A Midsummer's Kiss (Farthingale Series Book 4) (6 page)

He eased up against his pillows, wincing at the pain that reared its ugly head each time he moved. “As I said, despite wanting to shoot me for tricking her into a betrothal, there have been occasional moments when she’s wanted to put her arms around me to comfort me.”

“That was only yesterday while you were writhing on the street.”

He shrugged, trying to sound casual, but his voice came out gruffer than intended and with a raspy edge to it. “Her touch felt good, Grandmama.”
So good.

“Oh, dear,” she said in a whisper. There was a tremor to her voice, as though his words had affected her. He hadn’t meant to distress her, but he knew that he had when her eyes began to glisten with tears. “You never knew a parent’s love. I should have taken up the slack after your mother died and your father…” Her voice trailed off, for his father—Eloise’s youngest son—had abandoned him.

They’d had this conversation before. He’d never blamed her for his situation, but she always insisted on taking the blame. He sighed. “You were always loving and kind to me.”

“Not kind enough. I should have done more. I should have asked your uncle,” she said, referring to her eldest son, the Earl of Trent, “to take you in. But we never realized how unhappy you were growing up with your mother’s family. At the time we thought it made perfect sense for you to live with them since you were to inherit the Scottish barony.”

“I would have done the same were I in your position.”

“No, you would have been more attentive and noticed that—”

“Stop, Grandmama,” he said gently. “Aunt Jenny and Granduncle Silas fed and clothed me and provided a roof over my head. They were severe, but not cruel. It was the only way either of them knew how to be. Perhaps things might have been different if Silas had ever had children of his own. But he never married and therefore depended upon his nieces to care for him.”

“And then your mother died, leaving the burden to Jenny alone.”

He nodded. “The double burden of a demanding old man and a helpless infant. What’s done is done. I wasn’t about to dishonor my mother’s memory by complaining about her family. Nor could I blame Aunt Jenny for resenting me. She was young and ought to have been attending assemblies and musicales instead of sitting trapped with us on a secluded baronial estate.”

Eloise’s response was cut short by Laurel’s return.

Graelem was relieved to end the conversation. He turned his attention to Laurel and smothered a grin. The girl had an adorably smug look on her face. Ah, he enjoyed looking at her wonderfully expressive face. One day, she might look upon him with tender passion. Right now, he was the only one fighting off passionate urges. Laurel’s body was like a siren song calling to him with each graceful sway of her hips. “What deadly dull tale have you selected, lass?”

She tipped her chin upward and cast him a victorious grin. “Your grandmother mentioned that you enjoy Shakespeare, so I chose to read
Titus Andronicus
.”

He glanced at the freshly baked pies Watling had wheeled in on the tea cart. They were still hot, which intensified their cinnamon and apple aroma. The delightful scent tickled his nostrils.
Titus Andronicus
had a gory scene with a pie central to the story. Did Laurel know what that tragedy was about? Or know that two of the characters were baked in a pie and given to their unknowing mother to eat?

Eloise resumed her seat beside the door. “Laurel dear,” she spoke up with concern, “I don’t think this play is appropriate. It—”

“It’s one of my favorites,” Laurel insisted, plunking herself down on the stool and opening the book.

Graelem smothered another grin. Laurel was the sort of girl who only became further entrenched in her position if told she should not or could not do something. It hadn’t taken Graelem long to figure out that quirk in her character, and he was surprised that his grandmother had yet to discover it. Then again, Laurel adored Eloise and always sought to please her.

“Is there a reason you chose this particular story?” he asked. “Other than simply because I enjoy his works?”

She blushed. “Yes.”

He waited for her to explain, and when no explanation was forthcoming, he merely arched an eyebrow. “Very well, get on with it. And when you tire of reading, we can simply talk. I’d like to learn more about you.”

“I have no wish to learn anything about you.” She tipped her chin upward again. “We won’t be marrying. I hope never to see you again once my punishment is over.” She paused a moment and looked down at her toes. “But thank you for saving Brutus.”

She paused again, raised her gaze to his, and opened her mouth to speak. Shaking her head, she clamped her mouth shut. He grew curious when she repeated the process, opening that perfectly shaped mouth of hers that was meant to be kissed often and thoroughly, and then quickly closing it. “What’s on your mind, lass?”

