Patrica Rice (25 page)

Peter released Cecily and she practically leapt from his arms, placing her hands on her hips and glaring from one man to the other. "You're both insufferable. I have half a mind to sell this place and find myself some nice little modern house somewhere peaceful, where I don't have to put up with insufferable servants and guests."

The wind gave one final shriek through the gables then settled into a gentle rustling through the heavy draperies. Peter pinned Hodges with a look. "Out," he ordered, "or she'll have the house splintering around us."

The giant nodded as if fully understanding the warning. "I'll not apologize. It's been a week or better."

"I was sick in bed, you fool." Peter's tone wasn't as harsh as his words. When Cecily gave him one of her "I told you so" looks and started around him, Peter caught her arm and jerked his head at Hodges. "You'd better find some way of getting those valuables back to their owners. You won't be needing them any longer.''

Cecily gasped, but Hodges nodded and walked out, leaving the pair of them to fight it out alone.

"Hodges wouldn't do something like that!" she protested at once, walking from Peter and toward the dying embers of the fire.

"For you, he would do anything." Peter followed her, taking the poker from her hand and throwing a handful of coal on the ashes. "Tell me about Lady Honora."

That startled her. Instead of moving away again, she felt his forehead. "You are not feverish."

Peter caught her hand and held it between his, gazing down at her searchingly. Her eyes were almost feverishly bright, and a hint of color stained her cheeks, but otherwise she appeared the same docile nurse who had lightened so many of his days. "No, I am not feverish. Actually, I believe I have just come to my senses these last hours. Will you find it very difficult to think of me as a husband?"

Cecily turned her head away and answered the easier question. "I told you that Lady Honora was the one who had this cottage built for her children, so they could be closer to their father when he was in London. It was a long time ago, back before Cromwell's reign. They were Catholics, you see."

Peter led her to the chair nearest the fire, sat down, and pulled her into his lap. The feel of her small rump against his thighs stirred more primitive desires, but he persisted. "Go on."

Cecily sent him a strange look, but seeing the determination in his jaw, she settled against his shoulder and continued. "The earl fought against Cromwell's armies. You know your history. It was a lost cause. The earl was seriously wounded in battle, but he escaped and returned here. Unfortunately, there were soldiers following him." Cecily suddenly pulled from Peter's arms and leapt up to go to the huge, faded carpet in the room's center.

Before Peter knew what she was doing, she jerked back a corner of the carpet, revealing a sagging square of floorboard beneath. Even in the dim light he could see that one section was different from the other.

"She hid him down there. It had been obvious for a long time that such a hiding place might be necessary, and Lady Honora had it built with the cottage. Family history has it that she had just pulled the carpet back in place and gone upstairs to comfort the children when the soldiers arrived. Not knowing the earl had returned, the servants had them wait in here while they sent upstairs for her."

Peter could still see the hauntingly vivid image of the woman floating down those stairs, her expression calm but panic flowing from her like perfume. That had been what Lady Honora must have looked like, but he still couldn't make himself believe he had seen a ghost. She was too vibrantly alive to be dead.

Cecily threw the carpet back down and settled in a chair beside him. "The story says that she greeted the soldiers, told them she had been informed of her husband's death, and when they refused to believe her and threatened to burn the house down around her, she merely asked if she might get the children and servants out first. I've tried to imagine what it must have been like, knowing your husband was lying injured and possibly dying beneath your feet, while you invite an army to burn the house down around his head. She must have been an incredible woman. Had to have been, because the soldiers believed her and walked out, leaving the cottage and everyone in it unscathed."

As she talked, Peter had the feeling that the Chelmsby family must have included a number of incredible women through the years. He remembered the tale of the woman who had hidden the soldier in '45. And the one who had hidden the highwayman. Now he understood how they had done it. And Cecily, delicate, fragile Cecily, had raced to keep him from encountering Acton and his ambush. Even more, she had managed to keep this crumbling cottage together on her own, from sheer willpower alone, he suspected.

"Do the Chelmsby women make it a practice to hide their loved ones from the law?" he asked when she fell silent.

Cecily's lips tilted slightly in amusement as she read his meaning and met his eyes. "History has it that Lady Honora protects those who will protect her home.''

"But you don't believe in ghosts," he stated flatly.

"I don't believe in ghosts." She stood up, forcing him to do so also. "And now I believe it is time to get some rest. I am sorry you had to suffer the humiliation of Acton's arrest on my account. I had no idea that he would take the reported theft so far. I will not blame Hodges for reporting it. He is extremely loyal and thought you were taking advantage of me. I shouldn't think he was guilty of highway robbery, though."

