Wildwood Flower (Desperate And Daring Book 8)

by Dayna Quince

  He strode confidently away, entirely ignorant to her state and mounted the mare with ease.

  “Oh.”

  “I grew up on a farm. I’ve ridden bare back many times.” He used the mare’s fair mane as reins and kicked her softly to set her in motion.

  His horse, on which she now sat, instantly moved to follow.

  Charlotte was stunned. Just like that, she’d been rescued, and both horses fell under his command effortlessly.

  She closed her eyes, resisting the strange budding feeling inside her. It felt perilously close to something like hope.

  Chapter 4

  February 23rd, 1821

  Dearest Lucy,

  I heard what you did and I commend you. I’m sure a bath in a fountain was exactly what Lord Whippet needed. If you see him again, please inform him I would be happy to marry him with all due haste…

  Desperately,

  Charlotte

  The horses came head to head, and Charlotte struggled to find something witty or at least somewhat intelligent to say.

  “Are you comfortable if we go a mite faster?” he asked.

  Charlotte nodded. “I think so.” Her position felt rather precarious. She was sitting sideways in a saddle not meant for it on an unknown horse. He seemed gentle and responsive, but Charlotte had a feeling it wasn’t she the horse was listening to. She adjusted slightly, her rear sliding on the saddle, making her grip the reins tightly. She could feel a nervous sweat break out on the back of her neck and her palms. “Oh, dear,” she said to herself. The horses’ gait shifted, moving faster, and jolting Charlotte’s balance. She closed her eyes, certain of her fall.

  A strong arm swooped around her. She found herself locked so tightly to his chest that she couldn’t breathe. She opened her eyes slowly and looked up at him. “How did you know?”

  “I was watching.”

  He reined in the bay.

  “I’m sorry. This day… It’s getting worse by the minute.”

  “Really? Mines getting better.”

  Charlotte took a careful breath, and her lungs filled with warm summer air, tinted with the scent of this man, subtle yet invigorating. He smelled like new leather with a hint of bergamot. It unsettled her. He was holding her. The rise and fall of his chest teased her breasts, and his warmth seeped through her clothing.

  “You—you have to put me down.”

  While still holding her, he dismounted, carefully dropping her feet so she could set them on the ground. Charlotte took two steps back.

  “My apologies if I was too forward. I only meant to keep you from falling. I would not hurt you, Miss Woodhouse.”

  “I know,” Charlotte was quick to say, but then she faltered. “I… It startled me.”

  He nodded in understanding. But he couldn’t understand. Not this. It wasn’t the fall she feared but his closeness. Being pressed against him was far too enjoyable and altogether new. No man had ever touched her like that. She’d never wanted them to, until now. How was it being that close to him could feel so…perfect. His hold, so strong and sure, made her feel safe, and that was something she had forgotten how to feel. When had she forgotten? How quickly does something like that—a sense of safety—leave one?

  “Charlotte?” he prompted.

  She was so lost in thought, she hadn’t noticed he moved closer. He was touching her again, his hands on her shoulders. It shook her to the core. It frightened her. And yet, she couldn’t stop herself from falling into him. She wrapped her arms around his wide back and buried her face in his chest. Rather like a little girl would.

  Who was this man? And why did he make her feel so weak and strong at the same time?

  His arms came around her gently, and he held her. Not saying a word. She shuddered, a sob clawing its way up her throat. But she did not cry, did not let herself become so lost in his strength that she would cry.

  She took a deep breath, and then another, one more, and then she could move away. She was confused and embarrassed, but she still looked up and met his concerned gaze.

  “I won’t ask if you don’t want me to.”

  Charlotte gave him a small smile. “Please don’t.”

  He nodded and looked around. “We didn’t get very far. I hope your errand wasn’t vital.”

  “My errand?” Charlotte blinked. “My errand!” She turned in a frantic circle and then faced him again. “How am I to get to the church?”

  He grinned. “We’ll ride. This time together on young Bart here.” He patted the nose of the gelding.

