Almost Heaven

by Judith McNaught

  “From palaces to a damned cowshed,” he grumbled, walking out of the empty stall he’d slept in. As he passed Attila’s stall, a hoof punched out with deadly aim, narrowly missing Jake’s thigh. “That’ll cost you an early breakfast, you miserable piece of living glue,” he spat, and then he took considerable pleasure in feeding the other two horses while the black looked on. “You’ve put me in a sour mood,” he said cheerfully as the jealous horse shifted angrily while the other two steeds were fed. “Maybe if it improves later on, I’ll feed you—” He broke off in alarm as he noticed the way Ian’s splendid chestnut gelding was standing with his right knee slightly bent, holding his right hoof off the ground. “Here now, Mayhem,” he crooned softly, patting the horse’s satiny neck, “let’s see that hoof.”

  The well-trained animal, who’d won every race he’d ever run and who’d sired the winner of the last races at Heathton, put up no resistance when Jake lifted his hoof and bent over it. “You’ve picked up a stone,” Jake told the animal, who was watching him with ears attentively forward, his brown eyes bright and intelligent. Jake paused, looking around for something to use as a pick, and found it on an old wooden ledge. “It’s lodged in there good,” he murmured to the horse as he lifted the hoof and crouched down, bracing the hoof on his knee. He picked away at the rock, leaning back against the slats of the next stall in an attempt to get leverage. “That’s got it.” The rock came loose, but Jake’s satisfied grunt turned into a howl of outraged pain as a set of huge teeth in the next stall clamped into Jake’s ample rear end. “You vicious bag of bones,” he shouted, jumping to his feet and throwing himself half over the rail in an attempt to land a punch on Attila’s body. As if the horse anticipated retribution, he sidled to the edge of his stall and regarded Jake from the corner of his eye with an expression that looked to Jake like complacent satisfaction. “I’ll get you for that,” Jake promised, and he started to shake his fist when he realized how absurd it was to threaten a dumb beast.

  Rubbing his offended backside, he turned to Mayhem and carefully put his own rump against the outside wall of the barn. He checked the hoof to make certain it was clean, but the moment his fingers touched the place where the rock had been lodged the chestnut jerked in pain. “Bruised you, did it?” Jake said sympathetically. “It’s not surprisin’, considering the size and shape of the rock. But you never gave a sign yesterday that you were hurtin’,” he continued. Raising his voice and infusing it with a wealth of exaggerated admiration, he patted the chestnut’s flank and glanced disdainfully at Attila while he spoke to Mayhem. “That’s because you’re a true aristocrat and a fine, brave animal—not a miserable, sneaky mule who’s not fit to be your stallmate!”

  If Attila cared one way or another for Jake’s opinion, he was disappointingly careful not to show it, which only made Jake’s mood more stormy when he stomped into the cottage.

  Ian was sitting at the table, a cup of steaming coffee cradled between his palms. “Good morning,” he said to Jake, studying the older man’s thunderous frown.

  “Mebbe you think so, but I can’t see it. Course, I’ve spent the night freezin’ out there, bedded down next to a horse that wants to make a meal of me, and who broke his fast with a bit of my arse already this mornin’. And,” he finished irately as he poured coffee from the tin pot into an earthenware mug and cast a quelling look at his amused friend, “your horse is lame!” Flinging himself into the chair beside Ian, he gulped down the scalding coffee without thinking what he was doing; his eyes bulged, and sweat popped out on his forehead.

  Ian’s grin faded. “He’s what?”

  “Picked up a rock, and he’s favoring his left foreleg.”

  Ian’s chair legs scraped against the wooden floor as he shoved his chair back and started to go out to the barn.

  “There’s no need. It’s just a bruise.”

  * * *

  As she finished washing, Elizabeth heard the indistinct murmur of masculine voices below. Wrapped in a thin towel, she went over to the trunks her unwilling host had carried upstairs and left outside her door this morning, along with two large pitchers of water. Even before she dragged them into her bedchamber she knew the gowns they contained were all a little fancy and fragile to wear in a place like this.

