‘The nag’s lame, take a look at it.’ Robert indicated the horse’s off-foreleg. The sunlight lay brightly across his hair, and its unusual length framed his handsome face as he watched Jake wipe the dirt away from the animal’s hoof and rub a dirty thumb slowly over a hairline crack that split the horny wall.
‘Sand crack,’ Jake said, releasing the hoof. ‘I can burn it from going further, but this one’s out of any racing for a while. Needs a new shoe too. Best take it off and let him rest until the crack’s grown out.’
‘No. He’s racing next week. Put a new shoe on.’
‘Master Robert, I’m a smith. I look after horses; I don’t patch them up carelessly when they’re lame. I won’t put a new shoe on for you to race him and leave him fit for nothing but feeding to dogs.’
The groom’s eyes widened and Robert’s blue eyes were chill. His hand tightened on his riding crop, but he didn’t raise it. ‘Are you defying me, Mannacott?’
Jake wasn’t intimidated because the horse was the squire’s, not Robert’s. ‘Yes, sir, I am. Race another horse,’ he said, prompting the groom’s jaw to drop.
‘So,’ Robert breathed furiously, ‘you’re not only disobeying me, you’re also taking it upon yourself to order me to ride another horse?’
Jake returned to the half-finished poker, picking it up with his tongs and preparing to hammer it again. ‘I treat Squire Lloyd’s horses with care, Master Robert. It is your father’s horse, isn’t it?’
Robert’s face reddened and for a moment he hesitated, clearly of a mind to give Jake a thrashing, but then he thought again. The smith was big and very strong. Better to get him another way. ‘You’ll be sorry for this, Mannacott,’ he said, his voice shaking with suppressed rage, and then turned on his heel to stride away.
Jake spat into the fire. ‘Damned snotty hosebird!’ he muttered contemptuously. Hell would freeze over before Jake Mannacott accorded Robert Lloyd any respect.
The groom hesitated before leading the horse out. ‘You’ve done it now, Mannacott. He’ll get you good and proper.’
‘I’m a match for him.’
‘Oh, he won’t take you on face to face, he’s too smart for that, but whatever he does, you’ll be sorry.’
The sun was beginning to make long shadows over the meadow that evening as Rosalind lay on her stomach on the bank of the stream, between two clumps of elder, watching small fish dart among the waving fronds of green weed. She could see the evening sky in the water, not the bright flawless blue of a normal August, but oddly pink and salmon. Her purpose in coming out had been to gather elderberries for Phoebe’s wine-making, and two fully laden wicker baskets were on the grass beside her. Now she was lingering, enjoying the open air, the gentle stream, and the tall grass and flowers that would disappear tomorrow when the meadow was mown for hay. It was good just to lie there, listening to the grasshoppers and skylarks, and the gurgle of the water among reeds. She sighed comfortably. The water mill clanked downstream, and upstream, just beyond the tall redbrick wall that bounded the manor grounds, the doves cooed and flapped around Squire Lloyd’s dovecote. Here, midway between both, she was in her own small world. If she sat up and looked across the stream, she would be able to see the chimneys of mad Lord Welland’s house at Whitend. He and his new wife were up at Beth’s beloved home. Rosalind hoped Beth knew, and was cut to the quick. She rolled over and looked up at the sky. Two weeks of being kept in the house had been stifling, but it would have been much worse if Dad knew she’d let Robert Lloyd kiss her. Well, no one else had seen what had happened, so Dad would never find out. She thought of Robert all the time, and of what it would be like if he were her lover.
A dog barked somewhere in the manor grounds, and she sat up hopefully, because she knew it was Robert’s Irish setter. For a moment she couldn’t see anything, but then someone came out of the postern gate in the wall. It was Robert! He’d dispensed with a coat and his shirt was very white against the pale blue of his waistcoat. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and the slanting sun blushed on his unmistakable hair as he paused to make safe the rifle over his arm. His riding breeches sheathed his hips and legs in a manner that was quite indecent, or so Phoebe said. Rosalind disagreed, because she liked to see that one part of him that she could not put from her mind. Tight smallclothes made it stand out, a compelling shape that concentrated her thoughts like nothing else. It caused a strange feeling between her legs, a needful sort of feeling that took her over.
