by Linda Cajio
“Now about the regatta,” she said.
Rick groaned. On top of being bossy, she had a one-track mind. But as long as he was getting the cabbages in, it didn’t matter what the conversation was. “So why does Grandmother want to go?”
“To see her friends. A lot of people from the States come over for the races.” She pushed her windswept hair back out of her face. “Besides, where is your alumnus spirit? Or did you go to Cambridge?”
He glared at her for the sacrilegious thought. “I’ll have you know I acquired a blue for Oxford in my time, as we say for the team that races against our archrivals from Cambridge University.”
“You rowed?”
He nodded and swung at a cabbage stem. “We beat the pants off the Cambridge rowers that year.”
“Well, that does it. We have to go now.”
How he wished. The Henley Regatta wasn’t the Oxford—Cambridge race or even Eights Week, the intrauniversity races. It was unique. Schools came from all over the world to race at Henley. His knife poised in midair, he allowed himself to think for a brief second about men in piped blazers and women in summer frocks wandering the towpaths, pennants fluttering in the river breeze, and the perfectly synchronized dip and pull of the oarsmen. It was civilization at its most elegant. He hadn’t been to the regatta in years. He had never taken his grandmother. He may never have another opportunity to do so. And to go with Jill …
“Rick.” Jill’s amused voice broke through. “You’re wasting time again.”
He grinned ruefully and returned to cutting cabbages. They worked in silence for a time.
“I feel like that Chinese woman in The Good Earth,” Jill finally commented, doing more swiping now than hacking. She was halfway up her row. He was on his second. She added, “You remember, she was determined to beat Mother Nature and get in the harvest before the storm.”
“She was also having labor pains at the time.”
“I didn’t say I felt that much like her. But this is kinda fun. Ouch! Dammit!”
Rick looked up. “What? Did you cut yourself?”
“No, broke a nail. Oh well.”
“Pretty hands are overrated,” he said helpfully. She wasn’t doing too badly for an amateur, he thought, pride swelling again. But the clouds were moving in rapidly now, and the wind was kicking up cold and dampish. His estimate of less than an hour was more like a half hour, but they stood a good chance of getting most of the one-acre field in before the skies opened.
She raised her eyebrows. “You give a backhanded compliment with the best, Rick.”
He dipped his head. “I thank you. And thank you for the help here.”
“I figure you owe me. You have no choice but to take your grandmother and me to the regatta. But we already settled that.”
He knew he couldn’t allow himself to be tempted. “Jill, I can’t take the time away from the farm.”
She smiled and all his good sense dissolved. “We could commute every day. You’re only an hour away from Oxford. We could go in the morning after you arrange the farm schedule or whatever. And we’ll be home that night. The farm would survive, and your grandmother would love it.”
It was tempting. He admitted that. It was even more tempting to see Jill in a picture hat and a soft dress. He sat back on his heels and sighed. “I’d love to, but I can’t. You and Grandmother can go without me.”
“No!” She looked at him stricken, then composed herself. “Rick, you have to go with us. After all, it won’t really mean anything without you. I mean, how many times have you ever taken your grandmother to the regatta?”
“None.” He was pleased that she didn’t want to go without him. Very pleased.
“See?” She pointed her knife at him. “This is your prime opportunity, Rick Kitteridge. Besides, I would love to be escorted by a man who acquired a blue. I’ll be the envy of all my friends.”
“Will your friends be there?” he asked, curious.
“One or two, I expect. In fact, my father comes over for it once in a while, when he has time. He rowed for the University of Pennsylvania.”
“He did? I’ll be damned.” Rick swiped two cab bages in quick succession. He was beginning to feel the strain of his hunched-over position in his thighs and back. “Did he row out of one of the boathouses on the Schuylkill River in Philadelphia?”
“He’s a past president of the Crossed Oars.”
“My uncle Talmadge is a member!” Rick exclaimed, astonished. “I sculled out of the Crossed Oars Club years ago when I was over for a visit.”
Jill grinned. “I was the bratty kid, hanging around and getting into trouble. I loved it. Small world, isn’t it?”
He peered at her, wondering if he had seen her as a child. He was sure he would have remembered. No man could forget someone like Jill.
But the world wasn’t small enough, he thought. He wished she wasn’t going home in a few weeks. He had a feeling there would never be an English woman like Jill. He hadn’t found one yet to match her. He doubted he ever would.
He wanted to spend every minute he had with her, before she went home. He wanted to give her the elegance of Oxford, if even for a day. He wanted to show her his school, a place that had meant a lot to him then, and still did now. He wanted to show her off to his friends and watch them envy him his good fortune. And they would. He had no doubt of that. He would envy any one of them who had Jill. She was unique.
A fat raindrop splattered on the back of his hand, then another and another. He glanced up, just as the wind whipped through and the rains came pelting down.
“That’s it!” he shouted to her, scrambling to his feet. He waved his men off. “Get your shoes, Jill, and let’s go.”
“But we can get some more in before the worst starts!” she shouted back, the rain and wind already plastering her blouse to her breasts.
Rick admired the view, then shook his head. He grabbed up the bushel baskets. “We did well enough. I’ll only lose about a quarter of the field.”