  Elizabeth chose the least flamboyant—a high-waisted white lawn gown with a wide band of pink roses and green leaves embroidered at the hem and at the fitted cuffs of its full, billowy sleeves. A matching white ribbon with roses and leaves embroidered on it lay atop the gown, and she pulled it out, uncertain how to wear it, if at all.

  Elizabeth struggled into the gown, smoothed it over her waist, and spent several minutes fighting to dose the long row of tiny buttons down her back. She turned to survey her appearance in the small mirror above the washstand and nervously bit her lip. The rounded bodice, which had once been demure, now clung tightly to her ripened figure. “Wonderful,” she said aloud with a grimace as she tugged on the bodice. No matter how she tried to pull it up, it persisted in falling lower as soon as she let it go, and she finally gave up the struggle. “They wore gowns cut lower than this during the season,” she reminded the mirror in her own defense. Walking over to the bed, she retrieved the hair ribbon, debating what to do with her hair. In London, the last time she’d worn the gown, Berta had threaded the ribbon through Elizabeth’s curls. At Havenhurst, however, her heavy hair was no longer twisted into elegant styles, but was left to hang partway down her back, where it ended in thick waves and curls.

  With a shrug Elizabeth picked up her comb, parted her hair down the middle, and then caught it at the nape and gathered it together with the embroidered ribbon, which she tied in a simple bow; then she tugged two tendrils loose to soften the effect. She stood back to survey her appearance and sighed with resignation. Completely oblivious to the wide, bright green eyes looking back at her or the healthy glow of her skin, or any of the features that had made Jake say she had a face men dreamt of, Elizabeth looked for glaring flaws in her appearance, and when she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary she lost interest. Turning away from the mirror, she sat down on the bed, going over last night’s events as she’d been doing all morning. The thing that bothered her the most was relatively minor Ian’s claim that he’d received a note from her to meet her in the greenhouse. Of course, it was perfectly possible he was lying about that in an effort to acquit himself in front of Mr. Wiley. But Ian Thornton, as she well knew, was innately rude and blunt, so she couldn’t quite see him bothering to shade the truth for his friend’s sake. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall exactly what he’d said when he came to the greenhouse that night. Something like “Who were you expecting after that note—the prince regent?”

  At the time she’d thought he was talking about the note he’d sent her. But he claimed he’d received one. And he had jabbed at her about her handwriting, which her tutors had described as both “scholarly and precise—a credit to an Oxford gentleman!” Why would Ian Thornton think he knew what her handwriting looked like unless he truly believed he’d received such a note from her? Perhaps he really was mad, but Elizabeth didn’t think so. But then, she reminded herself impatiently, where he was concerned she had always been unable to see the truth. And no wonder! Even now, when she was older and hopefully wiser, it had not been easy to think clearly yesterday with those golden eyes raking over her. For the life of her she could not understand his attitude unless he was still angry because Robert had broken the rules and shot him. That must be it, she decided, turning her mind to the more difficult problem:

  She and Lucinda were trapped there, only their host didn’t realize it, and she couldn’t bear the shame of explaining it. Therefore, she was going to have to find some way to remain here in relative harmony for the next week. In order to survive the ordeal she would simply have to ignore his inexplicable antagonism and take each moment as it came, never looking back or forward. And then it would all be over, and she and Lucinda could leave. But whatever happened dur
ing the next seven days, Elizabeth vowed, she would never again let him make her lose her composure as she had last night. The last time they’d been together he’d confused her so much that she scarcely knew right from wrong.

  From this moment on, she vowed, things would be different. She would be poised and polite and completely imperturbable, no matter how rudely or outrageously he behaved. She was no longer an infatuated young girl whom he could seduce, hurt, or anger for his own amusement. She would prove it to him and also set an excellent example of how well-bred people behaved.

  With that settled in her mind, Elizabeth stood up and headed for Lucinda’s room.

  Lucinda was already dressed, her black gown brushed free of every speck of yesterday’s dust, her gray hair in its neat bun. She was seated in a wooden chair near the window, her spine too rigid to require any support from the back of the chair, her expression thoughtful and preoccupied. “Good morning,” Elizabeth said as she carefully closed the door behind her.

