Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (13 page)

‘That, Meg, is nonsense. But I am sorry, I touched you, forgive me.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Meg snapped, suddenly losing her temper with the slow dance they were performing around each other. ‘This is ridiculous. I do not suppose for a moment that because you put a hand on my arm to detain me that it is some kind of demand. I am perfectly capable of telling you if you do something that upsets or offends me.’

‘So, you give me back my promise not to touch you?’

His mouth, that sensual, sinful mouth that so shook her will-power when it curved into a smile, was not curving now. ‘Yes, I do.’

Then she lifted her gaze and met his eyes and caught her breath, for
they
were smiling, and something hot and wicked and mischievous was dancing in the black depths. Without speaking he put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him as he stepped back under the shelter of the first-floor balcony and she went, without a murmur, her feet stumbling a little on the uneven flags. Ross leaned back against the wall and gathered her into his arms and she found herself held against his chest with no strength in her, either of will or body, to push him away.

His mouth found hers, hot and demanding, yet without force. Her lips moulded to his, opened to the pressure of his tongue, softened as he licked inside, finding the intimate, sensitive places, the places that made her melt into longing. Her hands slid up his chest, coming to rest over the beat of his heart, reading his arousal and his gentleness with her fingertips, sensing the tightly reined passion beneath.

When Ross lifted his head she went up on her toes and kissed the corner of his mouth before sinking down to rest her head where her hands had been, strangely soothed and at peace. This was so right, this was where she should be. She sighed, content, willing the moment to last.

‘Why do you give me what you will not let me buy?’ His voice was husky against her hair.

‘Because I can give you a gift freely and remain myself,’ she said into the soft, warm linen of his shirt, explaining it to herself as much as to him.
Because that kiss was two people attracted to each other, not a man with money buying a woman.

‘I see. And you gift me one kiss?’

‘Just one, and no promises.’ Meg managed to step back. It seemed she could smile quite successfully. ‘I will see you after dinner; we should finish
Gulliver’s Travels
tonight.’

Ross’s mouth twisted. ‘No. No tonight. Not again, in fact. I do not think I can sit in the library alone with you, even if the door is open, and concentrate on Lemuel Gulliver’s troubles. I must think on my own.’

‘Then I am sorry.’ Her spirits plunged at the realisation that this was going so very wrong. ‘I should not be here, in this house. I do not want to tease you, to seem to flirt, to make you suffer. I was right when I said I
must go—it is selfish to stay when we feel…’ Meg turned, knowing only that she must walk away from him, now, this minute. Down towards the lane she saw a flash of black and white, the wave of a plumy tail, then the dog was gone. And with it its master? Had Billy been standing there watching that foolish, impulsive kiss?

‘No, Meg, don’t go. Don’t leave, not yet. Between us we will learn to control this—whatever it is. And if you must—I confess, the last thing I want is to stop kissing you.’

She turned back from the view, to find him just where she had left him. ‘I don’t want…I do not want to make you more unhappy.’

‘Unhappy?’ The shadow swept over his face as though the sun had gone behind a cloud. ‘Is that how I seem to you?’ He shook his head in an abrupt rejection when she nodded. ‘No. I do not think I am unhappy. For a while I was in despair, deep enough in to make death not something to be courted, but a fate that I would not avoid if it found me.

‘Now? I am frustrated by wanting you, but you make me see this place differently. I am…challenged by all the things I must learn and the things your questions make me confront. I am terrified of Lady Pennare, her daughters and all the matchmaking mamas for twenty miles around and I wake at three in the morning wondering when I will come round from the nightmare and discover I am not here at all, but somewhere I understand and can control. Is that unhappiness? I do not think so. It is certainly no longer despair, even if it is not contentment.’

He frowned, but the old, deep darkness was not
there. This was thought, a man deep in a puzzle. ‘But perhaps challenge is a way of knowing you are alive. You have brought me something, a way of looking at this house, this estate. The reminder that I owe it more than duty.’

‘I am glad of that at least. I was frightened for you.’

‘And that is why you kissed me just now?’

‘Oh, no.’ She shook her head, unable to explain to him without revealing the fear that she was falling in love with him. He had rejected the notion of love, had sneered at it—she could not bear the thought that he might guess how her heart was betraying her. ‘Do you have any mischievous spirits in Cornwall? Elves, perhaps?’

