Dair Devil (32 page)

“Down here, at your feet,” Rory called, waving an arm above her head to get his attention.

The movement broke Dair’s abstraction with the past and he shook himself free of such melancholy, dark eyes finally locking on her.

Rory had anchored her elbows over the side of the skiff and rested her chin on her hands, so that all he saw of her was her bare arms and face. She smiled up at him, hair plastered to her scalp and falling about her shoulders in long, dripping coiled tendrils. In turn, he rested a buttock on the bollard and returned her smile.

“Farrier warned me the lake was inhabited by mermaids, but I did not believe him. For one thing, mermaids are sea creatures.”

“Farrier…?”

“My batman since before the war in the Americas. You may have seen him about recently, fishing from a skiff, or casting a line from the weir. He is on a fortnight’s angling holiday, his reward for spending a month cooped up in the Tower in my place. He has the Duke’s permission to catch as much trout and game as he can eat, to sleep under the stars wherever he pleases, and to observe mermaids at his leisure.”

“Is he a bald gentleman with a scar to his cheek and a silver hook for a hand?”

“That’s Farrier.”

Rory shook her head. “I’ve not seen him, but Grand described him to me, and warned me the Duke had a guest using the lake.”

“And still you swim naked…?”

Rory pouted and was suddenly uncomfortable.

“It’s obvious you’ve never had to swim in what amounts to a bed gown. Hideous article! More a hindrance than a help, and likely to drown its wearer.” She dimpled. “Without it, I am an exceptionally good swimmer; practically a fish. Not surprising your batman thought he had seen a mermaid.”

He let his dark eyes flicker over her slim arms and shoulders, and down the tangle of long wet hair that framed her heart-shaped face and disappeared to dip in the water. She did indeed present as a beautiful mermaid. He wondered if not only her narrow back but also her round buttocks were visible above the waterline, and for the first and only time begrudged Farrier his well-earned holiday. His batman was in his skiff, halfway between the jetty and the island, with a line in the water. But if he was angling, Dair would eat his boot. The man was directly behind Rory, with the best seat in the house. Dair made a mental note to order Farrier to remove himself as far as possible from the dower house jetty and its resident mermaid for the rest of his little angling adventure.

He pointed the end of her walking stick over her fair head in direction of Farrier’s skiff.

“If you do not wish to be caught on the end of his hook, I suggest you come up to the pavilion for nuncheon.”

A glance over her shoulder, and Rory took in the small boat and its occupant. When the angler dared to doff his hat, she gave a squeal of revelation and disappeared below the water line to Dair’s laughter. She resurfaced on the other side of the jetty, hidden from Farrier’s line of sight but now in full view of her shocked maid and, had Dair peered over the side of the wooden planks, in full view of him, too. He swiveled to face her but remained where he was.

“I shall head back to the pavilion so your maid can help you dress. I suspect being a mermaid makes you ravenous.”

Rory remained silent a moment, then said quietly, so quietly he came across to the edge of the jetty to hear her,

“Perhaps you’d like to take a swim first? It is so warm… You must be hot in that frock coat…”

“Thank you for the offer, but I—”

“Oh! Oh, I won’t stay. I didn’t mean you take a swim
with
me
,” she quickly corrected, embarrassed at being rejected. “You can have the lake all to yourself. And men don’t need to strip to nothing. They can swim in their breeches. I wore Grasby’s cast-offs to learn to swim, so I know how easy it is for men to—Or not,” she added quickly, because of the way he was looking out across the water, but not down at her. “You don’t have to swim in your breeches, if you don’t want to. You can—”

“Rory. There is nothing I would like more than to swim naked with you.”

It was the truth. There was nothing he desired more. Correction. There was one thing, but that could wait. And if there was ever a moment to overcome his dread of lake water, this was it, and with her. But instead of seizing the moment, because the moment would have to wait until he knew how matters stood between them, he politely declined, saying gently,

“I will keep your offer for another day. I’m going to send Farrier away now, so you can dress. I’ll be up at the pavilion waiting. I have something important to discuss with you.”