“But—”
“No buts. We go now.”
As if to emphasize his words, lightning cracked the sky. Jill leaped to her feet and raced for her shoes. Rick caught up with her. He set down the baskets, pulled off his jacket, and threw it around her shoulders. Picking up the baskets again, he yelled, “Come on!”
She ran with him for the truck, neither of them wasting breath. The men took a few more quick trips to get the rest of the baskets loaded. Recognizing that the filled baskets would be too heavy for her, Jill sensibly stayed in the cab. Rick was grateful for her help and for her knowing when she’d be in the way.
When he and the other two men squeezed onto the bench seat, Rick regretted that nobody had to sit on anybody’s lap. Still, Jill was nicely cramped up against him. Her arms were trapped between them, an effective barrier, but her hip and thigh were pressed to his. Unfortunately, with Rudy and Mike in the truck, he could only grin and bear it.
“Thanks for the help today,” he said. “We needed it. Do you hire out?”
She shuddered. “I think I’ll pass. Ten workouts would be a piece of cake next to picking cabbages.”
“Chicken,” he whispered in her ear.
“True, true. So when we get in, we’ll make arrangements to go to the regatta, right?” she asked blithely, grinning at him.
Rick chuckled, realizing there was only one answer he could give. “We’ll go. Do you have a hat? It’s tradition.”
Her gray eyes lit with excitement. “I know. I already planned to get one. In fact, I’ll get two, three, four—”
He laughed. “One is enough.”
“Now that was painless, wasn’t it?” She shifted and winced. “Not like my back.”
He would have loved to rub it, but he couldn’t get his arms loose. He grinned wryly, then sobered. It might not be time to “talk of many things,” as the poem went, but it was time to realize one thing.
He had fallen for Jill.
That night, Jill slow
ly, carefully, sat down on her bed.
It didn’t help.
She groaned as every muscle in her body screamed in protest at the movement. She had been proud of clearing two rows of cabbages, but she had obviously used muscles she hadn’t known she had. The office job at the zoo combined with one measly hour of aerobics every week just didn’t provide sufficient exercise.
She had gradually stiffened up during dinner, until finally she excused herself early. She hadn’t wanted Rick to know how much she was hurting. He might feel bad that she was suffering because of the help she’d given him. She felt guilty enough after maneuvering him into agreeing to go to the regatta, although Lettice, when told, loved the idea. But this was her punishment, no doubt. The aspirins she had taken in the bathroom earlier had hardly had any effect. With only a soft bed and a cotton nightgown for comfort, she would be in terrible shape in the morning.
In spite of the agony, she felt strangely satisfied by her efforts. It had been good work for the most basic of needs—food to eat. The accomplishment had touched something deep inside her. No wonder Rick loved his manor. She was beginning to love all of it too. Too much. It was all so tempting—England … and Rick.
Jill took a deep breath, bearing the pain. To have worked beside him, though, was a mistake. She had gone out to persuade him, and instead had shared a part of his life. She had been like a helpmeet.
She shook her head to dispel the old-fashioned word for wife—and the insidious thought. She immediately yelped at the pain. When her body could tolerate movement again, she slowly took off her clothes and put on her nightgown, whimpering the entire time.
“Ouch, ouch, ouch …” she muttered, pulling back the covers and getting into bed.
A knock sounded on her door. “Jill? Are you okay?”
She closed her eyes, recognizing Rick’s voice. He must have ears sharper than George or Daisy.
“Yes,” she called out, feeling like a cornered fox with a dog breathing down her hiding place.
“What?”
“Yes! I’m okay!” She winced. Even her voice muscles hurt.
“Oh. Well, I got the …” His voice dropped off and the solid oak door effectively blocked the rest of his words.
“What? I can’t hear you?”
“Are you decent?”
“I hope so.”
He opened the door, just as she pulled the covers up to her chin. She forced herself to smile through the sharp twinges of protest. Her body wouldn’t win any Academy Awards for acting.
He gazed at her, silent for a moment. He looked great in a yellow oxford shirt and blue jeans, his American roots showing distinctly. She felt a twinge of another kind, a low pulsing warmth seeping through her system. Suddenly she realized they were alone in her room. She wished she’d recognized the implications of that before he’d opened the door.
Rick looked at home, unfortunately. That didn’t help her dissolving willpower.
“I was saying,” he began, “that I made a few calls and we’ve got tickets for the regatta next week.”
She smiled, determined to be as nonchalant as he. “Front-row seats. I knew you could do it.”
He shook his head and chuckled. “Lucky I’m a member. Henley’s been booked for months. Why are you lying flat on the bed?”
She stared up at him, her brain whirring for an answer. “It’s good for your circulation to lie flat as much as possible.”
“All the blood pools at your back.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“And I just pulled in every favor I could to get you to the regatta.” He eyed her speculatively. “You’re lying flat because something’s wrong.”
She knew she’d sound sillier if she continued to hide everything. She went for the unconcerned mode. “Just some sore muscles from today. A little rest and I’ll be fine.”
“I thought you were slowing up at dinner. How bad is it?”
