As Stanmore rode toward the abandoned mill, it occurred to him that his interest in Rebecca Ford created a conflict with regard to his plans for James. True, his expectations of the boy had been quite different than the reality. He’d had every intention of ignoring James, of sloughing him off to school. The lad would be comfortable enough amid the accommodations provided for the children of England’s wealthiest class. But James’s defiance—the lad’s obvious desire for independence—had certainly surprised him.
This had been the reason for his visit to the boy’s room that night. Stanmore had wanted to look into that face and be reminded again of Elizabeth. He’d wanted to wash away the growing confusion and focus on his wife’s cowardice, on her lack of honor. But he hadn’t been able to see any of that in the sleeping face. The mother and son shared so much in their features, but there was a different spirit at work beneath the surface.
The ruins of the old mill came into view, and he spotted the bright flutter of the woman’s dress dancing in the wind. She was walking to the edge of the lake, her back to him. A few strands of golden red hair had already escaped their confines and were teasing her slender neck. As he drew near, he let his eyes appreciatively take in the new dress. He would be sure to thank Mrs. Trent for arranging for this new wardrobe. Somehow, he had a feeling that it couldn’t have been an easy task.
She must have heard the horse’s hooves on the path, for Stanmore saw her raise a hand to her eyes to block the sun as she turned in his direction.
He reined in the hunter and tethered him to a dangling willow branch. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, but it is far too warm a day to be spent indoors.”
She shook her head and cast a quick glance at the lake. “I didn’t know you were coming down from London today, m’lord, though we’re glad you are here. If you are hungry, I believe there is enough food in that basket to...to...feed a...regiment.”
Her faltering stammer indicated to the peer that she must have noticed his silent but admiring appraisal of the way she looked. Stanmore saw her gaze flit to a lacey scarf that she’d discarded on the blanket near the top of the slope. She modestly crossed her arms over her chest, and his gaze was drawn to the perfect swells of her ivory breasts above the neckline.
He found he was indeed feeling hunger, but not for anything in that basket. He knew that he had to curtail this growing obsession with her. Rebecca Ford was no Covent Garden whore. Nor was she one of the easy chits of the London ton. She was a prize worth savoring, and he had no intention of frightening her away.
“Plenty of food, you say. Well, Harry—my cook here at Solgrave—was one of twenty one siblings.” He walked casually toward her. “He is generally known for valuing quantity over quality.”
She gave a little shake of her head in disagreement. “You are being unjust, m’lord. Your cook is a fine one, indeed. I’ve been very impressed with the quality of everything I have been served.”
“And you are simply being a gracious guest. But considering the slenderness of your figure”—he kept his eyes fixed on her face—“and the perfection of your manner, you might be starving here, and you would say nothing in protest.”
A pretty blush crept into her cheeks, and she looked away, robbing him of the pleasure of seeing the blue of her eyes.
“I assure you, m’lord. My stay at Solgrave has been the most enjoyable.”
“I am very pleased to hear that, ma’am.” He spoke the words gently, stopping only an arm’s length from her.
Wisps of her hair danced in the breeze, and Rebecca tucked them behind a delicately curved ear. So near, he could feel her skittishness. Stanmore turned to look at the lake, the sky, the stretch of the trees curving up and over the crest of the hill on the far side of the valley. Moments later, though, he found his gaze had already returned to her face.
“Daniel tells me that James began his lessons with a tutor this morning.”
“He has.” She smiled, but a second later a fearful gasp escaped her lips as she stepped sharply toward the lake. “Jamey!”
Stanmore followed the direction of her gaze and stared at the calm waters of the lake.
Forgetful of the shoes and dress, Rebecca took a step into the still waters. “Jamey!”
“Where is he?” In an instant, Stanmore had shed his jacket and vest and stepped in after her.
“In the lake. He was…” The boy’s head bobbed to the surface for an instant some fifty yards from the shore and immediately disappeared again.
