C
HAPTER
17
H
ow extraordinary. The sky was bright blue, the sun was shining, and Anne had slept straight through the night without any torment from her ankle. Gareth had rewrapped it before bidding her good night after too many luscious kisses to count, and she was in just the position he’d left her in, her leg raised up on pillows, her body secured under a mountain of quilts.
But no matter how warm and refreshed she was, she needed the chamber pot. Gingerly she set both feet on the rag rug by her bed and experienced a shooting pain clear to her left hip bone. Damn it all. She would be laid up for a few days more, dependent on Gareth and shirking her duties.
He probably thought that was just as well, she thought with an inner grin as she completed her business and gave a cursory wash to her hands and face. Her cooking was truly atrocious. And if she stayed in bed, she would be readily available to his searching hand and mouth. She got back under the covers and folded her hands across her lap, waiting for him.
She had lost her mind. In its place was a veil of sensuality she hadn’t ever expected to possess. Being with Gareth was—
She had no words for what she felt. Yesterday—apart from falling down the stairs—had been indescribable from morning until late into the night.
Gareth has kissed her until she was breathless, senseless, heedless. She’d almost begged him to do more last night, but had lost her courage. Infamous Imaculata Egremont with her saucy tongue had stuttered into shyness. But, oh, how she longed for Gareth’s touch.
Everywhere.
Anne wished she had another woman to talk to. Her new friend Evangeline might have helped her understand her sudden craving, but London was far away. Anne didn’t want to attract unwelcome attention to herself by posting a letter to
The London List
office, or to Evangeline’s home. Her father would have his spies out, was very possibly placing an ad in the newspaper even as she lay cozy in carnal bliss in Gareth’s house. No doubt Mr. Mulgrew and his associates were already on the case eager to earn her father’s reward again.
The earl had spared no expense the first time she ran away. He was bound to be even more furious that she’d escaped him a second time. But he couldn’t keep her under lock and key forever, and she’d convinced him she’d be on her best behavior. Anne had told him she was tutoring orphans when she was really selling chestnuts and stalking the editor of
The London List
in hopes of becoming front-page news again. It had been a silly plan in the beginning, but had turned out well in the end. She was here in Wales, safe, and waiting for her lover.
Anne didn’t have long to wait before Gareth tapped on the door and entered.
“Awake, I see, and bright as a new penny. How is the ankle?” He adjusted the pillows behind her and smiled down at her.
“I’m not ready to dance a waltz yet.”
To her chagrin, Gareth pulled a battered chair to the side of the bed and sat instead of climbing in with her. “I used to love to dance. I was much sought-after at our regimental balls, you know.”
What color was his uniform? Red probably, with lots of shiny buttons. She tried to picture him in a silly hat with a cockade and feathers and failed. He’d never look silly anyway, no matter what he had on his head—he was simply too tall and handsome. “There is no reason why you cannot dance now.”
He cast her a scornful look but chose not to comment.
“Well, there isn’t! You still have two feet that move perfectly well.”
“Most women would be repulsed partnering a man such as myself, Annie. How would I waltz? Half the fun of it is holding a woman as close as one dares with
both
hands.”
“Maybe
she
could hold onto
you
. Reverse roles. There’s no reason a woman could not lead. Push you around a bit. Why should men always be in charge?”
“You are a wild revolutionary, Lady Anne. I’ll consider your suggestion, but I doubt I’ll have the opportunity to test it out.”
“We should have dancing after our wedding,” Anne said. From being a hole-in-the-corner affair, it had turned into a celebration in her mind. She would be a married woman—forever free of her father if not her husband, and right now she didn’t want to be free of Gareth at all. The house was big enough to accommodate most of the local people. The rug in the enormous parlor could be rolled back and the furniture pushed to the walls. The dining room was big enough for a banquet.
Someone else would have to do the cooking, though.
“Ian won’t approve.”
“Nonsense. We’re past Advent and it’s not yet Lent. It’s winter, and what else do the villagers have to do but stay indoors and examine all four walls? I’m sure people would welcome a diversion.”