‘We have piskeys. Why, have you met one?’

‘I think perhaps I did just now. Down on the beach. Yes, a piskey up to mischief. That would account for it.’

R
oss might confess to waking in the small hours to brood on his new life, but Meg was having trouble even getting to sleep in the first place. That kiss, the tenderness she had felt in both of them as his lips brushed over hers, haunted her. He was recovering, becoming again the man she suspected he had always been. He had never lost his courage, his endurance, his basic decency, but the young man’s sense of humour, his capacity for joy,
that
had been knocked out of him by guilt and hardship, the loss of the life he loved and the pain of his wound.

It was fragile still. Meg gave up on sleep and sat up in bed. That darkness needed little excuse to swoop and fill up his soul. Had she ever felt that bleak? She had been miserable at home at the Vicarage, but there had always been her dreams to give her hope. It had been hard when she had realised that James had feet of clay and that she would always be the stronger of the two of them, but she had learned to make the best of things. His death had been a grief and the time after his will
had been opened still had her shivering at the memory of his betrayal and what it had made her.

But she had never despaired. She locked her arms around her bent legs and rested her chin on her knees. If Death had come looking for her, she would have kicked and screamed and punched him on the nose rather than give in.

And Ross had not given in either, although he might think he had. Meg bit her lip. He thought he had given up and he felt diminished by that? But he had fought to live after he had been wounded or he would never have had the will to stop them cutting off his leg. He had been at the end of his strength in the river and yet somehow he had clung to that ladder and to life.

He was finding his way out of the darkness. Was she really being any help to him, or was her refusal to be his mistress making it worse? There were ways he could deal with physical frustration, Meg told herself firmly. She must not talk herself into going to him by pretending it would be an act of charity. If she did, then it would be because she loved him and she could share that, know him fully for the little time they could have together before the realities of their respective positions, his duty, his need for a wife, her search for her sisters, took them apart for ever.

But that did not stop the yearning to be held, the need for tenderness, for the thrill of another’s body in tune with yours, that rare, soaring ecstasy that she believed, deep in her romantic soul, she would find one day when everything was right, and the man was the right one, and both of you were utterly transported.

That had been what that kiss was about, for both of them: a yearning, a reaching out for joy. ‘Go to sleep,’
Meg said out loud, turning to punch her hot pillow before she lay down again. ‘Go to sleep and dream about Bella and Lina.’

Sunday. How long was it since she had been in a proper church, sat through a service, listened to a sermon? It must have been the day before she ran away from home and the sermon had been Papa at his dourest. Following the army there had been drum-head services every Sunday, prayers by graves scratched in the dusty earth, baptisms with water dipped in a bucket from the nearest stream, weddings in the sight of God, but not a clergyman.

Now she had to dress in her best, braid her hair tightly under her bonnet, process with the other servants behind Ross down to the church in the next valley. They said it was very beautiful. She had been avoiding it as though it had been a plague pit.

It was beautiful, almost exotic, once you removed your gaze from the back of Ross’s neatly barbered head under the tall hat Perrott had magicked up from somewhere. The church was down in the bottom of a steep combe, its toes almost in the water, Heneage said. It was like plunging into a jungle; she almost expected parrots instead of the jackdaws who wheeled and chattered overhead, squabbling with the gulls.

Trees dripped with moss, ferns grew waist high, grey headstones stood and leaned on every flat place as the path wound down to the grey granite tower. Beside the steps a brook chuckled and tumbled its way to the sea.

The beauty seduced, calmed, but even so, her hand was rigid on the butler’s arm as they went into the little church, the servants from the Court after them, filling the back pews.

The choir shuffled into place, small boys uncannily well behaved under the eye of the older choristers. A plump woman bustled up to the organ, which had been wheezing for the past ten minutes while another small boy pumped at the bellows. She played a chord and the congregation winced, but with the air of long familiarity and acceptance. The vicar emerged from the vestry, tripped on the edge of his cassock and took his place.

‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…What?’ The tallest chorister was hissing from the stalls. ‘Oh. Yes, not a wedding, of course. Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us, in sundry places…’

‘He’s a good man, but given to muddles, is Mr Hawkins,’ Heneage murmured in her ear. ‘Much loved, hereabouts. And Miss Hawkins, his sister, for all that she murders that organ.’