Stanmore ran a few steps into the lake and dove into the deeper water.
“No, m’lord!”
He heard the cry from the shore, but he did not turn. He knew where the boy had gone down. He immediately dove again, gliding along just beneath the surface of the water toward the spot. He’d swum the length and breadth of this lake from the time he was just a lad. And he knew very well that the shallows around the shore had deceived many in the past. The sandy edges dropped off so quickly and so deep that the lake seemed to have no bottom in places.
His strokes were strong, and he reached where he’d seen the lad only moments ago, but the calm surface of the lake lay unbroken. He took a deep breath and dived downward.
The water become painfully cold not a few feet beneath the surface, and Stanmore looked about him wildly for any sign of the boy. There was nothing. He surfaced again, and took another deep breath, but this time—as he started to dive again—he glimpsed a splash of water thirty yards or so closer to the dam.
He swam furiously in that direction, but again found no sign of James beneath or on the surface. He dove again, directing his strokes closer to the dam. Nothing.
Stanmore treaded water for a moment, suddenly fearing the worst. His heart hammered in his chest. He glanced toward the shore. There he saw Rebecca had stepped back from the water’s edge and was waving in his direction. Before her, near the shore, he saw the scrawny body of a naked boy stand up in the shallows. The water splashed around him as the lad ran toward the woman.
He did not know whether it was due to the cold of the lake water or the scare of James’s disappearance, but an angry pounding began to drum in his temples. Thoughts of thrashing the boy’s skinny, white behind ran pell-mell through Stanmore’s head. He was angry enough to do that, he was certain. He started for the shore.
Rebecca must have sensed his state of mind, though, for as he swam toward them, Stanmore saw her hand James a bundle of clothes, wrap him in her own scarf, and send him running toward Solgrave.
Each of his boots weighed at least fifty pounds. His shirt and breeches clung to his body as Stanmore finally stepped out of the water. Glaring at the boy as he disappeared into the trees, he growled a curse under his breath and focused his anger on Rebecca. She had picked up the blanket from the grass and was holding it out to him.
“You told him to run away, instead of facing the consequences of his actions.”
He saw her take a step back as he stalked up the slope.
“He was cold...shivering like a leaf...”
“He saw me swimming after him. He could have waited and told me he was in no danger.”
“He is a boy. He just thought it was a game.” She tried to give him a weak smile, but his fierce frown caused it to fade immediately. “It was my fault. I tried to stop you, but—”
“You have raised a coward.”
“James is no coward.” Rebecca raised her chin in defiance as her temper flared. She shoved the blanket into his chest. He let it drop to the grass and took another step forward…only to have her take two back. Her gaze traveled down his chest before fixing again on his face. “It was just a mistake. He went to the house...to change. He was dripping wet…as…as you are…”
As her voice trailed off, Stanmore felt the heat of his anger turn to desire. He continued stalking her, and she continued to back toward the mill.
“I cannot let this pass. When he ran away, I did nothing, but not this time. He needs to learn the meaning of responsib
ility. He needs to know that there are consequences.”
“He didn’t know he was doing anything wrong. He is a good swimmer. In fact, an excellent one. If anyone is to blame...it is I.” She stopped abruptly as she backed against the wall of the old mill. “I…I overreacted.”
“Stop protecting him, Rebecca. He needs to—”
“It was I,” she pleaded. “This time, I am the one at fault.”
He watched her rapid breathing. He took a step closer and allowed his gaze to roam, to caress the beautiful column of her neck. His eyes lingered on the wild beat of her pulse against the translucent skin of her throat and moved lower to admire the rise and fall of perfect breasts to uneven rhythm of her breaths. He still moved closer, his gaze focused on her full lips. He almost smiled as they parted—a gasp escaping them—as his cold, wet body came in contact with her warm one. He focused on her blue eyes, suddenly lost in the storms of passion raging in them.