She watched him stroll along the wall, the setter at his heels. He was hated in the village. Jamie’s sister had killed herself in the mill sluice when Robert denied going with her. That was why Jamie hated him so much. But why should Robert say he had if he hadn’t? Other girls lied about Robert because they didn’t want the world to know they’d parted their legs for labourers or farm workers. No, far better to say it was the squire’s son who got them that way. Rosalind wouldn’t hear ill of him. He’d been honourable with her that day coming back from Gloucester, and she believed in speaking as she found. Her heart skipped a beat as he reached the stream and then turned toward her. He was bound to see her! What would happen? Would he be bold enough to kiss her again? Oh, how glad she was that she was wearing her rose-coloured gown. She glanced around swiftly, fearful that someone else was near, but there was no one, so she lay down on her stomach again, pretending to be watching the stream. She heard him coming through the grass, and the setter’s regularly panting breaths, but still she gazed into the water as if unaware of his approach.
‘Good evening, Rosalind.’
She gasped and twisted around, being sure to do it gracefully, with the swell of her virginal breasts displayed to advantage by her gown’s low neckline. ‘Oh! Good evening, Master Robert.’ She knew her face was flushed and that she sounded green and nervous, but at least she could use the proper voice Beth had taught her.
He smiled, his gaze moving slowly over her and then studied her breasts. ‘My,’ he murmured, ‘what delights one finds when out of an evening.’ He rested the rifle up against one of the elder bushes and ordered the setter to guard it, and then lay on his stomach on the grass beside her to gaze into the stream. ‘What were you looking at?’
‘I was just watching the fish,’ she said, remembering their last meeting, and the things he’d done.
‘Fish? They’re only tiddlers.’ He grinned at her.
‘Well, it’s only a little stream,’ she replied.
‘Ah, how she defends them.’ He turned on to his side and propped himself on an elbow to look at her. ‘Sometimes you speak remarkably well for a blacksmith’s daughter. Your father is so Gloucester he could be rolled down Cooper’s Hill like a cheese, but you have a much more correct grasp of English. Who taught you? I know it wasn’t your father, so who? Your mother?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, rolling to face him. ‘She was from a good family.’
‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘And that family is?’
‘The Tremoilles,’ she answered, hating herself for choosing that name.
‘And which Tremoille was your mother?’ he enquired disbelievingly.
‘She was the daughter of the late Mr Tremoille’s cousin.’ No one could disprove that on the spur of the moment, she thought a little smugly.
‘How disappointing to be a mere Mannacott.’
‘It would have done me no good to be a Tremoille, for I’d have been thrown out penniless by the new Lady Welland, like my cousin Elizabeth.’
He searched her face. ‘You certainly know your Tremoilles,’ he murmured, ‘and I find I’m actually prepared to believe your claims. What a shame you only have that one gown to set off your well-bred beauty.’
‘How do you know I only have one gown? I might have a whole wardrobe.’
He laughed. ‘Do you? I confess that if that’s true, I’m not only amazed you live in rooms at the forge, I’m astounded not to have seen you in a different colour of the rainbow every day.’
She plucked at the gra
ss. ‘Well, maybe I don’t have a wardrobe yet, but I could. I have money my mother left me.’
‘Don’t ladle it on too thickly, my dear, for it spoils the flavour.’
‘You were wrong about the Tremoilles, so perhaps you’re wrong now.’
‘I was wrong to kiss you that time as well,’ he pointed out softly.
‘Yes, you were,’ she replied, with rather ridiculous prudishness.
‘I didn’t notice you protesting too much.’
‘Are you laughing at me?’ she demanded.
‘Why on earth would I do that?’ He smiled again, and drew a finger against the hair at her temple. ‘You’re very pretty when you’re angry.’ He traced a gentle line to the corner of her mouth, then tarried, pushing just a little between her lips before moving back across her cheek to follow her jaw. A torrent of excitement began to pour through her, and she could feel her breasts tightening until their hard tips showed through her flimsy bodice.
