by Carol Arens
‘What is it, Mr Firth?’ Little by little Joe was becoming familiar with everyone’s name.
‘We saw it!’
‘A wolf? A cougar?’ Had there ever been cougars in these parts? Pa had not mentioned them.
‘We’d not run from a beast, sir,’ one of them stated, looking offended.
‘Ach, no! We would not leave the lambs alone for that,’ Mr Firth explained. ‘’Twas it—the ghost. All of us saw it. It was fearfully white and glowing. It slid from tree to tree, not even touching the ground.’
‘It had not proper feet, Lord Haversmere,’ said the youngest, shifting his weight from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable with the condition of his trousers. ‘It stared right at us. Shook its fist, it did.’
‘It had a fist?’ Olivia asked. ‘I’d not have thought so.’
‘Well, it was a blur, but it did shake something.’
‘Am I to assume you are finished with your shift for the night? That the lambs will be left alone?’
Mr Firth glanced at the others who nodded their heads in what, oddly, looked to be in time with the tinkling notes of the waltz.
‘Not all alone. There’s the dogs—they stayed. That big one of yours didn’t seem inclined to run so the rest didn’t either.’
‘You can count on Sir Bristle.’ Olivia gave the shepherds a look that Joe was glad not to have focused on him. She strode to the chair, snatched up her cloak. ‘And on me.’
With a snap, she twirled the cape over her shoulders.
By sugar, he could think of worse ways to spend the night than under the stars, keeping watch with Olivia.
Watching her walk towards the gate which would lead to the bridge and then the meadow, her back straight and her steps determined, he knew she would make an excellent baroness.
He closed the music box, then slipped it into his coat pocket. In spite of this turn of events he still did need to learn to dance.
Seeing her glance back over her shoulder, send a smile meant only for him—he was in even more of a hurry to propose marriage.
‘I will expect you to return your flock at dawn. Hopefully, by the light of day, you all will regain some common sense.’
Or they might not, given they had all seen the same thing and could not attribute the vision to fearful imaginations or colourful stories told around the campfire.
‘We are that grateful you have come home, my lord. It would not do to face this without our Baron.’
‘Gentlemen, you need not worry. I will come to the bottom of the problem and you will see it is nothing unnatural.’
From here he could see the glow of the campfire they had abandoned. While the shepherds had fled from the spot in fear, it held a great deal of anticipation for Joe.
Repressing a grin, he nodded to them, went out the gate and followed his future across the bridge.
* * *
Olivia sat beside the campfire, watching Joe from across a meadow dotted with sheep, some lying down and some peacefully grazing. He was inspecting the tree line in search of anything the spectral prowler might have left behind.
The grove was heavily wooded. It would be no great feat for someone to lurk about giving the appearance of materialising, then disappearing. Anyone already fearful of witnessing such a thing would be terrified.
Seeing him squat down, skim his fingers over the grass, then rise again to do the same thing several yards down, truly, the last thing Olivia felt was fear.
‘Isn’t he the most handsome man?’
Naturally, the dog had nothing to say, but he did look up, head cocked and tail thumping.
‘I really do love him, you know.’
Ordinarily the dog kept watch with the shepherds until about nine o’clock, then trotted back to the house to sleep at the foot of Victor’s bed.
She was glad he stayed a bit later tonight. For all that she had never given undue thought to the pleasure of a dog’s company, she found she did enjoy it.
Along with a few other things she had not expected to. Late last night she had crept to the library and opened a book of poetry. To her great surprise, it was not as sappy as she expected it to be.
Sir Bristle laid his large head on her lap, rolled his eyes up at her, then shifted them to gaze across the pasture at Joe.
‘You really are a good, loyal fellow, aren’t you?’ She stroked the tuft of soft hair between his ears. ‘Rather like your master, I think.’
Some people might not appreciate being compared to a large hairy canine, but it was a compliment.
People ran away from responsibility, as the shepherds were evidence of, as Henry Shaw was to an even greater degree.
‘But here you are and so is Joe.’
Walking back across the pasture, Joe’s steps were long and bold, a sight to make a lady’s heart simmer. Then he stopped, bent to pet a small lamb. She could spend hours watching the shift of his shoulders and the stretch of his bare forearms where he had turned up the cuffs of his sleeves.
‘He really is very virile, you know. Or maybe you do not, but I assure you, a man like that? He turns a woman like me quite wobbly inside, which is not the easiest thing to do. And I promise you it is not due to the influence of the full moon.’
Not that moonlight was not exquisite, the way it illuminated the pasture and the woods with a romantic sprinkling of fairy light.
It had been a long time since she had thought of fairies, an even longer time than she had thought of romance.
And yet in the moment all she wanted was to lay back in the grass, count stars and kisses.
But no more than kisses! Not for now, at least. Deeper intimacy would lead to a commitment she had yet to make. One she was going to take her time over this go around.
‘Did you find anything?’ she asked when he sat down beside her.