  Charlotte blushed as she looked at the vacant horse saddle. She had no choice but to do it. If she didn’t, she’d have to explain herself to Lord Shelding, and worse, she’d be marrying Edward in four weeks. “I’m ready.” She nodded.

  He mounted first, and then pulled her up to sit before him. As his arms came around her and took hold of the reins, Charlotte was sure nothing short of the earth falling off its axis would move her. She faced forward, her cheeks flaming as they began to move with the bay following close behind.

  All too soon, they reached the church and dismounted. Charlotte had to pull herself together before she met with Pastor Franklin. More importantly, she needed to be rid of Mr. Thorn.

  “Thank you.” She turned to him.

  “How will you return home after your meeting?”

  “Pastor Franklin will help me, I’m sure.” She didn’t like how he watched her. It felt as though he knew all her secrets.

  “I can wait and escort you home.”

  If only. “I’ve taken up enough of your time as it is.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Charlotte had to think quickly. “I’m to issue an invitation to dinner, so he will be coming with me anyhow.”

  He nodded. “Then this is goodbye.”

  “So it is. I really do appreciate you coming to my rescue. Goodbye, Mr. Thorn.”

  “Goodbye, Miss Woodhouse.” He looked past her and tipped his hat to someone.

  Charlotte turned to find Pastor Franklin approaching them. Oh no. She panicked.

  “Please go,” she whispered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry. It isn’t you, but you must understand I cannot be seen with you—unchaperoned. My family…” She winced.

  “Say no more.” He launched himself into the saddle and wrenched his horse away. He was well out of earshot by the time Pastor Franklin reached her.

  “Who was that fella?” He peered down the road at the dust trail that was all that was left of Mr. Thorn.

  “We did not exchange names.” Charlotte mentally flogged herself for lying to him. “My cart broke down, and he helped me get here.”

  “What brings you here, Miss Angelwood?” He offered his arm, and they walked into the rectory.

  Charlotte didn’t want to waste any more time with pleasantries. “I’m carrying a note from Lord Shelding. He’s going to ask you to begin reading the banns for Edward and I.”

  Pastor Franklin slowed and turned to face her. His expression was unreadable in the waning light coming through the stained glass of the rectory.

  “And you don’t wish me to,” he stated.

  Was she so obvious? She shook her head, unable still to give voice to what must be easily discerned, or perhaps—hopefully—Pastor Franklin was just more discerning than others. Would he listen? Would he heed her wishes or ignore them as her father had done?

  Charlotte recalled the moment the last of her hope had died; the moment her father snuffed whatever chance she’d had at finding love. His very last words to her broke her heart.

  But I don’t love him…

  Charlotte swallowed the thought. She could never say such a thing to her father, not when his eyes pleaded so desperately for her assurance.

  “But why?” she managed. That was the extent of her backbone.

  “You will have standing, and you will have security.

  But never love…

  Her thoughts betrayed her, and some
how, he could see. In these last days, he’d become so perceptive and introspective.

  “No more dreaming like a girl, Charlotte. You are all grown up and with that comes difficult choices. You won’t have to leave Faversham. You will have a family to care for. You won’t even miss me.”

  Charlotte swallowed. Pain pierced her windpipe as she kept herself from sobbing. She had to be strong for him, stronger for every day he grew weaker. She closed her eyes, one tear escaping. She felt him dab it with his handkerchief.

  “Papa,” she whispered and opened her eyes.

  “Do this for me, let me rest with the knowledge that you will be taken care of. It will give me peace.”

  Charlotte released a shuddering breath and nodded. “I will Papa, for you.” The pain built inside her again. Bitterness filled her mouth but she remained quiet.

  Quiet and dutiful, that was Charlotte.

  Charlotte pulled herself back from the painful memory. She blinked away the moisture in her eyes.

  Pastor Franklin patted her arm. “There, there, Miss Woodhouse. You’ve suffered much in such little time. You’ve had a shock, losing your father and moving houses immediately thereafter. I was hesitant to allow it, but Lord Shelding insisted, and he presented me with proof of your father’s last wishes.”

