Candice Hern (18 page)

“The next report from the Runners is due at Kendal,” Eleanor said. “Do you not think you could wait until then to eat? I realize you are hungry, but Simon, you are
always
hungry. And I am anxious to get to Kendal to discover if the Runners are still on the trail. This is the first time I’ve felt we were really making good time, and I want to make every effort to catch up with them.”

Simon reluctantly agreed to her wishes, being
more in sympathy with her sense of urgency since their discussion the night before. Even so, he purchased a sandwich while the horses were changed. His stomach would not wait until Kendal.

The change of horses and postillions was quickly done, and they were soon barreling down the road once again. Eleanor seemed determined to keep her distance and avoid the closeness of the morning, and Simon wondered if he could ever truly break down her defenses. She was a woman of great courage, but would she ever have the courage to accept the affection—the love?—he was so keen to offer? He wanted to tread carefully and not upset the new bond they’d developed last night, but he did not know how long he could go on without touching her.

The River Lune was crossed by a new stone bridge, and they were afforded to the west a view of Lancaster’s long quay with its rows of warehouses, and to the east a magnificent new aqueduct carrying the canal over the river. The scenery was not as impressive as his beloved Peak, but Simon enjoyed the vistas of undulating hills in a rich mosaic of woodland and pasture, in anticipation of the high fells of the Lake District. Clipped hedgerows and stone walls marked the new enclosures served by a myriad of tiny villages with handsome church towers.

It was at one of those small villages, about an hour out of Lancaster, that the carriage was slowed and eventually stopped by a group of villagers blocking the road.

“What’s happening?” Eleanor asked.

Simon looked all about but did not see any apparent crisis that would cause the people to stop them, though other carriages had also pulled to the side of the road. The men and women who stopped them were laughing. Girls carrying huge baskets of greenery—oak boughs, of course—pulled the postboys off the leaders and began to decorate their hats with leaves. Others hung boughs all about the harnesses. A stocky, smiling man who looked to be a farmer opened the carriage door on Simon’s side.

“C’mon down from there,” he said in a loud, genial voice, ripe with northern vowels. “We don’t allow no one to pass through our village on Oak Apple Day lest ye share a spot o’ gooseberry wine wid us. Or a mug o’ ale, if yer so inclined. Get yerselfs down here and raise a glass to old King Charles. Lest ye wanta be pinched.”

Simon laughed and leaped down—for there was no other choice—and offered his hand to Eleanor. “I’m afraid you may not pinch us, sir, for we are armed with oak. As you see.”

“Ah, good man. Now where are them trays? Tilly? Girl, we need drink for these fine folk.”

Afresh-faced young girl, brimming with the exuberance of the day, ran up to him. “That last stage took all we had up here, Da,” she said rather breathlessly. “Gotta get back to the Blue Boar and haul up a few more jugs.” With that, she ran off down the slope toward the center of the tiny village, where there looked to be a full-fledged fete in progress.
There was even a great, tall oak tree decorated as a Maypole, with ribbon streamers and floral garlands. No doubt the village had made Oak Apple Day its traditional grand fete due to the huge, majestic tree in the center of the village green.

“Well, now. I ’spect there ain’t nothing fer it but to wait for them jugs. Ye can’t leave without a drink o’ sumthin’. It’s tradition. ’Course, if ye prefers, ye can go on down to the fete and partake o’ the feast. Yer more’n welcome. And yer postboys can mind the cattle. What say ye?”

Eleanor could tell by the look in his eye that Simon was dying to go down to the little fete and get something substantial to eat. “All right,” she said, and his dimpled smile told him she had been correct. “But only for a moment. We need to get to Kendal.”

“Only a moment,” Simon said. “I promise.”

He grinned and took her by the hand to lead her to the tiny village green with the decorated oak tree. A fiddler played a jolly tune while girls and young men danced around the makeshift Maypole. Simple two-sided booths were set up here and there selling trinkets and offering games and competitions. Long trestle tables along the edges of the green were loaded with all sorts of food and drink. The smells were delicious: savory pies of meat and game bird, roasted lamb shanks, plum cakes, fruit tarts, gingerbread, steamed puddings, cheeses, and crusty brown bread. There were home-brewed ales, goose
berry wine, parsnip wine, cherry brandy, and cider. It was enticing enough even to tempt Eleanor.