‘Nothing as solid as a brass button. The grass was crushed in a path near the trees. I’d wager my Stetson against the top hat that it was made by human feet.’
‘Speaking of feet, you still need to learn the waltz.’ She stood up, brushed a dusting of dog fur from the front of her skirt. She was done with ghosts for the evening so she extended her hand. ‘Come, Joe, we can count out the steps.’
His big hand caught hers, the gentle pressure soothing—yet at the same time, exciting. Although not as exciting as his grin—that had her rather heated. He brought her hand to his mouth, turned it and kissed her open palm.
Heat tingled past her wrist, frizzled along her inner arm and somehow swelled through her breast to lodge in her heart.
‘Do you love me still?’ he asked while coming to his feet, tugging on her hand to draw her closer.
‘You are rather brave, stalking through the woods in search of a nebulous creature that lesser men flee screaming from.’
Long fingers tugging her waist, he drew her in.
‘Also, it does go without saying that you are exceedingly handsome.’
‘I won’t mind if you do say it.’
Closer, closer, lips nearly touching—breath mingling warm between them.
‘And, of course, you are a very good kisser.’
A point which he then proved. She looped her arms around his neck to make certain he kept on convincing her.
‘Do you love me, still?’ he asked again.
‘I might. First I will need to judge your dedication to dancing. I am not completely won over.’
‘I’m a lost man.’
He let go of her, then withdrew the music box from his pocket. He set it on top of a large stone, then opened the lid.
And just like that, the night became enchanted. Sleeping Beauty and starlight—fire glow and sheep calling softly to each other—she half-expected to see a fairy flit over the grass scattering sparkling promises with her wand.
Breathing deeply the scents of fresh gra
ss and sheep’s wool, she sighed and gave herself to the moment.
Sir Bristle did not seem to take note of the mood. He stood up, shook, then trotted off for home, probably to sleep at the foot of Victor’s bed.
‘What do I do first?’ he asked.
‘You raise your arm, just so.’ She illustrated by taking the position he needed to.
With a wink, he copied her stance. ‘Now, do you still love me?’
‘Nearly.’ She placed her fingers in his, then her other hand on his shoulder. ‘Place your hand lightly on my waist. Surely you have seen this done.’
With fingers splayed, he touched the small of her back. He ignored her instruction about touching her lightly, but rather caressed her while drawing her close. So very close—his heartbeat tapped her chest.
He must feel hers beating, too. No man had ever felt her heart that way before. She had a feeling—and a very good one—that intimacy with Joe would be a far more wonderful experience than it had been with Henry.
She also had a feeling she would be unhappy—devastated more than that—if he ever danced the waltz with anyone but her. Perhaps she ought not teach him.
‘If we dance this way, we will trip,’ she pointed out.
‘Tumble to the grass, do you mean? Wrapped up in each other’s arms?’
‘It could happen.’
‘We shall go slowly then.’
He swayed, rocking her gently back and forth, the steps deliberately slow. This was no waltz. Nor was it any respectable dance she had ever heard of. It was more of a hug set to the strains of the music box.
And yet it felt akin to dancing, but of the most intimate sort.
‘Whoever said you do not dance well was mistaken.’ It was only fair to point out the obvious.
‘You only say so because I have not stepped on your foot—or tripped you.’
‘Down to the grass, do you mean? Where our limbs would become entangled?’
‘It would not be my fault if my boot caught on your cloak.’
‘It’s true. But with arms going who knows where and hands grasping for purchase on—on anything—someone could get hurt.’
‘Ah, but if I do this...’ he scooped her up, then slowly knelt, bringing them gently to the grass ‘...the danger will be avoided. Since you nearly love me I will not risk doing you harm.’
‘And our hands needn’t grasp.’
‘Nor our legs become entangled.’ His expression indicated he imagined his hands on her hair, curled about her ribs and legs, under her—her bustle.
Even if he were not imagining those things she was doing a smashing job of it on her own.
What she ought to do was get off his lap, but—
‘I have never enjoyed a dance more, Joe. And, yes, I do still love you.’
While he kissed her, while his fingers flexed and crept up her ribs, traced lightly over her throat, then tangled in her hair at the base of her neck, the music box wound down.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said, grinning while he eased out from under her.
‘As if I could.’ What a bold thing it was to admit aloud that she was weak-kneed. But it did seem that she could say anything to him because he was her friend. More than a sweetheart, more than a potential lover or husband even. Joe Steton was her soul’s companion.
He walked towards the stone, dodged a ewe going after a straying lamb, and then rewound the music box.
If her heart ever stopped melting over the way he walked—so brawny, so very, very male—it would be because she had fallen into a deep coma.
She hoped he would put her back on his lap, continue the kisses where they had ended, but he did not.
Instead, he knelt in front of her, one knee covered in the ruffle of her skirt. He reached inside his shirt pocket, withdrew a small box. It was white. Moonlight made the velvet shimmer with the soft glow of a pearl.
‘Olivia Cavill Shaw, you are the light of my heart. Will you marry me?’