  Charlotte hadn’t known any of this. “What?”

  “He had a letter, informal though it was, it was indeed your father’s hand. I could not deny a dying man’s edicts.”

  Nor could I.

  “He has your best interests at heart, even if Lord Shelding can be rather…”

  Brutish, savage, without conscience.

  “Arrogant.” Pastor Franklin finished.

  Charlotte swallowed her disappointment. Perhaps the good pastor wasn’t as discerning as she thought. He pushed back his glasses on his nose as he focused on her again. The light made the thin white hair that circled his bald scalp glow like a halo.

  Charlotte bit back a smile despite her inner anguish.

  “Beyond the impropriety of ignoring the proper mourning period, you need time to grieve, Miss Angelwood. A wedding should be nothing but joy and excitement. A time to celebrate the coming future. The loss of your father is far too raw for you to enjoy your wedding as you ought. I will the delay the banns for you.”

  Charlotte took his hand. “Thank you, Pastor.”

  “Too much change isn’t good for a body, but Lord Shelding won’t like the delay. How long will you wait?”

  Forever.

  “All I’m requesting is the proper mourning period for my father.”

  “Then October it will be.” Pastor Franklin patted her hand and released her. “Will that be all?”

  Charlotte grimaced. “I’m afraid not. I must beg you to escort me back to Shelding manor. My cart broke a wheel on the way here,” Charlotte reminded him.

  “Ah. How fortunate that gentleman came upon you. What was his name?”

  Thor.

  “He did not say.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “We rode the horses. He allowed me to ride his and rode the bay bare back.”

  Another lie. She was going to hell.

  Pastor Franklin’s bushy white eyebrows rose to his absent hairline. “Impressive.”

  “Indeed,” Charlotte murmured.

  “Give me a moment to hitch my cart, and we’ll get you back home.”

  “And you will stay for dinner, I hope?”

  “Of course.”

  He left her in the rectory, and Charlotte sat in a pew and stared up at the stained-glass window. An archangel floated above a bed of clouds, his spear poised. His face was determined and fierce. It wasn’t a comforting scene, but one Charlotte was familiar with. She’d stared at this window every Sunday for most of her life. The only time she hadn’t was when she went to London.

  But the angel was beautiful, and perhaps she deserved all his wrath. She wasn’t a very good person now that she thought of it. She never used to lie. She never had to. But she was changed. She could feel it. She was being crushed under the weight of her fear, the burden of not voicing her opinion. Could she sit here and lie before god? She hadn’t given much thought to him lately. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d prayed. Instead, she’d been looking to Thor, a pagan god. Surely another reason she would go to hell.

  She stared up at the angel. His glowing, blue eyes stared back at her, demanding nothing short of redemption.

  “I don’t want to marry him,” she said to the empty rectory. “Help me. Please.”

  “Here we are.” Pastor Franklin’s voice startled her.

  Charlotte jumped to her feet. She gathered her cloak from the pew and kept her head down as she followed him to the cart.

  Chapter 5

  April 14th, 1821

  Dear Thea,

  I think I hate dancing. I think I never want to dance again. Why is it that refusing a partner is the height of rudeness, but being forced to dance with someone who makes you feel uncomfortable is perfectly acceptable? On a positive note, there were some eligible prospects at tonight’s assembly at Carrow Hall. I could have appreciated them better had I not spent so much of my time avoiding my neighbor, Mr. Edward Chadwick. He is entirely too arrogant in his assumption that his company is enjoyable. I assure you, it is not. When I returned home, my father wanted to hear none of my complaints. He says he and Lord Shelding, Mr. Chadwick’s father, have a very profitable business deal in the making. He is our neighbor, and therefore deserving of my forbearance, this per my father. I fear my father hopes for an alliance between Mr. Chadwick and myself. That may sound like a blessing, but it is not. If you met Mr. Chadwick, you would understand my distaste.