The sermon, once Mr Hawkins had found his papers in the vestry and then dropped them as he climbed into the pulpit, was all about lost sheep and the joy of their finding. It was to give thanks for the safe return of one of the fishing boats, thought lost a week since, that had limped into harbour the day before. But it was also about Ross, Meg sensed, as the vicar’s mild blue gaze swept over his congregation, pausing for a moment on the front pew.

Meg swallowed the lump in her throat. This was what a vicar should be, she thought, looking at the happily weeping fishermen’s wives in one pew, Ross’s bowed head, the earnest, scrubbed faces of the choir.

When she came out into the sunshine Mr Hawkins was waiting, shaking hands with his flock as they dispersed. He kept hold of her hand. ‘Welcome to our
parish,’ he said, smiling kindly at her. ‘You need some peace, my dear. You will find it here. My lord, have you shown Mrs Halgate our holy spring yet?’

‘No.’ Ross, hat in hand, was being fussed over by Miss Hawkins. ‘Do you mind a longer walk back, Mrs Halgate?’

‘Not at all.’ His arm in the fine broadcloth, another of Perrott’s victories, was steady under her hand. Behind them the chattering congregation took the path up out of the valley.

‘Did that help?’

‘The church?’ So, he had realised how difficult it had been, how much she had dreaded the memories. ‘Yes, it did. Mr Hawkins is a good man. That sermon was for you as much as for the fishermen, was it not? He is glad you are home.’

Ross did not question her use of the word. ‘I thought I was past praying for.’ But he smiled.

‘Where is your brother’s grave?’ she asked and his arm became rigid under her palm. ‘I should like to see it.’

‘I—’ He stopped and Meg saw he had gone pale.

‘It must have been a comfort, to see it in this beautiful place,’ she persisted gently.

‘I have not been. His killer should not stand at his graveside.’

‘It was an accident. He knew it was an accident. You know that, you know in your heart that you did all you could, that there is nothing to forgive. Giles would want you to go.’ She stood her ground when he would have walked on, trembling a little at her own presumption. ‘Is it in the church or here?’You could hardly describe this mossy, flower-studded slope as a graveyard.

‘There.’ His face like granite, Ross jerked his head towards a little terrace on the slope above them, away from the main path down. ‘My grandparents’ graves are there. Giles always liked the view from up there. Go and see, if you like.’

‘I would, very much. But with you.’

‘I have no wish to. It will do him no good.’

‘Not for him, although he would have wished it, surely. But for yourself,’ Meg persisted, not moving towards the steep little path.

She felt the tremor that went through the big body so close to hers, then he turned and strode up the mossy steps, leaving her behind. Meg followed and found him standing, hat in hand, beside the group of three stones, two lichen-covered, leaning a little, the other crisp still, despite the humid air. As she watched from the edge of the little clearing Ross knelt, dropping his hat, and ran his hand over the mound as though caressing a body beneath a green velvet coverlet. He was speaking, she could hear the murmur of his voice, although not the words.

When he fell silent Meg turned and went back down and along the path they had been following at the edge of the creek. If he needed her, he would find her.

She heard it before she saw it. Water bubbled out of the ground in a rough circle of grass and wild flowers, ran over pebbles, vanished again and emerged in the creek a few feet away. Metal glinted from its bed and someone had tied a child’s bonnet to a branch. There had been ancient magic here long before the Christian saints had come to Cornwall. A blackcap started to sing in the thorn bushes, heartbreakingly lovely.

Tears were sticky on her cheeks and she dipped her
hands in the water and washed her face, then waited until she heard his step on the path behind her. He stopped beside her, but she did not look up, giving him the privacy she suspected he needed.

‘Thank you,’ Ross said. ‘I had expected pain and grief and I found peace there.’

‘That was what Giles would have wanted you to find,’ she suggested.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘You did not know him, yet you understood far better than I.’

Ross stripped off a glove, bent and scooped water into his palm, offered it. It was cold in her mouth and his hand, as her lips touched it to drink, was warm. He drank after her, their eyes meeting over his cupped hand, then he shook it, droplets flying in the sunlight.

