Falling in Love Again (12 page)

John rolled off her immediately, coming to his feet in one easy motion. “Who are you?” he repeated.

“I'm Evie Linton,” a soft voice said behind him. “And she's my cousin, Ruth Tarlin.”

John whirled to face the new person, another young woman with red hair, only this one was very obviously pregnant. “What are you doing here, Mrs. Linton?” he said formally.

“Oh, isn't he fine, Evie?” Ruth cooed. “Manners and all.” She rose to her feet.

Evie ignored her cousin. “We're the dairy maids—and you must be Mr. Dawson, Lord Woodruff's new steward.”

“That's right, I am. How did you know?”

Ruth rubbed against his shoulder like a cat.
“Tunleah Mews is a small place. We heard last night, straight from Lucy.” She drew a deep breath of appreciation. “For once, Lucy wasn't telling tales when she said you were a fine man, Mr. Dawson. A
fine
man.”

John took a step back from the very forward maid and bumped into her cousin. He turned to face Evie, pointedly ignoring Ruth, who practically leered at him.

“You work in the dairy? Isn't that difficult in your, ah, delicate condition?”

Evie rested a hand on the small of her back, her eyes brimming with laughter. “Delicate condition? My ma had nine children, and I've never thought of her as delicate.”

Since Liana's death, John hadn't take pregnancy and childbirth for granted. “Working in the dairy is too hard for an expectant woman.”

Evie's eyes opened wide with alarm. “You are saying you would cut me off, are you, sir? I need my job. You'll be taking bread from the mouths of my family if you send me home.”

John frowned. He didn't like his choices, but all he could hear in his mind were Liana and her cries during labor.

“It's not right, Mr. Dawson,” Evie said, her blue eyes brimming with tears. “I have three months until this babe is due. I can work. I've worked through my last two pregnancies.”

“You can stay,” he finally conceded against his better judgment, “but the moment you start to feel the strain, I want you to tell me. I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Evie heaved a sigh of relief. “I'm having a child,
Mr. Dawson, not dying of the plague. Now come, Ruth, those cows won't milk themselves.”

Ruth puffed out her lower lip in a pout. “I'd much rather stay here and help Mr. Dawson.”

“Ruth,” Evie said in warning, and Ruth moved toward her cousin. The two of them disappeared through a doorway. A second later he heard the clatter of wooden pails.

Now John was glad he'd let Evie stay. He'd never been in charge of women before. He didn't think he could treat them like soldiers, and he'd need Evie to keep Ruth in line.

He reached down for his jacket, picked it up and groaned. The jacket was covered with manure. He'd made a sleeping place for himself out of grain sacks thrown over straw. Now, he realized the straw was foul with clumps of muck, and his boots and leather breeches had patches of crud on them.

He even smelled of manure—which made him question Ruth's intelligence in getting close to him.

Disgusted, John picked up one of the grain bags and had started to clean his boots with it when he glanced up and found a wizened man, some thirty years his senior and as filthy as the barn, staring at him from the stall's entrance. Four dogs in all shapes and sizes sat at his feet, scratching fleas.

“Who are you?” John asked.

“Terrell.” The man scratched behind his ear.

“The hired man?”

“Aye.” Terrell was missing his two front teeth. He used the hole in his mouth to spit through.

John came out of the stall. “Well, Terrell,” he said with good humored authority, “I'm John Dawson, Lord Woodruff's new steward.”

“Steward? Lord Woodruff hired a steward? Why'd he do that when he has me?”

John looked down at the straw and muck on his boots and answered dryly, “I have no idea.” He threw the grain sack down and hung his jacket over the side of the stall. “But I do know that our first order of the day is for you to muck out every stall in this barn.”

Terrell's eyes grew wide with disbelief. “This is a big barn.”

“Yes, and a filthy one.” John took in the scope and magnitude of the task. The barn was much larger on the inside than it appeared from the outside. The exterior walls were of good, solid English brick with oak pillars spaced evenly to hold up a shingle-and-thatch roof. Stalls lined the wall where John stood, although only three held horses. He walked down and peered in each stall. Lord Woodruff would never garner a reputation for knowing good horseflesh. Two of the animals were swaybacked carriage horses; the third was a mottled gray pony in need of exercise, but with more spirit than the other two combined.

Against a far wall were a farm wagon, a green-and-yellow pony cart, and a black lacquered coach, the one Lord Woodruff obviously took out once a week for church.

