The Taste of Innocence (5 page)

She sat back and watched him manage the tiller. Watched the wind of their passage ruffle his golden locks; she didn’t want to think what her own coiffure must look like.

“Do you miss this when you’re in London?”

His eyes, very gray now that they were on the water, swung to her face. “Yes.” The wind snatched the word away. He shifted closer, leaning as he tacked; she moved nearer the better to hear.

“I’ve always loved the feeling of running before the wind, when the sail fills and the hull lifts, then slices through the water. You can feel the power, you can harness it, but it’s not something you can control. It always feels like a blessing, whenever I’m out here on a day like this.” He met her eyes. “As if the gods are smiling.”

She smiled back, restraining her whipping hair as they reached the end of their eastward leg and he shifted to tack. And then they were racing away again, faster, farther. She leaned back and laughed, looking up at the clouds that careened overhead, then gasping as a larger wave struck and they jolted, then flew anew.

The gods continued to smile for the next hour.

Again and again, she found herself gazing at Charlie, a silly smile on her lips as she drank in the sight of him, his hair whipped wild, gray eyes narrowed against the spray, shoulders flexing, arms powerfully bracing as he managed the tiller; never before had she seen the Viking side of him more transparently on display. Time and again she’d catch herself mooning and look away, only to have her eyes drift back to their obsession.

At first she thought her awareness was one-sided, then she realized that whenever she moved to assist with the sail, his gaze traveled over her, lingering on her breasts, her hips, her legs as she stretched and shifted. That gaze felt strangely hard, possessive; she told herself it was her imagination running wild with thoughts of Vikings and plunder, yet she couldn’t stop a reactive shiver every time he glanced at her that way. Couldn’t stop her nerves from tightening in expectation each time he gave an order.

Luckily, he knew nothing of that, so she felt free to let her nerves and senses indulge as they might, while she pondered the implications.

They fell into an easy partnership; she did, indeed, remember enough to act as crew, ducking low when the boom passed overhead, deftly taking in slack in the appropriate ropes.

By the time Charlie turned the bow for the pier, she felt wrung out yet exhilarated. Although they’d spoken little, she’d learned more than she’d expected; the day had revealed aspects of him she hadn’t known were there.

The boat was gliding toward the pier on a slack sail when, leaning back against the side and looking up at the town, she noticed a gentleman with another man on the shelf of land where Charlie was proposing to build his new ware house. Shading her eyes, she peered. “Someone’s looking over your land.”

Charlie followed her gaze. He frowned. “Who is he—the gentleman? Do you know?”

She stared, taking in the neat attire, the fair hair. She shook her head. “He’s not anyone local. That’s Skilling, the land agent, with him.”

Charlie was forced to shift his attention to the rapidly nearing pier. “I bought the land through Skilling, so he knows it’s mine.”

“Perhaps the other gentleman is looking to build ware houses, too?”

Charlie shot a narrow-eyed glance at the mysterious newcomer. He and Skilling were now leaving the vacant land, heading not to the wharves but into the town. “Perhaps.”

As he guided the boat into her mooring, he made a mental note to ask Skilling who the gentleman was. A nonlocal gentleman—if Sarah didn’t know him at least by sight he was definitely not local—who happened to have an interest in land and/or ware houses in Watchet was someone he needed to identify, to know about.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to speak with Skilling now; the sun was already slanting low. He needed to get Sarah home before the light faded.

He leapt up to the pier and lashed the craft securely. Sarah finished furling the sail, then reached up and gave him her hands. He lifted her easily, balancing her until she steadied, her soft curves pressing fleetingly against him.

Desire leapt.

He felt it surge and sweep through him, urging him to lock her against him, bend his head and take her lips—and plunder. The power of the impulse rocked him; its hunger shocked him.

Unaware, she laughed up at him; he forced a smile at the musical sound. He looked into her eyes, alight with simple joy—and cursed the fact that kissing her witless in full view of the multitudes bustling about the docks was something he really couldn’t do.

Gritting his teeth, ruthlessly ignoring his baser self, the increasingly compulsive need to kiss her again, he set her back from him.

“Come.” His voice had lowered. Drawing in a breath, he took her hand. “We’d better head back to the manor.”

The next day was Sunday. As he usually did when in the country, Charlie attended morning ser vice at the church at Combe Florey with those of his family residing at Morwellan Park—on this occasion his mother, brother, and youngest sister, Augusta.

His other three sisters—Alathea, the eldest, and Mary and Alice—were married and living elsewhere. Although Alathea, married to Gabriel Cynster and mostly resident at Casleigh to the south, lived close, she and the Cynsters attended ser vices at the church near Casleigh.

A fact for which Charlie was grateful; Alathea’s eyes were uncommonly sharp, especially when it came to him. Throughout his minority she’d guarded his interests zealously; it was largely due to her that there’d been an estate for him to inherit. For that, he could never thank her enough, yet while he understood that she had a vested interest in his life—in the well-being of the earldom and therefore him as the earl—her acuity made him wary.

He didn’t, at this point, wish undue attention focused on himself and Sarah.

Sitting in the ornately carved Morwellan pew, in the front to the left of the aisle, he listened to the sermon with barely half an ear. From the corner of his eye he could see Sarah’s bright head as she sat in the Conningham pew, the other front pew, across the aisle.

She’d smiled at him when he’d followed his mother down the nave to take his seat. He’d smiled easily back, all too conscious that the gesture was a mask; inwardly he hadn’t felt like smiling at all.

Gaining time alone was proving difficult, time alone in which he could further his aim. Her aim was progressing reasonably well, but his aim required greater privacy than he’d yet been able to arrange.