Simon bought her a small pigeon pie, some gingerbread, and a mug of cider. For himself, he bought just about everything. They found room at a table where Simon was able to spread out his bounty.

“I suppose you arranged this ahead of time somehow,” she said. “Probably bribed the postillions to take us in this direction, just so you wouldn’t have to wait until Kendal to eat.”

“You are uncommonly interested in my eating habits, madam. But I could not have planned it better, could I? And I daresay we would not have had such fare at Kendal. This lamb shank is outstanding. I trust that pitiful little repast is sufficient for your appetite?”

“Quite so. And you are right. This pie is rather tasty. And the celebration is lovely. I haven’t seen an Oak Apple Day fete since I was a child. Oh, look over there. That woman is getting pinched!”

“Ha! Are you not grateful that I armed you against such an assault? Though it appears she is rather enjoying it.”

“That be Cora Weathers,” said a local woman seated down the table from them. “Bein’ chased by her own husband, the silly ol’ fool.”

Simon looked at Eleanor and winked. “A happily married couple, I take it?” he said.

“I should say so,” the woman said, and laughed. “Poor Cora’s had fourteen children off that man,
and he still chases her about like that every Oak Apple Day, jus’ so’s he can pinch her in public.”

“Why doesn’t she just wear a spring of oak leaves,” Eleanor asked, “so she won’t have to suffer his pinching?”

“Cuz she likes it, o’ course. Crazy about the old fool. The day she wears oak leaves in May is the day you’ll find old Weathers has cocked up his toes.”

“Now, isn’t that charming,” Simon said. “A long and happy marriage. Who would ever think such a thing existed?”

“Mr. Weathers is not the only silly old fool here,” Eleanor muttered, but she could not hold back a smile. Simon was determined to prove to her that affection could outlast the early throes of passion. Perhaps he was right. She had grown accustomed to thinking the marriages she’d seen up close—her parents’ cold, contemptuous union; her brother’s pedestrian, bloodless arrangement; her own unwanted and unhappy match—were the common way of things. Suppose she was wrong? Suppose Constance’s blissful marriage was not so unusual? It was a difficult notion to get her arms around.

Simon tore into his meal with the usual abandon, all the while talking and laughing with the locals. He did not dawdle, though, and she hoped they could return to the road soon. As lovely as the fete was, she wanted to be on the road. She had a feeling they were close to discovering Belinda’s whereabouts, and was anxious to get on with it.

The music became louder, as other instruments
joined the lone fiddler. Cheers went up as the king and queen of the day made their appearance, pulled along in a garlanded cart: a fresh-faced young man and a girl with roses in her cheeks, each bedecked with ribbons about their clothes and crowns of oak leaves on their heads. They each held short staffs, their scepters, lavishly decorated with spring flowers, and sprigs of hawthorn and lilac, and they waved them about like wands, sending flower petals flying in every direction. A procession gathered behind them, with folks singing and cheering and dancing as they wound their way through the green.

The locals at their table got up to join in the merriment, and suddenly Eleanor’s hand was grabbed from behind, and a young man pulled her to her feet. “Join the dance, mistress?” He did not wait for an answer, but tugged her along in a boisterous line that snaked all through the green and back again. The music became faster and the crowd began to clap in rhythm. Holding on to the young man in front of her, Eleanor followed as the line wove its way around tables and booths and trees and wagons and troughs in a long serpentine headed by the royal cart.

When her free hand was grabbed, she looked behind to find Simon dancing along behind her, laughing and beaming like a boy. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, and his delight was infectious. She found she was smiling almost as broadly.

The procession doubled back, and the young
king and queen passed beside them. The queen waved her scepter over their heads, covering them with flower petals. Simon stopped and bent to pick up something, then pulled Eleanor away from the procession now headed for the churchyard. Laughing, he leaned against the whitewashed wall of a cottage off the green. He held out a small spray of lilac, which must have fallen from the queen’s scepter. He lifted it to his nose, breathed in its fragrance, and gave a satisfied sigh.

