Anne Barbour (19 page)

Was it so very difficult for James Wincanon to accept a female as a friend? Did he see every member of her sex as a threat to his precious bachelorhood? He must truly think himself God’s gift to the women of the world that he viewed himself as a target for their uniform machinations. To be sure, if the behavior of the ladies of the neighborhood were any criteria, there might very well be grounds for his fears. But how could he think that she considered herself as anything but his friend? Or that she would stoop to such tactics? Really, he was simply the outside of enough. She should have rescinded her invitation to dinner. She should have—

She paused abruptly, aware of the sadness that lay beneath her simmering anger. She was forced to admit that she was hurt more than she would have dreamed possible that he thought her like “all the others,” and that he suspected her of trying to ensnare him.

Observing that she had reached the portals of her home, she thrust her shoulders back. She must not give in to such profitless maunderings. If James chose to regard her as a conniving witch, it was his problem. She was not going to try to change his mind, for she was blameless in the matter.

With these salutary thoughts clasped to her bosom, she handed her reins to the waiting groom and mounted the front stairs to her home.

Chapter Sixteen

At Goodhurst, James had repaired to his library, where, with a snifter of brandy at his side, he perused a recent tract on excavations currently underway in Northumberland. Robert and Rufus were engaged in a sanguinary game of cards.

“Yes, everything went well today,” replied Robert in response to James’s query, but he shifted uneasily.

Rufus grinned widely and spoke in a mixture of Latin and English. “I like this game,” he said, gesturing with the pasteboards. “It is similar to one we play in the barracks, only we use small clay tablets. I have to say,” he continued expansively, “I think your number system is more sensible than ours, once you get used to it.”

A smile curved James’s lips. “Yes, that’s one thing we declined to borrow from your culture. We went instead to the kingdoms of Araby. Have you been gambling away your sustenance all day?” he asked Robert.

“Ah,” replied Robert, an apologetic frown forming on his brow. “N-no. No, we did not. Actually—”

“We’ve been shooting!” exclaimed Rufus, and James felt the hair lift on his scalp.

“Shooting?” he asked faintly.

“Yes, sir,” replied Robert, his shoulders shrugging apologetically. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. That wretched dog was all but tearing the house apart and I thought it a good idea to get him out and away. And Rufus, too. I never stopped to think that Rufus was probably unfamiliar with gunpowder.”

“Probably!” snorted James. “Of course, he’s never so much as considered that anything like gunpowder might exist. I suppose—”

“What wonderful stuff!” continued Rufus enthusiastically. “I’m going to take some back, if I can, along with—what d’you call ‘ems?” He swung to Robert. “Guns! Gods, we could wipe out whole cohorts with one or two. My commander would fall on my neck if I could present him with a dozen or so.”

James groaned, visions looming before him of the course of history changed beyond recognition. “Absolutely not,” he growled. “How have you been feeling today?” he asked, more to change the subject than because he was seriously concerned, for Rufus was at the moment the picture of health.

“Very well,” replied Rufus. “I think I must have had a touch of the gripe. I’ve been eating things I’m not used to, you know.”

James breathed a sigh of relief. He would not contact his friend in Gloucester quite yet. No sense in letting Rufus slip from his grasp until absolutely necessary. “That must have been it,” he said easily. “I’m glad you seem to be recovering.”

He smiled as a thought struck him. “Tell me more about Italica, your birthplace, and your old friend, Hadrian.”

“Ah, well then, he’s not really my friend. More like boyhood playmates.” He glanced reproachfully at James. “You didn’t tell me he will be Caesar one day.”

“Oh?” asked James, startled. “And where did you come by that information?”

Rufus waved toward one of the bookshelves. “I found a book by somebody called Spartianus. He wrote a life of Hadrian.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I am wondering if Hadrian’s good fortune might not be of use to me.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” contributed Robert, “if you actually know the fellow.”

“Perhaps,” said James, groping for another change of topic, “we might have a chat about the fort at Caerleon—that is, Isca.”

