An Unmistakable Rogue (8 page)

“We drain off the buttermilk and save that to make cheese.” Reed laughed at her grimace. “After you master butter-making, we’ll try cheese. When the children are done, we’ll put the butter in a bowl, throw in some salt, and as the old lady used to say, we knuckle and knead.”

“Old lady?”

“Old lady, old man. That’s what I call the people who had no choice but to raise me. I could never think of them, much less call them, my parents. Still and all, they taught me to take care of myself and brought me up as best they could, I suppose, despite a dozen children of their own. One thing that puzzled me about my childhood, though, but now gives me hope, is the fact that the Squire tutored me.”

“Why would your education puzzle you, and why should it give you hope?”

“No one tutored the other children. I always wondered where Old Man Gilbride got the money to pay the Squire. They were dirt poor, let me tell you. Then there was the amazing sum of four-thousand, two-hundred pounds that they gave me to buy my commission in Wellington’s army.”

* * *

The Vindicator knew the answer to the puppet’s puzzle. His high, holy, miserable self, had paid—Clive
bloody
Pomfret, Vicar, sinner, whatever he had been, ‘twas best the crow was dead.

Clive had been worse than Papa.

Despite her father’s ire over her friendship with the Barrington heir, Edward St. Yves had been her best friend ... until she turned sixteen. When Edward came home from Cambridge that time, things changed between them. As they listened to his father and the housekeeper panting and moaning, Edward had begun to stroke her in places that liked his touch, at first through her clothes, then before long, inside them, against her skin. Then he took her hands and placed them on him.

Heady pleasure. Wicked. Wonderful. Incredible, that first time in the dumbwaiter, better the second time, in the loft.

Before Edward left for school, again, their play went beyond touching. He took her virginity and they became lovers.

The only happiness she had ever known had been with Edward. Then his father died and he took his place as the Earl of Barrington—an Earl who could not marry a Vicar’s daughter. Promising he would always love her, Edward married within his class, and she became the most petted and spoiled mistress ever, daring to live openly with her lover in his own home. Edward’s wife had become nothing more than a slave to Edward’s ruthless determination to beget a legitimate heir.

Edward lived his life as he wished—with her. And she had been happy for a time.

The shock of their open alliance had given her father a fit from which he never recovered. After Papa died, Edward liked baiting her brother, Clive, the new Vicar, even more. Sometimes she feared that Edward did not love her as much as he loved lording it over her
holy
male relatives.

She should have known, when Edward caused her downfall that his reasons had less to do with her and more to do with thumbing his nose at piety.

Edward never married her.

For that, she would repay him in coin more precious than her fall from grace—by pitting his sons—his longed-for legitimate heirs—one against the other, to the death, and ending the St. Yves line forever.

* * *

Standing beside the table, an empty wooden milk bucket between them, Reed’s revelation of his education and costly military career, made Chastity fear that she might lose Sunnyledge, after all. To be fair, however, he was helping her in ways she had not known she needed, and for that she would always be grateful, no matter where she and the children ended up. “Whichever one of us gets Sunnyledge,” she said, “though I have faith it will be me and the children, thank you for enabling me to mother them and any others who come along.”

Reed gave a derisive chuckle. “Wonderful, I have enabled a woman to become a mother. Quite an accomplishment, though I took no pleasure in the service, nor did I ever know a mother worth emulating.” He quieted, regarded her hand on his arm, then he scanned her face, and lost all sign of mirth.

Chastity wondered, yet again, if he were as drawn to her as she, to him, the quandary prompting her to sidestep temptation. She pulled a handful of tin soldiers from her pocket, with the intention of turning away, but he held her gaze with such pointed heat, the toys fell from her fingers, and scattered on the floor.

Rebekah disentangled herself from Chastity’s leg with a happy trebling whine and dropped to the floor to gather the bounty.

Free of Reed’s spell and the child’s awkward but pleasant shackle, Chastity lowered herself to sit at the table before her legs buckled. “How do I make cheese?”

Reed seemed to require a gathering of his own thoughts.

“Cheese?” she prompted.

“Oh.” He rubbed his nape as if it ached. “Boil the buttermilk till it curdles, wrap the curds tight in a loosely-woven cloth to mold them and remove the moisture. After a few weeks, you have a chunk of cheese.”

Chastity felt no inclination to accept the quick monologue, for she liked the easy camaraderie of the moment. “Why do cheeses taste different, then, if all are made the same?”

“Depends on where the cows graze, highlands or low, what they eat, time of year, temperature, weather. Our cows broke into the onion patch one summer and the milk tasted terrible, but it made the best cheese I ever tasted. You can also work bacon fat into the curds for a different taste, or smoke the cheese as it dries. Herbs can also be added—not mint.”

Chastity smiled, despite herself. “You know so much.”

