Falling in Love Again (14 page)

“She's shy,” Mrs. Irongate replied.

Mrs. Watkins snorted. “She's thinks she's better than us.”

Mallory noticed Lucy staring at her. Embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping, she headed for the path.

The cupboard wasn't easy to carry. Once they reached the barnyard, Mallory set it down to catch her breath. A fat black-and-white barn cat came up and rubbed her leg. She bent down and gave it a pet.

Her attention was claimed by the sound of John's voice calling her name. He waved to her from a high window in the barn. “What are you doing?” she called back.

“Mucking out the loft,” he shouted.

She laughed. “Lofts don't need mucking.”

“This one does. I'll see you later.” He shot her a crooked grin and pulled his head back inside.

For a second, Mallory stared after him, her mind on her marriage. She'd felt as shy and inexperienced as a young girl—but she wasn't
young any longer…and she was no longer a girl. For the first time since waking up seven years ago and realizing John had deserted her, Mallory tried to remember her wedding night. What had happened between them?

She recalled little of the events after John had entered the room.

Lucy cleared her throat, bringing Mallory back to the present. Suddenly eager to see John this evening, Mallory hurried down the path.

At the cottage, she thanked Lucy and sent the girl on her way. The chicken was done. She fluttered around, straightening a few things and setting the cupboard by the hearth, then took a few moments to brush out her hair. Wanting to do something different than braid it but lacking pins, Mallory decided to leave it down around her shoulders. She hadn't worn it in this style since before she'd married, and it made her feel almost girlish and carefree.

She looked around the cottage. It needed something special. Flowers. She picked up a knife and headed out the door.

The best wildflowers were close to the pond a short distance from the cottage. She stepped off the path and headed for an area sheltered by an overgrowth of hedges and small trees.

As Mallory approached, she saw Ruth crouched behind some bushes, watching something happening on the other side. She didn't even hear Mallory's footsteps. And then Ruth did something altogether strange. She started taking off her clothes.

Mallory dropped her mouth wide open in
shock. It was daylight! Didn't the woman have any modesty at all?

Ruth was naked in a flash and moving through the bushes toward the pond.

And then Mallory heard a familiar whistling…and knew who Ruth had been spying on.

W
histling, John lathered up with Mrs. Irongate's homemade soap. The coarse bar didn't smell of spice, but it overcame the odors of manure, sweat, and animals. He'd already washed his shirt, which lay on a bush, drying in the sun.

He was in a great mood. He'd cleaned the barn. The whole barn. He couldn't remember when he'd experienced such a sense of accomplishment. Since the day he'd stepped off the military frigate, he hadn't finished one bloody thing…but today he'd mucked out a barn.

Furthermore, matters were progressing satisfactorily with Mallory. Last night for the first time he'd lain beside a woman and just held her. The
fact that she'd found comfort in his arms made him feel almost heroic. He couldn't wait to see her this evening to offer a different sort of comfort, and the anticipation made him scrub his hair faster.

In his haste he sent soapsuds into his eyes, the lye stinging painfully. He drew a deep breath and ducked under water.

A splash sounded from the far side of the pond. Surprised, John put his feet on the muddy bottom and came up for air just as a pair of hands ran up his legs.

He shook the water from his eyes, reached down, and pulled up a wet and naked Ruth by one arm, catching her hands as she reached for his more intimate parts.

He frowned down at her.

She smiled up at him, her full, bare breasts bobbing like corks below the water's murky surface. “Would you like me to wash your back?” Reaching out with one finger, she drew a heart in his wet chest hairs.

John pushed her away as if he were scalded. “Are you daft? Get out of here!”

“I can't,” she answered with a pout. “I don't have any clothes on.” She reached for him underwater. “Do you?”

John jumped back. Her groping hands just missed him. With a low, angry growl, he turned and would have stomped out of the pond—except that Mallory stood there at the edge, glaring.

“Are you having problems, John?” she asked.

He was stunned speechless. Mallory was wearing her hair down. The only other time he'd seen it down was during their escape from London, when it had been windblown and tangled. Now, it hung in loose waves almost to her waist. He'd always admired the color, but he hadn't realized how long or thick it was. He ached to touch it, to wrap it around his hand and wind it round and round, pulling her closer. And the first thing he would do when he got Mallory close enough would be remove that dowdy brown dress.

Immediately, his mind's eye conjured Mallory covered by nothing but her beautiful hair, and his body's reaction, even in the cool pond water, was stiff and strong.

He'd all but forgotten Ruth, who chose that moment to plaster herself against his back. Her legs came around his waist, brushing against his erection. She drew in a deep gasp of appreciation and laughed. “Oh yes! You're a randy one, aren't you, John?”

