenance. In fact, look up.”
She looked up. Glimpsed a fragment of cloudy Yorkshire sky high above.
“These stone vaults suspended the first floor. You can see that most of the remaining wood is rotted. I cut through the worst of it to allow light in. For now.
“The vaults are not original either. They were likely added nearly a century after the original keep.”
She stared at the ruins around her, at the places where stone had fallen away or wood looked charred from excessive exposure to the rain. She knew that many of the country’s homes were several centuries old, had been improved upon and changed with each generation. Even the theaters had their tumultuous histories. But she’d never seen the passage of time exposed this way.
“That would have been, what, the fourteenth century?”
“Yes, approximately. My great-grandfather came into possession of the castle and lands in 1742. There are, unfortunately, very few records existent.”
He claimed ownership so casually, naturally, and yet without any of the sense of entitlement her previous, titled lovers had displayed. What made John Martin tick? Seduction aside, she wanted to peel back his layers as thoroughly as he had those of the castle. She wanted to know him. Naturally, it was of the utmost importance to study the habits of one’s quarry.
He showed her the rest of the castle interior, stopping her from climbing the stairs, which were worn down by time, chipped by war and slickened by moss. He showed her his plans for modernization and expansion, to take something that had been left to crumble and rot, which had been destroyed to create other buildings, and turn it into an interesting and comfortable retreat. Then they walked about the exterior, and he pointed out the remnants of the curtain wall and of the outbuildings.
The afternoon sun had broken through the heavy layer of clouds and now glinted off Angelina’s hair, illuminated her pale skin. He could very well imagine her on a stage, commanding the audience’s attention. She was rounded and yet lithe, had a presence that made her seem tall, but she was half a head shorter than him. She possessed sophisticated London airs and yet she was following him about, asking questions as if she were absolutely fascinated by architecture and medieval fortifications.
The basest, most male part of him was responding to that attention, pleased at her interest, at the way those pale eyes looked up at him admiringly.
“I’ve taken up half your afternoon, Captain Martin,” she said. He looked at the slant of the shadows, which had grown longer. Barely an hour left before dark. Evening really, but she was likely still on London time, where the sunset was merely the start to the day’s activities. “It’s been a great pleasure and I thank you.”
Common courtesies stilled on his tongue. She had invaded his peace. Was he really to thank her for that?
He nodded finally, and stood aside, his chest tight.
“Well, then.” She seemed to realize he planned to say nothing and turned away from him, toward the main door of the keep, the very opposite direction of the village. She was certainly persistent. He rubbed at his cheek, at the still uncomfortable twinge of skin and muscle pulling against the scar.
But inside, she confounded him once again, stopping only to gather her belongings. There was no overt seduction or excuse to stay longer. He watched her take her leave with the sense that he was losing something.
Something ineffable, like camaraderie or companionship, pleasures he forwent because there were no humans on earth with whom he wished to converse beyond a scientific exchange through letters and books, or a basic and quickly passed mercantile exchange.
He preferred this world he had created, the one that encompassed only he and Jasper, who whined now by the door, which had closed behind Angelina.
Everything was going quite well. Back at the inn, she had finally been able to slip out of her increasingly uncomfortable shoes and order a hot meal from the innkeeper. Now, as the sun was setting, she rested on the rather comfortable bed—the inn was really quite clean and neat as inns went––with her feet up and her copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at her side. She may as well put these interminable evenings and nights to good use. She had not expected to have her hours so empty of activity and the previous night she had finished the one novel she had brought with her. Perhaps there was a local circulating library. Or some other traveler in the inn would take pity on her and engage in a round of chess. Not that she thought there were any other travelers at the inn. Perhaps later in the week, closer to market day, there would be increased activity.
But there were no theaters or pleasure gardens, masquerades or soirees. There was nowhere a lady of her position could go. Not that anyone but John knew she was a courtesan, but she was traveling alone, which was odd enough. She could hardly present herself at the manor house and demand Mrs. Martin provide entertainment.
In any event, she was getting older, and soon she’d not be fit for Helena or Hermia, so she intended to brush up on Titania’s lines. It would be amusing to play the Queen of the Fairies.
She would be on the stage again. Perhaps in York or some other large town at first, but eventually, she could return to London. Elizabeth Duncan’s time as celebrated actress would not last long. She was a talentless novelty.
Angelina closed her eyes, taking deep even breaths. Anger would achieve nothing other than to age her faster. Much better to think about something under her immediate control. Or someone.
Like Captain Martin.
John.
He had strong, lean arms, and against the rolled-up cuffs of his white sleeves, she’d admired the tanned cast of his skin, the fine hair that tapered down toward his wrist. She had a weakness for a man’s forearms, for wrists and hands, and John was well-endowed in that area.
