A Passionate Endeavor (9 page)

“I shall endeavor not to tear it to shreds in
frustration, Miss Kittridge.”

“I did not mean to suggest—”

“I understood you very well. Have no
fear.”

The male sex. She would never understand
them. This one in particular. His mood changed from anger to
teasing in a moment. It was very hard to follow along. On the one
hand she felt she must be deferential to his station, but on the
other, she had seen him for an entire month—in his bed, in his
nightshirt, in a fever, in a temper when awake, in blind terror
when he slept. She did not feel at all deferential to this man, she
felt protective. And so much more… A feeling she dared not
decipher. A feeling she dared not nurture.

“Thank you, Miss Kittridge, for your
kindness—your many kindnesses,” he said dryly, fingering the title
on the book’s cover. “Shall we meet again then the day after
tomorrow? To discuss the book, my dear Miss Blackmailer?”

“That would be pleasant, my lord.”

“So be it,” he said, tipping his head and
walking to the door.

She held her breath as she listened to the
muffled voice of Lord Huntington on the other side of the door
asking Doro to arrange for his horse to be returned to the abbey’s
stables. She exhaled all at once as she moved to the side of the
window. She watched his powerful broad back covered by his worn
green Rifleman’s uniform move away from the cottage. Something
about the way he held erect his wide shoulders which then narrowed
down to his slim hips and muscled legs made her shiver. He was
limping badly, leaning on a cane rather than the crutch she had
brought to the abbey. But she knew better than to have argued the
point. Charlotte knew to choose her battles wisely with the
stronger sex. She was amazed he had capitulated earlier.

He stopped just before coming to the end of
the walkway and turned, looking toward something in the distance.
Charlotte studied his noble profile. He looked like the statues
found within the pages of her art and sculpture books. The proud
brow, the strong nose, the full lips, and noble chin. A breeze
ruffled his hair before he set his hat on his head. Suddenly, he
turned and looked at her in the window. She did not have time to
duck into the folds of the curtain. He stared at her for the
longest moment, and she could not look away. And then he was gone,
without a smile or a tilt of the head.

He did not know what to make of it, he
thought, as he limped up the slope, moving at a snail’s pace, away
from the cottage. Why had she forced a book on him? He had long ago
given up any hopes of reading, and had been grateful when his very
last tutor of a string of them had convinced his father to stop
torturing him. He had been fifteen then.

Henceforth, he had spent twelve hours of
every four and twenty in the outdoor world, longer in the summer
months. He had loved the camaraderie of working alongside the
laborers, the shepherds, and the horses, and also the hours spent
surrounded by nature’s tranquility.

Those two years had been the sole period of
any sort of true happiness until the day Her Grace had insisted
he’d grown too wild. That day he had asked his father to buy him a
commission and falsify his abilities. After listening to Nicholas’s
plea, his father had consented without argument or pause. His
family had been glad to be rid of him—except Rosamunde, of course.
And Nicholas had been glad to go.

He cursed his ill fortune as the grade of the
hill increased in time to the ache in his thigh. He would be damned
if he would restrict himself to a “turn about the garden.” He had a
hankering for a long walk. And a long walk it would be— to the
lake. Nicholas stuffed the cursed volume into his breast pocket and
forced himself to increase his pace.

He made his way through the woodlands of
birch and oak, over the decaying fence, to the vast lake past the
crumbling folly. The sun’s rays burned through his many layers of
clothing. Out of breath, Nicholas stopped at the water’s edge,
threw down his cane, and shrugged out of his uniform. He didn’t
even stop to think, just peeled off all of it after unwinding the
bandages and shucking off his boots. The lake appeared dark green
and cool, the sun bouncing off the little wavelets.

He made a shallow dive, avoiding the murky
algae of the deeper water. The shock of the cold made his stroke
quicken through the water. He felt powerful again, for the first
time in a long while, as he let his upper body do almost all the
work of propelling him forward. He swam all the way to the center
of the lake, to the small island where he once collected duck eggs
in the summer months. Cook had always spoiled him with omelettes
when he had managed not to crack any on his return. A few geese
honked their displeasure at his intrusion. Nicholas searched the
favorite nesting areas and found caches of eggs.

“Have no fear, I shall not rob you of your
treasure,” he said to the ducks. And then with mock severity, “This
time.”

The opposite shore looked twice as far from
this vantage point, and he was tired. He lay down on the grassy
bank, under the dappled sunlight of a small tree, and dozed with
one arm flung over his eyes.

Why had she forced the book on him? He
understood little of the female mind. During his thirteen years as
an officer with the 95th Rifleman, he’d had little opportunity to
converse with gently bred females other than the bighearted wives,
of military men, who refused to be left behind. Oh, he was no
saint, he had slaked his thirst with one or two very willing women
who followed the drum, but the acts had not banished his
loneliness, and he’d taken a private oath of abstinence.

Why was she trying to help him? He feared she
might have taken a liking to him, the complete idiot that he was.
Perhaps that gentle kiss had been her first. He would have to take
care not to encourage her. In the past, it had been so easy. His
days in the army had kept him from all matrimonially minded
ladies.

Miss Kittridge did not know he would never
search the marriage mart. He must be careful not to bruise her
heart. She had been kind to him and he was grateful. He liked her.
She was a heady combination of childlike vulnerability and high
intelligence that he found hard to resist. But he could never
forget that his supreme failings were her strengths and her
passion.

Remembering her dazed expression and open and
full lips the morning he had dared to kiss her, he closed his eyes
and cursed. What had possessed him to complicate matters? He knew
very well that Charlotte Kittridge was the type of female ripe for
heartbreak. He must take care to rein in his appetite. He was
unworthy of her and would not hurt her for the world.