"He was not in his bed that night," Peter informed her gently. When she still seemed intent on leaving, Peter stopped her escape by the simple expedient of standing in front of her. "Cecily, I meant what I said earlier. I have no background, but I have an honest name and enough wealth to keep you comfortably. I hope you can bring yourself to consider my suit."

Cecily flushed as she observed the sincerity in Peter's eyes, then looked away again. "You are only saying that because you feel obligated. We both know that is nonsense. Do not press me on the matter anymore."

Peter wanted to catch her in his arms and persuade her with kisses, but he could see the excitement had drained her, and he would not heap more distress upon her; he moved aside to let her pass.

The clouds broke as she drifted from the room, and she walked through a patch of moonlight from the window. He could see quite plainly that she wasn't the silvered shadow from the painting, but a flesh-and-blood woman with a haunting beauty he was just learning to recognize. He didn't want to think of a future without her in it.

But Peter let her go without protest. Quietly, he checked the latches on the windows and doors, noted that the brass urn seemed to be quite securely attached to the sideboard
and went up to the room he had used the prior week.

Despite the furious emotions of the day and the physical exhaustion that usually made it impossible for him to relax, Peter fell asleep quickly upon hitting the soft pillow of his bed. After only a week in this place, he felt at home here. Perhaps someone who hadn't known a true home in years found it easy to adopt any semblance of permanence. And Rosebud Cottage provided more than a semblance of permanence. Centuries-old timber creaked over his head as he drifted into sleep, and he thought of the sounds as music to his ears.

He wasn't at all certain what woke him later. The wind had died and the moon had fallen lower in the sky, creating dancing shadows through the uncurtained window. Peter woke with a start and gazed around, suddenly certain that someone was in the room with him.

He found her waiting in the corner, watching him with a fond smile. He still couldn't believe that she was a ghost. He couldn't quite make out the pattern of her dress, but he knew nothing of women's fashions anyway. Whatever she wore suited her; she moved with the same gentle grace as Cecily did as she went out the opened door.

He was quite certain he had closed that door before he retired, but the doors in old houses were notorious for not fastening tightly. Jerking on his trousers, Peter followed Lady Honora into the hallway. There was no panic in her tonight. Even as the house rested, so did she appear calm and at peace. She seemed quite alive to him, beckoning with a smile that made his throat dry and his loins tight. He could easily follow a woman like that to the ends of the earth.

Instead, he followed her to the doorway at the end of the hall, the one he had once carried Cecily through. The door fell open, but when Peter thought he had caught up with her, the lady was gone. To his astonishment, he found himself standing before the draped bed where Cecily slept, and even as he watched, her eyes fluttered open to find him there.

It was then that he understood. He didn't know how he understood, but he did. The same look that had been in the lady's eyes was in Cecily's now as she looked up at him and made no protest at his appearance. When he sat down on the bed's edge and reached for her, she came to him easily, sliding into his arms as if she belonged there. Her kisses were inexperienced, but her passions were not. Peter groaned and clutched her against his naked chest, resting his chin against her head to keep from dishonoring her further.

"One of your names must be Honora," he murmured against her hair, trying not to feel the pounding of her heart through the thin nightdress. She was slender, but not as fragile in his arms as he had imagined. He could feel the strength in her embrace as she wrapped her arms around him.

Cecily looked up then, studying the square line of his jaw, trying not to flush at the sight of his wholly improper state of undress. "How did you know?"

"A lady told me." Unable to resist any longer, Peter returned his mouth to the parted surprise of hers and placed his claim.

Cecily never noticed when the covers between them tumbled to the floor. The dream she had been having for so many long nights had finally come true, and she felt more alive than she had for her entire life as she felt the solidity of Peter's warm flesh against hers. Tomorrow, she would wonder what had drawn him here. Tonight, she would take what he had to give.

She shuddered with rapture as the warmth of his fingers closed over her breasts. It was as if she had always known it would be like this, and her hands caressed his hair and held him in her arms as their bodies learned what their souls already knew.

And the old house sighed and chuckled and settled contentedly on its foundations as the lovers discovered each other and themselves. The moon drifted to bed, leaving the warmth of darkness to cover them.

Copyright © 2011 by Patricia Rice

Originally published by Signet in collections: A Regency Valentine, A Wedding Bouquet, and Full Moon Magic

Electronically published in 2011 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.