Tor was in the armchair, which was pulled up to the fire, for it was a blustery, wet day. He was sitting, more or less. She had shown him how to arrange himself so his legs supported heavy books. It involved draping the knees over the armchair and propping the book against one’s legs, which held it open. Leaning back against the other arm put just the right distance between the book and the eyes.
It was the ideal posture for reading for hours at a time, only most people objected to the lounging sprawl. Tor had taken to it with speed.
He was wearing Jasper’s walking clothes. The rough tweed jacket and pants were made for walking about the vale and through trees. The shirt had no collar and was open at the neck, revealing pale flesh beneath that was nevertheless dipped in the center between the musculature. Bronwen had studied anatomy books and knew of the chest muscles that made the flesh pillow in that way. It was fascinating to see it in a live subject, though.
The shirt was too small across the shoulders and pulled the fabric taut over Tor’s chest in an agreeable way.
How much he had changed in four days!
Bronwen recalled the way he’d sat on the arm of that very chair, the first day he had stepped in the library. The upright carriage and the stiff formality. He’d perched, not sat. Even his feet had been together.
Now his hair was tousled, his clothing that of a workman. He had cultivated a new perspective with systematic thoroughness. At times, he had forced himself to overcome habits of thought and practice that would prevent him from thoroughly experiencing everything.
His relentless mowing down and raking aside of old attitudes and testing new ones had been fascinating to watch. She had never met anyone with such discipline.
Tor lifted his hand to turn the page. His wrist, the one she had turned to examine nettle stings, showed the flex of strong tendons beneath as the long fingers eased the page over.
A stray thought leapt into her mind. What would it feel like to have that hand, those long fingers, against her? Right there, against her chest, above the top of her camisole, which he would feel through the cotton of her dress….
Bronwen dropped her gaze back to her book as confusion swamped her. Her cheeks burned.
She didn’t…she couldn’t…desire him, could she?
Remember who he really is, she whispered in her mind.
It didn’t matter that he wasn’t really Tor Besogende. It didn’t matter that his changed appearance was an attempt by him to jolt himself into finding a way forward into the future.
What did matter was the determined way he was going about it.
And that he was a man, just like any other. Hot blooded. Flesh and bone.
Only, she couldn’t want him. It was impossible. She had never desired a man. Ever. Most of them she found to be tiresome and shallow, far too in love with their own selves to consider loving another. Or they were simply too stupid to withstand more than a few moments in their company.
The text on the page she was staring at was a reminder. Reason deductively, she told herself.
Tor was a man. She was a woman. They were healthy people. They were spending time in each other’s company. Wouldn’t it be more surprising if she was unmoved by him at all?
Except…except…oh, he was the very last man she should feel anything for!
Bronwen realized she was studying him once more. Her gaze followed the long line of his legs over the armchair and down to the flat plane of his stomach where the edge of the book rested. She took in the tight fabric of the shirt stretched across his chest and the flesh beneath it.
She had long ago educated herself on the mysteries of sex and copulation. This the first time, though, she had stared at a man’s crotch and wondered about the appearance of what lay beneath the buttons of his trousers.
She was growing breathless simply speculating.
“Damn,” she whispered to herself, borrowing Sadie’s favorite curse.
“Did you say something?” Tor asked, looking up at where she sat.
She had not spoken as softly as she thought. Bronwen cast about for an answer. “I was…arguing to myself the points of Mr. Price’s theory on the superiority of deductive reasoning over inductive reasoning.”
Tor frowned. “Deductive reasoning…” He sat up, bringing his feet to the floor, so he was facing her. “That is where I say: All men have beards. My father has a beard. Therefore my father is a man. Yes?”
“Only, not all men have beards,” Bronwen pointed out. “The base assumption is incorrect. If your base assumptions are correct, then your conclusion must be correct. That is why Mr. Price considers deductive reasoning superior.”