“I already told you. Not bad.” She decided to sit up to prove it to him.
It was a big mistake.
Jill yelped the moment she pushed herself up against the mattress, and every muscle screeched like two thirty-car freight trains about to collide.
“Okay, so I lied,” she gasped, relaxing back onto the pillow. Another mistake. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!”
“Can I do anything?”
She appreciated the offer, but doubted it. “Just find me a case of witch hazel and a Swedish masseuse named Inga with hands like hams, and I’ll die a happy woman.”
Rick snorted in amusement. “You’ll be a board by morning.”
“Just stand me on end, and I’ll eventually warp back into place.”
“You need help now. Hang on.” He walked out of the room.
“Rick! Never mind,” she called, then winced again.
“Hang on.”
“Wonderful,” she muttered.
He returned almost immediately and held up something. “How about a bottle of witch hazel and an English masseur named Rick with hands like pork chops?”
“Thank you, but no,” she said primly.
He raised his right hand. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman. Now don’t you be a fool, Jill.”
Her face heated. “I … can’t. I’m not wearing any underwear.”
His eyes widened in surprise, then he grinned. “Really? You don’t wear underwear to bed?”
“Well, I’m wearing a nightgown!” she snapped.
“I promise not to look,” he said, repeating her words of the day he had torn his pants. He made no effort to hide his amusement.
“Sorry.”
“Look, I’ll arrange the sheet so we expose the right areas, and I don’t see a thing. Will that satisfy your puritan heart?”
It was dangerous, she thought. But to refuse would put more emphasis on her already obvious attraction to him. It would be just like slathering lotion on at the beach, surely. Besides, with her body in such agony, what could happen? Nothing, she firmly told herself. Absolutely nothing. She’d be screaming in pain and that ought to kill any amorous mood.
She tightened her jaw. She must be nuts even to consider it. “No. I’ll be fine.”
His eyes narrowed. “Flip over on your stomach.”
“I don’t flip. I slowly squirm my way around.”
“Then do it or I’ll do it for you.”
He looked deadly, and she knew he meant every word. The pain was riding higher, and she was desperate for relief. Without help, she’d feel much worse before she felt better. She could control her reaction to him. She had to because she’d be damned before she made a fool of herself. After one last glance at his face, she squirmed onto her stomach, “ouching” all the way. She gasped her relief into the pillow when she was finally done.
Rick sat down on the edge of the bed and took hold of the bedclothes.
“What are you doing?” she exclaimed.
“I can’t give a massage through a quilt and sheet, or did you forget that?”
“Push the covers down to my waist. I’ll do my gown,” she ordered, not wanting his hands on her any more than necessary.
She carefully hiked up her gown until it was out from under the covers. At that point she gave up gladly. Rick pushed the gown to her shoulders, leaving the quilt safely at her waist. She stared at the bottle as he set it down on the night table, listening to him rubbing his hands together. She braced herself for his touch.
When it came, it was clinically efficient. He massaged her shoulders with a firmness even her imaginary Inga would have been proud of. Jill pressed her face into the pillow and moaned softly at the pain and the soothing sensation of the warm witch hazel.
“See? Gentleman all.”
She turned her head and glanced at him from out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t rub it in … or rather, do.”
“I’ve been thinking about the Henley,” he said.
“We’re going.”
“Right. I was about to say that even though the traffic will be horrend
ous, commuting will work out well. It was a good idea of yours.”
“Thanks.”
His hands were beginning to work magic on her sore muscles. The tension slowly eased from her body. His fingers drifted from her shoulders and upper back, spreading relief across her rib cage. Jill sighed with pleasure. Although she was aware of him, the relaxing of her muscles kept the awareness from turning to something more primitive.
“You’ve got a very smooth back.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, almost drowsy. The heat of the massage radiated through her, but it didn’t quite reach the pain in her thighs. That kept her from falling asleep under his ministrations. “How’re the cabbages?”
“Dry, thanks to you.”
The room went silent. His hands smoothed their way up and down her back in slow endless circles. The flat of his palms caressed her spine, his fingers pressing lightly into her flesh. They brushed close to the sides of her breasts, but never touched her. The heels of his hands never strayed into the forbidden territory beyond the first curve of her derriere. Jill knew she was almost purring, but she didn’t care. She felt safe because he was so careful to keep to the letter of his promise.
“How are your legs?” His voice was low, as if coming from a great distance.
“I know I have two of them,” she murmured.
“You’ll be lucky if you can hobble tomorrow.”
“I know. And I thought I was in great shape.” She sighed. “I cannot thank you enough for this.”
He cleared his throat. “Turn over and stick your leg out. Maybe we can loosen those muscles too.”
“Okay,” She said as she lowered her gown again.”
She found rolling over easier. Not by much, though. She groaned as the pain shot through her legs.
Rick stood up and lifted the sheet slightly. His cheeks looked flushed in the lamplight. “Here.”
She hesitated as a vague warning stirred. It seemed silly. This couldn’t be any worse than his doing her back, and nothing had happened then. She slid her leg out from under the sheet, careful to keep her nightgown chastely at her upper thigh. She pulled the rest of the covers up and sideways across her body.