Reed sat and stretched his legs beneath the table. “By the time I was tall enough to reach the underbelly of a cow, I was milking, mucking out stalls, working the fields. I kept track of the Gilbride brood, as well. The days were long. Foster life can be hard, but I learned some valuable lessons.”

“The life you describe is the kind I want for my children, except that I will add love to the mix and hope they grow up happy, rather than bitter.”

Reed stood as if insulted. “Bitter? Damned right, I am. With cause.”

Chastity motioned him to sit. “Bitterness kills joy, Reed. Can you not see that? You were fortunate growing up, whether you believe it or not, because you were part of a family. You have no idea how lonely a child can be.”

“Were you lonely? Or peaceful? Think about it. Your life might have been downright serene.”

“Solitude is not necessarily peace,” Chastity said, trying not to feel as sorry for herself as he did for himself. “I often ached for someone to talk to, someone to ... embrace,” she finally admitted.

“You can be lonely in a crowd,” Reed said. “There is no isolation sharper than when you are surrounded by a dozen people who ignore you.”

“I know that from a thousand silent meals, chores, hours in chapel, working beside— Working with the sick.” Beside William, she had nearly said. Doctor William Somers, her husband. “Life is stark, nursing the sick.” She married William to get away, to enter the real world. “I do not believe that
alone
and
peaceful
are equal. Life has to be more rewarding with people you love by your side.”

Reed shook his head, mocking her. “Perhaps.” He remained quiet, hands steepled before him, his mind far away, until he regarded her fixedly. “Families do not always love, Chastity. Sometimes they hate, and the people around you are not your family simply because you live in the same place.”

“In a way, I understand what you are saying.” She shrugged. “But I do not accept it. Sorry. Love is the key. It really is. You have to believe that.”

Looking away, embarrassed, Reed bent to right one of Bekah’s soldiers. Placing it just so, he caught the child’s wide blue gaze, tapped her pert little nose ... and wondered, for less than a beat, if Chastity could be right, but he knew better.

When he sat up, he shook his head in firm denial. “Love, my dear, is a myth.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Love a myth? Chastity rejected Reed’s outlandish notion out of hand. How interesting that he should all but whisper it, though. Was he trying to protect the children, or soften the blow for her?

He so frequently tried to remove himself, emotionally, if not physically, from her and the children, she wondered why he would take such care. In his heart of hearts, where he kept the gentle rogue, did he want them to prove him wrong?

At this moment, a silent tug of war seemed to be taking place between them. If she could name the game, she might be able to gird herself against its outcome.

She had often needed to distance herself as a child, to withdraw into the safe haven of her mind, so she understood his unrealized intent. For an adult, Reed had a lot to learn about opening one’s heart. But if she must be the one to teach him, someone had best teach her, and fast.

As disturbed by their conversation, as he seemed to be, likely for a different reason, Chastity scooped Zeke into her lap as he came hopping by.

After several charged minutes, she knew she must shatter the tension, but for the life of her, nothing came to mind, save the subject from which they’d strayed.

She sighed. “If making cheese is so easy without a cheese press, what is the press for?”

Reed had been watching her pet Zeke, but when her question brought his attention to her face, he appeared surprised, even embarrassed that she noticed.

With all the awkwardness of a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he fetched the press, placed its parts on the table, and named them. “This speeds the process and shapes the cheese. The cloth-wrapped curds go here.” He pointed to the cavity. “This large round stone goes over it; the lid goes on top. Because the cheese shrinks as it dries, the center screw is turned daily to push the stone against the cheese and squeeze the moisture out.” He pushed the flat of his big, strong hands against each other to demonstrate.

He had just spent an inordinate amount of time watching her stroke Zeke. Now she imagined those capable hands of his doing the petting. Unfortunately, in her mind, he was stroking her.

Heat filled Chastity’s face.

Reed raised a brow.

Had she been caught?

The children’s bickering drew their attention, cooling her face, distracting them both, praise be. “Luke, stop teasing. What is the matter with you?”

He leaned against the table and heaved a sigh heavy with boredom. “Can I have some cloth and string?”

“What for?”

“I’m impressed. He asked, rather than pilfered.”

Chastity ignored the comment and the commentator.

“Reed knows what I want to do.”

“I do?”

“Sure you do. I want to build a flying machine like Leonardo Avici’s. Remember?”

“A flying machine?” Chastity squeaked.

“DaVinci,” Reed corrected, as he leaned toward Chastity. “Makes a boy proud to build something,” he said for her ears only.

A flying machine sounded dangerous to her, but Reed seemed to think it was important. “When I go upstairs,” she told Luke, “I’ll see what I can find.”

“Whooppee! Matt, I’m gonna build one. Told’ja!”

Something intangible had just passed among them, something ... familial. If she were not so worried about her reaction to Reed, she would likely applaud it. She indicated the press. “It has a hole in the bottom.”

