The Groom Says Yes (12 page)

“Mr. Enright, stop telling me how I feel.”

“I didn’t mean to do so,” he quickly said.

“And understand, there will be nothing of a carnal nature between us.”

“Carnal?” He said the word as if it were quaint. “Absolutely not.”

“Because you don’t wish it?” she asked, testing him . . . and testing herself. Her anger made her feel powerful.

He stopped his retreat, a militant gleam coming to his own eye. “Oh, I wish it. In fact, I would not mind another—” He broke off as if suddenly questioning the wisdom of what he was about to say, then tried again. “Miss Davidson, you don’t have experience at these matters. I do and—”

Was it her imagination, or did he blush as he spoke? As if he was a bit embarrassed at the admission?

“—What happened between us in your bed was the natural course of things, but our reaction to each other was far from common. It was not common at all. And what I wanted you to understand is that I don’t treat anything you did for me lightly.”

Sabrina didn’t know what to say.

His directness flustered her. It was one thing to be attracted to him. He was masculine and handsome, a deadly combination for any woman.

But she didn’t want to
like
him. Liking was a more potent a force than desire.

She needed to keep the space between them. Oh, yes, she did, especially when he smiled.

He held out his hand. “I want you to trust me. I know I don’t have a right to ask. My situation is difficult; however, I am not the villain they paint me.”

She glanced down at the hand he offered and found she wished he had offered a kiss instead.

Such an irrational, insane thought. She was completely complicit in her own undoing. And she couldn’t help wondering why she felt this strong attraction for him. Her father would not approve. Anyone with common sense would warn her from him.

“Everything is fine,” she managed to say. She did not take his hand.

Protect herself. She had to protect herself
from
herself, because she had had a strong urge to walk right into his arms.

M
ac pulled back his hand. Her missishness was damn annoying.

She was prickly as a hedgehog, but there was a vulnerability about her as well, and he’d already tasted her passion, something he wouldn’t mind experiencing again.

Why had he followed her up the stairs?

Yes, he needed to assure her that he was honorable . . . but he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he was hoping to breach her defenses.

She fascinated him. She was moral, she was upright, and this afternoon, she’d given him the ride of his life.

Who could blame him for wanting to see if the intense release he’d experienced with her had been because of his months of celibacy or if there was something different, magical about her.

Mac had only loved one woman in his life. She had proven to him that love was a phantom, a piece of nonsense. Moira had chosen Lorcan. She’d given herself to the brother with the title.

Over the years, especially on the eves before battles, Mac had wondered what it would have been like if he’d had a wife, if he had become the healer, the country doctor he’d set out to be. Would he have been at peace?

But life had not taken him that direction. His temper and his pride had demanded he leave Ireland. Back in those days, he’d not understood the power behind forgiveness.

However, standing in this room with Miss Davidson’s presence filling his senses and an empty bed waiting to be used, Mac found himself damn hard in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

Yes, he being conciliatory, but he wouldn’t lie to himself. Behind his request for trust was a very real hope that she’d curl up in bed beside him and let him kiss away those faint worry lines marring her brow.

She spoke. “We need to take care of what we should be doing. For one thing, Mrs. Bossley is right, you do need new clothes. There are some things in a trunk in the attic.”

“I tried on a shirt hanging in the wardrobe in the other room,” he said. “It was too small. My shoulders,” he added, pointing out to her how wide and strong they were. It couldn’t hurt.

And she did consider his shoulders. Solemnly.

He tried not to preen.

“The shirts in the other room are Father’s. They need some repairs,” she said. “The ones in the attic may not be in better shape. We shall need to check closely, and if we choose them tonight, I’ll have time to do repairs. This way,” she ordered. The lavender-and-roses scent of her soap, the same soap he’d used, trailed in the air as she passed him on her way to the attic. He mindlessly fell into step.

He wondered if he had ever been so taken by a woman, including Moira. Even the women in France lacked Miss Davidson’s simple grace.

At the attic door, she paused. “Will you go first and carry the candles? Sometimes bats find their way into the attic. I detest going up there.”

“No problem,” he assured her.

