When a Stranger Loves Me

by Julianne MacLean

  Proficient…It was not the right word. Not in the least.

  Chelsea spooned up some eggs. “I suppose one could pronounce me victorious, though in the end it was he who was more in charge of what went on. I simply did what he told me to do.” She glanced over her shoulder at her mother. “The prey became the predator.”

  “But you enticed him into the role, which was half the battle.” Melissa reached out a hand and held Chelsea back from approaching the table. “So did he…? You know…”

  Chelsea was famished, but knew she would have to satisfy Melissa’s curiosity before she could sit down and eat in peace.

  “Did he give me the material I require for our Machiavellian plan?” she plainly asked.

  Melissa waited with bated breath for her reply. “Well? Did he?”

  “Yes. Four times, to be exact. And I’m starved.”

  Her mother sneezed.

  They both looked her way and said, “God bless you,” at the same time, then gazed back at each other and resisted a collective urge to laugh.

  “It appears our visitor is on the mend,” Melissa whispered close in her ear, “which is very nice, but quantity is not the only thing a woman requires. How was it otherwise? Was he…” She paused. “…clever?”

  “Clever…I’m not quite sure what you mean, because I have no experience in such matters outside of last night, and therefore have nothing to compare it to. All I can say is that I enjoyed it even more than I imagined I would. He was…”

  She glanced toward the window, recalling how he used his hands to bewitch her, making her feel beautiful and desirable and adored. It had been the most erotic night of her life.

  She met her sister-in-law’s gaze. “He was perfect.”

  And who should walk into the breakfast room at that moment, but her perfect, handsome, nameless lover, in the flesh, looking self-assured in Sebastian’s black morning jacket and forest green waistcoat, his hair combed back in thick, shiny waves that played upon his shoulders in attractive disarray.

  He was well groomed and clean-shaven, and carried himself like someone of stature. He looked like a king—or at the very least, an English lord.

  Was he? she wondered suddenly. Had she just made love to a duke or a marquess?

  “Good morning,” he said with cool reserve, bowing at the waist.

  Chelsea’s mother looked up from her breakfast plate and nearly spit out her coffee. One look at him, however, in all his stately magnificence was all it took for her to be won over instantly, right there on the spot.

  “Good morning,” she replied, reaching quickly for her napkin and wiping the corner of her mouth. She appeared stunned. “How wonderful to see you up and around.”

  She seemed also to conveniently forget that she had insisted on locking him up a few days ago, and had suggested he was a madman, escaped from an asylum. Presently, she appeared dumb-struck by his good looks.

  Chelsea could hardly blame her. She did not believe there had ever been a man so handsome inside the walls of this house. Ever.

  “Good morning,” Melissa said graciously, throwing a veil over the awkward silence by approaching their guest with an outstretched hand. “I am Lady Neufeld. It is such a pleasure to meet you at last. I am so sorry for what has happened to you, and I hope you’ve been comfortable here. We wish to do all we can to help you get well and recover your place in the world.”

  “Thank you, Lady Neufeld.” He inclined his head and shook her hand, but still seemed suspicious of his hosts.

  It did not take a fool to see that Melissa, like their mother, was frazzled as well. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were beaming.

  “And this is my mother-in-law, Miriam, the dowager countess of Neufeld,” she said.

  Chelsea’s mother held out her hand. “How wonderful to meet you, sir.”

  He bent forward and laid a kiss on her plump knuckles. “Not nearly as wonderful for you, madam, as it is for me. How can I ever repay you for your many kindnesses? I am in your debt.”

  For the laudanum? Chelsea thought scornfully.

  But he was enough of a gentleman not to mention it.

  Her mother struggled to behave courteously. “Oh, no sir. It was the least we could do. Truly. Would you care for some breakfast?”

  How quickly the man could go from tyrant to charmer. Chelsea’s head was spinning.

  He frowned at her on his way to the sideboard, and as he passed her by, paused and leaned close. “You said she was a brick wall.”

  He moved on, and with Melissa’s chattering company, helped himself to a plate of food.

  At least he was inclined to keep up his strength, Chelsea thought. He would need it for tonight, she decided, as she finally sat down across from her mother and dug into her breakfast.

  “You won’t run off, will you?” Chelsea asked her lover as she escorted him to the front door later that morning. He had mentioned at breakfast that he would benefit from some fresh air and a walk around the gardens, and no one was inclined to refuse him. Both Melissa and her mother had been completely besotted by his looks. They would have said yes to anything.

  He stopped in the entrance hall and faced her with a puckered brow. “Run off? Good God, woman. I’m not your lapdog.”

  “No, of course you are not.”

  But in all honesty, she did not want him to go off alone. What if he did not come back?

  “Besides,” he continued, “where would I go? I have no friends or acquaintances here, at least none that I know of. Even if I did recover all my faculties while wandering the grounds, I have no money, no means of support, nor any way to transport myself back to my home, wherever it may be.”

  “It was a silly thing to say,” she replied.