“Inductive reasoning can still be wrong even if the data is correct?” Tor smiled. “It certainly sounds as though inductive reasoning is the weaker of the two.”
“Simplistic drivel,” Bronwen said, putting the offending book aside. “It is as if Mr. Price has never read Sir Isaac Newton, or Rene Descartes. He ignores the rationality of inductive reasoning, how it allows rigorous testing in search of the truth. Yes, the hypothesis may be wrong, only testing will prove it wrong. Deductive reasoning does not allow testing or the discovery of errors and that makes deductive reasoning the weaker of the two.”
Tor closed his own book. “That is why you swear?” His deep blue eyes caught hers.
Bronwen got to her feet and climbed to the main floor and swept past him. “I’m hungry. It must be near afternoon tea. Coming?”
Tor considered her for a moment. Then he put the book down and followed.
* * * * *
“Will you be heading out this afternoon, Bronwen?” Lilly asked, as she put down the teapot. “It is a mild day, perhaps one of the last this year.”
Bronwen frowned. She had intended to stay in the library all day. Now, though, the idea of staying indoors was intolerable. She grasped the straw that Lilly had provided. “Yes,” she said firmly. “A short walk, to clear the cobwebs.”
“Will you be accompanying her, Tor?” Lilly asked.
Tor put down the slice of fruitcake he had been eating. “I would not presume to intrude upon Bronwen’s excursion without her permission. I know how much she likes her solitude.”
Relief trickled through her. Bronwen tried to look apologetic. “I would prefer to wander alone, thank you. Besides, you are still to finish Mr. Darwin.”
“The Origins of Species?” Lilly clarified. “How do you find Darwin, Tor? Do you consider him to be the blasphemous fool the newspapers call him?”
Tor smiled. “I can understand why many think that of him. It is uncomfortable to entertain the idea that humans are descendants of monkeys, with no higher purpose than the apes. Although I have been reminded that reason is a tool for reaching the truth. If I use that tool, then I must say that Charles Darwin makes rational sense. Whether I like that sense is immaterial.”
“Hmm…” Lilly said, fixing him with a look from under her brow. “You sound just like Bronwen.”
“Truth is truth,” Tor said, with a tiny shrug of one shoulder.
Bronwen caught his glance toward her and tried to ignore the skip and leap of her heart.
Truth was a sharp tool. The truth was, she could not afford to be drawn to this man in any way. A walk out in the dales, with the wind whipping her hair and chilling her face and hands, was just what she needed.
* * * * *
Once Lilly had returned to her immeasurable duties and Bronwen had departed upon her short walk, Tor returned to the library. He glanced at the big portfolio sized volume of Darwin, lying waiting for him.
Mr. Darwin had lost all appeal.
Instead, Tor wandered the library, sliding his fingertip across the spines of volumes, absorbing the titles and the boundless range of topics and subjects. A restless energy gripped him.
As he took another turn about the library, he grew aware of the throbbing pain building in his head. Now his inability to settle to reading was explained. He paused at the far end of the big library, lo
oking up at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight shining through the windows.
He should return to his borrowed room before the pain grew stronger. He was familiar with these attacks and knew the course this one would take.
Only, why was he being inflicted with the malady today?
No one knew of the debilitating headaches. At least, no one in his dukedom knew. There was a certain German doctor, Heinzman, whom Tor had contrived to have visit him in secret, a year ago. The man was an expert in matters of the head and the brain, yet his consultation had been useless.
“A relaxation of the mind and the soul, no?” Heinzman said, pressing his hands together. “Less work and more pleasure, that is the answer. You know what they say about all work and no play.”
Tor had paid the doctor and sent him on his way, disappointed by the useless diagnosis.
The headaches had persisted. Not many—certainly not enough of them to lead anyone to suspect him of ill-health, which would put Baumgärtner, the Council and the entire dukedom into a panic. Silkeborg most certainly did not need such uncertainty these days.