She reached up to feel the ledge of the doorframe and pulled down a key to unlock the door. “The clothes are in the first trunk at the top of the stairs.”

“We’ll see what we can cobble together,” Mac replied. “I can be very resourceful.”

“You will need to be,” she assured him, and opened the door.

Stairs led up into the inky darkness.

Mac had to duck to pass through the door. He started climbing the stairs, holding the candles so that her path behind him would be well lit. The attic was dry but cold and dusty. He listened for sounds of bats. He, too, was not fond of them—

The door slammed behind him.

The key turned in the lock—and Mac realized he’d just fallen for the simplest trick there was.

S
abrina stepped back from the door, the key still in her hand.
She’d done it.
She’d locked him in. She did a happy jig at her cleverness. She was free from temptation.

The light from the candles he held outlined the gaps between the door and the doorframe. “Miss Davidson,” came his deep voice with its melodic accent, “open the door.”

He sounded so reasonable, she found herself smiling. That was it?
Open the door.
Sabrina laughed to herself. “I’m afraid I mustn’t, Mr. Enright. I’m safer with you on the other side of the door and a lock between us.”

“I have no intention of hurting you.”

“Oh, you have intentions, sir,” she informed him. “But they shall not bear fruit.” She couldn’t believe she was saying this. It felt good to put a man in his proper place, to have a bit of power.

“You misunderstand me,” he said, more steel in his voice.

For a second, she wondered if she did.

Old doubts resurfaced, but she tamped them down. “I understand you very well,” she informed the door. And then, because she was an honest person, she admitted, “I also realize that your hopes in that—” She paused, needing the right word. “Your hopes in that
lascivious
direction may have been with some justification—”

“
Lascivious?
” his voice boomed from the other side of the door.

“Yes, lascivious,” she echoed. “It means licentious, immoral, loose—”

“I know what
lascivious
means, Miss Davidson. I am
not
lascivious.”

Sabrina found that statement strangely deflating. Had she misread him? She did not believe so.

“What I am,” he continued, sounding as if he stood right in front of the door, “is a man who woke to having a woman kiss him—”

“And has
expectations
for it,” she declared, triumphant. He
did
have lascivious thoughts.

“And then,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, his voice dropping a notch lower, “she allowed me the pleasure of certain other things. Breasts, loins, and private bits.”

Heat rose up her neck. It was true. She had allowed it.

“Not that I complain,” he hastened to add. “I thought I’d made it very clear how appreciative I was.”

And that was what had made her uncomfortable. She found she didn’t like being “appreciated.”

It was too tame a word.

“Like I said, I’m safer with you locked in the attic,” she answered.

“Then you could say, Mac, my friend, not tonight.”

“Your name is Mac?” She caught on this piece of personal information.

“From Cormac. My friends call me Mac.” There was a beat, then he said, “You can call me Mr. Enright.”

“I don’t know why you are so upset. I
should
protect myself.”

“You make it sound as if I am a lecher. Well, I am not a green lad who pouts when a lady says no, not that one ever has . . . but I don’t force myself on women. And you don’t need to lock me up for the night. I
hate
being locked up. I’ve been
locked up
enough to last a
lifetime.
”

He grew more agitated as he spoke, and she believed him. If she had been locked up the way he had, she’d probably feel the same way—especially if she was innocent, although, she reminded herself, his innocence had not yet been proven. Still, it couldn’t be pleasant to have people want to hang you.

She stepped toward the door. “I don’t do this because of you,” she admitted. “I do it for my own peace of mind. I didn’t mean to tumble in your arms or take advantage of your situation—well, yes, I did, didn’t I?”

It was easy to confess to a door. There was no danger, and it was good for the soul.

“What happened between us, well, I just wondered what it would be like to kiss a man. That seems to be an experience that every woman should know, and yet, I’ve never had the opportunity. At the age when I should have been courted, I had responsibilities. My mother was ill, and she needed me. Then, my father often had tasks and duties that required my help. And it isn’t as if I begrudge them any of it. I don’t. But I did lose a portion of my own life. No, I gave it up actually.”

There, she’d admitted it. Dame Agatha would approve.

