by Julie Beard
"I know what you're doing, Miss Cranshaw."
"What am I doing, Mr. Fairchild?"
"You are making it impossible for me to refuse."
She smiled brightly. "Am I?"
He shook his head ruefully and sank onto the edge of his desk, crossing his arms, feeling manipulated and irritated. "Yes, damn it You are."
He only hoped she would be grateful enough to kiss him again. It didn't take much to envision even more than passionate kisses—wild lovemaking, skin on skin, and lots of groaning. His trousers were too tight again, and he turned to look out the back window so she would not see.
"Very well, Miss Cranshaw. I will hear Mr. Davis's account of his tragedy. If there is any way I can help, I will."
She put her cup down immediately and sprang to her feet. "Oh, Mr. Fairchild, you're restoring my faith in humanity."
He tossed an amused look over his shoulder. "Is that good?"
She hurried around the table to his side, and for a heart-stopping moment he thought she would embrace him. She stopped and rocked back on her heels at the last moment, men smiled splendidly and offered her hand. Not just two
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fingers, but her whole hand. When he took it in his own, she squeezed hard.
"We'll meet him tomorrow for a picnic. Oh, Mr. Fair-child, I will never forget this," she whispered as he kissed her knuckles.
He smiled sardonically. "I fear neither will I."
She laughed, eyes beaming. "You are so wonderfully cynical, sir."
"I try." He reluctantly released her hand and she went to her aunt, gently shaking her awake.
'Time to go, Aunt Patty."
"What? Oh, very well, dear."
"Before you leave," Jack added, "I want to paint an accurate picture of what this case will mean to me."
"Yes?"
"If I take on Mr. Davis's case, as you have requested, that will leave me less time to work for your father, less time to make money, less time to pay back a three-thousand-pound debt my father owed. That means I will in all likelihood land in debtor's prison before the month is out."
She stood straight as an arrow and frowned. "Are you truly that desperate?"
"Most certainly." He smiled charmingly. "Not a pretty picture, is it?"
She shook her head and sank into her chair. "I did not know your finances were so pressing."
"They are indeed. However, I do believe I can help you. And I am willing to sacrifice my time, even at the risk of my own peril. However ..."
He paused for dramatic effect, shrugged, took a sip of tea, and returned to his chair, sitting nonchalantly.
"However what?" she asked from the edge of her seat.
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He inhaled her luscious scent again. "However, if I take the case, I will expect full compensation."
Her eyes clouded with disappointment. "I can't possibly come up with three thousand pounds."
He licked his lips and delicately placed his cup in his saucer, giving her a sidelong glance. "I do not want money from you, Miss Cranshaw."
"Then how about my jewels? You can have those."
"No, I wouldn't dream of it."
Her frown deepened with every word. "Then what is it you want?"
He tipped his head back, staring distractedly at the dark beams and white plaster overhead. His skin chilled and his heart ached. Now was the time. He had to do it.
"I..." He cleared his throat and looked directly at her. "I Would like to ask—no, beg—for your... forgiveness."
Her mouth parted and she blinked several times. "My forgiveness."
He nodded, a wave of guilt washing over him. And it wasn't just guilt for what he had done to her, but for all the triflings and glib words and brief embraces he'd given other women over the course of his lifetime.
"I want your forgiveness," he said more forcefully. "In fact, I do not think I can live with myself without it. Can you forgive me, dearest lady?"
She looked down at her hands neatly folded in her lap. Her head lowered, and he sank with disappointment. She was going to refuse him.
"Yes, of course," she surprised him by saying a moment later. "I do forgive you."
He looked away quickly, lest she see moisture in his eyes. He cleared a lump from his throat and shuffled some papers. "Capital," he muttered. "That is capital."
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"I do believe you are a wiser man now. I only wish that the man you are now was the one who kissed me back then."
He blinked rapidly, then shook his head wonderingly and smiled. "What a kind thing to say, Miss Cranshaw. You are too dear by half."