Rebecca saw his eyes darken. Her breath hung suspended in her chest. Her head, her back, her palms—all pressed against the hard, stone wall behind her—could create no distance. Even if she could have moved back, the pressure of his hard, wet body in front told her that he would follow. Even if she were able to move mountains at this moment, she knew he would come after her.
His mouth descended upon hers, and her eyes closed. His lips were hard, almost bruising in their insistence. Then, just as Rebecca felt fear beginning to crawl up her spine, Stanmore’s mouth gentled, and she was jolted by a strange, molten heat uncoiling in her middle.
Stunned at first, she stood still, trying to understand the sensations racing through her. She was even shocked to find that she loved the feel of his fingers on her skin as he held the sides of her face. She hesitantly opened the eyes that she had shut so tightly and saw the sharp angles of his handsome face as he drew back briefly before lowering his head again and nip and suckle her bottom lip.
She couldn’t move—couldn’t breath—but her heart was beating so hard that she was afraid it would explode in her chest at any instant. And still, the undulating mass of molten sensations was threatening to set her insides on fire.
“So beautiful,” he murmured against her lips, and Rebecca found herself staring into specks of silver deep in his dark eyes. “Kiss me, Rebecca.”
His fingers dug into her hair. She felt the ribbon loosen, the thick waves sliding down onto her shoulders. His lips again lowered to hers.
Rebecca’s startled hands jerked away from the wall, clutching at his back as the pressure of his mouth increased, and his tongue started teasing the seam of her tightly closed lips.
“Kiss me, Rebecca.”
She opened her mouth to tell him of her ignorance in such matters, but no words came out. It wouldn’t have mattered. His lips descended again, and he thrust into the opening…sampling, rubbing, exploring her mouth.
Bolts of lightning shot through her with a scorching heat that she thought might kill her. His tongue rubbed against hers, and Rebecca vaguely felt his hands move down her back and encircle her waist. He pulled her even tighter against the solid strength of his chest. She felt no longer the wetness of his clothes, but only the incredible heat that seemed to possess them both. Her lifelong fear of intimacy suddenly transformed into an eternity of desire.
Rebecca became almost frantic to satisfy this sudden hunger for him. Her hands traveled down his back. She could feel the powerful muscles beneath the clinging linen of the shirt. It was almost miraculous, the way her body felt, softening and molding itself to the contours of his body.
Through a haze, she heard his low growl of pleasure. And as he pressed her into the wall, she felt something else. The thin buckskin of his breeches could hardly be expected to conceal the presence of the aroused manhood pressing intimately against her body.
Clarity and sanity returned instantly as a series of images sprang up before her eyes. Images razor sharp and horrible. A library in London. A man aroused. A man willing to violate the body of another. A murder.
The same hands that had been struggling to pull him closer, now wedged themselves between their bodies. Rebecca turned her face and shoved at his chest. To her surprise he immediately released her. She felt lightheaded and awkward, as shame and embarrassment quickly drained her of her strength.
“I...I am so sorry.” Her cheeks burned. Her entire body trembling as she edged herself away from the man and the wall. She stumbled backward toward the basket of food spread on the grass. “I shouldn’t...I was wrong…This is all...all my fault.”
“Rebecca!”
The sound of her name, uttered clear and low, felt like velvet on her ear. She took another step back before hesitantly looking up.
“I am so sorry.”
The embers of passion glowed deep in his eyes. A flickering movement in his jaw told her of the battle that was waging inside. But he had not moved. He wasn’t coming after her.
And suddenly she knew. This man would not hurt her to appease his lust. Even stronger feelings of shame washed through her at the thought that she had compared the earl of Stanmore to Sir Charles Hartington.
Nonetheless, he was still very much a man.
“I started this.” His words spoke of his conviction. “There is nothing wrong with—”
“No!” She raised a hand to silence him and shook her head before taking another step back. “You are not to blame, but this is very wrong. This will not happen again.”