  Ever hopeful,

  Charlotte

  Thorn returned to the inn, not finding the one person who might rein in his agitated thoughts. He knew Pruitt would not like anything Thorn had to say, but who else could he turn to? He was going mad.

  Was it embarrassment? Shame? Why would she wish to not be seen with him? He had been happy to come upon her in the lane. God knew what ruffians lurked about. He was willing to wait for her, to take her wherever she needed to go. His spirits were buoyed by his visit with Lord Shelding. But now he was ruminating on every moment of their time together, which were few, and he did not like the conclusions.

  Not finding Pruitt in the tap, he knocked on his room door but also received no response. He headed to the ship, the only place Pruitt could be. Thorn was not eager to set foot on it so soon, but he did and found Pruitt in the captain’s cabin. He knocked but did not wait for Pruitt to call out enter.

  He closed the door and went straight for the bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a liberal draught and downing it all in one gulp, feeling Pruitt’s gaze.

  “What ails you my friend? Did the meeting not go well?”

  “It went perfectly. Lord Shelding is foaming at the mouth. I rode past the fields. They look excellent, but I will do a thorough inspection tomorrow and see the site for the brewery. There is a house on the land we can use if we wish.”

  “That is a boon.”

  Thorn nodded as he looked out the window. The sun had set, and he wondered if Charlotte was still with the pastor or safely home.

  “Then why the temper tantrum?” Pruitt asked from his desk.

  Thorn waited a moment. Pruitt’s censure would not make his mood any better, but he needed clarity. Pruitt had a better understanding of these people. “I saw the woman again.” Thorn imagined Pruitt was groaning internally.

  “That’s…interesting.”

  Thorn turned to face him. “It was on the road between Shelding Manor and here. Her cart wheel was broken. Should I have left her to fend for herself? I’m no gentleman, but even I know that isn’t done.”

  “No, of course not. So, what did you do?”

  I held her. Thorn mentally shook himself. The feel of her in his arms had been exquisite. She was so small, almost waifish, but her body was warm and s
trong, that much he could feel. She was a tense little bundle of nerves, which he could also feel. Something strange had happened on that road. When she’d hugged him, it was almost as if she needed him, needed his comfort.

  “I helped her get to her destination and nothing more.”

  Pruitt raised a brow. “So why the tantrum?”

  Thorn narrowed his eyes at Pruitt. He sighed and claimed the extra chair in the room. “She didn’t want to be seen with me.”

  Pruitt shrugged. “That isn’t very strange.”

  “It isn’t?”

  Pruitt leaned forward. “We’re not in the Americas, remember? She can’t be seen unchaperoned with any man. The consequences are dire for you both.”

  “That sounds unnecessarily ominous.”

  “It should! Marriage is a life sentence and should not be taken lightly. You don’t know this woman.”

  Thorn scoffed.

  “You’d have to marry her or condemn her to ruination, ousted from society, and possibly even her home.”

  Thorn had heard of such things but never believed them. “Ridiculous.”

  “Perhaps, but ’tis the way things are here. I’m curious.” Pruitt scratched his chin. “Why did you think she didn’t want to be seen with you?”

  Thorn shrugged, feeling like a fool now. She was protecting her reputation. It only proved how innocent she was and how pertinent it was that he stay away from her.

  “Because you’re of common stock?”

  Thorn looked away. “It doesn’t matter. I understand her situation better.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll keep your distance? Find companionship where the rules aren’t so strenuous?”

  “You mean pay for it. That’s what you mean.” Thorn stood, not wanting to share his other thoughts with Pruitt, thoughts about why this young woman, whose livelihood stood so precariously on her virtue, had needed to embrace him on an open road. It didn’t sit right in his gut.

  “I’ll leave you to whatever you’re doing here.” Thorn glanced around the cabin, avoiding Pruitt’s gaze. He strode to the door and opened it, all the while Pruitt watching him. He had a way of using silence and a stare to make others talk.