She fidgeted a moment, took a deep breath, and then looked him squarely in the eye. “Will you sell Brutus to me once Father calms down and permits me to have him back?”

“No.”

She shot to her feet and was about to drop the forgotten
Titus Andronicus
on her toes, but he caught the book in time. “Hell and damnation,” he said with a yelp, for the quick movement jolted his leg. He tried to ignore the stabbing pains coursing through his body, but the struggle left him in a cold sweat. Moisture beaded across his brow.

He grabbed her hand when she started to turn away. “I’ll
give
him back to you,” he explained between clenched teeth, still fighting to subdue his pain.
Blessed Scottish saints! Every movement hurts.
“I didn’t pay for him and won’t turn a profit at your expense.”

She stopped trying to draw her hand away. Instead, she wrapped her fingers in his and stared at him, trying to decide whether or not he could be trusted. “You
did
pay for him,” she said in a whisper of contrition. “You paid dearly with your broken leg.”

He may have been physically hurt, but she was hurting too and unable to forgive herself for the accident.
Damn.
When she looked at him in that soft way, he was in danger of giving her anything she wished. “I didn’t spend any blunt on him and won’t make you spend any either. He’ll be returned to you at the proper time. Don’t ever offer to buy him from me, lass. He’ll be yours once your father gives his permission. You obviously love that beast. I won’t keep him from you.”

He watched her expressive face, the flash of confusion in her exquisite eyes warring with the relief and gratitude she obviously felt.

She sighed softly and leaned toward him.

Was she about to give him another prim kiss on his cheek?

She leaned closer still, and then suddenly remembered that her hand was still wrapped in his. She hastily removed it and took the book back in her grasp.

The incredible feel of her slender fingers grazing his rough skin remained with him. He fought off the wave of heat now coursing through his body. Could he still blame this hot attraction on the laudanum working its way through him? Or on the fact that he
hadn’t
taken any laudanum today to stem his pain?

He didn’t want his heart involved in this marriage business.

He couldn’t afford to like her.

Stick to your purpose.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so unpleasant to you today,” Laurel said, withdrawing a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dipping it into the ewer near his bedside that had been freshly filled with water shortly before she’d arrived. After wringing out the moisture, she applied it to his forehead and gently wiped the sweat off his brow. Her light touch felt so good.
Too good.

He needed a girl to marry, not one to love.

Graelem watched as she set aside the handkerchief and returned to her seat on the stool. She sighed softly, clasped her hands, and then once again stared at her toes. “I chose
Titus Andronicus
for two reasons.” She spoke so quietly, he almost missed what she was saying. “The first reason is that I thought Shakespeare’s classical tragedies would bore you to tears.”

“Because you believe me to be a bull-headed, uncouth lout. My grandmother thinks the same of me, so I suppose I am.” He arched an eyebrow. “And the second?”

Although her face was still angled to gaze at the floor, he caught the rosy stain of a blush on her cheeks. “My parents refused to allow any of us to read this particular Shakespeare tragedy. I’ve been curious about it ever since.”

He let out a hearty laugh. “Very efficient of you, lass. Dispatching two birds with one stone. But there’s good reason for their admonition. It’s a cruel and violent play. Not for tender young hearts or delicate sensibilities.”

“I won’t be afraid.” Her chin shot up again. “It’s just a play.”

He glanced at the uncut pie on the tea tray. The enticing aroma of cinnamon and apples still filled the air. “Hand me the book.”

She hesitated only a moment before doing so.

He began to read her the part where the queen was told her children had been baked in the pie she’d just eaten. Laurel shot to her feet. “Wait! Let me see that.” She grabbed it from his hands and began to silently peruse the passage, her eyes widening and gracefully curved mouth now pursed in disgust as she snapped the book shut. “You weren’t making it up.”

“No, lass. I’m an oaf, remember? I could never write or express myself so eloquently.” He leaned over and reached for the cake knife to slice himself a bit of pie. Perhaps it wasn’t an appropriate moment, but he was hungry and the scent of apples was tickling his nostrils. “Care for some? I promise, there are no children baked inside.”

“Graelem! Really, I must protest,” his grandmother intoned from across the room. “That’s too, too ghoulish of you!”