  “Hmmm? Oh, good morning, Elizabeth.”

  “I wanted to tell you,” Elizabeth began in a rush, “how very sorry I am to have dragged you here and subjected you to such humiliation. Mr. Thornton’s behavior was inexcusable, unforgivable.”

  “I daresay he was . . . surprised by our unexpected arrival.”

  “Surprised?” Elizabeth repeated, gaping at her. “He was demented! I know you must think—must be wondering what could have led me to have anything at all to do with him before,” she began, “and I cannot honestly tell you what I could possibly have been thinking of.”

  “Oh, I don’t find that much mystery,” said Lucinda. “He’s exceedingly handsome.”

  Elizabeth would not have been more shocked if Lucinda had called him the soul of amiability. “Handsome!” she began, then she shook her head, trying to clear it. “I must say you’re being very tolerant and kind about all this.”

  Lucinda stood up and cast an appraising eye over Elizabeth. “I would not describe my attitude as ‘kind,’ ” she thoughtfully replied. “Rather I would say it’s one of practicality. The bodice on your gown is quite tight, but attractive for all that. Shall we go down to breakfast?”

  13

  Good mornin’!” Jake boomed as Elizabeth and Lucinda walked downstairs.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wiley,” Elizabeth said with a gracious smile. Then, because she could think of nothing else to say, she added quickly, “Something smells wonderful. What is it?”

  “Coffee,” Ian replied bluntly, his gaze drifting over her. With her long, burnished honey hair tied back with a ribbon she looked extremely pretty and very young.

  “Sit down, sit down!” Jake continued jovially. Someone had cleaned the chairs since last night, but he took out his handkerchief as Elizabeth approached and wiped off the chair seat again.

  “Thank you,” she said, bestowing a smile on him. “But the chair is just fine as it is.” Deliberately she looked at the unsmiling man across from her and said, “Good morning.”

  In answer he lifted a brow, as if questioning her odd change in attitude. “You slept well, I take it?”

  “Very well,” Elizabeth said.

  “How ’bout some coffee?” Jake said as he hurried over to the coffee pot on the stove and filled a mug with the remainder of the steaming brew. When he got to the table with it, however, he stopped and looked helplessly from Lucinda to Elizabeth, obviously not certain who ought properly to be served first.

  “Coffee,” Lucinda informed him dampeningly when he took a step toward her, “is a heathen brew, unfit for civilized people. I prefer tea.”

  “I’ll have coffee,” Elizabeth said hastily. Jake flashed her a grateful smile, put the mug before her, then returned to the stove. Rather than look at Ian, Elizabeth stared, as if fascinated, at Jake Wiley’s back while she sipped her coffee.

  For a moment he stood there, nervously rubbing the palms of his hands on the sides of his legs, looking uncertainly from the fresh eggs to the slab of bacon to the heavy iron skillet already starting to smoke near his elbow—as if he hadn’t the faintest idea how to begin. “May as well get at it,” he murmured, and he stretched his arms straight out in front of him, linked the fingers of both hands together, and made a horrible cracking sound with his knuckles. Then he snatched up the knife and began vigorously sawing at the bacon.

  While Elizabeth watched in puzzled interest he tossed large chunks of bacon into the skillet until it was heaped with it. A minute later the delicious smell of bacon began to waft about the room, and Elizabeth felt her mouth water, thinking how good breakfast was going to be. Before the thought had fully formed she saw him pick up two eggs, crack them open on the edge of the stove, and dump them into the skillet full of raw bacon. Six more eggs followed in rapid succession, then he turned and looked over his shoulder. “D’you think I shoulda let the bacon cook a wee bit longer before I dumped in the eggs, Lady Elizabeth?”

  “I—I’m not completely certain,” Elizabeth admitted, scrupulously ignoring the smirking satisfaction on Ian’s tanned face.

  “D’you want to have a look at it and tell me what you think?” he asked, already sawing off chunks of bread.