A rooster crowed outside. John hadn't been up before dawn since he'd left the army. He frowned, wondering when he'd turned so indolent. Of course, many nights when he'd been out carous
ing with Prinny, Applegate, and the others he hadn't returned home until after dawn.

“Where are the cows?” John looked around, expecting cows to materialize from someplace.

“The cows are out in the field,” Terrell said, the wind whistling through his missing teeth, “where they should be. We milk them out there.”

“Of course,” John answered, irritated by his show of ignorance. He'd never stopped to think before about where cows were milked or why. He didn't even like milk.

“We've got pigs out there, too,” Terrell said helpfully. “Don't like to bring them inside. They dirty up the barn.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” John answered, trying not to let his lip curl in disgust.

“Keep them penned out there, we do,” Terrell said with a nod toward the back of the barn. “Do you want to go out and look at them?”

“I'll wait.” John rubbed a hand over his chin. The stubble on his face felt thick. He should have shaved last night. He turned, ready to get started with the day, and then stopped.

Mallory stood in the barn entrance. She appeared clean and fresh in comparison to his grubbiness. Her braid lay over one shoulder. Her brown dress didn't look as if she'd slept in it. In her hands she carried the food hamper.

“Good morning,” she said.

He crossed his arms and was surprised by the anger and resentment welling up inside him, while another part of him seemed almost overjoyed to see her. “Good morning,” he replied
civilly. He wondered if she'd had a good night's sleep.

Had probably slept like a lamb.

She stepped inside the barn. “It's a beautiful morning.”

He grunted. He had a different opinion of the day so far.

“This barn is huge,” she said, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“Oh, you mean the one at Craige Castle wasn't this large?” He couldn't stop the jibe and immediately regretted it.

A wall seemed to come down between them. Her manner turned cool. “I brought your breakfast,” she said, setting the hamper down. “I'll have your dinner for you this evening.” She turned to go.

He watched her walk almost out the door before he said, “Wait.”

She stopped. “What do you wish?”

I wish we could start over—from the very beginning
, he thought. Instead, he grabbed the first excuse that entered his mind. “You haven't met Terrell and the others.”

“Terrell?” she repeated blankly. She suddenly seemed to realize they were not alone. “Oh, yes, the hired man.” She came back into the barn.

John nodded. “This is Terrell. Terrell, my wife, Mrs. Dawson.”

Terrell pulled a forelock and gave Mallory a big grin, showing the gap in his teeth. “Is she the one wot made you sleep in the barn last night?”

“Yes, Terrell, she is,” John replied ruthlessly. Terrell cackled at his admission.

John motioned Mallory toward the scullery.

“You didn't have to be so honest,” she said, under her breath.

“I'm not going to shirk the truth.”

“Well, I guess that will be a first.”

“I see you're in good form today,” he replied.

“Just on my guard,” she answered sweetly, as they walked through a stone archway into a brick room that served as a scullery. It smelled of milk and cheese. Evie and Ruth, empty pails hanging from yokes across their shoulders, were preparing to go out a side door.

“Evie, Ruth, I want you to meet my wife, Mrs. Dawson.”

Evie bobbed a respectful curtsey, but Ruth looked Mallory up and down with an interest that bordered on insolence.

Mallory returned her stare with a quelling look of her own. John had enough good sense not to chuckle, but he could imagine Mallory running Craige Castle. She seemed born to the role.

Evie broke the silence. “Ruth, we have to get to the cows. It was good to meet you, Mrs. Dawson.”

“And you,” Mallory replied pleasantly. “When is your baby due?”

Evie's face immediately lit with pleasure. “Not for another three months. If you'll excuse us?” Ruth boldly gave a little wave and a wink over her shoulder at John. Evie grabbed her cousin's arm and pulled her out the door. As they walked off, they could hear Evie lecturing Ruth on how they needed these jobs and to stop flirting.

Mallory turned to John. “You shouldn't let her get away with being so cheeky.”

“I can handle her.”

“Yes, well, it seems everytime I come upon you, some woman is flirting with you.”

“Now wait, Mallory. You can't blame that forward little dairy maid's behavior on me.”

She glared at him, and he saw she certainly could. “Women do not deliberately throw themselves at a man without encouragement,” she said, with smug superiority. “We are not like men.”

John practically snorted his disagreement. “Is this something carved in the Mallory Barron Book of Stone? You may not believe this, Mallory, but you have a thing or two to learn about life.”

“And I wager
you
are just the man to teach me?”

“I could,” he countered.

