At Last (2 page)

“
Good afternoon,” he said,
stepping from the shade into the sunlight. “Ye’ve chosen a braw day
to explore the grounds of Marlington Hall.”

Distress joined the wariness in her gaze.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, her accent immediately identifying her
as English. “I’m visiting this area...I just arrived in Melrose
this morning, and didn’t realize I’d wandered onto private
property. If you’ll excuse me...”

She turned to leave and a sense of loss
unlike anything Ian had ever experienced gripped him, propelling
him forward. “No need to worry,” he assured her. “I’m well
acquainted with the owner and while some might consider him a bit
o’ a crabbitt, he’d have no objection to such a bonny lass enjoying
a stroll on his land.”

She pivoted back toward him and her gaze
flicked over his scuffed, dusty boots and sturdy nankeen trousers
and shirt. Certainly not clothing that would proclaim him lord of
the manor, but his preferred attired on his long, solitary
walks.

“
Crabbitt?” she repeated
in a bewildered tone.

“
Aye. What an English lass
would call a curmudgeon.”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “You’re
employed here?”

A bark of laughter rose in his throat.
Bloody hell, that question marked her a stranger like no other
could have. He knew he should inform her he’d been teasing and that
the reason he was so well acquainted with Marlington Hall’s
curmudgeon master was because he was himself the curmudgeon. Yet
the words stuck in his throat. This stranger knew nothing of him,
of his past, of the accident. For the first time in a year someone
was looking at him without a trace of calculation or pity.

And not just any someone. No, this someone
was a bloody beautiful woman with the most gorgeous eyes and full,
kissable lips he’d ever seen. Of course if she remained in Melrose
any length of time she’d eventually learn the truth--gossip
concerning the reclusive Earl of Marlington swirled about the
village like thick fog. Yet it was so refreshing for someone to see
him simply as himself he couldn’t resist delaying the inevitable.
After all, what harm could possibly come of such an innocent
deception?

“
Aye, I work here.” Not
precisely a lie as his title came with a daunting amount of
responsibility. He halted an arm’s length from her and discovered
that although she wasn’t a lass in her first bloom of youth--he
judged her closer to thirty than twenty, perhaps even a wee bit on
the other side of thirty--she attracted him like no younger woman,
or even one his own age ever had. And those eyes--bloody hell, he
felt as if he could stare into their soulful, expressive depths for
hours. They held hints of secrets and sadness, laughter and
happiness, hopes and dreams--an intoxicating combination that
beckoned him to learn more, to discover everything about
her.

Her eyes alone branded her a beauty in his
mind, rendering her high cheekbones, creamy complexion, bewitching
smile and delicate brows all but superfluous. She was tall,
unfashionably so, but then so was he, and he liked that she stood
up straight and regal instead of slouching to disguise her height.
Even her charmingly undone appearance didn’t diminish her elegance.
Her gown was plain, but of fine quality, marking her as a woman of
some means.

“
I’m in charge of the
grounds.” He shot the bouquet she held a pointed look. “I see you
found the wild roses.”

More color bloomed in her cheeks. “I adore
flowers and roses are my favorite. They were so beautiful I
couldn’t resist picking a few. However, I would have refrained had
I known this was private property.”

A snippet of his favorite
Christopher Marlowe poem drifted into his mind--And I will make
thee beds of roses, and a thousand fragrant posies.
It was all he could do not to reach out and touch
her. “Ye should never have to refrain from taking what your heart
desires.”

“
You should if it belongs
to another.”

“
Not if it is freely
given, and as I am the keeper of the roses, you are welcome to pick
as many as you like.”

“
Thank you,
Mr...?”

To prolong the inevitable, he offered his
middle name rather than his surname. “Broderick. But you may call
me Ian--all my friends do.”

Amusement glinted in her eyes. “We’ve hardly
been acquainted long enough to be considered friends, Mr.
Broderick.”

“
Perhaps, but the fact
that ye picked my roses makes us instant friends, ’Tis a law here
in Melrose.”