  He seemed to be studying her expression, reading all the thoughts and feelings she was trying so hard to keep hidden—like the fact that she wanted to go with him on his walk. There was no explanation for it except that she, too, was besotted. How could she not be? He was as handsome as the day was long, and the night before, he had taken her to places she had not known existed. Beautiful places. Erotic places that made her quiver even now just thinking about them.

  She clutched her notebook to her chest.

  “Would you like to come with me?” he asked. “You could show me the lay of the land and make sure I don’t step off the edge of a cliff.”

  Chelsea hesitated, for she was not quite sure it would be wise—not because she did not trust him or that she feared being alone with him, but rather because she did not want her feelings to become more intense than they already were. She had thought about him this morning far too much as it was.

  He gestured toward her notebook. “You had plans to write?”

  “Yes. I thought I would sit in the library.”

  “Can you write outdoors?” he asked. “Because I would like to find a place to sit as well, to rest and do nothing. I promise I won’t disturb you.” When she continued to hesitate, he lowered his voice. “I’ve spent enough time alone over the past few days. I would appreciate the company and conversation. The stimulation of my mind might help me remember things.”

  She turned toward the door. “I suppose I could benefit from some fresh air as well.”

  They walked onto the wide steps and he turned to look up at the front of the house. “Quite an impressive structure,” he said, referring to the sheer majesty of the home, designed in the classic Palladian style.

  “The fifth Earl Neufeld had it built as a summer retreat, but Mother and I live here year ’round. My brother spends the winters at our country estate in Lincolnshire, though of course he resides in London when the House is in session.”

  “You don’t find it too remote in the winter?” he asked. “The winds off the Atlantic must be fierce.”

  “They are,” she replied. “We have no choice but to spend much time indoors during the winter months, but there are enough mild days to enjoy a walk or a sleigh ride in the snow.”

  They turned to
descend the steps and headed out across the breezy lawn to look out at the gray sea, dotted with angry whitecaps. The clouds in the overcast sky seemed just out of reach.

  Chelsea watched his profile as he looked out over the water. He seemed to be searching for something he might recognize, probing his mind for a recollection or an explanation as to why he had been out swimming in the frigid English Channel a few nights ago.

  “There was a storm that night,” she told him. “The winds were severe, and it was raining. It would have been a challenge for any vessel to stay afloat, especially if it ran up against the rocks. The morning I found you, the waves were still crashing up onto the shore with a fury I can barely describe.”

  “There have been no reports of a lost ship in the area? No other people washed ashore?”

  “Not that we are aware of,” she answered. “As I mentioned, Sebastian has given an account of your situation to the local authorities and he has sent word to London as well, so perhaps in time someone will come for you. And then you will know who you are.”

  “And so will you.” He turned to face her. “In the meantime, you must call me something. A name. We must invent one.”

  She lowered her notebook to her side. “What kind of name do you feel would suit you? Do you feel like a Tom or a George?”

  “No, neither of those. Come now, you’re a writer. Pretend I am a character in one of your stories. What would you call me?”

  She smiled at the challenge. “I often look to ancient mythology for inspiration, but in your case…”

  “I am not a god to you?” he asked, perplexed.

  “In some ways perhaps,” she replied with a laugh, “but heaven forbid anyone should find out I named you Zeus or Apollo.”

  “Indeed. What shall it be, then? Robert? Jack? Yes, that’s it. Jack. For some reason that name seems to fit like a comfortable old shoe.”

  “Maybe it’s your real name.”

  “If it is, I will be pleased.”

  “But the watch I found on the beach suggests a name that begins with B.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t feel like a Bob or a Buckley.”

  “Bartholomew,” she put forward. “Basil? Bernard.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t think so.”

  “Byron? Bruce. What about Burt?”

  “No.”

  They started along the rosebushes toward the sandy, meandering path that led to the beach, and picked their way down over the loose stones. Once or twice “Jack” stopped and turned to offer his hand to her at a particularly difficult spot on the trail, and even though she had negotiated this trek hundreds of times on her own, she allowed him to play the chivalrous gentleman, and could not deny that she enjoyed it.

  Down on the pebbly beach the surf seemed almost deafening, so they walked side by side in silence—slowly, as Jack was not yet fully recovered.

  They soon came to a flat outcropping where Chelsea often sat and wrote. It would be different today, however, for she was not alone. She was not certain she would be able to lose herself enough, in order to concentrate and make the words come.

  She gestured to the spot with her notebook. “This is where I usually sit when I write.”

  “Then we shall adhere to your routine.” He stepped up onto the wide rock and turned to offer his hand again. The wind blew a part in his wavy, dark hair, and his shirt collar whipped in the fresh breezes.

  She couldn’t help thinking that he looked almost like a natural piece of this rugged coastline. He seemed to belong here—for he was wild and unpredictable, and he excited her, just like the tempestuous sea.

  Slipping her hand into his, she allowed him to pull her up the sloping boulders to the top. Gulls soared over their heads and called out to one another against the white sky. On the horizon, the clouds loomed darker. She hoped the rain would stay away for at least a little while longer.