“What is so important?” she asked him half an hour later, coming up the steps to join him in the shade of the Duchess’s pretty pavilion.

She had dressed in haste. Her bodice was damp in patches where she had improperly dried her skin of moisture, most notably at her bust line, and her hair, though scraped back off her face and tied up with a satin ribbon at her nape, still dripped. But that was not a bad thing. With no breeze, even the shade of the pavilion afforded only minimal relief from the summer heat.

Dair had stripped out of his frock coat and was in his sleeveless silk waistcoat and shirtsleeves, booted legs sprawled out across a line of tapestry cushions, a hand under his head. He was staring up at the painted ceiling. He had almost dozed off when Rory’s question brought him to life. He sat up and offered her the cushions opposite him at the squat table laden with a modest nuncheon: A wheel of Cheshire cheese, a jar of chutney, a loaf of fresh bread, slices of cold beef, pickled onions, and a salad of greens. As well as the silver teapot on its stand and tea things on a tray, there was a jug of pear cider, once sitting on ice, now melted to cold water, in a porcelain bucket. It was at the jug Rory looked at in puzzlement as she set aside her stick.

“Courtesy of Cousin Duchess’s kitchen, just like the teapot,” Dair said, pouring her out a tumbler of cider. “Tea is well and good, but in this heat, it is best to start with a cold drink. Are those really necessary, and in this heat?” he added sternly, when Rory’s maid Edith came forward with a pair of ankle boots.

Rory shook her head and Edith retreated to resume her seat between two fat columns by the pavilion steps. She picked up her needlework, one ear to the conversation.

Rory took her place at the table, tucking her stockinged feet under her cotton petticoats, and gratefully drank the cider.

“Are you lodging at the dower house?”

“Yes.”

“Why not up at the big house with their Graces?”

Dair went about filling a plate with a variety of what was on offer on the table.

“Roxton is an excellent host, and he still owns me as family, despite my despicable behavior at the regatta. But we are barely on speaking terms.” He passed her the laden plate, holding her gaze. “And, it is but a short stroll from here to the Gatehouse Lodge, and you…”

Rory felt her face grow hot and she smiled unconsciously. His admission of staying at her godmother’s house to be close to her made her tingle all over, and she could not have been happier. Yet, she remained pensive at his mention of the regatta. That had been held on the estate two months ago. Rory remembered the boat race well indeed. How could she, or any other guest forget that day?

During the boat race, one of the Duke’s five-year-old twin sons fell out of a skiff into the lake and almost drowned. His little life was saved by the efforts of the Duke of Kinross. The race had all but been abandoned. Yet, the Major had rowed on and won the race, to great fanfare and bravado on his part. The Roxtons remained tight-lipped about the entire incident. And as no one could believe a war hero capable of ignoring a plea for help, there had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why the Major had rowed on to win the race.

Rory might not know the reason behind Dair’s behavior but she believed she had more insight than most into the episode. The best vantage point to see the boat race was from a marquee pitched at the highest point of the rolling lawn. And here Rory watched the Major cross the finish line under the arch of the stone bridge, the first of three boats to complete the race. And while the unwitting crowd cheered widely to have a victor, Rory caught sight of two more boats close together, making slow progress towards the bridge, clearly no longer competing. It was only much later that she came to hear of the near tragedy on the lake. But before that, before the shocking incident became general knowledge, the Major and his party of followers, including a clutch of young beauties hanging on every word the dashing Major uttered, burst into her tent in search of refreshments.

The Major was in fine voice and fine form. He had an arm about Mr. Cedric Pleasant’s neck, not because he required his friend’s support to remain upright after such physical exertion, but as an affectionate acknowledgement of Mr. Pleasant’s backing him to win. Recounting the finer points of the race with his boon companions, Rory was certain the adoring females in his party, particularly the Aubrey twins—two sylph-like beauties with large brown eyes—heard only one word in ten, too preoccupied, as Rory was herself, in admiring the Major’s handsome and powerful physique. His head of unruly black hair fell damp across his brow and into his eyes. The usual billowy linen shirt was wet through and thus adhered to every muscle of his torso; likewise, his clingingly tight cream breeches, displaying to advantage the contours of his taut thighs.