She hoisted a brow. “Indeed?”

“
Aye. In fact, there’s
another law that once you pick a man’s roses, you’re obliged to
stroll through the rest of the gardens with him.”

She pinned him with a stern stare, one
rendered far less threatening by the twitching of her lips. “I know
a Banbury tale when I hear one, Mr. Broderick.”

“
Ian. And I’m certain you
do, but ‘tis the truth I speak. Lord Marlington himself declared it
a law.”

“
For what
reason?”

“
Why, so the other flowers
wouldn’t be jealous of the roses, of course. Ye wouldn’t want the
other blooms to suffer from neglect, would you,
Miss...?”

He swore something flickered in her eyes,
but it was gone before he could be certain. “Mallory. Sophia
Mallory.”

Sophia Mallory. Her name echoed through his
mind like a siren’s call, and he suddenly knew precisely how
Ulysses had felt--inexorably drawn, unable to resist. “’Tis a great
pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Mallory.”

“
Thank you, although it’s
Mrs. Mallory.”

Disappointment crushed him. Of course she
would be married, would belong to someone else. While Ian had done
many things he wasn’t necessarily proud of, and he’d told her to
always take what your heart desired, he wasn’t a man to pursue
another man’s wife--no matter how much he might want her. Still, he
couldn’t rescind his invitation at this point. “Your husband is
welcome to join us--“

“
I’m afraid that’s
impossible. He passed away several years ago.”

Ian’s conscience kicked him at the wave of
relief washing through him. Damn it, he shouldn’t feel such joy
that any man was dead. Especially as his own loss had left him
gutted--until he’d seen her laughing and spinning in his meadow.
Before he could stop himself, he reached out and lightly grasped
her hand. Their palms met and warmth spread through him. “I’m
sorry. I suffered a similar such loss and wouldn’t wish it upon
anyone.”

She stilled and for several seconds he
thought she meant to pull away, wouldn’t have blamed her for doing
so. But instead she gently squeezed his hand. “My sympathies for
your loss.”

He would have thanked her, but bloody hell,
the sensation of her skin against his robbed him of his ability to
speak. Instead he brushed his thumb over the silky smooth back of
her hand and simply nodded.

Her gaze locked on his and something that
looked like heat kindled in her eyes, giving him hope that she felt
this...whatever it was grabbing him by the throat. Had his very
life depended upon it, he couldn’t have looked away. And he sure as
hell hadn’t wanted to release her when she gently withdrew her
hand. Indeed it required a Herculean effort not to snatch her hand
back and press it against his chest, so she could feel his heart
pounding, could know how deeply she affected him.

“
You’re certain the earl
wouldn’t object to you showing his private gardens to a
stranger?”

He had to swallow twice to locate his voice.
“He’d insist upon it--unhappy flowers wilt and if there’s one thing
that makes the earl even more crabbit than usual, ‘tis wilted
posies. He’d issue you the invitation himself were he in residence.
Indeed, he’ll have my head if his blooms are withered when he
returns.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I can only hope ye’ll obey
the law and save me from his wrath.”

Again she hesitated and Ian forced himself
to remain quiet, to not give in to the unprecedented and
uncharacteristic urge to drop to his knees and beg her to join him.
To spend the day with him. The day? He nearly laughed. More like a
fortnight. A month. A decade. He wasn’t certain what had come over
him, but whatever it was, there was no denying this fierce,
overwhelming desire to spend more time with her.

“
Very well, Mr. Broderick.
I shall save you this once.”

As they walked along he pointed out
different plants and regaled her with humorous stories of life in
Melrose, loving the sound of her laughter, enjoying her tales of
England, every moment strengthening his attraction to her. When
they paused by a trellis draped with fragrant roses, he paused and
looked into her intoxicating eyes. “These are Marlington Hall’s
finest roses. Would you like to gather some, Mrs. Mallory?

She studied him and he tried his damnedest
to keep his expression blank to hide the want burning inside him,
but wasn’t certain he succeeded, wasn’t certain it was even
possible to do so. Wariness flickered in her eyes, followed by
curiosity, and then...then there was no mistaking the flare of
desire that kindled in her gaze, a heat that stole his breath.
Stole his heart.