"And you, sir, are a wonderful man. You simply don't know it yet. Now, shall we prepare for our visit to Mr. Davis?"
He nodded, smiling like a giddy fool, feeling a thousand pounds lighter. Perhaps this thing called forgiveness wasn't so hard after all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
hat night as Liza lay in bed, she had a vague understanding that something tremendously important had happened at Jack Fairchild's office. Having his help with Jacob Davis might very well be the key to her freedom from the viscount. But more than that, granting forgiveness had freed her of a burden she didn't know she'd been carrying. She was at peace. She felt at one with Jack. And she didn't even realize how thoroughly at one until she fell asleep.
Deep in her dreams, he came to her. The wind was blowing through his hair, billowing the skirt of his robe. He wore nothing beneath it, and she saw his flesh gleaming in moonlight. Sweat coated his skin, undulating down the muscles that patterned along his sleek torso. Then, in the strange way of dreams he was beside her, naked, whispering her name in a way she couldn't possibly resist. Loneliness was gone. When his hungry fingers caressed her breasts, she arched to meet him, shivering deep in a place she didn't know existed.
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"Liza." His voice was a wave crashing onto shore. "It was you all along. Where have you been? I've been looking for you."
A bittersweet feeling strangled her, and she couldn't reply. She could only clutch his arms. I'm here, Jack. I've been here all along. 1 thought you were gone.
"Where were you?" he repeated, then began to make love to her. His hands were everywhere, stroking and teasing, lifting up to some incredible ladder of ecstasy. He was like a storm overtaking everything in its path, or an amorous creature whose sole function was to give pleasure, and soon she felt a throbbing between her legs. It was a shaking pulse so intensely pleasurable, and so often repeated, that she woke up crying out with passion.
"Oh, Jack!" She sat up in bed, still aching and throbbing between her legs. Sweat dripped between her breasts. Her hair was matted to her forehead. She panted, unsure how to cope with so much pleasure. And then, when she realized it was only a dream and a hollow longing replaced her shivering desire, she wondered how to make it happen for real.
She swabbed her moist hair away from her temples while her pulse beat like a bird's wings in her throat. Then she sank back onto her pillow, knowing with certainty what had to be done.
She would seduce Jack Fairchild. Once she'd had him, she could die happy. But she had to have him. He wouldn't have to look for her anymore. She would claim the pleasure she desperately craved while there was still time.
******************
Shortly before noon Jack Fairchild and Clayton Harding carried picnic baskets across a field in the far reaches of
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Cranshaw Park. Liza and her aunt Patty walked ahead at a leisurely pace, leading the way through a meadow that led to an old churchyard.
It was one of those perfect summer days when the sun was baking hot, the breeze was refreshingly cool, and the cloudless sky was an extraordinary periwinkle blue. But Jack's appreciation of nature could not hold a candle to his awareness of Liza.
He watched her walk just ahead of him with willowy grace, arm-in-arm with her aunt. Their gowns brushed through tall, green grass with white tassels. Summer grassland butterflies flitted at their feet, delicate,
whimsical escorts. Jack smiled at the pastoral scene, knowing this outdoor venture was merely camouflage for their interview with Mr. Davis. After sleeping on it a night, Jack was eager to speak with the chandler. If he could find a legal way to extricate Liza from Barrington's blackmail scheme, then Jack wouldn't have to seduce her into reason. The more he got to know Liza, the more honorable he wanted to be. He was just beginning to think his new resolutions might work.
"I should be in the office," Harding said, his words coming between labored breaths of air.
"Nonsense," Jack replied. "You need more walks. Look at you, Harding, you can barely carry a basket of bread and wine without falling into a fit of apoplexy."
"I say, sir, that's unfair. I have the heaviest basket. And I take exception to the notion that Mrs. Brumble will be a good companion while you and Miss Cranshaw slip away on personal business. She's a bit stricken in years."