Tor did not have time to be ill, yet the headaches would ensure an entire day was wasted while he lingered behind a locked door and prayed he would not be called upon to tend to an emergency and be revealed to the world.
If the doctor, Heinzman, had been correct and it was simply a matter of less taxing work, then why was a headache visiting Tor here, in Northallerton, the most peaceful location in which he’d ever lingered?
Tor made his way toward the door, moving with deliberately slowness as he considered the puzzle.
Only, with every step toward the exit, his headache bloomed larger and stronger, until he could think of nothing but the exquisite pain. His vision blurred.
Feeling blindly ahead, he turned and moved toward the sofa, instead. He would not be able to negotiate the stairs and the route to his room. Not now.
He lay on the sofa and gripped his head. His fingers added to the agony. Breathing in soft, shallow sips, he waited. He had waited in this way many times in the past. His thoughts fell into a darkness, unnoticed, as the pain moved to the forefront of his consciousness.
Time had no meaning. He only realized the short afternoon was growing to a close when the lowering sun burst through the high window up by the ceiling and dazzled him where he lay on the sofa, immobile.
He winced, despite his closed eyes.
“Tor, what is wrong?” Bronwen asked, from nearby.
Then her shadow fell across his face, blocking the light that danced redly against his eye lids.
Tor eased open one eye. “Nothing,” he said, the lie coming to him automatically. He shut his eye again,
“Nothing is making you wince in that way and hiss with pain?”
He heard the soft rustle of her hems.
“You have a headache?” she asked, from much closer.
Tor opened his eye once more. “A headache is far too limiting a description for this.”
Bronwen had lowered herself next to the sofa to examine him. She tilted her head. Her large gray eyes considered him. “I have read of such headaches before. Stay there…” She grimaced. “Of course you will stay there. I will be but a moment. I have something I suspect will help.” She rose to her feet.
“Shut the door,” he whispered and closed his eyes once more, surrendering to the throbbing.
He didn’t hear her leave. He didn’t hear her return. The first notice he received that she was back was the touch of her cool fingers against his wrist. “Put your arm down. I must reach your temples.”
Tor eased his arm away from shielding his eyes, returning it to his side. The movement sent a roll of agony through him and he held still, waiting for the thunder in his mind to ease.
Her fingertips were pressing against his head. Soft touches on either side, then the center of his forehead.
Another touch under the back of his neck.
Where her fingers had touched, cool liquid eased the skin there. It was like the touch of water on a hot day.
“Let yourself sample the aroma,” she told him. “It is very pleasant.”
He could smell it now. It was distinct and unique. “Lavender,” he whispered.
“Oil of lavender,” she replied. “An old wife told me how to ease headaches.” He heard the humor in her voice.
Only, he was not in the mood to jest. He still did not dare open his eyes wide. “A dab of oil against the flesh is hardly scientific.”
“Wait and see,” Bronwen assured him.
As he could do little more than wait, he was forced to obey her instructions. He let his eyes shut once more and wondered how he could ensure Bronwen remained silent about his temporary condition.
He could hear her moving about the big room not because she tramped heavily, but because the room was so silent the swish of her hems against the floor gave her movements away.
Then, the soft sound of pages being turned. She was reading.
Time passed. Tor resigned himself to spending the long hours the headache would continue here upon this sofa. He would have to negotiate with Bronwen later, to secure her discretion.
The change was so gradual that at first, Tor did not realize the headache was lessening. His first hint was when his head did not throb and threaten to explode when he shifted too quickly upon the leather.
He deliberately turned his head again, rolling it to one side.
Yes, the sickening, swooping bellow of pain was gone. His head thudded. It was a minor ache, somewhat similar to what he suffered in the morning after a heavy night of cards, drinking and smoking. That pain was easily tolerated.
Carefully, he opened his eyes.
He could see without his stomach roiling.