“Teach me what? How to flirt?” She started to walk away when John blocked her path by placing his hand against the brick wall.

“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word. “That and a few other things. That is, if you are
woman
enough to be interested.”

That barb hit its mark. Her eyes locked with his, and he smiled. She was a challenging adversary. She could draw blood, but then, so could he…His triumphant thoughts faded and his elation turned to a slower, more heated excitement as he realized they stood close enough for their toes to touch. In fact, if he leaned toward her, his lips could almost brush the top of her hair. He dropped his gaze to the pattern of freckles across her pert nose. “We need to talk, you know,” he said, his voice warm, husky.
“Everyone expects us to behave as man and wife.”

She raised her eyes to meet his. She wet her lips, the glimpse of her tongue pulling him closer. Then her nose wrinkled. She sniffed the air and made a face. “John, is that you?

The mood was broken.

He straightened his shoulders. “Yes, I stink,” he said, his tone clipped. All the emotion and resentment of the night before returned with a rush. He raised an explanatory hand. “The barn needs mucking out.”

“I should say so.” She turned her head away from him, her mouth twitching suspiciously, and he realized she was struggling not to laugh at him. Again!

Pressing his lips together, he pushed away from the wall and with a mocking bow stepped out of her way.

She slid him an appraising look from the corner of her eye. “You're upset with me again.”

“Upset? Why?” he asked with false sweetness. “Because you barred me from my own cottage—?”

“
Our
cottage.”

“Made me sleep in the barn—”

“That had to be uncomfortable for you.”

“And now you tell me I stink!”

“Actually,
you
said you stink,” she corrected him.

John wanted to roar with outrage. He'd never met such a headstrong, fault-finding, mote-magnifying, hard-to-please—

Mallory came up on her tiptoes and placed a
kiss on the end of his nose. “You're right,” she said. “We do need to talk. Come by the cottage this evening when you finish here. I'll have your supper ready.”

And then she left.

Stunned, John stared after her. She'd kissed him, mucky smell and all.

He followed her out through the archway, whistling.

M
allory practically danced her way home to the cottage. She'd surprised herself by kissing John on the nose…but she was glad she'd done it. He'd looked so completely startled.

Only a few fat clouds marred the dawn sky of what promised to be a bright summer day—a perfect day. She started whistling John's tune.

Last night, she'd tossed and turned, replaying John's confession in her mind. Finally, sometime after midnight, she'd come to terms with what she'd dismissed as her “infatuation” for him.
Granted, she'd had a glimpse of the true man behind the handsome looks and reckless reputation, a man who had regrets, a man who could admit he'd made mistakes, a man who inspired loyalty in his friends—but that didn't mean he was a good husband. Or ever would be.

He'd lost Craige Castle. She'd be a fool, or as silly as that redheaded dairy maid, to allow John's good looks and powers of seduction to cloud her common sense.

Still, she was looking forward to being with John this evening. As she kneaded the bread dough, she wondered what excuses he would use to try and talk his way into her bed this time. She smiled. She rather enjoyed matching wits with him.

Mallory had learned to cook two years ago when finances at Craige Castle had become so tight she'd been forced to make a choice between keeping the cook and buying new seed for the fields. Her mother had been appalled at her daughter's willingness to do menial tasks, but Mallory had always found a certain joy in working. She couldn't sit and do needlework all day, as her mother and her mother's friends did. She was interested in all the details concerning the running of Craige Castle, from the best method for repairing the roof, to harvesting crops, to airing out mattresses.

She divided the dough into loaves, leaving a portion aside to be pounded out and filled for meat pies. She set the dough to rise and turned to her next task—giving the cottage a good scrubbing.

By the middle of the afternoon, the cottage was free of cobwebs. Three baked loaves of bread and five meat pies set on the table, cooling. She was repairing the broken chair with a sturdy branch and some twine when the cramps came. At first, she hoped they were from overexertion. An hour later, she knew they were not. The pain doubled her over.

Why did it have to come now? Every month, a week before her menses, she suffered terrible, horrible cramps that made her feel as if she were being pulled inside out. The tension in her body set off a pounding headache.

There was nothing she could do to stop them. For now, they had control of her life. She stumbled to the bed and lay down on her side. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she tried to lose the pain in a tense sleep.

She wasn't going to cook dinner for John, after all.

 

“Mallory? Are you all right?” A cool hand rested on her forehead.

