Into the Woods (13 page)

"I suppose," Matilda said, distressed at the possibility of again putting herself through the torture of being alone with Declan Harper and wanting, to distraction, to touch him. It was too much to ask of any woman.

He stayed by her side even after she agreed to try again. Surely he wouldn't walk her all the way home today! What on earth would they have to talk about? They always seemed to find something of interest to discuss, it was true, but after that heart-stopping kiss last week it might be difficult to concentrate on anything so mundane as the weather and his five sisters.

"My horse," he said, coming to a halt outside the closed saloon.

Matilda took a step back. "I'll see you Sunday."

Declan reached out and grabbed her wrist. "Not so fast," he said with a smile. "I'd like you to get acquainted with Smoky."

He gently dragged her a step closer to his gray horse. "I told you..."

"Horses don't like you," he finished. "Trust me," he said with a smile. "Smoky will love you."

The horse whimpered softly as they approached, shaking his head in protest. Declan's smile faded, and he cut a sharp glance in her direction, perhaps conceding that she'd told the truth. He did not give up, though. They took a step closer, and the horse snorted loudly and shook his head viciously.

"I told you," Matilda said.

"He probably smells your fear of him," Declan said, refusing to release his hold on her wrist. "Relax."

"It won't do any good," Matilda said. She was afraid. She'd been thrown from a horse once, and that was enough. More than enough.

The horse shied, side-stepping away from her, and Declan caught the reins beneath the animal's chin to hold it in place. He had her in one hand and the horse in the other. "Now," he said softy. "Come here and pat his nose."

"I will not," Matilda said, keeping her voice low so as not to spook the beast any more than it already had been. A knot of fear had settled firmly in her stomach. She hated horses! "What has come over you, Mr. Harper?"

He glanced at her and smiled, and, oh, what a wicked smile it was! Her heart leaped once, and then settled into her chest with a hard thud. She had a sinking feeling that this physical response had nothing to do with fear.

"I want to prove to you that horses are not afraid of you, and therefore you have no need to be afraid of them."

"Everyone should be allowed to be afraid of something," she argued. "Aren't you? There must be something that frightens you."

He leaned closer. "Nothing frightens me," he whispered, his voice low and intimate. "I'm not afraid of the dark, or horses, or the idea of being poor again. I'm not even afraid of witches."

The horse had calmed down considerably, so with a little more coaching Matilda stepped forward and laid her hand on its nose. Sure enough, Smoky didn't shy from her this time. Being so close to the animal, stroking his nose, was easy with Declan still holding her wrist. That small, tenuous connection made her feel safe, somehow. The horse didn't snort or snap, and after a few moments Matilda actually smiled.

"See?" he said with a self-satisfied grin. "He loves you."

Declan released her and the horse, and with a flick of his wrist unhitched Smoky from the post. He stepped into the stirrup and landed in the saddle with the ease and grace of a man who was at home there. Matilda took a step back, ready to resume her walk home.

But it wasn't to be that easy. Declan offered his hand to her. She shook her head. He refused to withdraw that extended hand.

After several moments of silent battle, Matilda ceded. She let Declan take her hand and lift her to sit in front of him. The last time she'd sat on a horse she'd been thrown for her trouble, landing on the ground so hard her breath had been stolen away, and she'd been bruised from head to foot. "When Smoky throws us on the road, don't say I didn't warn you."

Declan turned the horse to the south and the road home, and they left Tanglewood at a slow, leisurely pace. After a few moments the fear faded, and the roar of blood in Matilda's ears subsided so she could hear. Smoky seemed not to be aware that she was sitting on his back.

Declan's arms were loosely but comfortingly draped around her. His limbs did not confine her in any way, but they did support her. He wouldn't let her fall; she knew it.

"Will you be attending the Founders' Day Celebration next week?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear.

Matilda shook her head. "No. At least, I never have in the past. I don't have many true friends, people I socialize with. I think I just make the others uncomfortable."

"That's as silly as your fear of horses," Declan said gruffly.

"I make people uneasy."

"Only the stupid ones."

"No one wants me there," she said, looking to the trees that lined the road home.

Declan was silent for a long time, it seemed. Surely he would accept the fact that she did not fit in, not where social activities were concerned. She'd never been courted, she'd never danced. She'd just make a fool of herself if she went to something so festive and crowded as the Founders' Day Celebration.

"I do," Declan said softly. "I want you there."

Listening to his words, she believed him, and a strange warmth crept through her entire body. Declan wanted her there, and he wasn't afraid to say so out loud. Perhaps he even wanted to dance with her. Never before had she felt truly wanted.

They didn't talk much for the remainder of the ride, but the silence was not awkward, not at all. It was strangely comforting, in fact, as if riding together was natural and right. She saw home too soon.

Declan helped her down before leaving the saddle himself. Mindful of her fear, he was gentle.

"Thank you," she said when he stood before her.

"It was a pleasure as always," he answered. "And this time I get to ride home." When he smiled his entire face changed. Heavens, he was handsome. And the desire to be with him was tempting, she admitted. Much too tempting.

When he leaned down she knew he would kiss her. Maybe it wouldn't be like the kiss they'd shared under the influence of that last aphrodisiac, but it would be wonderful, all the same. She knew it with all her heart and soul.

She closed her eyes as his mouth came near, waiting breathlessly for the kiss he silently promised. Her lips parted slightly as she felt his breath on them. Her eyes flew open when she heard a soft thwap and Declan's consequent "ouch."

He was being attacked once again, and she waited, disappointed, for his senses to return. She waited for him to dismiss the kiss as he had the last time they'd stood here and been... interrupted. But today he didn't turn toward the woods. His eyes and his attention remained fully on her.