‘A steep climb now,’ was all he said and by the time they had climbed to the road they were speaking of practical, safe subjects, but the feeling of tranquillity went with them.

Young Mr Jago seemed to be all that Mr Kimber had promised. He sat down on the other side of the table in Meg’s sitting room, looking bright, intelligent and sensible. He was also attractive to look at, with steady hazel eyes, a strong, cheerful face and thick blond hair. Living with six foot six of brooding dark masculinity was not enough, it seemed, to prevent an appreciation of good looks in other men.

‘I understand from Mr Kimber that you wish to trace the whereabouts of your two sisters with whom you have lost contact.’ Meg passed him a cup of tea and sipped her own while she ordered her thoughts.

‘Yes. I have not seen them since July 1808 when I
left home. We were all living in the vicarage of Martinsdene in the north of Suffolk with our father, the Reverend John Shelley. My elder sister, Arabella, is twenty-five now and my younger sister, Celina, twenty-three. I have written down a description of them.’ She pushed the paper across the table and Patrick Jago read it through before tucking it into his notebook.

‘They may still be at home, in which case I wish you to give a letter to whichever of them you can contact without my father discovering it and await their reply. If they are not there, then I wish you to trace them for me.’

‘May I use your name when I am making enquiries?’

‘No. Absolutely not. My father is a strict man of strong temper. A domestic tyrant, to be quite frank. I would not wish to put the parishioners in such a position that they had to hide anything from him. We are estranged.’ It was more painful than she had expected to have to admit that to a stranger, but she had to be honest or he would never understand all the nuances of the situation and might miss some clue because of it. ‘I eloped and I have never received any response to letters since.’

Jago nodded and jotted a note. His manner was more like a doctor’s than anything else, Meg thought with a sudden flash of insight. He put down the notebook. ‘You will wish to know my terms. I would charge you my return stagecoach fare and my lodgings in whatever decent inn there is available that will lend credence to my cover story—when I work out what that is. Plus incidental expenses such as postage or bribes.’

‘And your fee?’ In any other circumstances it would be amusing to hear this very proper young man discussing
bribery; now she just accepted it as a necessary, if sordid, tactic.

‘Two guineas per week.’

If she stayed in Ross’s employ for a few months then she could afford that, for surely Jago would know within a few days whether Bella and Lina were still at the Vicarage. If they were not…but she would not let herself think about that, not yet.

‘Very well. But if you cannot locate them within three weeks, please let me know.’

‘Of course. I will report every few days, but if they have left the village we will need to discuss how to proceed.’

Meg pushed the letter she had written for her sisters across the table to him, her fingers lingering on it, reluctant to let it go into the hands of a stranger. It held all her hopes and fears, all her dreams of the three of them together again. She could find a little cottage somewhere. They could all find work and they would be together, safe.

Her hand would not lift to release it. Jago’s long, competent fingers settled over hers. ‘Too many hopes and fears riding between those pages?’ She looked up, blinking away tears, to find his eyes warm and understanding.

‘So foolish,’ she murmured, obscurely comforted by him.

There was a peremptory knock on the door and it opened on the sound. ‘Mrs Halgate, there is another invasion of blasted ladies. Will you kindly—?’

Ross stopped just on the threshold. For a moment Meg had no idea what he was staring at, then she realised that her hand was still under Jago’s and pulled it free.

‘There, that is the letter, as I said. I think you have everything now.’ She got to her feet. ‘Thank you. I must go and see to the arriving guests, if you will excuse me, Mr Jago.’

‘Of course. I will see myself out. My lord.’ The young man inclined his head.

‘I will see you out.’ Ross’s mouth was a thin line. ‘This way.’ He gestured towards the servants’ entrance.

‘You are too kind.’

‘Not at all.’

They were so polite that Meg almost missed it, the current of frigid anger in Ross’s voice, the wary note in Jago’s.
Oh my lord. He thinks we were flirting and he is being possessive.
She emerged into the hall to find one party of mother, two daughters and a sulky-looking son, and another of husband and wife with a single daughter, exchanging greetings and filling the space with chatter. Heneage was looking decidedly put out. This was no time to get into a fluster about Ross’s assumptions or what they meant.