A Night of Secrets (13 page)

“My agenda?” The coldness fled, replaced with amusement and she wanted to do nothing more than kick him. How dare he laugh at her.

“Do not pretend you are here to help merely because you are a kind man.”

“You do not believe I am capable of kindness?” A warm breeze swept across the field, brushing her skirts forward so they twisted around his legs, binding them together.

“This from the man who accused me of murder? No, sir, I do not.”

“I did not accuse you of murder.” He wrapped his hand around her wrist. He wore no gloves this time and his touch was oddly cold. Always cold. His thumb pressed lightly to the sensitive skin. Tingles shot up her arm, then down, centering in the pit of her belly. Slowly, he uncurled her fingers and took the hammer from her grasp. He was gentle, but she didn’t miss the strength in his hold and it frightened her as much as it thrilled.

“Mr. Bellamont,” she said, her voice a breathless whisper. “I can do this on my own. I will not accept your offer—”

He stepped ever closer, his chest pressed to hers and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. No man but Mathew had ever dared to get this close. Meg’s nipples instantly hardened, her breasts heavy, an unfamiliar sensation she didn’t want to contemplate. But it was more, so much more than it had been with Mathew, this odd need within her. She’d been nervous, almost frightened with Mathew, but not Grayson. No, with Grayson, there was only this desire for more.

“Move aside, Miss James. I have work to do.” His breath was a cool caress that whispered across her lips. She had the insane desire to lean forward and taste his mouth. Heat rushed to her cheeks. No! A kiss? What in the world was she thinking? She couldn’t kiss him,
wouldn’t
kiss him…again.

She stumbled back, her mind a muddle of confusing thoughts. She was not attracted to Grayson, the emotions were merely left over from Mathew. He moved to the fence as if her nearness had not, in the least, affected him. And even as she wanted to curse, her gaze slipped to his back, noting the way his white shirt stretched across his torso.

“Nail.” He turned and looked up at her, his hand outstretched.

She reached into her pocket and placed the nail on his palm. Did he have a fiancé or intended in London? What sort of woman would Bellamont be attracted to? What would it be like to be caressed by the man? To be loved? Had he ever loved? The thud of the hammer broke her from her thoughts. He held out his hand moments later and silently she dropped another nail onto his palm, making sure not to touch his skin.

“It looks like rain, you should probably head home,” she said.

He didn’t react to her words, merely continued to hammer, his shoulders flexing with the movement. Meg sighed and leaned against the rock wall. A stone toppled over and fell to the ground with a thud. She was too tired to be embarrassed. Another year or two and the entire fence would need repaired.

He held out his hand and she dropped another nail onto his palm. But he didn’t immediately turn to work as he had previously.

“I’m having a gathering in two days time. You’ll receive the invitation shortly.”

He said the words as if he expected she’d attend. Meg frowned. “I’ll have to check with Papa.”

He stood, staring at her for one long, intimidating moment. “Tell me, Miss James, how much of a cad was Lord Brockwell?”

Meg shrugged, shifting. “I do not miss him, I do not pray for his soul, if that tells you anything.”

He leaned his hip against the wall, only feet from her, close enough that she had to tilt her head annoyingly. “Isn’t that awfully harsh for a Vicar’s daughter?”

She pushed away from the fence and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling oddly cold. “What? I can’t possibly know good from bad?”

He didn’t respond, merely knelt again, but not before she saw his grin. His amusement annoyed her, mostly because she wasn’t sure what he found so amusing.

“There are people, Mr. Bellamont, who are evil and there is nothing anyone can do about it.”

He stilled, as if her words had some odd effect on him. “Some people are merely born evil?” He didn’t lift his gaze and she couldn’t read his face.

“Perhaps,” she said softly.

Still he didn’t move. “Are you speaking of Lord Brockwell, or another?”