"The kid's got a good arm," he whispered. And then he kissed her. She closed her eyes again and savored the taste and feel of his mouth.

A pinecone whizzed past and hit the house. Another landed squarely on Declan's thigh. More pebbles, one after another, rained around them, some landing in the dirt, some thwacking the stone of her cottage. And still Declan kissed her. Soft and sweet, undemanding and tender. It was the kind of kiss a girl could fall in love to.

Declan pulled away and stood tall, ignoring the projectiles that flew all around and occasionally found their mark. His eyes were so dark she could not read them, not at all.

"Sunday," he said softly. "And I'll be here in time to chop some more wood for you."

"You don't have to..."

He ignored her protest and gracefully bounded into Smoky's saddle, easy as you please. Instead of immediately heading for the road, though, he turned the horse toward the forest. Every move languid, he led his mount close to the line of trees and narrowed his eyes. The pebble and pinecone assault ceased.

Matilda wondered if Declan saw the two fair heads barely concealed behind two tall trees, a bit of blue calico and more than a bit of untamed blond curls. When his gaze centered there, she knew he did.

He stared, unflinching, in that direction for a long moment, and then he said one word before riding off.

"Ribbit."

With a wide smile on her face, Matilda entered her cottage to the sounds of two children beating the brush to escape.

Chapter 9

The last person Matilda expected to be at her door on Saturday morning was Stella Hazelrig. Still, she found it a pleasant surprise; especially when she glanced about and discovered that Stella had come without the twins.

"I understand," Stella said with a small smile, "you've been turning men into frogs."

Matilda laughed and invited Stella in, wondering what had brought the woman to her house. If she were smart, she'd request the herbs for a morning tea that, when taken regularly, would save the world from more Hazelrig children.

"And you," Matilda answered with just as much humor in her voice, "are apparently trying to poison your stepchildren."

"Poison, is it?" Stella asked with a sigh, not at all surprised. "I'm not a wonderful cook, that's true, but I've never tried to purposely poison anyone."

It soon became clear that Stella's visit was purely a social one. Matilda was surprised, but pleased. Apparently Stella thought that since they were neighbors they should be friends as well.

Stella glanced around Matilda's winter kitchen with skeptical eyes. "Your kitchen doesn't look all that different from mine, so why do I have such a terrible time making the recipes you give me?" She cast a comically sharp glance at Matilda. "Is there magic at work here?"

"No," Matilda said with a smile. "I've just had more practice than you."

Stella scoffed. "I tried that recipe for pralines," she said, a hint of frustration in her voice. "And I ended up with one big praline instead of several small ones."

"How did you manage that?"

"I cooked the mixture exactly as you directed, I swear I did." She used her hands as she spoke, mimicking her movements in the process of making the candy. "Then I dropped spoonfuls onto a buttered surface. I waited forever, and they didn't harden up, they just sat there, sticky little lumps of... of..." She waved one hand in the air. "Well, I don't know what they were, but they were not pralines. So I scooped up the little sticky piles, intending to scrape what I could back into the pot and cook it a while longer. I mean, I must've simply not cooked them long enough, right?" She arched her eyebrows.

"That sounds likely..." Matilda began.

"But then Gretchen called me upstairs to look at a small tear in her best dress, and we spent a little time on that chore, and when I returned to the kitchen..." She spread her hands wide. "I had one big praline."

"It sounds to me as if you lack patience in the kitchen," Matilda said, trying not to smile too widely.

"My father always had a cook," Stella mumbled. "I didn't know it would be so difficult to learn such a simple thing."

Since it seemed that Stella was, in fact, a terrible cook, Matilda gave her a quick lesson in the kitchen. She let Stella help as she made a batch of butterscotch candy and a cherry pie. It had apparently never occurred to Stella to pit the cherries before making the filling for a pie.

They laughed, and talked, and all in all it was a very pleasant day, even though Matilda didn't get nearly enough work accomplished. She insisted that Stella take the pie and the candy with her, when the time came for the woman to return home.

"Will you go to the Founders' Day Celebration next week?" Stella asked as she prepared to leave.

Matilda shook her head. "I don't usually go to town, except on Fridays to sell to Mr. Fox."

"You have to go," Stella said. "I still don't know many people in Tanglewood, and I'd feel so much more comfortable if you were there."

Matilda felt she could be honest with this woman. "Even if I were, you wouldn't want to be seen talking to me. You know what they say about me."

"That you're a witch," Stella said bluntly.

Matilda nodded.

Stella looked her up and down critically, but kindly. "Well, you must admit," she said with a sigh, "you do everything you can to encourage them."

"I do not," Matilda said, but her heart skipped a beat. Did she? Did she enjoy her isolation so much that she actually encouraged the rumors? Did she, perversely, nourish the supposition that she was, indeed, a witch?

Stella looked her in the eye. "Attend the festivities next Saturday. Wear a pretty dress and shoes. Shoes, Matilda," she stressed. "Unbraid your hair and put it up," she said, waving a somehow disgusted hand in the direction of Matilda's braids. "Make a pie to enter in the pie contest. Dance with all the local men. Smile and flirt and bat your lashes until they're falling at your feet."

Matilda laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion, but Stella simply arched her eyebrows, quite serious.

"I'm not kidding. You're a very attractive woman, and you shouldn't be hiding out like a hermit." She pinned tenacious eyes on Matilda. "It isn't natural."

Matilda's laughter died. How could she tell Stella, or anyone else, that she didn't have a pretty dress, that her only shoes were a pair of battered old boots, and that she didn't have a clue how to put her hair up properly? She'd never danced, and she'd never stoop to batting her lashes at a man like a... like a Vanessa Arrington.