Yesterday he’d hoped that when they’d returned to the manor, he would have a moment when he walked her to the door—one moment he could grasp to kiss her again. But her sisters had come running from the house; they’d all but mobbed his curricle, even though there’d been only two of them. From what he’d gathered, they’d been harboring designs on his grays. They’d smothered him with questions, many ridiculous, but he hadn’t missed the sharp glances they’d thrown Sarah and him.

Clary and Gloria were now wondering. A dangerous situation. When it came to those two, he shared Sarah’s reservations.

The ser vice finally ended; he rose and escorted his mother up the aisle with the rest of the congregation falling in behind, the Conninghams foremost among them.

Instinct prodded him to turn and smile at Sarah, almost directly behind him with only her parents between—but Clary and Gloria were immediately behind her. Lips compressing, he told himself to wait; they’d be able to chat once they gained the church lawn.

But the Combe Florey church was well attended, the congregation thick with the local gentry; he and his mother were in instant demand. As he was so rarely in the country these days, there were many who wanted a word with him.

Tamping down his unruly impatience—Sarah and her family were coming to lunch at the Park—he forced himself to do the socially correct thing and chat with Sir Walter Criscombe about the foxes, and with Henry Wallace about the state of the road.

Yet even while discussing the qualities of macadam, he was acutely conscious that Sarah was close. She stood a yard behind him; straining his ears, he caught snippets of her conversation with Mrs. Duncliffe, the vicar’s wife.

The tenor of that conversation—about the orphanage at Crowcombe—recalled the impression he’d received at the Finsburys’; while watching Sarah dance, then standing by her side chatting to others, he’d noticed that she was respected, and often deferred to, by their peers, by the unmarried gentlemen and young ladies of their wider social circle, that her quiet assurance was admired by many.

From Mrs. Duncliffe’s tone, it seemed that the older generation, too, accorded Sarah a status beyond her years. She was twenty-three, yet it seemed she’d carved a place for herself in the local community somewhat at odds with those tender years and her as-yet-unmarried state.

Precisely the right sort of status on which, as his countess, she could build. He hadn’t given a thought to such aspects when fixing on her as his wife, but he knew such nebulous qualities mattered.

Finally, Henry Wallace was satisfied. They parted. Expectation surging, Charlie turned to Sarah—only to discover her father gathering his family preparatory to herding them to their waiting carriage.

Smiling, Lord Conningham nodded his way. “We’ll see you shortly, Charlie.”

His jaw set, but he forced a smile in reply. He caught Sarah’s eye, caught the understanding quirk of her lips; he half bowed, then, his expression impassive, turned to gather his own family and head for Morwellan Park.

Sarah relaxed into a comfortable armchair in the drawing room at the Park, and rendered mute thanks that neither Clary nor Gloria, nor Augusta nor Jeremy, had yet tumbled to Charlie’s intention. She’d wondered if this luncheon would prove hideously awkward, but the meal had passed as over the years so many similar Sunday luncheons had, in pleasant and easy comfort.

The invitation had arrived yesterday while she’d been in Watchet with Charlie, but such short notice wasn’t unusual; the Morwellans and the Conninghams had been sharing Sunday luncheons every few months for as long as she could recall. Her mother and Charlie’s were contemporaries, and their childrens’ ages overlapped; naturally the families, both long-standing in the area and with estates abutting, had drawn close.

Observing her parents and Charlie’s mother, Serena, grouped about the fireplace and discussing some tonnish scandal, Sarah felt sure Serena, at least, knew. Or had guessed. There’d been a hint of encouragement, of a certain unvoiced hope in the way Serena had squeezed her hand when she’d arrived, in the warmth of the older woman’s smile. Serena approved of Charlie’s choice and would welcome Sarah as her daughter-in-law; all that had been conveyed without words. However, although comforting, the point was still moot. She had yet to learn what she needed to know.

She’d learned more about Charlie, but not the vital point. On that, she’d made very little headway.

“Sarah!” From the French door, Clary called, “We’re going to walk around the lake. Do you want to come?”

She smiled, shook her head, and waved off her sisters and Augusta, one year older than Clary and shortly to embark on her first season. Jeremy had buttonholed Charlie at the other end of the room; the instant he saw the three girls step outside, Jeremy grinned, said something to Charlie, then turned and slipped out of another door, escaping while he could.

The door closed silently; Sarah’s gaze had already shifted to Charlie. He glanced at their parents, engrossed in their discussion, then came down the long room to her side.

Halting, he held out a hand. His blue-gray eyes trapped hers. “Come. Let’s go for a walk, too.”

Sarah considered his face, his eyes; she was perfectly certain he didn’t intend to join their sisters. Anticipation leaping, she put her hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. “Where to?” she asked, as if only vaguely interested.

He gestured to the French doors. “Let’s start with the terrace.”

Without looking back—she had no need to catch any hopeful glances their parents might throw their way—she let him lead her out onto the flagstones. He waited while she hitched her shawl about her shoulders, then offered his arm. She took it, and they strolled side by side along the terrace.

Their sisters were three small figures dwindling in size as they followed the path that bordered the ornamental lake.

“Pray they don’t see us and turn back.”

She glanced up; Charlie, eyes narrowed, was watching the other three. Smiling, she looked ahead. “They’re discussing Augusta’s come-out. It would require something significantly startling to distract them from that.”

He humphed. “True.” He glanced at her as they continued along the terrace. “You don’t appear as afflicted as the norm when it comes to feminine mania for the Season.”

She shrugged. “I enjoyed my seasons well enough, but after the first blush, the balls are just balls, the parties just more glittering examples of the parties we have here. If one had a reason for being there, I suspect it might be different, but behind the glamor I found it rather empty—devoid of purpose, if you like.”

He raised his brows, but made no reply.

They reached the end of the terrace; instead of turning back, he led her around the corner where the terrace continued down the south side of the house.