He saw too. ‘Oh, Rosalind, I do believe you like me more than you should.’ He lowered his hand to undo the drawstring of her bodice. The rose material fell away and her upturned breasts were revealed. Oh, how delightful they were, he thought, so very young and untouched, their nipples sweetly aroused. These village girls were all so fresh and unwary, so tight and satisfying. Now his fingertip slid over her nipple, and he heard her breath snatch with pleasure. He smiled. This was going to be a very pleasant interlude – and such sweet revenge on her insolent giant of a father.
For Rosalind the flood of desire was almost too much to bear. Her legs shook and her mouth was dry. She couldn’t stop herself from looking down at his loins. The interesting mound had changed, and was now so rigid and long that his breeches strained over it. He knew where she was looking, and caught her hand again. ‘Have you ever touched a man there before?’
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘Would you like to?’
She could hardly breathe. Her heart pounded like a mad thing, and she felt as if none of this could really be happening, but she nodded. He put her fingers over the hardness, and her breath escaped on a soft shudder. ‘Would you like to see it?’ he asked quietly.
Her eyes lifted to meet his. ‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered.
‘No one need ever know.’ He lay on his back again to undo his falls, but held them in place until he was on his side again. ‘Now then,’ he whispered, reaching for her hand.
She held her breath as he allowed his quivering erection to be seen. Closer and closer he guided her hand, until, finally, he could press her palm against it. She was speechless with excitement and wonder. It was too big for her. Surely it could not possibly fit inside, and yet babies were much, much bigger. He was so hard too, yet also felt warm and silky. And the tip was moist, with more moisture glistening its way out into the fading evening light. Muscles she did not know she had began to quake uncontrollably between her legs. Emboldened, she clasped him to explore with unsteady fingers.
‘Do you really want to feel it?’ he breathed. ‘Properly, where it should be?’
‘I shouldn’t.’
No, but you’re going to, he thought, easing himself closer to her, and pulling her skirts up. The gown was all she was wearing, she didn’t even have stockings. All the better to do as he wanted. He pushed her gently on to her back again, and then leaned over her. ‘Let me show you what it’s all about, Rosalind. I promise it won’t hurt, and that I will pleasure you.’ He bent his mouth to her right breast, and sucked the nipple. She writhed beneath him, so excited that she cried out. His hand pressed over her mouth. ‘No noise now, sweeting, for we don’t want the village to find us, do we?’ He moved further over her, so that his erection was pressed to the soft forest of hair at her loins. She moaned and squirmed, so swept along by desire that she hardly knew what she was doing. He kissed her mouth, pushing his tongue inside and sliding it voluptuously against hers. She responded eagerly, doing the same to him. He wanted to prolong the pleasure, but he wasn’t good at that. Once cocker was ready, there was no holding back.
Shifting himself down her a little, he put his hand down between her legs. She started with surprise, but he caressed the entrance to the virginal shrine, where all was all warm, moist and prepared for desecration. He parted her legs and savoured the knowledge that he was the first to be here, the very first. No other man had been admitted to this secret place. He pushed slowly forward, at last reaching the threshold, and sweet resistance. She was almost wild with passion her hands roaming over his back, her legs as wide as she could so that he could come in. He couldn’t control himself any more, and with a grunt forced himself into her. She gave a cry of pain, but then he was thrusting in and out and the pain ceased to matter. Amazing sensations shuddered over her, and she exulted in the joy of his urgent strokes. Faster and faster, harder and harder, until suddenly he came, pulsing in to her and collapsing on to her at the same time. His whole body twitched and she could feel the pulsing gradually slowing and, as it did so, he began to soften within her. She clung to him, holding him tightly as waves of pleasure engulfed her too. He began to pull away, but she wouldn’t let him. Her body moved richly against him, her muscles clenching and unclenching around his used virility. He was soft now, but still long and thick, and she could feel him inside her, lying snug. She was one with him; for this wonderful moment she and Robert Lloyd were one living thing. She tightened and relaxed her newly discovered muscles several times, just to feel him more. The hunger had gone, and she was warm, sated and happy.