Rory resorted to fluttering her fan, suddenly giddy to be in close quarters with such potent masculinity, and because the space within the marquee was suddenly hot and heavy, crammed as it now was with an audience eager to be part of the Major’s victory celebrations. When Mr. Pleasant shoved a jug of ale into the Major’s hand, it was downed in one gulp, and to appreciative shouts of encouragement. Finally, the Major was swallowed up by the crowd of admirers, leaving Rory looking up from her chair at the backs of frock coats, and the intricate rumpled creations of the ladies’ polonaise petticoats.

Ignored and feeling invisible, Rory snatched up her stick, eager to seek fresh air and solace on the lawn. But it was no easy task for her to rise from her chair. She was hemmed in by a crowd too caught up in the moment. But not five minutes later the crowd parted, to allow the Major, a footman at his shoulder, to move to the back of the marquee. He stopped short of Rory’s chair, gaze fixed at some point over her head, unaware she was there. Here, the footman shrugged him into his embroidered silk waistcoat.

Rory’s gaze never wavered from his face. She, who always sat in her quiet corner, the observer but never the observed, saw what others could not, and what he did not want others to see. The moment he turned his back on everyone else, the devil-may-care mask he wore in public fell away. Gone was the twinkle in his eye, and the self-assured grin. His face dropped with sheer relief—from what, she had no idea, but it was as if he had been given a task he was sure he would fail, only to miraculously do well. He took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes, perhaps in thanks for having come through what surely must have been quite an ordeal, gauging by the extent of the reprieve writ large on his handsome features.

Rory instinctively knew it had everything to do with the boat race, just as she knew now, as she sat across from him in the shade of the pavilion, he wished to confide in her. So she took her time to formulate her words, pulling at the soft center of the chunk of bread on her plate. She ate it before saying, as conversationally as she could muster, a flicker of a glance across the squat table where he sat cross-legged on the cushions, piling a slab of bread with slices of beef,

“You gave quite a performance at the regatta…”

“Performance? Ha! It was one of my best. It had to be or I was destined for failure. But the word failure is not in my lexicon. So from the moment I stepped onto that jetty and into the skiff, until I stepped out of it over the finish line, I put in the performance of my life. I am relieved I don’t remember any of it—the rowing; what happened during the race; the shouts of encouragement from the shoreline. I looked neither left nor right, and I did not stop, for anything or anyone. I cannot…”

“So you rowed on when others may have needed your help?”

“Yes. But my brother assured me my help was not needed.”

“Surely you would have stopped had they shouted for your assistance?”

“Truthfully?” He held her gaze, despite feeling the heat suddenly burning his throat. He wondered if it was possible to see a man’s blush under a full beard. “I cannot answer that. I just rowed like bloody hell, determined to cross the finish line and get to dry land in the shortest time possible.”

“You could have declined to enter the race,” she said, then immediately answered her own question. “No. Of course you wouldn’t. Dair Fitzstuart does not refuse a wager. If he did, that would be strange indeed, and your friends would ask questions…”

“Yes… I have small consolation in knowing I was too far ahead in the race to be of any use had I been called back; so Charles confided. Little Louis was overboard and sinking fast and Kinross dived in and had him rescued before even Charles or Roxton had time to react.”

Rory continued to tug at the bread without eating it, leaving a hollowed crusty shell and a pile of crumbs on her plate.

“I believe that had your brother called out to you, you would have instinctively gone to his aid, all other considerations secondary.”

“Thank you for your belief. It means the world to me…”

She smiled shyly at such praise, but did not drop her gaze from his.

“You gave no thought to your own safety when you rescued that family from the battlefield at Brooklyn Heights, did you?”

“Battle is different. I know how to handle myself and my men on a battlefield. And that was on terra firma.”

“But surely in battle your primary goal is to secure victory at all costs?”

Dair gave a lopsided grin. “We may not have secured victory recently, but victory was ours in the Long Island campaign. Washington and his rebels would have been captured, too, had they not slunk away in the middle of the night.”