“Here you are, my dear,” he said. “A memento of our impromptu fete.

“Westover again?” she asked, knowing the saccharine sentiment could be no one else’s.

“Yes,” he said, then pulled her close. Her breath caught. Dear God, he was going to kiss her. But no. Instead, he reached up and tucked the lilac into the ribbon of her bonnet. Its lush scent—a childhood favorite—wafted down to her, and she smiled.

Simon took her chin in his hand, tilted her head slightly, and surveyed his work. But only briefly, for his gaze soon dropped to meet hers. The look in his eyes intensified. It was a look she’d seen before, and combined with his touch on her face, it set up a fluttering in her stomach.

He didn’t move and didn’t speak. One hand held her elbow, the other cradled her face. His eyes flickered down to her mouth. His breathing became labored, and his brow knotted up as though he was in pain. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, with a throaty undercurrent of sensuality.

“I’ve tried so hard,” he said. “I’ve wanted to be a gentleman. I haven’t wanted to give you the wrong impression, after all you told me last night. But I do not believe I can bear it another moment, Eleanor. I have to kiss you.”

She could not have spoken if she tried. She found she wanted him to kiss her again, wanted it badly, against all judgment and prudence and caution. She didn’t care anymore about what it meant or what else might happen, and only wanted to yield to the powerful yearning that coursed through her blood. The fluttering in her belly had moved up into her breast and her throat, and if he didn’t kiss her soon she thought she might go mad.
Just kiss me,
she wanted to scream.

He must have read the plea in her eyes, for he brought his mouth down and kissed her. Softly at first, tasting, testing, teasing. His lips were supple and dry and moved over hers in a gentle exploration that was as different from their last fiery kiss as night from day. Still cradling her face in one hand, he explored her lips with his own, slowly, tenderly, paying special tribute to her upper lip, which he grazed and nibbled and sucked with exquisite delicacy, as though it were a sweetmeat.

Eleanor was like an ascetic in the desert, parched and dry, who’d been given a flask of water. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she’d been. She gave a little moan of pleasure, and he pulled her closer, taking the hand away from her face and wrapping it tight around her back. And before she even realized it, her own arms had snaked around his neck, pulling him down. Her fingers reached up to twine in his hair. He murmured her name against her lips, then deepened the kiss, coaxing her mouth open and gently caressing her tongue with his.

Eleanor had been ready to rush it, to drink great gulps of him, to get drunk on him, to give in mindlessly to all the passion she’d stifled for so long. But he kept it slow and easy and gentle, and it was wonderful. A thousand times more wonderful than the kiss at Buxton with all its blind passion. This time they were both aware of each other, of what they did. It was almost unbearably delicious. Her bones began to melt, and she felt as if she might collapse in a heap were Simon not holding her so tightly.

She had no idea how long they lingered against that wall, kissing and kissing, with the music and merriment of the fete wrapped around them. When Simon finally brought it to an end, he gave her one last soft kiss, pulled away slightly, then gave her another, as though he could not bring himself to end it.

Eleanor was breathless when it was over, her
mind a whirl of emotions, her body throbbing with sensation. Though it had been many years, it was a familiar, heady feeling, one she had never thought to experience again. She had almost believed she was no longer capable of such raw sensuality, that something inside her had shriveled up and died long ago. To discover it had not brought a sting of tears to the back of her eyes. She turned away so he would not see.

Simon would have none of her reticence, however, and took her chin in his hand and brought her face around to look at him. His eyes had grown heavy-lidded and darkened to the blue of twilight.

“Lord, Eleanor, I have wanted to do that for so long. Please don’t look away. Don’t be ashamed.”

She wasn’t, but did feel a twinge of embarrassment that she had given in so boldly. “I’m not ashamed, Simon. Just surprised. It was…lovely.”

“More than lovely. It was perfect. Or something like that. God, for once I’m bereft of words.”

She pulled away, still confused about how she felt. “I think we should go.”

“Eleanor. Please don’t close up on me again.”