The question stunned her. Immediately, her mind went to London and those two years back. She looked away, fearful her thoughts and past were mirrored in her eyes. Did he know the truth? Was this all some game he was playing? Toying with her like a cat with a mouse?

“Do you have children?” she blurted out.

“Not that I’m aware of.” He lifted the hammer and pounded the nail one more time. “I’m surprised, really,” he said. “That you have so much bitterness inside.”

She stiffened at his words, confused by the audacity. Was she bitter? If she was, she hadn’t been until two years ago, when Mathew had left her broken hearted and she’d had a peek into the window that had been Hanna’s terrible childhood. “Not bitterness. Honesty. I’ve seen what people are truly capable of.”

“For instance, your kind neighbors?”

She didn’t respond, but watched as he pounded the head of the hammer against a nail. Did he know what the town said about the James family? Was he privy to their gossip? She didn’t think she could bear that, this man knowing their deep secrets, judging them against his high morals. Although why she cared about his opinion, she wasn’t sure.

Grayson stood and settled the hammer on a post all the while, his gaze on her. A heated gaze that spoke of secrets, of knowledge, of things she couldn’t possibly understand. Damp tendrils stuck to the side of her face. Meg knew she looked a disaster. Yet Grayson was still here, not run off by her rumpled state. For some reason, at the moment, she wished she had a new bonnet, a new dress, even a hair ribbon. When had she become as silly as Mary Ellen?

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Pardon, my lord,” she mocked.

Those green eyes hardened. He was angry, about something. She found his reaction odd. “You’re cross? Why? Did I not jump to your bidding quickly enough?”

“I am no lord.”

She frowned. That was why he was upset? Most men would adore the title. “Now who is the bitter one?”

Those dark brows drew together.

Meg shrugged, settling down in the grass and tucking her slippered feet beneath her gown, finding amusement in teasing him. She had a feeling the man was never teased. “The hard edge of your voice indicates you are bitter about the fact that you aren’t a lord.”

He frowned down at her. “Hardly.”

His answer certainly surprised her, although she tried not to show it. “Then why the need to reprimand a person for calling you so? Tis a sign of respect, after all.”

He released a wry laugh. “Of course, you were showing me respect, how very proper of you.” Much to her dismay, he settled on the ground next to her. He didn’t touch her, but he might as well have for she felt his nearness all the same. He leaned back on his elbows, stretching his long legs before him. They were partially hidden from view by the fence, but it was still quite improper.

“I have no desire to be placed amongst the lords of England.”

“What do you mean?” She couldn’t help but ask.

He sighed, his gaze scanning the field around them. His stance was too casual, they were too secluded for her liking. “My father was a wealthy merchant. We moved to London to escape the turmoil that was France.” He gazed out onto the hills, seemingly lost. His face softened and she could almost imagine him as a little boy. “He thought we could be…he thought we could become a part of society. Have a normal family, live a normal life.”

How she understood that feeling of never belonging. She’d been silly enough to think she could belong with Mathew and his family. But they had never really accepted her. She’d noticed the way they ignored her, barely drew her into the conversation and all because they held the silly title of Baron.

“I don’t think I’d want to belong,” Meg said softly.

He smiled, that dimple flashing and Meg’s heart skipped a beat. Blast him, he was playing nice, using his charms to lure her in. What did he want? Information on Lord Brockwell? Why else would he be so attentive to a poor country girl. Well, let him pry, for she knew nothing about the man.

“You are telling me you wouldn’t want to marry a wealthy lord if given the chance?”

Meg shrugged. “Who wants to be titled if you can’t run around the fields all day?”

“Or swim in rivers?” He added, reminding her of the horrible state he’d first found her. Lord, she’d been in her shift.

“A gentleman would not have mentioned that incident.”

“I never claimed to be a gentleman.” He reached out and drew his hand down her arm.

“Stop that.” She jerked away from his cold touch. She had to get away from him before she did something stupid, like let him kiss her… again. “As lovely as this has been, I have things to do.”

