Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (19 page)

“Blast it, woman,” he said upon a great inhale. “You mustn’t fall into hilarity at a moment like this.” He scooped his hands into her damp hair and seized her lips for a deep, satisfying kiss. “Laughter like that, even a minute earlier, could have put period to the entire thing.”

Eyes brilliant, she was struggling for breaths. She bit her lips together and he wanted to kiss them apart.

“That was lovely, my lord,” she said tightly. Her fingertips did an exuberant dance across his jaw. Then her mouth split into a brilliant smile. “No, no. That was
spectacular
.”

His smile was slow and breathtakingly masculine.

“No doubt because I am Dare,” he said, and lifted a brow.

Calista fell into laughter again and he kissed her, now lingering, cupping her face in his palms and drawing long, deep sighs from her.

When finally he lifted his head, he gazed at her for a silent moment. His Adam’s apple jerked beneath smooth skin.

Longing to ask him his thoughts, instead she stroked a fingertip along his jaw. “How did you come by this scar?”

“Pirates. On the high seas. Nasty battle. Too shocking to share the details with a lady.”

She grinned. “Oh, really?”

“Not exactly.”

“How exactly?”

After a pause he said, “They say I acquired it fighting for the woman who stole my heart and then ran off with another man.”

Her heartbeats skipped. “Do they?”

“Yes. But what do they know?” His hand came around her shoulder and stroked down her arm. “I am crushing you,” he murmured, and drew away.

She watched him as he settled beside her. From shoulders to calves he was all taut skin, contoured muscle, and dark hair where it was most intriguing. His beautiful eyes were watching her study him.

“Do you approve?” he said in a sober baritone, but the corner of his lips that had kissed her entire body was smiling. He had always looked at her thus, as though he knew her wayward thoughts. Now she found it difficult to endure the intensity of it.

She glanced at the muscles in his arms again. “Do you make a pastime of chopping wood, or some such thing?”

“If I said yes, what would you think?”

“That you are the most peculiar lord this kingdom has ever seen.”

“That is the third time you have called me peculiar since last night. Or perhaps the fourth.”

Old Mary rattled the lamp as she commenced her midnight tolls.

“Rather, the night before last,” he amended.

“It is tomorrow.” She had stayed awake past midnight enough nights to know it meant nothing. But this time was different. This time she had gotten what she wanted. She had won.

“It is indeed tomorrow,” he said with that same quiet pleasure upon his lips. “No response to my comment about peculiar, then?”

“Oh. Well … You
are
peculiar.”

“You think that because you have accompanied those words with your smile that turns me inside out, I shan’t take offense. But I have, in fact.”

“My smile turns you inside out?”

He touched her chin tenderly with his fingertips.

“It always has.” Then he leaned forward and kissed her.

It was a simple kiss, brief and soft. It was followed by another, slightly longer kiss. And then by another kiss even longer, and considerably deeper, his hands circling her face as she reached for his chest.

Then they were in each other’s arms. Damp skin became hot skin again as they touched and explored, their mouths seeking, teasing, and promising. Finally they came together, their bodies joining in decadent intimacy. This time there was no urgency, no desperation, only the profound pleasure found in heat and desire.

When it was over and she was sitting in his lap, exhausted and hazy in his embrace, she smiled. Arms wrapped tightly about his shoulders, she set her lips to the intoxicating depression she had discovered beneath his ear.

“You may not disappear,” she whispered through her smile.

“You are in my bedchamber.” He bent to kiss her shoulder, then her neck. “I am not the one of us in danger of disappearing.”

There was such contentment in his voice. But a shaft of worry pierced her satisfaction.

“I daresay,” she murmured.

His fingers stroked her hair back from her brow. “I would like you to stay,” he said. “You may go now if you wish, of course. But I would very much like you to stay until the morning, Calista.”

She buried her face against his neck and breathed him in.

“I want to stay. I want to stay,” she said muffled against his skin. And then again a bit louder, in case she hadn’t been heard, “I want to stay.”

“Good. Good.” The quietly spoken words vibrated against her cheek. “And good.”

He laid her down and took her in his arms. She had never slept with a man like this, unclothed, embracing. But she found it as natural to curl her body into his as it had been to let him inside of her. He felt right—his skin, his warmth, his strength holding her. He smelled right, good,
so good
. Even his measured breathing sounded right, peaceful. If there were a heavenly kingdom, she was certainly standing in its forecourt now.

All she lacked was her son. And tomorrow she would have him again.

Closing her eyes, she let sleep claim her.

Calista awoke to the toll
of the church bell barging through the wall and jarring her heart into frantic beats. Popping her eyes open, she reached out with both arms, searching, hoping,
praying
.

But she did not need to feel the mattress, flat and cool beneath her palms, to know the man she had gone to bed with was not now beside her. She did not need to see it.

Rain pecked at the windowpanes of her own bedchamber and made the dawn as gray as the storm of despair in her heart.

Aphrodite’s cool white eyes stared at her from across the room.

Turning over, Calista pressed her face into the pillow, and for the first time in six years she wept.