“Excess liquid drips through and into the bowl you set beneath.”

Chastity nodded, but there were no more words, only a pulsing silence, wherein each of them scrutinized an aged cheese press with acute but unwarranted interest.

“Kitty, the handle’s getting hard to move. Your turn.”

Chastity took her turn, pumping the butter-making plunger fast, to entertain her brood. “Now we’ll have all the food we need.”

“Not quite.” Reed petted Zeke. “We need meat.”

Mark marched over and grabbed Zeke. “Not rabbit!”

“Guess I have to go hunting, then,” Reed said as he walked out the door.

Disappointed by his abrupt departure, Chastity went to look out the window, Matt right beside her.

Reed was glad he had left. Chastity was playing him like a musician with a flair for her instrument. He played women; they did not play him. The reverse made him nervous, which made him mad. Blast, he was glad to get away.

Unless somebody was poaching, the Sunnyledge Chase Preserve—which he saw on a map in the book he should not have been perusing—should be teeming with game. He glanced back toward the house and wished he had not. Matt stood in the kitchen window watching.

That boy wanted a man’s influence, and Reed understood, only too well, but he could not be that man. The boy needed someone with a sense of identity, of purpose. A father.

Reed knew then that he should leave and not look back. He was no closer to finding his heritage today than yesterday. He had been too busy providing for Chastity and her brood, damn it.

Nevertheless, he went hunting, bound and determined to put meat on the table.

Two hours later, relaxed, and satisfied with his jaunt, Reed placed a skinned and cleaned animal on the sideboard in the Sunnyledge kitchen.

Chastity bent over the open oven door, revealing her slender neck, the wisps of hair at her nape, her slim waist, while Reed’s hands ached to shape that neat little bottom begging for his attention.

“Oh, you’re back,” she said, catching him by surprise.

He fisted his hand, wondering if his face was as red as hers and what excuse he would give, if she asked why.

“I could not bake bread, because it needed time to rise,” she said. “I’ll do that in the morning.” She slipped a pan of thin, dark wafers from the oven. “But my oat-cakes are perfect, see?” She wore pride like a halo.

Oh they were done all right. “Are they supposed to be so dark?” Reed knew instantly that he said the wrong thing.

Chastity blew a wet tendril from her brow. “Do you never think to say something like, thank you?” She slammed the pan on the sideboard. “Matt told me how his mother made them and I followed his directions exactly. Yes, they’re supposed to be this color.”

“They’re not very thick; perhaps that’s why they seem so—”

“Matt said they were supposed to be thin.” Chastity nibbled her bottom lip the way Reed would like to nibble it.

“Fine.” He shrugged and turned away to save his sanity.

“Would it hurt to say, ‘Well done,’ or, ‘Good for you,’ something nice?” Her voice rose with each word.

Reed grasped her upper arms to calm her. “I am proud of you, truly.” He gazed into the sultry violet eyes of a temptress—a nun—stroked her with his thumbs, and could feel himself swell with each stroke. Nuns should not have wicked eyes that challenged one to widen them with pleasure, or close them in exhausted satisfaction.

He damn near told her so before he lowered his arms, cleared his throat, and stepped back. “Here now, let’s see what you can do with this.” He pushed the cleaned and skinned animal her way.

“What kind of animal is that? Did you kill something cuddly?”

“Surely you know what it is?” Reed’s mind raced.

“Is it a chicken?”

“You guessed it!” He grinned. “It’s a chicken. All you have to do to roast a chicken is—”

“It doesn’t look like a chicken. Why would you hunt for a— Do chickens roam wild?”

“You want to feed these children?” Reed snapped.

Chastity placed her hands on her hips, her breasts swelling with indignation. “Of course I do!”

He damned near reached for her, thought better of it, grabbed the animal, and slammed it into a pan. “Then, cook this chicken.”

As he directed, Chastity sprinkled parsley, salt, and rosemary on the meat and placed parsnips and wild onions beside it. Then she covered the pan, and set it in the oven.

He should stop watching her put things in the oven, Reed thought, but he sat right down to supervise, instead, making sure she checked that
chicken
often.

As the children devoured the meal, Reed bit into an oat cake and crunched. Far be it from him to tell her they were burned, though the children did not seem to mind. But her chicken, now that was delicious.

“Mark,” Chastity asked, “Where is Zeke?”

Reed took another bite.

“Can’t find ‘em,” Mark answered, his mouth full.

Reed looked quickly up. Nah. He turned to Chastity.

She chewed more slowly as she returned his gaze, then she stopped entirely, forgetting to swallow.

Mark turned ashen.

“Saw Zeke s’afternoon,” Luke said. “Him and another bunny was playin’ leapfrog in the yard.”