There was always that old wives’ tale about hands. Not that Angelina had found that true in her limited experience. Lord Alverley had possessed lovely hands but was quite diminished in other charms. Fortunately, he had also been possessed with a fortune and a kind, generous nature. She’d been his mistress for two years after reaching London. If he hadn’t chosen to be faithful upon marriage, she’d likely be his mistress still.
She’d really been quite fortunate in her lovers. Gentlemen all. If only Lord Peter Denham had been possessed of a more independent mind and not swayed to betray Angelina by that horrible Lizzie.
There she was again, thinking about the past.
She could not change it. She could only bide her time and plan.
And seduce John, who desired her but did not want to be seduced.
Yesterday, she had returned to the inn convinced that he did indeed wish to be left alone, but tonight . . . tonight it seemed very clear that his mother was correct; he needed to be drawn out. He wanted to be drawn out.
She imagined what the expression on his face would be when the following day he found her attempting an artistic rendition of his ruined castle yet again.
CHAPTER FOUR
John woke with the sun. He stretched his arms and then propped his head on his hands and stared up at the thick wooden beams that crossed the ceiling. Next to him, Jasper was a warm pressure against his thigh. He liked waking here, with the last embers of the previous night’s
fire still glowing red, as if he lived in a world apart, hidden.
But something was different this morning.
The castle had always held an open, unformed sense of possibility. It had been untouched by humans for at least a century; though he knew visitors had come, none had attempted to since he resided there. News traveled fast in small towns.
Yet Angelina had come, and now he could still feel her presence here before the hearth, vibrating through him as solidly as Jasper’s snores.
Disturbing.
At least that sensation would dissipate quickly. The odd episode had passed and he could continue on as before. He pushed the blankets off and stood. Jasper made a plaintive noise and John glanced back down to find the collie staring at him, kicking his legs, tangling the covers more.
He laughed and squatted down to run his hands briskly through Jasper’s fur. Then with two firm pats to the dog’s flank, he stopped and stood again. There was much to do today if he intended to have the castle fully habitable by next winter.
He went about his morning ablutions, went down to the stream for more water, and then prepared his morning toast from one of the loaves of bread he took from the manor every Sunday. Then he unrolled the newest of his plans for the tower and studied them as he ate.
It was a far cry from the first day he had explored the castle. He hadn’t been to the ruins since before entering Woolwich Academy as a cadet, but instantly he’d visualized the renovation project. He’d ordered all the newest literature on construction methods and innovations, and then had started working on his plans. In the five months that he’d been working on the castle, he’d made considerable progress. He’d started with simple things: cleaning the rubble out from the interior, ensuring the fireplace was in working order, fixing the holes in the roof of the great hall. Once he’d made himself a livable space, he’d moved out of the manor house and then progress had grown exponentially. He’d painstakingly dug down into the dirt floors of what had once been the kitchen and beneath the thick exterior walls to lay pipes for drainage. Now he was working on reconstructing the wood planks of the first floor.
Armed with axe and saw, John ventured out of the castle just past noon to chop more wood for scaffolding. She was there again, the ribbons of her bonnet streaming behind her in the light breeze as she attempted to lay down a blanket on the grass. The same wind that so charmingly pressed her skirts against her legs, twisted the blanket, until finally, Angelina caught sight of him, stopped fighting the wind, and waved.
He had underestimated her determination to draw the castle.
Or to have an affair.
Heat rushed through him. He’d had his youthful infatuations and the usual affairs. Once, he wouldn’t have questioned a woman’s interest. But now . . . he forced himself to look away, go about his work.
It was a beautiful spring day.
After John disappeared around the bend, Angelina returned to her attempts to lay the blanket smoothly on the ground. Finally, she gave up and sat down, smoothing it out around her once she was settled. But the wind was strong and even in all of her layers of clothing, she couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm for art under these blustery conditions. She had hoped to bide her time this morning, let the idea of her outside, drawing, grow in his mind until he wanted her to come in and keep him company.
She needed a new plan. One that involved sitting inside, preferably near the fire. Perhaps she could work on a still life, or a study of his dog.
She stood up again, gathered her belongings, and relocated.
Inside.
Wouldn’t he be surprised?
Jasper met her halfway across the great hall, sniffing about her, sticking his nose up against the large wicker basket she carried. She’d come prepared.
She decided to settle herself in the middle of the stone floor and spread her blanket there. The fire and pallet would make an unusual subject for art. Later, though. She opened the basket and cut a slice of sausage for the dog before carefully selecting her own food. The innkeeper had prepared a fine cold repast.