Intense relief circled through him. The worst of the headache had disappeared. Her oil of lavender had worked.
Tor pushed himself up until he could put his back against the padded arm of the sofa.
Bronwen stepped around the reading stand and came to him, her smile soft and warm. “It worked, then.” She lowered herself to meet his eyes once more, her gaze traveling over his face, assessing.
“It appears it has,” Tor said. “Perhaps learning why should be your next research project. It really is simple oil of lavender you used?”
“It really is simple oil of lavender.” She slid her hand into her pocket and withdrew a small, dark brown glass bottle with a waxed stopper and a hand-written label. “I made the extract myself, although any competent herbalist could do the same.” She held the bottle out to him. “You should take this.”
He met her gaze. “I will have no future need of it,” he lied.
Bronwen’s smile was tiny. “I have been reading, while waiting for the lavender to work. Most people consider headaches to be a woman’s complaint and men who suffer them to be malingerers reaching for an excuse to escape their duties. Only, a Flemish doctor—Aarden—pointed out that the very worst of the headaches, the ones that leave a person prostrate, come most often to the opposite type of person. The person who does not cease, who considers leisure to be unholy sloth.” Her gaze met his. “This is not the first time you have had such a headache, is it?”
Tor drew in a breath, startled. “You have given exactly the same diagnosis the most expensive expert in Europe supplied.”
Bronwen held out the small bottle once more. “Take it,” she said. “You will have need of it in the future. Your palace cannot be anywhere near as calm as Northallerton.”
He took the bottle, considering her. “I don’t suppose your reading has told you why I fell victim to this onslaught, here in placid Northallerton?”
Bronwen’s smile was rueful. “Perhaps the lack of calm is here,” she said, her fingers resting briefly against his temple. “Only you know what is in your thoughts.”
Her touch was soft. It brought her wrist close enough for him to register the warmth against his cheek. Her scent was intriguing. Unlike the usual rose water or one o
f the flowery alternatives sophisticated women favored, he sampled the most delicate mix of spices. He could name none of them. His heart beat harder. It was as though he recognized the scent, even though he knew he had never come across it before.
He closed his eyes, wishing the scent would linger awhile, for it was so pleasant. His heart hurried on even harder, while at the base of his belly, tension curled.
“Did you just sniff my wrist?” Bronwen asked. Her voice was strained.
Tor looked at her. She cradled her hand as if he had injured it. “You should not wear such a scent if the sniffing of it gives you offense.”
She lowered her wrist. “I wear no scent. If I did, the strength of the oil of lavender would mask it.”
Tor stared at her, at last recognizing the strain in his body for what it was. He wanted her—this plain, strange woman who challenged him at every turn. It was not a voluntary decision. His body had arrived at the conclusion independently of his mind. It had not occurred to him to even entertain the possibility of Bronwen as a potential dalliance. That was not why he was here.
Such matters were possible, yet complicated. They took careful negotiation and arrangements that involved discrete conversations and the assistance of Baumgärtner and his most trusted employees. A night in a country inn, away from the eyes of his people. A “chance” encounter in a country where neither of them would be recognized… Tor had risked such affairs a few times since his father had died, although they were time-consuming, perilous adventures. The ladies he considered worthy of such effort were self-contained, highly cultured women who understood the politics. Adventuresses themselves, they knew the value of discretion.
Bronwen was not that sort of woman. She was not any type of woman. She was unique.
And inaccessible. She was a distant cousin by marriage, a young woman of royal descent, marriageable and, he presumed, innocent. She was Jasper’s guest, just as he was. Tor would not despoil his brother’s guest under Jasper’s roof. It would be an insult to Jasper and a larger insult to Bronwen, too, for there could be no permanent outcome to such an affair.
The impossibility of indulging in his physical interest in her passed through Tor’s mind in the brief moment their eyes met, as his body tightened and his heart squeezed.
Scandalous Scions Two Page 7