"Harding, I should think you'd know better. You can't be fooled by a little snow on the chimney. Liza tells me her aunt is only fifty-seven. She's your senior only by a
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few years. Just because her hair is silver doesn't mean her heart isn't ripe as a red berry and ready to pluck. Besides, she's deaf in one ear. It was a childhood accident, not old age, that has partially robbed her hearing. Speak on her left side and you can complain incessantly about the country and all she'll do is nod, pretending to have understood you. That arrangement will suit you, won't it, old chap?"
Harding sneezed in response. "Bloody flora and fauna," he grumbled, sneezing again.
When they reached the old abandoned church, Liza led them to the graveyard, where headstones had tumbled over like sleeping angels, and weeds choked memories of the dead.
"Here we are," she said.
She turned and smiled at the men, but the warm look in her eyes she saved for Jack alone. Her gaze lingered, scorching him with its intensity. His heart skipped a beat, and he recognized something he'd seen in many women before, but never in Liza—pure, raw desire. Audacious sexual need. His mouth went dry, and he began to ponder the possibilities. Perhaps a stolen kiss might cap off the day after all.
He was beginning to feel as if he'd known Liza a long time, as if she were an old and dear friend, or a mistress who knew his every mood and whim.
"Shall I throw down the blanket?" Harding inquired, readily dropping his basket.
With Mrs. Brumble pointing him here and mere, the secretary set out the picnic delectables under the shade of an oak tree. Liza helped her aunt to the ground, then looked at Jack. Her sultry come-hither eyes flickered over his lips, and she smiled coyly.
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"Shall we see if we can pick some fresh berries, Mr. Fairchild?"
He stifled a smile, wondering what the devil she was about. "I own that I'd be delighted to engage in such an adventure. Mrs. Brumble, would you care to join us?" he asked, but only because he knew the answer would be no.
"What did he say?" she asked Harding. "Coin us?"
"Join us, he said, ma'am. Would you like to pick berries with them?" Harding replied loudly.
"No, upon my word, I'm exhausted already. You two go on and stay nearby, won't you, m'dear?"
"Of course, ma'am," Jack replied, holding out his arm for Liza to cling to. "I will be a perfect gentleman."
His assurance was wasted on Mrs. Brumble, for she was already listening with rapt attention to Harding's complaints.
"Are you certain Aunt Patty won't return home with a bad report about our improper absence together?" Jack said when they were out of earshot.
"Quite certain," Liza said. "And Lord Barrington left unexpectedly this morning. He told my father that he wouldn't be back until late tonight. So there was no need to go to elaborate lengths to explain away a picnic with you. As long as I have a chaperon, my parents don't care. It was only Barrington I was worried about. Of course, he has no right to track my comings and goings, but he does it nonetheless. Lord, it feels wonderful to have him away from the house. He stays with an old family friend a mile down the road when he's in the Cotswolds, so he's a frequent visitor to Cranshaw Park. I feel free for the first time in months."
She gave Jack the first truly joyful smile he'd seen from her. He was dazzled by it.
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He pressed his right hand onto hers, which was tucked in the nook of his left arm. The touch of her sent a charge up his arm, and honorable thoughts vanished. He wanted to take her here and now, to lie down in a field of daisies and let the breeze flow over their naked bodies, to sweat together in the sun, to groan with the wind. He wanted more than physical release with Liza. He wanted to make love to her, to cherish her, to make her scream with pleasure. But he would not. He was a new man. At least that's what he kept telling himself.
They fell into silent accord as they approached a little stone cottage nestled in a forgotten apple orchard. The sun beat down warmly on them. Jack couldn't remember ever feeling this fit and invigorated and contented all at the same time.
"Tell me, Miss Cranshaw, does your friend Mrs. Hal-loway approve of Lord Barrington?"
"No," was Liza's immediate reply. "She thinks he is contemptible."
"So she encouraged you to avoid marriage to him?"
"No," she said sadly. "She understood my reasons and agreed that marriage was the only recourse. I wish she would write to me soon."