She started to stand, but was jerked back down with a thump. Grayson held onto her skirt, his face passive, but his eyes wicked…so very wicked. She couldn’t move, wanted to suddenly be closer to him.

“Surely you have time to chat with a new neighbor.”

“I’m sure you’ve chatted with plenty of neighbors,” she hissed.

“But not you, and I find you so incredibly interesting.”

She couldn’t look away. Somehow, in some way, she found herself leaning toward him, falling into those emerald eyes. Wanting to taste those smooth, cool lips.

“Rumor has it that you’re writing a book about Wildflowers.”

She knew she should be embarrassed about his knowledge, for she’d told so few people about her dream, but she couldn’t find the energy. His hand slid up her arm, cupping the back of her head. His fingers entwined around her curls and he drew her closer. And because she’d gone mad, she didn’t pull back, but instead found herself pressed to his chest, practically atop his hard body. She wanted more of him, hungered for him in a way she didn’t understand. His hands cupped her bottom, drawing her up against his hard erection.

With a growl, his teeth nipped at her lower lip. The pain was sharp, stinging. Meg gasped, drawing back. “Grayson?” The coppery taste of blood seeped into her mouth. His eyes…lord, were his eyes glowing?

“Shhh,” he whispered, cupping her head and pulling her closer once more.

“But…”

His tongue darted out, licking off the blood, soothing the sting. Suddenly, she found herself on her back, Grayson’s hard body atop her. His hands were on her thighs, his fingers bunching the material of her skirt up to her waist. A cool breeze swept across her calves, the grass tickling her skin. Everything was happening so fast, yet she couldn’t seem to care, to grasp hold of a rational thought. All she could focus on was his mouth pressing to her jaw line, then lower to her neck.

His cold hands had made their way under her skirts, his chill touch oddly erotic through the thin material of her bloomers. Meg shifted, groaning. Need twisted almost painfully in her lower belly, spreading down her thighs. She had to have more of him, all of him. For days the ache had been there, waiting just below the surface for Grayson to return.

Meg lifted her pelvis, nuzzling her body against his hard staff. She might be a virgin, but she wasn’t daft. She knew he wanted her and for some reason the realization thrilled her to the core.

“Dear, dear Meg,” he whispered against her neck. “How I want to taste you.”

Yes
, she wanted to say,
please taste me!
But she couldn’t do more than whimper.

“So good.” His tongue darted out and he licked her neck.

Meg’s fingers bit into the hard muscles of his back. His body was heavy, pressing her into the earth. So heavy she could barely breathe and yet she didn’t care. His knee slipped between her thighs, spreading her legs as much as her skirts would allow. His teeth scraped against her neck, his tongue darting out, over and over, licking her skin until she squirmed beneath him, eager for more.

“Meg?” Sally’s voice pierced her foggy reality. Suddenly the pressure of Grayson’s body was gone. Gasping, Meg opened her eyes. Dark clouds hovered menacingly low, but no Grayson.

“Meg!” Sally called.

Meg shoved her hands into the grass and sat up. Grayson stood ten feet away, his back to her. He hadn’t been a dream after all. His shoulders rose and fell with each harsh breath he took, his hands fisted at his sides. He seemed upset. She should be upset, yet she wasn’t…just oddly burning…burning for something she didn’t understand.

“Here…Sally,” she managed to get out. Meg tucked her feet underneath her and stood on trembling legs. She spun around turning her back to Grayson, searching over the fence for her sister. What must Grayson think of her? She pressed her fingers to her lips, then drew back. There was no blood. Had she imagined the taste? Imagined the sting of his teeth on her?

Sally appeared at the gate. “Oh, there you are. Hanna isn’t feeling well and she’s asking for you.”

“I see.” Meg pressed her hand to her own fluttering stomach. After what she’d done, what had happened, she couldn’t just walk away from Grayson without a word. She had to say something to the man, but what? “I…I have to go.”