Sabrina paused a moment. Since she was making a clean breast of matters, she might as well divulge all. “And I hate being the ‘Spinster in the Valley.’ Everyone calls me such behind my back. They don’t mean any harm by it. To them, the spinster is just who I am. They don’t realize the loneliness in that word.”

Sabrina leaned her head against the door. The cool wood felt good to her brow. “And they also believe that I am sensible. Can
you
imagine that?” She had to laugh at her own culpability. “My cousins and friends come to me for advice. They tell me I am wise, and I thought I was, until I kissed you. That’s when I discovered there were many things I did not understand. Who knew a single kiss could be that powerful?”

Her question circled in the air around her.

It wasn’t just the kiss. Being joined with him seemed to have opened her to a whole new experience. For a span of time, she’d lost a bit of herself in him. “I shall never judge anyone harshly again,” she whispered.

She placed her hand flat on the door as if she could touch him. Her lover. “I know that what we did means very little to a man—”

“Who said that?”

His voice surprised her. She’d started to think she was merely speaking her thoughts aloud, something she often did when she was alone.

Slightly embarrassed, she confessed, “People. I’ve heard it said. They all claim men aren’t like women. Men are like bees that must go from flower to flower—”

“
Bees?
” There was both annoyance and humor in his voice. “Miss Davidson, you must stop talking to fools. Of course the joining of a man and woman means something. In its finest form, it is the closest any of us comes to heaven.”

After what she’d experienced that afternoon, she could believe what he said.

“What is your given name?” he asked.

He wished to know?

“Sabrina.” She smiled and added, “But you may call me Miss Davidson.”

He answered with a sharp, short laugh.

Her father had little time for what he called her “prattle,” and most people in the valley always acted alarmed when she showed any humor. Along with being the “spinster,” apparently she was considered very serious as well.

But Mr. Enright interacted with her as an equal.

She now thought she was doubly wise to keep space between them.

“I’ll unlock the door tomorrow after I return from my uncle’s,” she promised. “I’ll give you a full report of what I learn at that time. Now I warn you that you must be quiet during the day. Mrs. Patton will be here. She’s the cook and housekeeper. It’s best if she doesn’t know you are here.”

There was a beat of silence, and he asked, “Do you always try to be everything people think of you?”

“Yes, of course. Why should I not?”

She waited for a response. There wasn’t any. “Did you hear what I said?” she asked.

“Go to sleep, Miss Davidson,” was his reply. He didn’t wait for her response. The light disappeared from under the door, and she heard his footsteps climb the attic stairs.

Sabrina stood in the dark, looking at the door as if she could see through it.

She should not trust him. He could have murdered that girl. But she didn’t believe he had. Murder did not seem to be in his nature. He was the sort who would have just walked away.

However, she’d be wise to be wary. She didn’t replace the key in its keeping place over the door. Instead, she took it to her room and placed it under her pillow. Undressing quickly and putting on her nightdress, she slid beneath the covers. Her fingers brushed the key . . . and she told herself she felt safe.

Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was the memory of making love to him right here in this bed.

T
he sun had been up for hours by the time Sabrina woke. She was startled by how well she’d slept and for how long. Apparently, she had been exhausted.

Her first thought was of Mr. Enright.

Last night, locking him in the attic had been right and expedient. However, this morning, with a clearer mind, she realized she had certain responsibilities to him.

The man needed to eat and to wash. She hadn’t given him water or anything last night. The thought made her feel guilty. She also needed to feed Rolf and Dumpling.

The floor was cold on her bare feet. She threw a dressing gown over her nightdress. She hadn’t bothered to braid her hair before falling into bed last night, and it was a tangled mess. She also needed to polish her teeth and wash the sleep from her eyes, but she would take care of her guest’s needs first. Doing so would be a form of penance for keeping him locked up.

The key was still under her pillow. She dropped it into the pocket of her gown and walked barefoot to the attic door. When she’d passed her father’s room, all was as she’d left it. He had still not returned.

She knocked on the door. “Mr. Enright?”

He didn’t answer, but then considering how surly he’d been last night, she was not put off. Why, he could even still be asleep.