  They sat down together in a spot where they could rest their backs on some rocks, and Chelsea opened her notebook. She looked down at the pages she had already filled with sentences and paragraphs, as well as the blank pages ahead, and wondered at once if this had been a ridiculous idea. How in the world was she supposed to concentrate with such a handsome man sitting beside her—a man with whom she had been naked the night before?

  The very man who had claimed her virginity and would possess it forever.

  “How much paper do you have?” he asked. “Could you spare some?”

  She looked up. “Do you want to write something?”

  “No, but if you have an extra pencil, I would like to draw.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Really. Are you an artist?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”

  Intrigued, she tore a sheet out of her book and passed it to him, then reached into her pocket for an extra pencil.

  He used his raised knee to lay the paper upon, and began sketching something small in the corner of the page. He spent some time on it, examined it carefully, turned the page sideways, upside down, then began drawing again with broad, sweeping pencil strokes.

  “Just go ahead and write,” he said. “Don’t let me distract you.”

  Easier said than done, she thought as she turned her gaze down to her own notebook.

  It took great effort, but finally she was able to settle her mind into her character’s world, and the words began to flow from her imagination to her hand and down onto the paper. She wrote about the young impoverished lady from Yorkshire who became a governess in the home of a handsome French aristocrat who lost his wife in the revolution.

  After about twenty minutes she lifted her eyes and watched Jack hard at work on his drawing. He was shading something. His hand was moving back and forth very quickly.

  He glanced up. His eyes were dark, his expression brooding as he looked at her. When he noticed she was staring back at him, he said curtly, “Look down, please.”

  Realizing he was drawing her, she felt her lips curl into a smile, lowered her lashes and continued to write.

  A short while later his hand moved slower, more gracefully, over the page. She was acutely aware of it, as well as the sound of the pencil scraping over the heavy paper, even though she kept her eyes trained on her own notebook, looking up only occasionally to ponder a different word or phrase.

  He stopped and breathed deeply, then rose to his feet. Chelsea looked up at him, dark and striking against the pure white sky.

  “What do you think?” He handed the picture to her.

  She reached out, took it from him, and beheld her own likeness through his eyes. Clearly, he possessed not only a raw and wonderful talent, but a skillful, trained hand as well. The picture had an almost dreamlike quality, yet it was realistic.

  “You are an artist,” she said, “and a very talented one at that. I would ask where you learned to draw like this, but…” She let her voice trail off.

  Looking at the picture again, she noticed the small shape in the corner, like an emblem of some kind—a simple flower perhaps. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing at it.

  He frowned. “I have no idea. It’s just something I keep seeing in my mind. Does it look familiar to you?”

  “No, I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Perhaps it will come to me eventually.” He turned and faced the sea. “I quite enjoyed sketching you. I feel rejuvenated.”

  “I am pleased to hear it.”

  “I am going to take a walk along the beach by myself,” he said, stepping carefully down the sloping rocks, “to ponder the universe and leave you to your art. If it’s all right with you, I shall come back later and fetch you, and we can walk back to the house together.”

  “I won’t move from this spot.”

  He pressed a hand to the wound at his side and paused a moment. “Where was it, exactly, that I was found?”

  Chelsea wet her lips and pointed. “There is a cove on the other side of that cliff. You can’t reach it from here. We would have to go back up the path, cross ou
r property to reach the road, then take a different, more challenging path down the other side.”

  He did not yet have the strength for such a hike. She knew it and so did he.

  “Another day perhaps,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  She watched him head to the water’s edge and stroll leisurely along the beach, stopping every so often to stand with his hands behind his back and stare out at the sea.

  An hour later Jack returned. “I would like to go back now,” he said, with a hand pressed to his side. “I was too ambitious. I must rest.”

  Chelsea closed her notebook and stood. “Are you feeling unwell? Will you be able to make it up the hill?”

  “Yes, but I’ll pay a price. I doubt I’ll be dining with your family this evening. A tray brought to my room would be most appreciated.” He continued to hold onto his side. Tension darkened his brow.

  “Of course. I’ll see to it personally.” She stepped down the sloping rocks and came to stand beside him.

  “Can I trust you to keep the laudanum out of my wine?” he asked with a touch of humor, despite his discomfort.

  “There won’t be a single drop. I promise.”

  She could see the pain in his eyes as he offered his arm. Slowly, they started up the beach.

  Chelsea leaned toward him. “If you are not feeling well, I don’t want you to feel obligated to keep our…appointment tonight.”

  She would be disappointed, to be sure, but the last thing she wanted was to cause him more pain or hinder his recovery.

  “In that regard, there is something I want to discuss with you,” he said soberly, and a shadow of dread moved through her. She sensed a hint of remorse in his tone. Was he going to tell her that he had changed his mind?

  “It is one thing,” he said, “for me to send you off to your wedding bed as an experienced woman. It is quite another to send you there with a seed already planted in your womb. If we are going to make love again, we must take precautions.”

  But that was precisely why she had gone to his bed in the first place—to conceive a child for Sebastian and Melissa and secure a way out of a marriage to a man she would despise. It would be rather pointless, wouldn’t it, to go to his bed if he was going take steps to prevent such an event?