Laurel didn’t appear nearly as overset, for she was merely shaking her head and laughing. It was a sweet, conciliatory laugh acknowledging that she’d been caught in this scheme of her own making. She leaned forward and inhaled the scent of the pie. “I’d love some. Here, let me help you.” She placed her hand over his, the casual act setting off a cannon burst within his chest.
Damn.
Why was he so affected by this girl? The pain, no doubt. It was addling his senses.

He had no intention of falling in love with his wife.

Assuming he and Laurel ever made it to the altar.

He ceded the chore of cutting the pie to her capable hands, and then groaned inwardly when her pink tongue darted out to lick a few stray crumbs off her finger. His entire body caught fire. Fortunately, the girl had no idea the impact she was having on his composure.

Unfortunately, he understood exactly what the girl was doing to his composure.

Blessed Scottish saints!
This was only his first day with Laurel. What would tomorrow bring?

THE NEXT
FEW DAYS
were a disaster in Graelem’s mind, for Laurel refused to engage in conversation and spent the entire time reading
The Song of Roland
to him. Over and over again. By day four, he swore that if she walked in with the damn poem again, he was going to toss it out the window. Or toss himself out the window if he couldn’t wrest the book out of her hands.

His own grandmother had abandoned him to his punishment by day two. She had been slipping out of his chamber each day shortly after Laurel’s arrival, knowing the girl’s intent and not about to suffer through hours of that wretched poetry recitation along with him.

So much for being chaperoned.

Laurel’s attention had been so focused on her mission to make him rue their betrothal that she’d never noticed they’d been left alone each afternoon. He’d survived these visits by closing his eyes and listening to the soft purr of her voice. While she primly read to him, he fantasized about peeling the fashionable day gown off her splendid body and exploring each delicate curve and perfect line of her warm, pink skin with his lips and tongue.

The innocent would bludgeon him if she ever realized what he was thinking.

He was an uncouth lout and proud of it.

And now they were at day five and Laurel was late. He’d earlier washed and shaved, and then donned a fresh nightshirt because he still couldn’t fit his splinted leg into a pair of trousers. Now restless, he eased from his bed and carefully lowered his leg to avoid putting any weight on his foot as it touched the floor. After some false starts, he’d learned to shift his weight onto his healthy leg without too much difficulty.

Once standing, he reached for his dressing gown and then his crutches. He’d just secured the belt of his dressing gown around his waist and was about to make his way to the window on his crutches when his door flew open and Laurel burst in. Would the girl never learn the art of knocking?

A mere glance at Laurel’s reddened eyes and tear-dampened cheeks warned him this was no time for glib remarks. “Lass, what’s wrong?” On instinct, he set aside his crutches and opened his arms to her.

She let out a sob and flew into his offered embrace, her riot of dark gold curls unbound and flowing down her back.

“Blessed saints, what’s happened?” He wrapped her in his arms, pleasantly surprised and at the same time dreading the news that had put her there. “Is it Brutus?” He didn’t know her father very well, but the man didn’t seem the sort to go back on his word and have the beast destroyed.

“No,” she said between sniffles and great gulps of air. She was a little thing and the top of her head barely reached his shoulder, but there was a liveliness about her—a stubbornness, too—that gave her a presence beyond her slender size.

“Has someone been hurt?” His heart lodged in his throat at her nod, his first thoughts drifting to Laurel’s sisters and her parents. Despite their lack of conversation over the past few days, he knew that her family was important to her. He wanted to press her for details, but decided against it. She was distraught and wanted to be held. Indeed, she needed to be held so badly that even his odious touch was acceptable.

“He didn’t have to go,” she said in a strained whisper, burrowing her soft body against his hard frame as though clinging to him would somehow diminish her pain. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, and a warm breeze lightly blew across her golden curls. The beauty of this day was at odds with her anguish. There ought to have been dark clouds and a tempest raging outside, for the girl was in such torment it was clear something very bad had happened to someone dear to her heart.

Yet in her torment, she’d run to him.

Did it signify anything?

Would she ever admit to herself that it did?

He ran a caressing hand through her soft, silken tresses. “Lass, I’m so sorry.”