John. Through slitted eyes, she looked up at him. He'd bathed. His hair was still wet and slicked back from his face. He'd also shaved. He must have found the razor she'd thought to place in the hamper she'd delivered to him that morning. She closed her eyes tight.

Had she really been looking forward to seeing him earlier that day?

“Go away.”

“You don't look well.”

No? Really
? she thought sarcastically, refusing to
open her eyes. Another spasm of pain struck and she frowned. The cramps always got worse before they got better.

“You're in pain,” John said.

She ignored him, silently willing him to leave. This was not how she had planned the evening, and she kept her eyes closed, embarrassed that he should see her this way.

“Tell me where you hurt.” His low voice sounded anxious.

“It's nothing,” she muttered. “Go away.” She pressed her arms against her lower abdomen and wished she could die.

He rose from the bed. She heard his footsteps cross the hard dirt floor. A beat later the door opened and closed.

Good; he was gone. Mallory curled herself up tighter, giving free rein to the pain washing through her, and wished she could fall back to sleep. It would pass, she kept telling herself. It always passed…

Several minutes later, the cottage door opened.

Mallory went very still. She opened one eye.

John had returned. He held a smooth, oval rock about twice the size of his hand. Kneeling down by the hearth, he threw another log on top of the burning embers. Sparks shot up the chimney. He placed the rock at the edge of the fire.

“What are you doing?” she asked. It hurt her to lift her head.

Still crouched before the fire, he turned to her. He lifted an eyebrow, as if surprised to learn she was awake. “Helping you.”

“I don't need help. I need to be left
alone
.”

He nodded but stayed where he was.

Mallory rolled away from him and closed her eyes. John Barron was the most stubborn man she'd ever met. People usually jumped to do her bidding when she used that tone of voice—but of course, not John.

Her breath caught in her throat as another spasm started to build. Soon. The pain would leave soon. The cramping never lasted more than twenty-four hours.

Sometimes, she didn't like being a woman.

John sat down on the edge of the bed. “Here, try this.”

She refused to turn over to see what he was talking about. “Try what?”

“I've heated a rock and wrapped it in a clean rag.” He reached over her and pressed it against her abdomen. In seconds, warmth radiated through the flannel. Almost against her will, her arms came down to pull it closer. The heat permeated the layers of her clothes. The tight knot of cramps eased slightly.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded, still too involved in pain to speak.

He leaned over her. “Mallory, there are some pains that can be very serious if they are not treated by a physician.”

She did not want to discuss
this
pain with
him
. She was even too modest to talk about such things with her mother. She maintained her silence.

He waited, and then, to her horror, said, “I'll
fetch a physician.” He rose from the bed and was almost to the door before she stopped him.

“The pain isn't serious.”

“You look wretched. And the location worries me.”

“I know, but…” She took a deep breath. “I have it once a month. It's bad, but it goes away.”

“Once a month?” he repeated blankly. “And you've never seen a physician for it?”

Mallory wanted to groan in frustration. “I don't need to see a doctor, John. It's not a sick kind of pain.”

“Then what kind of pain
is
it?”

“John, please, let's not go into it,” she begged. She gave him her back and hugged the rock tighter.

A moment later, John walked to the edge of the bed. “Can I get you something to eat?”

Mallory shook her head.

“No, I guess not,” he murmured.

She closed her eyes again, praying she could relax enough to go to sleep. Another tightening cramp erased the idea from her head.

John sat down next to her. Mallory ignored him. This spasm was so strong, tears came to her eyes, a signal that the worst was about to begin.

John stretched out beside her on the bed. He'd removed his boots. She hadn't even heard him do it. He cradled her against his body. Mallory opened her eyes wide. “What are you doing
now
?”

“Lying down with you.”

No
, she wanted to say, but he was already there, his long body curving around her. He slipped one
arm under her head; the other, he put around her waist. Mallory stiffened and started to rise.

“Relax,” he said. “I only want to help you through this.”

“There is no help for it,” she shot back, and paused. Actually, that wasn't true. She was starting to feel better. The heat of his body and the warmth from the stone eased the pain. She lay back down, her head resting in the crook of his arm.

“Mallory, I want to send for a doctor.”

She wished he weren't so persistent. Drawing in a deep breath, she said, “John,” then hesitated. She searched her mind for the right words—words that wouldn't unduly embarrass her. “It's a female problem,” she muttered quickly, and buried her head against the pillow.

“A female—?” He stopped, and his understanding came with a simple, “Oh.”

“But it is
not
something I want to talk about,” Mallory added.