Reed almost choked. Lucky Zeke had found a willing lady bunny. He checked Chastity’s reaction and saw that she did not comprehend the nature of Zeke’s frolic.

“Took Zeke in after that,” Luke said. Seemed awful tired. Sleepin’ in the liberry last time I saw ‘em.”

Mark fled the kitchen at a dead run. Reed watched Chastity swallow hard and put down her fork.

“Got ‘em,” Mark yelled, reappearing to plop Zeke on the table, in direct defiance of Reed’s edict. The boy returned to his dinner then, daring Reed with a shrewd look to make anything of the rabbit on the table.

Mark knew what they were eating.

Chastity took a long slow breath and patted Zeke’s lop-ears before resuming her meal.

Reed and Mark shared a knowing look as Reed speared a piece of meat and raised his fork in a salute. “Wonderful chicken.”

Mark damned-near smiled.

For the next week, they, all of them, plowed and seeded the garden, though it was late by farming standards. Reed taught Matt to put the leads on one of the shire horses, then to hold them while Reed guided the plow. Rebekah dropped seeds where she was told; Luke covered them. Mark, who’d softened with their conspiracy over the chicken, watered the seeds. Reed hated to admit that the children’s laughter lightened his mood enough to make him forget his inability to search. With vegetables planted, he would be able to hunt for game in earnest
then
he would be free to search.

A hunting trip would bring peace, Reed realized as he ate warm bread, dripping with butter and honey, the next morning.

When Chastity licked honey from her fingers, his gut tightened and the blood coursed fiercely through his veins, centering low and heavy. He wanted to lick that honey from her fingers, her lips, from inside her mouth.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, his reaction warned him away from his foolish thoughts.

Peace. He needed it badly. “I need to go hunting,” he said, “to bag some bigger game, something that will last while we search.”

Chastity frowned at the reminder of his purpose.

“I might be gone for a couple of days,” he added, the thought alone bringing a semblance of longed-for peace, except that Matt’s attention had become riveted, his eyes wide. And Reed sighed as a notion took root. “Matt, I’m gonna need help. Think I could persuade you to come along?”

The boy nearly fell from his chair in his eagerness, his breakfast forgotten. “I’ll get my things. Overnight did you say?” He bolted before he heard Reed’s answer.

“Mark, you’re the man in charge while I’m gone.”

Mark nodded once and returned to his breakfast, and Reed hoped the boy’s lack of enthusiasm was due to a concealed pleasure. Reed regarded Chastity to see if she was insulted, because he had not left her in charge, but she gave him a warm, dreamy smile, as if he had given her the world.

Blast. The rush her smile gave him settled into all the wrong places, even his heart, before he could erect a barrier. Bad, bad, bad. Except that it felt
good
. Quite good. He could live on Chastity’s smiles, if he did not want so badly to exist on a more physical plane with her.

After the three months were up, and one of them was forced to leave, would he be able to exist without her smiles? If he tasted her, if they soared together, could peace ever be his without her? Which wrong-headed emotion would dog him the more in the end; remorse over having her, or regret over not having her?

With that burning question gnawing at his gut, Reed rose the second Matt returned. “Mark, take care of Chastity and your brother and sister. Chastity, don’t forget to milk Leonardo.” He headed for the door, and peace, and sanity, and ... regret? Because he was leaving her? Damnation.

As Chastity followed him out, he did not want to look at her, but he did, and was lost. Before she could speak, he kissed her quick and stepped away. Then he went back for more. The second kiss was hard but fast. He pulled back for good this time, examined her face, her amazing violet eyes, and kissed her hard and long.

“The children,” she whispered when he came up for air.

The children, he thought, looking around, were enjoying the show, judging by their grins. Reed left, pretending to ignore Matt’s chuckle.

* * *

When Edward died, she had assumed her revenge complete. His twin sons, she thought, as did he, died with their mother. But because her brother hated Edward, Clive had played God.

When he confessed, on his deathbed, that Edward’s sons lived, she had been shocked. Elated. They should have been
her
sons, hers and Edward’s, so she had written those notes and called the boys’ home.

Only one had arrived so far. Reed. But that was alright. Enjoyment could be found in anticipation. Each boy would have his moment, and each would be sweet.

Thea pulled the rope, lowered the dumbwaiter to the basement, and took the tunnel to the Vicarage, her mind full of plans. She would write a letter to Mr. Sennett first then she would set off on a hunt for
big
game.

* * *

On the second morning of their hunting trip, Matt walked beside Reed, grain sack in hand, hiding his excitement, pretending not to enjoy himself, so nothing would end his pleasure. Reed understood, because Matt and Mark were like him in that way.

He hoped Matt might learn to trust. He wanted to help with the problem bothering the boy, but so far, Matt was giving only single-word answers to Reed’s questions. Perhaps if he told Matt about his life, the child would share his own. “I was the oldest too,” Reed said.