He opened the box. An exquisitely delicate ring winked at her.
Not now! Not yet!
She wanted this—truly, desperately did. But she had vowed to be cautious this time. Last time, with Henry, she had blindly leapt. This time she wanted to proceed slowly, logically—be as certain in her mind as she was in her heart.
The hurt she saw in Joe’s expression cut her to the quick.
If only the ghost were real and would fly out of the woods and whisk her away.
* * *
Olivia stared at him, silent—eyes wide and unblinking.
He had rushed what was between them and now she was going to turn him down, take her son and go back to London.
Why had he not waited and been sure?
But, no! He had been sure!
Even now he expected her to blink, to smile and say yes with a dozen kisses.
‘I want to say yes, Joe, you know I do.’
If he wasn’t the worst of cads, he did not know who was. He’d made her cry. It was the last thing he intended, or hoped for, but there she sat with tears streaking down her cheeks.
‘I’m sorry, Olivia. I rushed things.’
‘Anyone else—’ she sniffed ‘—would not think so—it’s me. I’m damaged and—and, are you going to stop calling me darlin’?’
‘Never. Now come here to me and you can tell me what troubles you so, what you are feeling.’
She scooted close. He wrapped her up, stroked her back and arms. She wiped her tears on her sleeve.
‘I am feeling like a fool.’
‘But you have no reason to.’
‘Do I not? What kind of woman loves a man so desperately as I love you and turns down his proposal?’
‘Are you turning it down?’ he spoke the words even though they ripped his throat worse than the edge of a dull razor. Even though he prayed through each endless, silent second that she was not.
She shook her head, wrung her hands in her lap. He caught them both up in one fist, brought them to his lips and kissed her fingers.
‘I love you, darlin’. You can say anything to me and that will never change.’
‘What I want is to say yes—let’s run for Gretna Green tonight and return in the morning married.’ This time she wiped her tears with his sleeve. ‘But my heart and my mind don’t agree on it.’
‘That is understandable.’
It was. He didn’t like it, but looking at the way her husband had treated her, it was not so hard to figure out. He had been a fool not to recognise she would be cautious.
‘It is?’
‘Of course. You need to be confident that I will not treat you the same way your husband did.’
‘I already know you will not. But, Joe, as soon as Henry proposed, I said yes—the very instant. And then—’ She grabbed the fabric of her skirt, fisted it tight and looked away from him. ‘Then he made sure I could not change my mind. Young fool that I was, I thought it was greatly romantic and that he simply adored me too deeply to wait for official vows. Looking back, knowing who he was, I realise now what was at the heart of it.’
‘Just so you understand, darlin’, I had no intention of seducing you even if you had said yes.’
‘And just so you know, I have not turned you down—just—I need time.’
He patted his shirt where the weight of the ring box pulled on the pocket. ‘In that case, I’ll carry this with me so when you do say yes, I can put it on your finger right away.’
‘I hope I have not hurt you. Truly, Joe—I do love you.’
‘You said you loved me. That does not hurt.’ But the rejection did sting—more than a bit. ‘Nor does it hurt that we are out here on this glorious, starry night. We can talk until dawn if you like, unless you would rather go back to the house. I can watch the sheep on my own.’
‘No, I want to be with you.�
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‘Good, then, I’m glad.’ He hugged her once, then let go and lay back on the grass, watching the stars. If only wishes really could be made upon them. But prayers were far more effective so he sent a fervent one past the spectacular vista.
Olivia lay down beside him. ‘Would you kiss me?’
He went up on his elbow, gazed at her face for a time before he kissed her cheek.
‘Just so you know, I want more than that. But I’ll keep what I want to myself. You deserve respect, darlin’. You didn’t get it last time, but you sure as blazes will now.’
‘You are the best man I know.’
‘You would think so even more if you knew I brought gingerbread.’
‘Did you? You truly are my hero.’
The music box wound down, but he did not get up to rewind it. Somehow the breeze whispering over the grass, the whoosh of an owl’s feathers swooping low and the bleating of ewes to their lambs was all the music they needed.
For now.
Chapter Fifteen
Olivia sat on a barrel in the horse barn watching Joe instruct Victor in the art of lassoing a post.
It had been more than a week since the night in the pasture and still she had not committed to Joe.
What a fool she was to hold on to past scars. Watching her son having fun with his cowboy made that very clear.
‘Look, Ma!’ Victor spun about on his heel, shooting her a triumphant grin. ‘I caught me a post!’
She nearly corrected his grammar, but found she did not really want to.
Perhaps later—or perhaps not at all.
For the moment she was grateful for a pause in party preparations.
For the event, there were tasks to be performed which she had never been required to undertake. Back in Mayfair there were servants to see to the cleaning, cooking, serving and all the other work that went into casual entertaining.
Of course the difference between here and Fencroft was that Fencroft was not ‘haunted’.
Servants did not leave because of an owl hooting in the attic.
It seemed one could not go five minutes without hearing fearful whispers or seeing people glance over their shoulders at the most innocent sounds.