Her boldness embarrassed him, and for one of the few times in his life, he felt the heat of a blush. But before he could say anything, Mallory looked him directly in the eye and repeated, “John? She calls you John?”

“I didn't give her permission, Mallory!” He shrugged Ruth off his back. She fell back into the water with a small splash. “Mallory, please, this isn't what you think.”

Ruth surfaced and blew a stream of water out of her mouth at him before mimicking, “Mallory, this isn't what you think.” Giggling, she turned to
his wife. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Dawson, but your husband can't come out right now. He's a bit too excited to expose himself. Perhaps you can join us? That is, if'n you don't believe you are too la-di-da for us.”

John couldn't believe the maid's impertinence. Mallory's body tensed at Ruth's taunt, and two spots of angry color appeared on her cheeks. Ruth laughed. Then, to his surprise, Mallory turned on one foot and charged back the way she'd come.

John swore volubly. “You'll have me sleeping out in the barn again!”

“Do you need company?” Ruth asked, puckering up her lips and offering herself to him.

Furious, John reached out to throttle the woman, then realized there was no safe place for him to put his hands on her without making the situation worse.

He stomped out of the pond.

Ruth playfully slapped the water. “You have a firm fanny, Johnny.”

He didn't answer. He'd deal with her later.

He'd just reached for his breeches when there was a rustling behind him. He looked up and found himself staring at Mallory. She'd come back, her arms full of what appeared to be the wash. He froze, all too aware of his nakedness and the capricious male member that was again rising to the occasion. He covered himself with his pants. “You're back,” he said inanely.

Mallory's mouth had dropped open at the sight of him. She closed it with a snap, her face blazing.

“What are you doing with my clothes?” Ruth
asked. She started to walk out of the pond, water sluicing off her bouncing bosom.

“I thought you might be needing them,” Mallory said tightly. She dropped the pile of clothing to the ground and then began throwing it piece by piece into the pond.

“What are you doing?” Ruth screamed, scrambling to save what she could from getting wet.

“I'm giving you back your clothes,” Mallory replied reasonably. She turned to John. “I can't believe you prefer her!”

“Mallory, you're jumping to the wrong conclusion—” His words were cut off when Mallory threw the last article of clothing, Ruth's wool skirt, at him. Temporarily blinded, John wasn't prepared for the shove that sent him back into the pond. He fell against Ruth, taking her with him.

Ruth came up spitting mad. The skirt floated away. John saw that Mallory was gone.

“Damn.”

“I'll say damn!” Ruth exclaimed. “She's ruined the only thing I have to wear, and all because you and I were having a little fun—”

John dunked her under the water, then strode from the pond, his wet breeches in one hand. If Mallory thought she'd seen the last of him this evening she was wrong.

 

Mallory didn't stop to think until she'd safely reached the cottage, shut the door, thrown the bar, and sat down in the mended chair now placed beside the table.

Her face felt hot and flushed. Her pulse raced madly—and not from running.

Dear Lord! Who would have thought that a naked man could appear so masculine, so powerful, so…virile.

It wasn't just his handsome face. Every inch of him—and bless her soul, she'd seen it all, including the scar on the inside of his right thigh—appeared to have been molded by the hand of God.

Seeing John naked had appealed to something very deep and needy inside Mallory. Something she hadn't realized existed until today. For the first time, she considered herself more akin to the lusty Mrs. Irongate and Mrs. Watkins than to her aristocratic mother.

And the stab of jealousy she'd felt at his obvious attraction to Ruth had sent her world spinning like a top. She hadn't known she was capable of such a strong emotion—or such outrageous behavior.

She came to her feet and paced slowly around the room, trying to put her jumbled thoughts in order. She'd left Hal's house for London confident that she could deal with her husband alone, that she had absolutely no feeling for him. Instead, to her shock, the opposite appeared to be true. She'd never felt this heady rush of desire for Hal. Or such insane jealousy…

She sat back down in the chair. She had to think, to decide what to do next.

A knock sounded at the door.

Mallory jumped to her feet, one hand over her heart, the other on the back of the chair. She stared at the door.

“Mallory?” John's raspy, deep voice called from the other side.

Wiping her palms against her dress, she approached the door but stopped without reaching for the handle. She had to erase from her mind how he'd been last night: caring and considerate. Instead, she struggled to remember her opinion of him before she'd left for London: uncaring, irresponsible, philandering—now,
there
was an image she could grasp!

But amazingly, the old hurts didn't seem as sharp as before. Furthermore, she knew Ruth had attempted to seduce him. She'd listened to him tell her to go away.