Jack sighed, feeling for her. "Perhaps she will," he murmured. "Perhaps she will."
******************
When they arrived at the stone cottage, bees were flitting around the old orchard, which consisted of a dozen rows of apple trees that had long since gone wild. New fruit was budding on neglected branches, and the old fruit rotted beneath their feet. They walked up a stone path to the front door. Liza knocked and the wooden door flew open immediately.
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"You're here" was the blunt greeting from the man who stood in the doorway.
When Jack's eyes adjusted to the relative darkness of the room and he was able to make out the man's features, he nearly gave a start. Davis was a gaunt man with haunted eyes and matted hair, which was caked with burrs and straw. Jack had seen the worst sort of misfortune and knew what a physical toll poverty could take on a man, but he was taken aback to realize that the beautiful Liza Cranshaw had taken such great pains to continue her association with this poor, unkempt creature.
She made introductions with admirable poise and led Jack into the cozy quarters. Though the floor was made of packed earth, it nevertheless was covered with a relatively new rug that lay before a charming fireplace. There was a small table, a couple of chairs, a bed, and windows with curtains. Light streamed in brightly, revealing a row of dried flower bouquets that hung from the ceiling. A bouquet of dried trillium and pink roses sat in a vase on the table.
"This is my little hideaway," Liza said, dusting off a few chairs that stood around a rough-hewn table. "No one comes here because this is no longer my father's property. It was purchased by Lord Halifax, but he hasn't visited Middledale in fifteen years. I used to sneak here as a child when I ran away from home. I offered to let Mr. Davis have it, but on a clear day you can see it from the opposite hill, and lie was afraid someone would find out he'd returned to Middledale, so he's been sleeping in the woods with his family. Mr. Davis," Liza said anxiously, "won't you please have a seat and tell Mr. Fairchild all about your troubles?"
Liza sat down first, then Davis took the seat next to
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her. Jack sat down opposite them and listened carefully as the chandler told his story.
"You see, Mr. Fairchild, a man approached me about buying my shop six months ago. I told him that I had no intention of selling no matter the price. I'll be bound he was none too pleased by that." Davis folded his bony hands together and stared angrily into space. "I could see that. If I'd known then like I do now what my refusal would signify, I might have sold the place. But Middle-dale was my home, and I said I ain't leaving. A few days later,
I found a note nailed to my door. The note said I had better leave town and never come back or I would regret it. Two days later, I got me another such note. Then that blackguard came back and asked to buy my place again. I stood my ground, suspecting that maybe he was the one who'd threatened me, trying to scare me into selling. That night, the place went up in flames."
Jacob Davis fell silent. He folded his dirt-caked fingers together and tried to still his quivering lower lip.
"Lost everything, I did. I couldn't pay off my debts. I near went addle-brained when I ended up in debtor's prison in London. My girl and my wife lived in a slum nearby. Thank God a cousin died, leaving me the money to get out. It nearly killed me, Mr. Fairchild. Do you know what Fleet Prison is like?"
"I have a fair idea," Jack softly replied.
"You can't really know what it's like until you're in there yourself."
"Pray God I never find out."
"I swore when I was in there I'd get revenge on the blood what did this to me."
Jack cocked his head. "What makes you think he was a nobleman?"
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"Because the lad who threatened me said that 'his lordship' would be none too pleased by my refusal. Another chap, apparently an accomplice, called him Rodge."
"Mr. Rodge?" Jack asked, intrigued.
"No, just Rodge."
"Roger," Liza said quietly.
Jack looked at her a long moment, wondering at her certainty, then listened to the chandler further detail his family's suffering.
"Well, Mr. Fairchild?" Davis said in conclusion, "can you help me find out who did this to me?"
Liza leaned forward expectantly. "Will you take the case?"
He looked at Liza, struck by her nerve and resourcefulness, then at her friend, and rose from his seat, shoving himself up from the table like an old man. He leaned on it, shaking his head. "You want revenge, Mr. Davis, not justice."