He pulled away again, and this time she couldn’t stop him. Rolling over on to his back, he began do up his breeches again, and then got to his feet. As he reached for the rifle she realized he was just going to walk away. ‘Robert?’ She touched his thigh.
He was cold with her. ‘It’s Master Robert to you, my dear, so don’t presume to touch what you’ll never have again.’ He moved beyond her reach.
‘Don’t touch? I don’t understand.’ Humiliation seeped acidly into her veins.
He gave a slight laugh. ‘My dear, I’ve had what you had to offer, and it was an agreeable few minutes, but that is the end of it.’
‘I thought you liked me.’
‘I’d decided to have you, yes, but not only to scratch an itch. Your father was impertinent to me today, and now I’ve had my revenge.’ Robert enjoyed being cruel.
The air seemed to echo sickeningly. ‘You did this because of my father?’
‘I fear so. In part, anyway, but I thank you for making it such a pleasure.’
She was too devastated to answer. Only now, when it was too late, she realized that everything she’d heard of him was true. How stupid she’d been to sneer at those other girls. Now he’d tricked her as he had them, and stolen that which could never be replaced. She felt defiled, and so small and foolish that she could only turn her head away in shame. He clicked his tongue to the setter, and then she heard the rustle of his retreating steps through the meadow grass. When he’d gone, she curled up into a ball and sobbed her heartbreak. What a gull she’d been, believing it to be so beautiful, so meant to be, when all the time he was just using her. And now she couldn’t even confide in Phoebe, because that was bound to mean her dad finding out.
At last she could no longer postpone going home. Phoebe would be wondering where she was. Praying she could conceal what happened, she sat up to dip her hem into the stream to pat her reddened eyes. If anyone noticed she’d been crying, she’d say a branch had swung back across her face. Getting up, she reluctantly picked up the baskets to make her way home through the colour-drenched evening.
The forge was quiet because Jake and Matty had gone to the George and Dragon for a jar, but Rosalind still had to run the gauntlet of Phoebe in the kitchen. The latter looked up from her crocheting. ‘Where on earth have you been for so long, Rozzie? Surely elderberries don’t take that much gathering?’
‘Oh, I just sat by the stream for a while.’ Putting the baskets on the kitchen table, Rosa
lind hoped her reply was in a light and carefree tone.
But Phoebe looked sharply over her spectacles. ‘What’s up?’
‘Up? Nothing.’ Rosalind began to walk to the door to the steep staircase.
‘Not so fast, miss. Let’s have a look at you.’
Rosalind’s heart plummeted. ‘I’m all right, honestly.’
‘Did I say you weren’t? Turn around.’
With a sinking feeling that made her feel sick, Rosalind obeyed.
Phoebe studied her. ‘I’ll ask again. What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Rozzie. Your eyes are—’
‘Oh, that. I was holding back a branch and it slipped from my hand and smacked me right across the face.’ Rosalind attempted a light laugh.
‘I’ll have the truth, if you please,’ Phoebe said, folding her spectacles and putting them aside with her crochet work. ‘Something upset you when you were out.’
‘No, honestly.’ But Rosalind’s face suddenly crumpled.
Phoebe got up quickly and went to her. ‘What on earth is it? Tell me now.’
‘I c-can’t.’
Phoebe took the girl’s face in her hands. ‘Yes, you can. I can see you’re all of a rattle, and it’s my place to find out what it is and put it right.’
‘It can’t be put right,’ Rosalind whispered tearfully.
A suspicion of the truth began to dawn on Phoebe. ‘You’ve been with someone?’ Rosalind bit her lip and looked away. ‘Oh, you silly girl!’ Phoebe shook her. ‘Who was it? Jamie Webb?’
‘No!’
‘Who then?’ Phoebe’s mind was racing, and then she gasped. ‘Oh, no, not that mangy tomcat Robert Lloyd?’ Rosalind couldn’t speak, but guilt shone in her tear-filled blue eyes. Phoebe’s hands fell away. ‘You silly, silly child,’ she whispered. ‘After all the warnings and being kept in, you still went with him? Your father’s going to half kill you!’
Star-Crossed Summer Page 19