~o0o~

She arose only to admit the cat, who curled up in a ball at her feet and purred loudly enough to match the rainfall’s clamor. When the tears subsided, weary numbness crept into her blood and overcame her. Breakfast in the taproom would be unbearable. But if she remained abed, Mrs. Whittle would worry and use her precious time to ensure she was not ill.

She was not ill. Only without hope. And in love.

When she was a girl, Calista had heard fairytales of falling in love, and she had always imagined it a magical, splendid thing, full of blooming flowers and shooting stars. In London, she had looked for that magic in every handsome face, and she found eagerness to please and admiration. But no magic, no flowers, no stars. Snatched back to Dashbourne after only three weeks, she had stewed and groused at the unfairness of it.

Until the Marquess of Dare appeared.

Handsomer than all the rest, he had been uninterested in pleasing her, only Evelina and Gregory. And yet he had come to court
her
. So she teased him, and every afternoon after he drove them back to the house, she stewed and groused more.

It was only in the moment that she begged him to escape and the intensity in his beautiful eyes dimmed—the moment he said he would not help her—that she suspected she had perhaps been wrong about falling in love. That perhaps it was not magical flowers and stars. That perhaps it was something quite different from those. Because in that moment, for the first time in her life, she had felt her heart actually ache.

Remaining in bed until the bell tolled nine, finally she made herself rise and she dressed. She could not avoid seeing him; when she tried to avoid him, he found her anyway. The nasty goddess probably inspired him to worry about her.

Today, though, she would go somewhere he would not worry about her. It was the only place she could imagine going, anyway.

Dressing and descending to the kitchen, she found breakfast for the cat and tea for herself. But she had timed it poorly. When she stepped out into the foyer to gather her cloak and an umbrella, the constable was taking his leave and Lord Dare stood at the doorway of the taproom.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Mr. Pritchard said. “Have you heard the news? The ford’s five feet high if it’s an inch, and the north road’s flooded out. I’m sorry to say, Swinly is an island today.”

“Yes,” she said, pinning her gaze to his white whiskers, anywhere to keep it away from the man who had worshipped her body for hours and now knew nothing of it. “Mrs. Whittle has just told me.”

“Lady Holland,” Lord Dare said, “may I introduce you to Mr. Pritchard, the constable of Swinly?”

“My lady.” The constable gave her an energetic bow. “Welcome to Swinly. I apologize for the rain that’s delayed your travel. There’s Mother Nature for you, upsetting everybody’s plans. Good day, my lord.” He donned his hat and went out into the rain.

Calista fumbled with the cloaks, searching for hers beneath Penelope’s gorgeous green wool and all the others as if she hadn’t found her cloak in precisely the same spot two dozen times already. But her eyes were clouded and her hands would not seem to function properly.

“Allow me,” he said at her shoulder, and reached around her to pull forth her cloak. As on every morning, he was polite and mildly distant. This was the gentlemanliness of slight acquaintance, the man she had insulted the previous night, and it tore her apart inside.

She did not look at him as he laid the cloak over her shoulders and she caught a whiff of his scent that had made her drunk when he held her.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. Grabbing an umbrella, she fled.

The church was quiet save for the echo of the rain on the vaulted roof high above. Old Mary would shortly sing her favorite song, this time to the tune of ten. Calista could practically feel the moments before the bell tolled each hour now, like the prickle of hairs rising when lightning was about to strike.

She sat in a pew in the front of the nave, as far as possible from the seats where she had shared a night with the Marquess of Dare. Bending her head, she swallowed back the tears again threatening.

“Ma’am?”

Her head jerked up. A young man possessed of straw-colored hair and a slender frame stood before her. Dressed all in black and holding a book, he peered at her from the aisle.

“I could not help but notice you appear in some distress. May I assist you?”

“Who are you?” She knew everybody in Swinly, but this man she had seen only once. Indeed, she had forgotten she’d ever seen him that night in the first frenzy of her determination to destroy the bell.

“My name is Charles Curtis. I am a guest of Reverend Abbott.”

“How do you do, Mr. Curtis. I am waiting for him to finish—”
writing his sermon
. “I should like to speak with him, but I don’t wish to disturb him.”

“Reverend Abbott likes nothing better than to be disturbed from writing his Sunday sermon. Between you and me, I don’t think he likes retirement. I half expect him to return to London any day now, God and the bishop willing, of course.” He chuckled. “If you’ll come with me, I will be happy to take you to him.”

She followed him.

“Mr. Curtis, how do you spend your days here in Swinly? Do you … Do you go out often?”

“Last week I walked to the next village each morning, to greet the children at the schoolhouse there. But the rain has kept me from it today.”

“The schoolhouse.” The world beyond Swinly. “Are you fond of children?”

“‘Suffer the little children to come unto me.’” They passed from the church into the vicarage. “They are the most vulnerable among us, and our hope and future. Would that we gave them everything they need to thrive.” He knocked on the door of the vicar’s study.

Reverend Abbott opened it.

“Good morning,” he said with a smile.