Jasper stayed close, making low, plaintive growling sounds in his throat. By the time John finally returned, she’d fed the dog two sausages, which Jasper had eaten as if he’d never had anything as delicious before in his life.
“There you are.” John loomed over her, backlit by the midday sun that filtered in, his features indefinable. Even two feet from her, she felt heat radiating off his body. No wonder he could go about in just his shirtsleeves.
“Were you worried I’d left?” she teased.
“Terrified.”
“It was cold outside, so I thought I’d picnic in here. You should join me. I had the innkeeper pack for two.” She looked sidelong at Jasper, who was watching every move she made. “There’s even enough for three.”
John laughed. “I can hardly refuse an invitation like that. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She watched him walk over to the hearth. He had a long, purposeful stride, and as he walked, the fabric of his trousers molded to different parts of his well-shaped body. He washed his face and hands in one of the two buckets. If only he would take off that shirt again. Let water pour down those muscles.
Angelina looked away quickly, a bit shocked at the direction of her thoughts. She wasn’t missish; she was experienced, for goodness sake. But this was a pure lust like she’d never felt before.
Her cheeks were still hot when he sat down next to her, stretching his legs out and leaning over to look inside the open basket.
Like dog, like master.
She pulled out the carefully wrapped packages: thickly sliced ham, pickles, cheese and bread. There were buns and tarts, and a jug of ale as well. Men rarely ate the noontime meal, and as he must be fending for himself, she doubted that, if he did eat at this hour, it was anything as indulgent.
He helped himself to a generous portion, stacking food on bread in a thick sandwich. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, she was well on that path.
“How long do you intend to stay in Auldale?” he asked between bites.
“I’m not entirely certain. Until I grow weary of it, I suppose,” she met his eyes for an instant before he looked back into the basket. “Or until I wear out my welcome.”
“Ah.” He was busy eating, as if, as he finished the sandwich and reached for more food, he were barely attending what she was saying, but she had the sense he heard everything, that he had thoughts, opinions.
When would he voice them?
Would he voice them?
“At some point,” she continued, to break up the growing silence, “I’ll return to the theater. I’ll return to London.”
He put down a drumstick, licked his fingers. “For now, you want to hide, lick your wounds. Gain strength.”
Her breath caught.
The air felt a little thick, the air a bit too dusty and stinging her eyes.
“I wouldn’t want to stop you from finishing your drawings of the castle. Someone should draw it for posterity, after all.”
The invitation was clear and her chest ached a bit. He thought her wounded, in need of a rescuer. The lovely man was playing his own, taciturn, version of a knight on a white horse.
Which was romantic and sweet.
While she was there under false pretenses.
She wasn’t speaking. Perhaps he’d been too blunt. Perhaps she preferred to pretend she had everything under control, that she wasn’t devastated at having to leave her life in London. That a strange sojourn in the north of Yorkshire in one of the coldest years in recent history was exactly how she had intended to spend the height of the London season.
Certainly, why should she admit her fears to him? A certain kinship might be there, but they were strangers.
He needed to lighten the mood.
“Nor would I stop you from picnicking on the
ground.”
She laughed. There, that was better. He liked the sound of her laughter. It was rich and warm and made him want to taste it. Taste her.
Not that he would take advantage of her, despite her sexual invitation of the day before. She expected men to desire her, to use desire and coitus as currency.
“So easily, you could have all the comforts you wish,” she teased, shifting her weight, moving her feet to her other side. He caught a glimpse of stocking-clad calves above her half boots. Shapely calves. Bare, they would be even shapelier. “I’m certain that at the manor, meals aren’t served on a blanket over hard stone.”
It was a ridiculous image, this strange picnic transposed to the inside the dining room of the manor house. But there, the blanket would be a thick woolen rug over the polished wood floor, and Angelina’s blond hair would be perfectly framed by the rich fabrics and textures.
“If they were, perhaps I’d have stayed.”
“Truly though, what of the rest of your estate? I thought landowners had duties . . .”
Duties. Like continuing to fight for one’s country even after one had lost faith.
He studiously picked an apple out of the basket and bit into it. His loud crunching punctuated the silence.
During the first days home he had sat down at the large oak desk that had once been his father’s, consulted with his mother, the steward and tenants. Pored over ledgers and accounts. Exchanged letters with their banker in York.
“It was kept well in my absence,” he said finally. “There is little that requires my attention. Some men hunt, or ride, or spend their days in study of natural history. This”—he gestured to the room around them—“is how I choose to spend my time.”
He wiped his fingers on a napkin. Looked toward the high windows to assess the quality of light outside. Perhaps half an hour had passed since he’d first sat down. There were a few more hours of daylight in which to work.
The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe Page 3