The sun was halfway into its descent to the
west when he opened his eyes. Nicholas took the coward’s way this
time, inching into the chilly lake water, feeling the mud and moss
between his toes before plunging in. Pulling himself up on the
outer bank, he tripped over an imbedded rock, the same rock that
had caused countless skinned knees in childhood. Without warning a
great surge of anger and frustration over all things that could not
be named took hold. Nicholas grasped the prominent edge of the dark
rock and pulled using all his back muscles. His wounded leg
pounding, knees shaking, he triumphantly pulled the offending
element from its niche. A conquering yell surged past his lips, and
he felt like one of those naked Indians he had heard inhabited the
colonies. Nicholas laughed out loud at his absurd behavior, then
hurried into his uniform.

“
I do not pretend to set people right, but
I do see that they are often wrong
.”

—Mansfield Park

THE sun had pierced the darkness of early
morning and bore down on Nicholas’s head and shoulders. It was a
perfect day to make hay. A group of laborers, using the new scythes
Nicholas had brought back with him from Spain, were already halfway
through the first field.

As he dismounted, he spotted Owen, who was
not as hale and hearty now as he had been at fifteen. They had met
up as often as Nicholas’s elder friend had been allowed to quit the
fields early. Owen’s blond hair had thinned, and he looked older
than his years.

“What do you think, man?” asked Nicholas.

“Methinks this is a damn dangerous tool, it
is.” Owen clapped his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder. “I’m guessing
the blood flowed freely in Spanish fields with this nasty
weapon.”

Nicholas studied the apparatus and waited for
Owen to say more.

“I must admit, with its added length and
moving hinge, it does cut more hay. 0’ course, the younger lads and
old men can’t take on the extra weight all day.”

“It sounds as if it won’t work, then,”
Nicholas surmised. “Well, you’ll have to take away mine at the
point of a pistol.” Owen gave a broad grin.

“You old bag of wind,” Nicholas retorted.
“Never could trust you.”

“Now, I resent the implication, my lord,”
Owen said with puffed-up fakery.

“Now, don’t you go `my lording’ me.” Nicholas
laughed. “That’s when I know I can trust you least of all. And
where is my erstwhile batman-in-training?”

“O’er there,” replied Owen, pointing to where
Charley was, holding a scythe much too large for his small frame.
“He’s taking to the farmin’ life like a duck to water.”

Charley ran up to him. “Lord Nick, we’ve been
at it for hours,” he exaggerated. “Thought you’d be here afore
now.”

“Owen tells me haying agrees with you.”

“Well, in some ways yes and in some ways
no.”

“Well?”

“Well, ‘tis pleasanter—”

“More pleasant.” Nicholas corrected him.

“More pleasant to be outside singing and
working with the other boys and men.But then ‘tis damp and cold in
their cottages. I think I prefer livin’ in the abbey, even though I
have to watch that Cook doesn’t clobber me with her spoon. And His
Grace’s valet is nice enough when he chooses to lower himself.”
Charley sniffed.

Nicholas glanced at Owen. “Looks like you’ll
be losing a hand in the long run then. But what is this about the
cottages? Is it the thatching? I’ve noticed it looks in poor
condition.”

“That it is. Mr. Coburn, your dear steward,
says there’s not time or blunt available to fix them up. Perhaps
you would like to see one for yourself.”

“Is that an invitation for a midday meal?”
Nicholas asked, with a smile.

Owen looked embarrassed and blustered a
little. “Why, of course. Sally will be pleased to see you. Mind
you, we dine simply, not like them fancy dishes in the abbey.”

“I haven’t seen little Sally Peterson since
she was following you around like a hound on a scent, all those
years ago. I should have guessed she would have been the one to
tame you,” Nicholas said, laughing.

“Caught me under the horse chestnut tree on
Guy Fawkes Day, she did,” Owen admitted.

“I guess I’ll have to earn Sally’s fare.
Shall we?” he said, motioning toward the field.

Nicholas joined the communal effort that
continued throughout the hot day, taking short breaks to quench the
great thirst the work churned. When they broke for the short midday
meal, Nicholas and Charley walked the short distance to Owen
Roberts’s small dwelling.

The rushes on the roof were in the same
deplorable condition as others he had seen all over the valley.
Inside, it was a sadder story. Oh, Sally kept the small two-room
cottage as clean as a dirt floor would allow. Whitewash was peeling
off the damp walls, and a baby cried in the next room. A small loaf
of bread sat in the center of the simple wooden table, where three
pairs of eyes looked at it with hunger. Two meager slices of dried
ham sat on a plate at the head of the table.

Sally’s welcome was marred by her
embarrassment. “I am afraid you have caught us with our larder a
bit short, my lord. Owen was to kill a hen this eve.”

He hadn’t seen any sign of a chicken in the
yard, however. The people of Wiltshire were a proud lot. Too proud
to admit to hunger to a childhood friend. The two men sat next to
each other, surrounded by the three silent Roberts children and
Charley. Sally brought a bowl of boiled potatoes to the table and
sliced the bread, handing a portion of each to everyone. One slice
of ham was given to each of the two men.

Nicholas could hardly stop himself from
forcing portions of his slice to Sally and the children. But he
would never dare to deprive her of her pride. She excused herself
and disappeared to attend to the baby, without consuming a bite.
Nicholas was already envisioning the brimming basket of foodstuff
he would have delivered here each week. But if Owen’s family was
reduced to this squalor, what of the other families?