“Ah, but remember, most of them are good Methodists. No dancing. No drinking.”
“There were plenty of men in the pub. I think you’re exaggerating.” She could easily see restrictions on drinking, but what could be wrong with dancing? She had spent many nights spinning around a dance floor, enjoying giddy freedom. Dancing was not as good as riding, but it came close.
“You are set on making this the wedding of the year, aren’t you?”
“It is the only wedding I’ll ever have,” Anne said soberly. It would be nothing like the fashionable affairs she’d attended in London, or the one she’d once expected to have for herself. “If people see that I’ve chosen to marry you, they might reconsider their prejudices.”
Gareth laughed. “They’ll just think you don’t know the truth and I’ve tricked you into it. I promise you once word of our impending marriage spreads, you will have all sorts of helpful old tabbies warning you off. See what happens the next time you go into Llanwyr. Your ears will fall off from their blistering advice.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not going anywhere, isn’t it?” There was, in fact, nowhere else she’d rather be but in this bed, preferably with Gareth out of the chair and in it with her. She patted the counterpane, but he chose to ignore her blatant invitation.
Gareth sighed. “If you’re not seen in the next few days, they’ll probably think I’ve killed you off already and buried you in a snowbank. And if I speak of your accident, they’ll believe I pushed you.”
“Don’t be silly. I wasn’t pushed. I just—fell.”
“The steps are unsafe. It’s a wonder I didn’t go down myself when I got the champagne on New Year’s Eve. You must promise me not to venture into the cellar again.”
“I promise. But I really did hear something.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did. Mice. Rats, even. The house creaks and groans. When I was a boy, I thought it was haunted.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts!” Though she could see why a child might, living on this isolated sweep of land. The village wasn’t that far, but seemed a million miles away from austere Ripton Hall, surrounded by brooding hills and barren fields.
“No. You are far too sensible for someone your age. Any ghosts you come across would be quite outmatched and find someone else to spook.”
Anne bristled. “I’m not so young. Many girls my age are mothers several times over.”
“Did we ever establish how old you are?”
“Old enough.” She was nineteen and sometimes felt like ninety.
“I stand chastised. I seem to remember you telling me a lady never discusses her age. Fool that I am, I thought that applied only to older women trying to appear younger.”
“You aren’t meant to understand what we mean unless we want you to. For a rake, you have much to learn about women,” she said archly.
“And you are just the woman to teach me. But later. I’m sure you want breakfast to give you strength for your lecture.”
Anne swung her legs over the side if the bed but Gareth quickly covered both knees with his hand. “Don’t you dare. I was going to bring in a tray, but if you wish to go into the kitchen, I’ll carry you.”
“That won’t be necessary!” Anne objected, but she was overruled, finding herself scooped up in his arm, crushed against his chest. He smelled of smoke and soap and ale.
“You’ve been drinking,” she accused.
“Just a mug of ale with Martin over breakfast, like any good Welshman. I visited him over the stable to discuss Penny, and I couldn’t refuse his hospitality. The horse needs gentle exercise every day. I thought to keep him warm and dry indoors, but that’s part of his problem. Martin will take him out for me while I take care of you.”
“I don’t need taking care of,” Anne said as he deposited her in an upholstered chair. It was one he had dragged from the parlor, its velvet fabric held together by tiny ornamental leaves and flowers stitched on the worn arms. Someone had been clever in their mending. There was a matching footstool with a pillow atop it, where Gareth balanced her bandaged foot. Moving the chair in for her was a thoughtful gesture, and Anne appreciated him even more.
“I beg to differ. Your throne, my queen. What is your pleasure this morning? Lumber pye? Alas, I have no venison.”
“You’ve been reading Mrs. Smith’s book.”
“Aye. I was up before the cock ever thought to crow. Many of the things that woman writes about sound very unpleasant, I must say. But speaking of the cock, his harem has been busy. I shall scramble some eggs for you.”
“That sounds lovely, but truly, Gareth, you needn’t go to any trouble. Coffee or tea and toast would be fine.”