“I’ll be up in a few minutes with water and something for your breakfast.” She hoped she could keep that last promise. He’d eaten all the stew and what was left of the bread for their dinner. Mrs. Patton usually had a meat pie tucked away in the pantry for those times when the magistrate was out late seeing to his duties.

As for herself, all she needed was a cup of good, strong tea before she dealt with either the issue of Mr. Enright or her father. She never thought clearly until she had her morning cup. She would put the kettle on to boil while she prepared a tray for her unwanted guest.

Going downstairs, Sabrina was just approaching the kitchen when she realized the back door was wide open.

Her heart stopped.
Had
her father returned?

The sound of a chair scraping the kitchen floor caught her attention. Someone
was
in there.

Sabrina hastened her step, then slowed as Rolf came out of the kitchen to greet her, a happy smile on his hound face.

Her father would not let the dog in. Ever.

She took one step, two steps, and peeked around the door—

A gasp of shock escaped her.

Mr. Enright stood in the kitchen, half-naked. He wore his black breeches, and his boots had been given a polish. He must have found the kit that was in the cleaning cupboard.

He was not wearing his shirt or a jacket.

Any words she might have spoken died in her throat.

She’d admired his chest before when she’d been applying the poultice, but there was something about his being hale and healthy and naked that robbed her of speech.

Mr. Enright was all hard, strong muscle. His body was lean but seemingly perfect. Oh, yes, there was the scar, and the sight of it sent heat to her cheeks because she had known it was there.

He shouldn’t be tempting her in this manner.

“
Where
are your clothes?” The harshness in her tone came from her blushing awkwardness and a morsel, well, perhaps more than a morsel, of lust. Pure, unbridled, never-before-imagined lust.

He was in the act of pouring hot water into a washbowl that was kept in the kitchen for when the occasion warranted it. Her father’s shaving kit was laid out on the table. He had to have been wandering around the house, and she’d not pushed her dresser in front of her closed bedroom door. He looked up and smiled as if he knew what she was thinking, all the way to thoughts of his nakedness.

She was gaining enough knowledge of his character to notice that he had a lopsided smile when he was especially pleased with himself.

It was positively crooked right now.

“Good morning, Miss Davidson,” he greeted her cheerily. “My shirt and jacket are on that chair, thank you for asking. I did manage to find a few things in the trunk. Lucky for me, they don’t need an airing. But I didn’t want to stain them if I make a slop of shaving, so I haven’t put them on yet.” He changed the subject. “I have a pot of tea steeping here. Would you care for a cup?”

She reached in her dressing-gown pocket. Yes, the key was still there. The attic door had been closed when she’d checked it just moments ago.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I fed Rolf,” he continued, pouring tea for her as if she had assented. “I found a bone in the pantry that appeared as if it was waiting for him.”

No wonder the dog adored him . . . but then Sabrina realized that he’d given the bone to Rolf in the kitchen. The hound was now stretched out in front of the fire, gnawing away.

Her father would raise the roof if he caught the dog in the kitchen chewing on a bone. She didn’t think it was such a good idea, either.

Sabrina snatched the bone from Rolf’s jaws. It was a slobbery thing, and she held it away from her as she carried it down the hall, Rolf prancing at her heels. She threw the bone out into the back garden. Rolf bounded after it. She closed the door.

For a second, she stood, trying to make sense of it all—and then she grew angry. She stomped to the kitchen. “
How did you escape?
”

He was lathering his face with the soap he’d mixed in her father’s shaving mug. He ran it all around his jaw with expert ease, before saying, “I climbed out the window.”

“From three floors up?” she asked, incredulous.

“If that is the distance, then that is what I did,” he answered.

“I don’t believe you,” she said. “The attic window is tiny.”

He raised his brows as if what she thought was of little consequence to him. After all, he was standing in the kitchen. With practiced concentration, he began applying the sharp razor to his skin, and if Sabrina had thought it hard to think before, well, watching this most masculine of actions robbed her brain of any critical thought.

And she’d never been that way before. Then again, she’d never met anyone like Cormac Enright.

He rinsed the lather off the blade in the washbowl. “By the way, you look quite fetching this morning, Miss Davidson. There is something about bare toes peeking out from beneath the hem of a nightdress that sparks a man’s imagination.”