She heard his booted steps move over to the half-shuttered window and she pulled back even though she doubted he could see her from there. “I didn't invite Ruth to join me in the pond, Mallory. She took it on herself.” He waited for an answer.

She had to let him in
.

He walked back to the door and knocked again. “Mallory, please let me in. Let's talk about it.”

She stood paralyzed, too unsure of herself to take action.

He muttered something under his breath, his words too indistinct for her to understand.

Are you going to let him walk away
?

The question motivated her to action. She pinched color into her cheeks, threw back the bar, and opened the door.

John had started to walk up the path, but turned at the sound of the opening door. For the
space of several heartbeats, the two of them stood stock still.

He'd brushed his hair straight back, the style emphasizing the masculine hardness of his features. His damp shirt molded to his shoulders. And in his hand, he held a bunch of wilting flowers.

Mallory said the first words that popped into her mind, “Did you get your pants dry?” Immediately, she wanted to call the words back. What an inane thing to say!

John shifted uncomfortably. “No, I put them on damp. Otherwise, I was afraid they'd shrink.”

Mallory dropped her gaze. His breeches appeared indecently tight. She averted her eyes quickly.

“They'll stretch,” he assured her.

She felt the heat of a blush. At the same time, she had to smile.

He smiled back at her. “May I come in?”

Not trusting herself to speak, she opened the door wider, silently inviting him in.

John ducked his head under the low doorway. Mallory stepped back. His presence seemed to fill the small room…and immediately her mind conjured the image of him naked, an image she ruthlessly squashed.

There was an uneasy pause.

“You did more work around the cottage,” he said. “That cabinet by the hearth is new, isn't it?”

She was surprised he'd noticed. “Yes—well, actually, all I really did was dust out the cobwebs.”

“It looks nice.”

Another lull in the conversation. “Thank you,” she said to fill it.

He pushed the bouquet toward her. “I brought these for you.”

She took the wildflowers—Queen Anne's lace, black-eyed Susans, daisies, with grapevines for greenery. Several of the stems appeared mashed, as if he'd had trouble separating them from the plants.

She'd never received flowers before. To her surprise, hot tears welled in her eyes. She fought them back. “They're lovely.” She looked up at him. “Thank you.”

He seemed to relax slightly. “I wasn't certain of my reception.”

“Is that why you brought flowers?”

“My mother always liked flowers.”

“Your mother? I didn't think you…” Her voice trailed off, and she could have cut out her tongue for her blundering words.

John finished her sentence. “You've heard that my parents had nothing to do with each other.”

“I should put these flowers in water.” She didn't want to discuss anything so fraught with emotion. Not now, when her own emotions were so confused. She would have brushed past him, but John held up his hand to stop her.

“Mallory, please, as my wife you have the right to ask me any question you wish.”

As my wife
. A dizzy humming seemed to start inside her at his words. This was
exactly
the sort of issue she wanted to avoid. “I shouldn't have broached the subject,” she said stiffly.

The lines of his mouth flattened. “We aren't in
some London drawing room where we must follow a list of unwritten rules, Mallory.”

She didn't answer him, almost wanting that list of rules to help keep a distance between them.

He reached out with one long finger and lightly touched a black-eyed Susan. “At least once a year, my father sent me to visit Mother. He always gave me a bouquet of flowers to take to her.” His gaze met hers. “She'd cry when I gave it to her because she knew they weren't really from me, but from him.”

“Did they never see each other?”

“No, not after he sent her away. The year before she died—I must have been twelve—I asked her why he could accept me and reject her. She told me it was because he had rules that he lived by. Rejecting her was one of the rules he believed he had to follow. But when she died, he mourned deeply.”

Mallory looked down at the flowers in her hands. “It's a sad story. He never remarried, did he?”

John shook his head. “My father was a difficult man to understand. I don't think I started to see him fully as another human being until I'd been in the army for several years. He set very high standards—for himself and for me. Of course, now I understand why my parents never talked. This type of conversation isn't easy, is it?”

Suddenly feeling on dangerous ground, especially with him standing so close, Mallory backed away. “I should put these in water,” she said again, and withdrew to find a container. She took
her time arranging the flowers in a pottery pitcher.

John stood waiting.

Her hands shook as she set the pitcher in the center of the table. Did he notice?

“We need to talk, Mallory.”

Oh no, we don't. Not if he's going to slip past my defenses so easily
.

She kept her face deliberately blank. “About what?” Desperate to be busy, she tied an apron around her waist, preparing to serve the evening meal.

John sat at the table in the rickety chair she'd mended. A lock of his heavy hair fell over one eye, and he pushed it back before saying, “We need to talk about us.”