Turning, Rebecca ran as fast as she could toward the path. At the crest of the hill, though, she cast a quick glimpse over her shoulders and then stopped, her breath caught in her throat. Lord Stanmore, shirtless and barefooted now, was striding into the cold waters of the lake for another swim, the powerful muscles of his broad back rippling in the summer sun.
CHAPTER 13
By the time Jamey reached the cottage in the woods, the loose-fitting shirt on his back was nearly dry. Putting down his mother’s scarf and the shoes and stockings he’d tucked under his arm, he pulled the makeshift door open a little and peered inside.
“Israel! Are you in there?”
The inside was dark and cool, and he could feel the dampness that still lingered in the hut. A small movement by the fire caught the boy’s eye.
“Israel?” His call was louder this time, and he pulled the door open farther to let more light in. “Israel...are you here?”
“Aye, sir.” The voice was familiar. “No place else to go.”
A grin broke over Jamey’s face as he saw his friend huddled in the darkness. The other boy was pushing himself into a sitting position.
“What were you doing? Sleeping?” Without waiting for an answer, Jamey stepped out of the cottage and picked up his shoes and his mother’s scarf. While he was out there, he filled his arms with some branches for a fire.
The day he’d run away from Solgrave, he’d walked in the pouring rain for hours through the woods and meadows of the park before coming upon a hollowed trunk of a huge and ancient oak tree. Thinking it might be a good place to find shelter, he had been more than a little surprised to find himself face to face with a boy of exactly the same size and age.
When the boy made room for him, Jamey knew he’d found a friend. Huddled beside Israel in the tree, he had told the boy that he was running away from his new home. Israel had mentioned that he really didn’t think of the place where he ate and slept as his home. So now, he was working on a new one for himself in the woods.
Jamey told him that he’d been happy all of his life until yesterday, when his mama had told him that he was a nobleman’s son. He didn’t want to be any stranger’s son. He had been perfectly happy with only her.
Israel said that he never remembered having a mama or a papa. He’d had to work with the woodcutter for his food. And he always looked down and never talked back when the white people at Melbury Hall addressed him, because he was a slave. He supposed his skin made him different.
Jamey had simply shrugged his shoulders at
the news. He told Israel that where he was from, a lot of people didn’t hold with owning slaves, and that a great number of people whose grandparents had come from Africa and from the Indies were free.
This hadn’t really seemed to make much of an impression, but when Jamey had told his new friend that he too was different in his own way, Israel had raised a curious eye. Then Jamey had pulled up his sleeve and shown him his claw hand.
Israel had been quite impressed by the looks of the hand and, when the rain eased up a little, had asked Jamey if he wanted to come and see the home he’d been working on.
A couple of hours later, as the two had been sitting and eating some of Israel’s food, they had decided that together they could fix up the place better than Israel could alone. And since Jamey wasn’t going back to Solgrave, he could be keeping an eye on things when Israel was working with the woodcutter. The pact was sealed with a handshake.
Jamey walked inside the cottage with his arms full.
“You were gone when I came back the other morning.”
He dropped his load on the floor and started stacking some of the sticks on the pile of ashes. “He came after me.”
“Your papa?”
“The earl, and I still say he is no relation to me,” Jamey corrected, glancing at his friend’s bare feet. Israel’s callused hands were dangling around his bare legs, and that was all of him he could really see in the dimly lit hut.
“Did he ask any questions…about this place…and the fixing-up of it? We’re on his lordship’s land, you know. Biddle the woodcutter told me everything from the ridge over belongs to Solgrave.”
Jamey snorted, shaking his head. “He didn’t ask a thing! He doesn’t care anything about it…or about me. He didn’t even look twice at the place.”
Falling silent, he finished piling the wood. “I thought I’d make a fire. I went swimming in the lake, and my clothes are wet. My breeches are stuck to my arse something fierce.”
“Aye, there is dry kindling over there, and here’s my flint.”
The Promise Page 13