“
Are you trying to tempt
me with your roses...Ian?”

Bloody hell, the mere sound of his name on
her lips drove every intelligent thought from his head. He searched
his empty mind for something witty, for a clever rejoinder, but the
blatant truth simply spilled out. “Yes. Are you tempted,
Sophia?”

For an answer she held out her hand...

He’d wrapped his fingers around hers, a
gesture that marked the start of the most incredible, happiest,
bloody amazing six weeks of his life. Sophia became his friend. His
lover. The axis upon which his world revolved. They’d stayed at the
small secluded hunting lodge on his property, a place he’d never
shared with anyone. She assumed it was the groundskeeper cottage,
and he didn’t disabuse her of the notion. She didn’t speak of her
past, didn’t ask about his. Instead they focused solely on each
other and the moment. He wanted to tell her the truth, but the time
never seemed right, even less so the longer they spent together.
But one night, when her time in Scotland was nearing its end, after
making love with a passion unlike anything he’d ever known, he
watched her sleep and could no longer rationalize his deception.
After vowing to tell her the truth the next morning, he’d gone to
sleep. And woken up alone. She left behind only a brief note--and a
man who was determined to find her. Little had he known how
difficult that quest would prove. Because as he soon learned, she’d
been equally dishonest with him about who she was.

Looking at her now, the
darkness cloaking them, Ian fought to align his conflicting
emotions. His profound relief that he’d finally found her. His
anger at the way she’d left him. The enervating hurt that
she
could
leave
him. It didn’t help assuage his hurt that rather than being pleased
by his presence, she looked distressed and desperate to
flee.

To insure that she didn’t, he grasped her
upper arm then pulled her away from the arc of light spilling from
the windows, behind a topiary potted in an enormous stone urn.

“
What are you doing here,
Ian?” She tried to pull free of his hold, but he didn’t let
go.

“
I’m here to see you,
Sophia. Or should I say Lady Winterbourne?” Before she could reply,
he continued, “Nay, not Lady Winterbourne--that’s far too formal
after the intimacies we shared. Do you recall those intimacies,
Sophia? Those times when I was so deep inside your body you said it
felt as though I touched your heart?”

She closed her eyes and turned her face away
from him, and all the hurt and anger, frustration and confusion
that had consumed him since that morning he’d woken up alone rushed
to the surface and he stepped closer, forcing her back until her
shoulders touched the rough stone.

“
Look at me, damn it.” She
complied with obvious reluctance then regarded him with a
dispassionate expression he’d never seen from her before. “Yes, I
remember,” she said, her voice matching that blank look in her
eyes. “You know who I am, my title. That I wasn’t honest with you.
You’re obviously angry--“

“
Yes, I bloody well am
angry, but not because you’re a countess.” By God, it was all he
could do not to shake her. “I don’t give a damn if you’re a
scullery maid or a royal princess.”

A frown puckered her brow. “Then why are you
here?”

“
Why am I
here
?” An incredulous sound escaped him.
“Surely it can’t surprise you that I’d come after you, especially
after you left with no explanation--“

“
I wrote you a
note.”

“
Aye. And a bloody
inadequate note it was.”

“
It said everything that
needed to be said.”

“
Indeed?” He reached into
his waistcoat pocket, withdrew the missive she’d left, and held it
up to her. He didn’t need to look at the words--they felt etched in
blood on his heart. “‘Dear Ian, please forgive my abrupt departure,
but it is for the best. I’ll always treasure our time together and
wish you every happiness.’” He crumbled the paper in his fist and
leaned forward until mere inches separated their faces. “I want to
know how you could possibly think those words were in any way
adequate after what we’d shared. Or why you leaving was ‘for the
best.’”

Instead of appearing in any way cowed, she
lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “I’ve no intention of
answering any of your questions until you answer mine, the first of
which is how did you gain entrance to this soiree?”