Rufus seemed amenable to this program, and, sweeping aside the cards, he gestured James to another chair at the table. Pausing only to scoop up paper and pen from his desk, James seated himself while Robert bowed his way out to return to his duties.

“Now,” said Rufus, dipping into the ink bottle, “the fort is shaped like one of those playing cards, with a gate in the middle, more or less, of each of the sides. See? In the center is the principia.”

“Yes,” murmured James, “the headquarters.”

When Rufus finished his drawing, James gazed in fascination as the fully drawn plan of Isca, whose faint, all-but-indecipherable outlines he had studied so many times, began to take shape. He poured over the sketches until Robert reappeared to call them for dinner.

The evening was spent in similar pursuits until at last Rufus yawned broadly and declared it was time to call it a night.

He paused at the door, already unwinding his cravat, about which he continued to complain bitterly on a daily basis. “I’d like to go back to the tower tomorrow,” he said.

James lifted his brows. “Again? I thought we had decided there was nothing—”

“No,” replied Rufus brusquely. “You decided—and the Lady Hilary—that there was nothing there that could be of any help. I feel differently. There is something peculiar about the place—and I mean to find out what it is.”

James shrugged. “Very well. When Lady Hilary arrives tomorrow, we’ll jaunter over there. Then, perhaps we can return to Cirencester—that is, Corinuim. I believe there is much you can show me there.”

Rufus merely grunted, running a finger around his shirt collar. “Damned instrument of torture.” He stripped himself of his cravat and left the room. He could be heard mumbling to himself until he was out of earshot.

James remained in the library for some time, pouring over the maps Rufus had created. He could hardly wait to show them to Hilary in the morning. He recalled the coldness with which she had bid him farewell earlier in the day. Hopefully, she would have come out of her sulks by tomorrow morning.

He retired to his own bedchamber then, but thoughts of Hilary remained with him long after he had extinguished his bedside candle. He recalled uneasily the spurt of pleasure that had shot through him at the thought of sharing Rufus’ drawings with her on the morrow.

This was not good.

In the past, he had, from time to time, mused on the charms of certain women who had taken his fancy. They had all been certified beauties, not known for their intellects, although he required a certain degree of intelligence in his inamoratas. None of them, certainly, had possessed gamine features and the awkward grace of a colt. To say nothing of hair like a bursting rocket.

It must be her eyes that so distinguished Hilary physically. At times they seemed as unreadable as golden disks, and at others were clear and fathomable as a running stream. And then there were those dancing flecks that drew a man into their swirling depths like a drowning swimmer falling into an irresistible vortex.

He thumped his pillow, snorting. What fanciful nonsense! Aside from her interest in and knowledge of ancient history, and her spirited conversation, and, of course, her engaging warmth, she was, he was sure, much like any other female—out for the main chance. Once again, a beautiful face floated before him. He smiled a little sadly. This was the second time in a few weeks she had come to mind. At least, he could think of her without bitterness now. He shook himself a little and continued his musings. To give Hilary credit, she did not seem interested in marriage herself, but her practical instincts had apparently found an outlet in arranging satisfactory partis for all her friends. In fact, if he were not careful, she’d have him irrevocably bound to some god-awful female of her acquaintance before the cat could lick her ear.

In short, he’d best put a leash on this distressing tendency to want to share significant moments in his life with her. She had made it plain at the outside that she wanted to maintain their relationship on a businesslike basis. He’d better not forget that that was precisely what he wanted, as well.

Still, it was many moments before sleep overtook him, and his last thoughts were of Hilary, her head bent close to his desk as they examined Rufus re-creations of a Britain long since gone.

The next morning, breakfast came and went and so did Hilary’s usual time for arrival at Goodhurst. The lady herself, however, did not put in an appearance. James shrugged.

“Apparently,” he said to Rufus, “she has more pressing matters to which to attend today.” He laughed lightly. “However, I do not suppose we need concern ourselves. We’ll go to the tower without her.”

Rufus looked at him rather oddly, but merely nodded.