“He could have bought his way out, but refused.” She spoke into his chest so that he felt the movement of her lips against his heart.
Damn.
“Julia fainted when she heard the news. She’s Uncle Harrison’s wife. They have a young son. Little Harry. Why did he have to go? And now no one knows where he is, only that he was wounded in battle and possibly captured by the French!”

Laurel was talking about her uncle’s military service. The Farthingales were wealthy and could have paid to avoid sending any family member to fight in the war against Napoleon. Obviously, Harrison Farthingale was a man of honor who was determined to dutifully serve his country.

Indeed, he was now paying a dear price for that duty. Would the wife and young son he’d left behind ever see him again? Graelem had experienced enough battles during his service in the Peninsular war to know the odds were against Harrison’s safe return.

Laurel was still sobbing against his chest as she fitfully continued. “My mother and the female elders are tending to Julia. Daisy’s looking after little Harry. The poor thing, he’s so scared. He’s holding onto Daisy for dear life and refuses to go into anyone else’s arms. The men have gone off to the regimental headquarters to find out more information, and the twins were sent to Rose’s to spend the night.”

She let out a string of hiccups and sniffles. “I… I felt so lost and useless. I didn’t know what to do… or where I should be.”

“Right here, lass.” He gently tipped her chin up so that her gaze met his, although he doubted she could see much through her tears. “I’m glad you came to me. This is where you belong. In my arms.”

“No, I can’t belong with you,” she said in a whispered groan, but her hands slid up his chest and her delicate fingers grazed the nape of his neck as she clung tighter and tighter to him until their bodies were flat against each other.

“You do, lass.” He had one arm around her slight waist and the other buried in her wild, tumbling curls without a clue as to what might happen next. He’d take his guidance from her.

She gazed up at him, her eyes at first reflecting her confusion and then subtly shifting to reflect something quite different. Something quite surprising.
Blessed Scottish saints!
He understood what she wanted, what she yearned for in that moment. She was asking him to kiss her. Silently pleading for him to kiss her in the hope it would ease her torment.

“Laurel… lass,” he said with an ache to his voice as he lowered his mouth to hers, the touch of his lips purposely restrained and gentle although his need was so raw and hungry that he had to struggle mightily to maintain his control.

His desire for the girl had been building over these past few days to a volcanic tension that needed little encouragement to erupt, but he knew that he had to hold back. Laurel sought comfort, not a quick tumble, no matter how desperately he yearned for it, or how confused and desperate she was to unburden the pain in her heart.

If mere kisses could melt away her unhappiness, he’d kiss her into eternity. But he knew it would take more. It would take love and that was something he couldn’t give her.

Not yet.

Not until he’d secured his inheritance.

For now, he’d give her his protection. He’d give her his strength.

But he couldn’t risk giving her his heart.

He pressed his lips more firmly against hers and felt the urgency of her own sweet lips against his.
This
Laurel truly was a danger to his heart. This Laurel who needed him fiercely and passionately could unravel all his plans. This Laurel who chose him to heal her and ease her terrible pain could ruin all he needed to accomplish within the month.

He could deny her nothing if he allowed himself to love
this
Laurel.

He deepened the kiss, allowing the heat of his lips to comfort hers, for hers were cold and trembling. But she responded with eager desperation as he probed with his tongue, opening her sweet mouth and inviting him in as though he belonged. As though he were the
only
man who could ever belong, the only man who mattered to her. It wasn’t possible. He’d never,
ever
mattered to anyone before.

Lord, she threw him off balance! It wasn’t only because he was leaning on one leg and would topple with her slightest push.

No one had ever made him feel needed or important. Not like this.

Is this what love feels like? This fierce protectiveness now stirring within me?

No, this was merely a foolish, lustful yearning and nothing more.

He refused to believe it was more.

Any female touch would have stirred the fire now raging inside him. If he repeated the thought often enough, he might actually believe it.

Not Laurel.

Any woman will do.

So long as she looks like Laurel and tastes of summer strawberries like Laurel and feels heavenly in his arms like Laurel.

Without breaking their kiss, he angled his body so that his weight rested against his bed’s footboard, and then he lifted Laurel by the waist and crushed her up against him. He wanted to swallow her up as badly as she’d wanted to be swallowed up inside him. Her body felt hot and alive against his, her ample breasts molding to his chest and her hands now restlessly roaming over his shoulders and back, then up again so that she wound her fingers in his hair.