“Good morning, sir,” Mr. Curtis said. “I discovered Mrs.—”

“Holland. I am staying at the Jolly Cockerel. May I speak with you, Reverend?”

“Of course.” He gestured her in and took up a stack of papers from the desk. “Charlie, I have just been sketching out my thoughts on the annex. They are nearly complete, so you may as well take a look at them now.”

“Ah, very good, sir.” He bowed to her. “Good day.”

The vicar closed the door. “How I wish I were twenty-six again and setting off for London. I don’t suppose a man of my situation ought to admit to jealousy, but I do envy that young fellow.”

“You are fond of London, I guess?”

“Not of London, in particular. But of the work he is commencing, indeed I am.” He gestured her to a seat before the fireplace in which a cozy fire crackled, and settled down across from her. “Before I retired several months ago, I directed a program to assist the indigent poor in acquiring shelter and gainful employment. Mr. Curtis was recently appointed to the position of assistant director of that program. He has come here to seek counsel from me on how they might begin to integrate the care of children into the program.” He cocked his head and studied her face. “But you don’t want to hear about that, I suspect. How may I be of help, Mrs. Holland?”

“Reverend, what do you think Hell is?”

He set his palms upon his knees. “You would like to know what the church teaches.”

“No. I want to know what you think it is.”

“Hell is the absence of love,” he said without hesitation.

“But …” She felt love now, in her chest and belly and every part of her. She twisted her hands together. “I have a son. He is five years old. He is my angel.” Tears prickled at the backs of her eyes. “He was taken from me. I have not seen him in weeks. Reverend Abbot, I cannot
bear
it. I miss holding him. I miss the sound of his voice and his laughter. Every day missing him hurts more than the last.”

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Holland.”

“I thought … I thought perhaps that I could distract myself from it until I see him again, then I would not feel it so acutely.”

“Did distraction bring you comfort?”

“No.” She stood and went to the window. The rain was beginning to ease. Within an hour it would end, and another hour later the river over the ford would begin to fall. Too slowly for her.

“There is a man,” she said with her teeth together. “I am in love with him. But no matter what I do, to him I will always be little more than a stranger.” She turned to the vicar. “I love them both, yet I cannot have either of them. Is that not Hell, Reverend Abbott?”

“It would seem so, yes,” he said, folding his hands, “if love were about possessing another person.”

“Possessing?”

“You said you cannot have either your son or this man, and that this is Hell to you. But have you considered that true love does not seek to possess, rather to give?”

“I don’t want to possess them. I want to
be
with them.”

He nodded. “My dear, it is clear that you are suffering. I wish I had a cure I could give to you, as Dr. Appleby at the other end of the village dispenses medicines.”

“I have lost hope, Reverend Abbott. I don’t want to
live
any longer.”

For a minute he simply regarded her, his face thoughtful.

“Do you wish to end your life, Mrs. Holland?”

“If I could, I think— I think I would.” She pressed her knuckles against her lips. She’d said it now. Aloud. The thought she’d had for days already. She could not retract it. “This existence is simply too painful to endure.”

“Then why do you continue to try to endure it?”

She swiveled to face him. “What?”

“Why don’t you end it?” he asked.

“I could not while my son lives.”

“I see.” The lines at the corners of his eyes bespoke decades of care. “Perhaps, then, another distraction is in order.”

“Another distraction,” she said with empty laughter. “There is no other man to whom I can lose my heart.” There never had been. “Certainly not in Swinly.”

“I meant that perhaps you should consider a different sort of distraction.”

“Like dancing in the mud or shepherding a flock? I’ve already tried those. The pleasure in them was short-lived.”

He smiled, but it was a kind smile. “I daresay it was.” He stood up. “I have seen many destitute souls in my years, Mrs. Holland. You, however, strike me as a woman determined to overcome obstacles.”

“Rather, determined to endure them.” She had done so endlessly, first with her father and then with Richard, imagining a better day, a day free of him. “Or to escape them,” she added.

“No. To overcome them,” the vicar said firmly. “God gives us each day as a gift, Mrs. Holland. But it is ours to make of that gift what we will. I believe you will discover a way to overcome this grief. It might not be today. But your hope of seeing your son again is a foundation for it. You must have faith.”

She could not tell him that the only day she had was today and the only faith she had was in the Goddess of Love’s evil nature. She should have known she would find no comfort in a house of God that denied the existence of ancient pagan deities. She should not have come.

Days ago, Lord Dare had told her she would conquer this. He had told her it was in her character. But neither of them knew the truth.

The vicar was wrong. She had no hope. She would never see Harry again. And she would never look into Tacitus Everard’s eyes and see her love returned.

Walking to the inn, she went swiftly to her room. She needn’t eat today if eating would mean seeing him again, and she could not go out and about in Swinly without him finding her and speaking with her and unknowingly taunting her with what she could never have. Better to hide. At least today. At least until that indomitable woman he and the vicar seemed to see in her decided to arise and slap Aphrodite in the face.

But not today. Today she had only a heart for grief. Tomorrow would be plenty of time to try for hope.

One thing was certain, after all: tomorrow would always offer her exactly the same useless gifts as today.