  With no choice but to offer her uneducated advice or submit to Ian’s relentlessly mocking stare, Elizabeth chose the former, got up, and went to peer over Mr. Wiley’s shoulder.

  “How does it look to you?”

  It looked to Elizabeth like large globs of eggs congealing in unappetizing bacon fat. “Delicious.”

  He grunted with satisfaction and turned to the skillet, this time with both hands loaded with bread chunks, which he was obviously considering adding to the mess. “What do you think?” he asked, his hands hovering over the pile of cooking food. “Should I dump this in there?”

  “No!” Elizabeth said hastily and with force. “I definitely think the bread should be served . . . well . . .”

  “Alone,” Ian Thornton said in an amused drawl, and when Elizabeth automatically looked toward his voice she discovered that he’d turned halfway around in his chair to watch her.

  “Not entirely alone,” Elizabeth put in, feeling as if she ought to contribute additional advice on the meal preparation rather than show herself as ignorant of cooking as she actually was. “We could serve it with—with butter!”

  “Of course! I shoulda thought of that,” he said with a sheepish grin at Elizabeth. “If you don’t mind standin’ here and keepin’ your eye on what’s happenin’ in this skillet, I’ll go fetch it from the cold keg.”

  “I don’t mind in the least,” Elizabeth assured him, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the fact that Ian’s relentless gaze was boring holes through her back. Since little of import was likely to happen to the contents of the skillet for several minutes, Elizabeth regretfully faced the fact that she couldn’t continue avoiding Ian Thornton—not when she desperately needed to smooth things over enough to convince him to let her and Lucinda remain for the allotted week.

  Straightening reluctantly, she strolled about the room with forced nonchalance, her hands clasped behind her back, looking blindly at the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling, trying to think what to say. And then inspiration struck. The solution was demeaning but practical, and properly presented, it could appear she was graciously doing him a favor. She paused a moment to arrange her features into what she hoped was the right expression of enthusiasm and compassion, then she wheeled around abruptly. “Mr. Thornton!” Her voice seemed to explode in the room at the same time his startled amber gaze riveted on her face, then drifted down her bodice, roving boldly over her ripened curves. Unnerved but determined, Elizabeth forged shakily ahead: “It appears as if no one has occupied this house in quite some time.”

  “I commend you on that astute observation, Lady Cameron,” Ian mocked lazily, watching the tension and emotion play across her expressive face. For the life of him he could not understand what she was doing here or why she seemed to be trying to ingratiate herself this morning. Last nig
ht the explanation he’d given Jake had made sense; now, looking at her, he couldn’t quite believe any of it. Then he remembered that Elizabeth Cameron had always robbed him of the ability to think rationally.

  “Houses do have a way of succumbing to dirt when no one looks after them,” she stated with a bright look.

  “Another creditable observation. You’ve certainly a quick mind.”

  “Must you make this so very difficult!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  “I apologize,” he said with mocking gravity. “Do go on. You were saying?”

  “Well, I was thinking, since we’re quite stranded here— Lucinda and I, I mean—with absolutely nothing but time on our hands, that this house could certainly use a woman’s touch.”

  “Capital idea!” burst out Jake, returning from his mission to locate the butter and casting a highly hopeful look at Lucinda.

  He was rewarded with a glare from her that could have pulverized rock. “It could use an army of servants carrying shovels and wearing masks on their faces,” the duenna countered ruthlessly.

  “You needn’t help, Lucinda,” Elizabeth explained, aghast. “I never meant to imply you should. But I could! I—” She whirled around as Ian Thornton surged to his feet and took her elbow in a none-too-gentle grasp.

  “Lady Cameron,” he said, “I think you and I have something to discuss that may be better spoken in private. Shall we?”

  He gestured to the open door and then practically dragged her along in his wake. Outdoors in the sunlight he marched her forward several paces, then dropped her arm. “Let’s hear it,” he said.

  “Hear what?” Elizabeth said nervously.

  “An explanation—the truth, if you’re capable of it. Last night you drew a gun on me, and this morning you’re awash with excitement over the prospect of cleaning my house. I want to know why.”