“Kiss me again, Graelem,” she whispered when he forced himself to end the kiss before matters went too far. He didn’t wish to take advantage of her in this vulnerable state. He could have done anything to her and she would not have protested.

Even now, he felt the uneven heave of her breasts against his chest. He wanted to cup one of those lush mounds in his palm and run his thumb across its tip, teasing until it hardened beneath his touch. He ached to move lower and take the rosy tip in his mouth, coax breathless moans of pleasure out of her.

He couldn’t. Not now. Not like this.

She let out a whimper. “Graelem, I can’t bear the thought of losing him. I can’t bear the pain in my father’s eyes. I feel as though my heart is being savagely ripped apart and it hurts so much.”

“I know, lass.”

She’d never forgive him once her pain subsided. In another moment, the kiss they’d just shared would be a humiliating memory for her. He had to keep that in mind, for he’d already given her good reason to detest him.

He wasn’t certain what to do. Hold her? Kiss her again? Gently set her aside and step back? He simply didn’t know.

He had grown up in a very different family, one that hid all feelings. His mother’s family had been a cold, severe lot. Not exactly cruel, although he’d experienced more beatings than he thought justified. But life at Moray was harsh, so Jenny and Silas learned never to show their feelings or concerns, as though to express joy or sadness was somehow a sin.

Laurel was completely the opposite. If she felt something, she let you know it.

In truth, he liked that about her.

He liked so many things about her.

He kissed her again gently and began to ease her out of his arms with great reluctance. “Sit down, sweetheart.” He motioned to the chair beside his window. One of the footmen had set it there earlier this morning at his request, for he had been too restless to lie in bed with his damn leg elevated and had wanted to feel the warming touch of the sun upon his face. “Tell me about your uncle.”
Or not.
He wasn’t certain whether offering to listen was the right thing to say.

She nodded and hesitantly released her grasp on his shoulders, as though fearing she’d drown if she ever did let go of him. There was little water about, only the stream of her tears. She hiccupped, sighed, and nodded once again before moving to the chair.

He grabbed his crutches and followed, but remained standing and leaned against the window’s frame for support. He placed his weight on his good leg, hoping it would be enough to stem his discomfort for as long as the girl needed him beside her.

She let out a soft gasp and scrambled off the chair when his lame leg accidentally hit the wall, causing him to wince. “You should be the one to sit, Graelem.”

“No, lass. I’m fine.”
But you’re not.

“I’ll grab the stool. Then we can both be seated.” She cast him a hopeful smile. “And talk, if you truly don’t mind.”

He responded with an affectionate grin, pointing to his splinted leg and the sorry state of his attire. A nightshirt and dressing gown were not in the least fashionable or appropriate for a walk in the park. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m at your service. Go on, lass,” he prompted when she seemed uncertain where to begin. “Your uncle sounds like a fine man.”

“The best,” she said with a heartfelt ache to her voice. She took another moment to pick up the stool and set it by his chair, a task he would have done had he been able to get around without the use of his crutches. He offered to take the stool, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s too small for your large frame. You need a chair with a sturdy back to prop yourself up. You’re too big to catch if you should lose your balance and fall.”

He didn’t argue the matter, for she was right. He couldn’t bend his broken leg and was decidedly unsteady on or off his feet.

They sat a moment in silence until he prompted her again, careful to be gentle for she was still distraught. “Is he your favorite uncle?”

“In some ways,” she said with a nod, “but they’re all wonderful. Uncle Harrison is the most adventurous, always talking about someday exploring the pyramids and temples of ancient Egypt or traveling to the silk farms of China. The Chinese silks have long fascinated him, especially being in mercantile. His mind was always on whatever splendid new things the Farthingales could introduce to England.”

He listened while she spoke and subtly encouraged a shift in the topic to the rest of her family, especially curious about her parents and sisters. He smiled and made short comments as she told him stories about them, and then expanded the topic to include more Farthingale relations since there was so much more to her family than just her sisters and parents.

There were Oxfordshire Farthingales. Yorkshire and Devonshire Farthingales. These Farthingales were a boisterous and loving lot.