“Then we won't,” he assured her. “We'll speak of other things.”

“Like what? The weather?” Another cramp started, this one stronger than the one before, and her words ended with a groan.

“Give in to the pain,” he said in her ear.

“Oh, what do you know about it?” she managed to gasp out rudely.

“I've fought pain like this,” he said simply. “When I was wounded at Salamanca—”

“You were wounded?” she asked, her discomfort momentarily forgotten out of concern for him.

“In the thigh.”

Mallory stared at the wall before admitting, “I didn't know.”

He shrugged. “It doesn't matter. Not now.”

Not now
. She heard the loneliness in his words, a loneliness she'd often felt over the years. “Do you have a scar?”

“Of course.” His voice held a hint of laughter. “Do you want to see it?”

Another cramp started building inside her. She tensed.

“Take deep, even breaths,” he said in a hushed tone. “Don't fight, Mallory. Give in to it.”

She didn't want to listen to him. She wanted to fight. But his voice was hypnotic, and she found herself trying to breathe deeply.

He kept her in the comfort of his arms, her head resting against his chest. By the time the next round of cramps started, she was better able to cope with them.

“Are they always this bad?” he asked. The interior of the cottage was dark, only the fire's glow providing light.

Mallory nodded. “I spoke with a physician several years ago. He said it might always be this way for me. For some women, the cramps leave after the birth of their first child.”

John's head rested against the top of hers, and she felt his lips curve into a smile.

“What's so funny?” she asked.

“Nothing. Did I laugh?” he answered innocently, and Mallory found enough energy to give him a playful elbow in the side. He snuggled her closer to her. “The mysteries of womanhood,” he
whispered, with a touch of what sounded like respect.

Mallory discovered that her previous embarrassment had evaporated. Even being in his arms now felt right. He laced the fingers of one hand with hers.

A wave of pain came and went. Mallory followed his calm instructions, the sound of his voice more soothing than any balm. Before she knew it, the worst of the cramps had passed in less time than it normally took—and even then, she didn't want to move. She liked lying beside him like this.

They'd been quiet for some time, both lost in their own thoughts, before Mallory'd gathered her courage and asked, “Why did you leave me, John?”

He went very still.

She touched his hand, tracing his thumb with her finger. “Last night, you said you never felt married. Is that why you left, because you hadn't had time to reconcile yourself to the marriage?”

“Oh, Mallory.” He propped himself up on one elbow so he could look down over her shoulder. Mallory stared at his thumbnail, unwilling to face him just yet.

“I was rebelling against my father,” John said. “You were just an unfortunate bystander in our battle.”

“What battle?”

“He wasn't an easy man to please. He spent most of his life overseas in different diplomatic posts while I lived at various schools. I can't remember him ever once asking me what I
thought or what I wanted. But I tried to please him. Especially after I learned that I really wasn't his son.”

“So the stories are true.”

“Yes, although no one would say it to my face, since my father forced everyone from the king to the admiralty to recognize me as his legitimate heir. Does it bother you?”

Mallory mulled over his question and finally shook her head. “No, I guess it doesn't. Does it bother you?”

“Oh, yes…though it bothered me more when I was in school and the other boys taunted me. I was never accepted by their parents as a suitable companion for their noble sons, you know.”

“But you are titled now—and accepted.”

“In some circles,” he said carefully, “but not all. I've never received vouchers for Almack's.”

“In spite of being a war hero?”

“And very wealthy.”

“Well, I don't think you can anticipate the patronesses letting down their guard any time soon,” she said dryly, gesturing around the mean interior of the cottage.

He laughed. “I believe you're right.” He laced his fingers with hers again and gave her hand a squeeze. “I have a question. Did you ever think of me while I was away?”

Mallory's mouth went dry. She wasn't about to tell him the truth—that no matter how hard she'd tried over the years, he'd never been far from her thoughts. “I said a prayer for you every Sunday.”

“Every Sunday, hmmm? And what of the rest of the week?”

“I thought of you as often as you thought of me.”

He laughed. “You have the mind of a barrister, wife.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” he agreed warmly.

“So,” Mallory said, rolling on her back to face him, “why did you leave me?”

John's clear blue eyes met and held hers. “I didn't leave you. I ran away from my father. I was furious with him for ordering me into marriage. Mallory, the first I knew of it was when I arrived at Craige Castle the evening before the ceremony. I'd never even contemplated getting married. I thought he'd invited me to discuss my letter asking his permission to buy my commission.”