James refused to admit to himself the depth of his disappointment at her defection. He had, he told himself, grown accustomed to her presence at Goodhurst. If he missed her, it was only because he was used to making plans with her and discussing Rufus’ firsthand view of the ancient world. If the house seemed strangely empty this morning, it was merely because ... because, he concluded dismally, her laughter had become an integral part of his day.

“Actually,” he said to Rufus, “I believe I’ll just ride over to Whiteleaves. If she is under the weather, it would be remiss not to ask after her.”

“But what about the tower?” asked Rufus.

“Oh. Well, you could come with me to Whiteleaves and we could visit the tower later. Or,” he continued hastily as Rufus frowned unhappily, “we can ride to the tower now. I’ll drop you off there and pick you up later.”

To this, Rufus agreed, remarking that it was about time his host trusted him to be on his own for a few hours instead of hovering over him like a mother with a dim-witted child. He continued in this vein during the short journey to the tower, but James paid little attention, his thoughts being wholly centered on his likely reception at Whiteleaves.

Hilary was in the conservatory when Dunston approached to inform her that Mr. Wincanon had come to call. She jumped slightly, nearly dropping the sweet william she had been transplanting, for Mr. Wincanon had been in her thoughts all morning, as well as a good part of the night before.

She still smarted painfully from the blatant rejection James’s features had displayed on their parting last evening. He had virtually withdrawn his offer of a continuing friendship with her the moment it had been spoken. She supposed it was her own fault for believing that she could ever be anything to him beyond a barely tolerated nuisance.

Her reflections continued in a like vein through the dark hours of midnight and beyond and concluded with the decision that, though she would maintain a connection with Rufus, she would break off her friendship with James. This resolution had caused her a great deal of heartache, for the rapport that had grown between them, thorny as it was, had come to mean a great deal to her. Too much, she had concluded, or she would not feel such a deep emptiness at its demise.

In the end, she decided she felt not so much anger at his obvious distrust of her as a deep regret. She would have liked to call James Wincanon friend, even though she had an uncomfortable feeling that she might eventually want more from him. However, she could not face the prospect of continuing as the recipient of his years of inexplicable, unreasoning animosity toward the female sex. James stood in dire need of a female friend—or, for that matter a good wife—and for a while she had seen herself as the former and imagined she could provide the latter.

But it was obviously not to be.

That her opportunity to give him his conge would come so much sooner than she planned, she found slightly unnerving, but she nodded coolly at Dunston and instructed the butler to inform Mr. Wincanon that she would join him shortly in the morning room.

She paused to review her appearance in a mirror, vaguely pleased that today she wore one of her most becoming ensembles, a round gown of ivory linen trimmed with embroidered wildflowers. Running nervous fingers over her hair, Hilary hurried to greet her guest.

The sight of him created an unhappy stirring within her. He may have epitomized masculine elegance in the evening garb he had worn to the Strindham musicale, but she would always remember him as he was now, his lean frame clothed in his usual working attire of boots, breeches, and worn coat.

James turned at her entrance to the morning room. He moved somewhat diffidently toward her.

“Good morning, Hilary. Are you well?”

Feeling remarkably foolish, she assumed an expression of faint surprise. “Why, yes, thank you. Quite well.”

He bent over her hand and Hilary was intensely aware of the warmth of his lips on her fingers.

“I thought perhaps, since you did not appear at Goodhurst, that you were indisposed.”

“No.” She felt that the air in the room was pressing down on her. “I’m—quite well.”

James said nothing, but looked at her quizzically.

“I must assume, then, that I offended you in some way.”

He listened to himself in some astonishment, for he had resolved on his drive to Whiteleaves that he would make no mention of the coolness with which she had departed his home yesterday. Now, however, having spoken the words, he found himself awaiting her reply with an almost painful intensity. If he expected a laughing dismissal of his fears, he was doomed to disappointment. Instead, she drew herself up, and her gaze held a militant sparkle.

“You don’t even realize what you did, do you?” she said, vexation plain in her voice.