“ ’Tis no trouble at all. And you’re to stay put. I won’t have you hobbling around until you’re ready to waltz.”
Anne settled back and watched him work. He was amazingly proficient cracking the eggs into a bowl using his one hand. She was quite sure she couldn’t do the same without dropping half the shell in. He whisked the eggs, crumbled in some sharp cheese and herbs and poured everything into a hot spider, stirring the contents over the heat. It was comforting to watch him work, his movements efficient and economical even hampered as he was.
“What did Martin feed you for breakfast?”
“Ale and beefsteak. With mushrooms, if you can believe it. The man eats better than I do.”
Anne was shocked. “Do you pay him that well?”
Gareth shook his head. “He went for months without pay before I came back home, he and Cecily both. He’s a resourceful old codger. Found the mushrooms himself, he says. Perhaps I should ask him for food and financial tips. The money from the sale of my commission is nearly gone. My father sold pretty much everything worth selling.”
Anne still had most of the nest egg she’d carried in her muff along with her pearl-handled pistol. After her unwilling return from France, she’d decided to save as much money as she could for her next escape, but the money would be used up on their wedding and the trip to London. She remembered the trunks in the attic. “There are your mother’s clothes, quite a lot of them. You could sell them to a secondhand shop. Hereford is a cathedral city. There must be call for some finery there.”
Gareth plated the eggs and put them on a footed tray for her lap so she would not have to get up to the table. “Would they fetch much? I confess I don’t know much about ladies’ clothing.”
“Well, you’d never get what your mother paid for them. They’re decades out of fashion, but the workmanship is exquisite and the fabrics are in very good condition. They must have come from a modiste of the first stare. If I could sew, I’d keep some for myself.” She took a bite of her breakfast. “Oh! Delicious! You could write a cookbook to rival Mrs. Smith’s.”
“Thank you for your belief in me. But I don’t know a posset from a porcupine.”
“People don’t eat porcupines, do they?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Think of the quills. Bad enough to pluck the feathers from a chicken. Which I have done. In Portugal. I was so damn hungry I would have eaten the feathers, too.”
Anne wanted to hear more of Gareth’s stories, so she spent the next half hour in the warm kitchen listening to abridged versions of his adventures as she cleaned her plate and drank vastly superior coffee to her own. Just as he had New Year’s Eve, she was sure he was leaving out some of the ugliest truths, but what remained was a fascinating geography lesson. As a fresh recruit, he’d served in Halifax, going from frost to the fiery heat of the West Indies, then on to the Peninsula, Waterloo, and India. For a man who’d grown up in this quiet corner of the kingdom, he’d expanded his horizons to traverse more than half the world. He’d given his youth to his country at war. What a shame that he could not find peace in Wales.
Much as she was reluctant to spoil their morning, it was time to muster their forces concerning Bronwen’s death. It would be lovely to be able to clear up that little impediment. Make it easier for people to attend their wedding reception, too, although Anne thought the lure of free food and drink and sheer nosiness on a dull winter’s day would go a long way to filling Ripton Hall. She took a final sip of coffee and cleared her throat.
“Have I talked too much, Lady Anne? I had no idea I was so full of blarney. You must be bored to tears.”
“Not at all. You’re very amusing, as you well know. I can see you now at the Silver Pony, entertaining the neighbors.”
Gareth’s face sobered. “You’ve forbidden me from drinking there, and I don’t think they’re interested in hearing anything I have to say unless I confess to Bronwen’s murder.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about now.”
He pushed back from the table and took the cup from her fingers. “What is there to say? I did not do it and don’t know who did.”
“I’d like to hear what you
do
know. And to talk to anyone you might think would be helpful.”
The cup dropped to the table with a clunk. “No! That is to say, I’ll tell you what I know—which isn’t much. But if you go around gossiping, stirring this all up again, someone could harm you. I—I couldn’t bear that.”
Could he truly care for her as she was beginning to care for him? She put the hope out of her heart and got down to business. “Do you think the murderer is still in the area?”