Dare to Love (3 page)

Billy was still dismayed, unable to believe what he saw. It had happened in a matter of seconds, and he was still gripping my arms. His face tightened now, and his eyes flashed with rage. He gave me a forceful shove that sent me reeling backwards. I stumbled and fell, landing with shattering impact that knocked the breath out of me. My head began to spin, and black wings seemed to flutter all around, closing in on me, blocking out the light. Several moments passed before I was aware once again of the stomping, shuffling, thudding noises around me. Palms flat on the ground, I managed to sit up. Everything was shimmering, out of focus, and my head was still spinning.

Jamie was on the ground on the other side of the road, groaning, and Billy and the stranger stood a few feet apart, the stranger cool and apparently unconcerned, Billy panting, his chest heaving. A moment passed and then Billy hurled himself toward the stranger and swung his arm in a wide arc, his fist flying toward the stranger's jaw. The stranger smiled and made a smooth half turn, and as the fist flew past his shoulder he seized Billy's wrist in midair and gave it a wicked twist, swinging Billy around in front of him and thrusting his arm up between his shoulder blades.

Billy yelled in anguish, and the stranger thrust his arm up even higher and gave a mighty push. Billy stumbled forward, tottering, and finally fell to his knees. Jamie moaned and climbed to his feet, rubbing his jaw, staring at the stranger with glazed eyes. The stranger stood there with his fists resting lightly on his thighs, a half smile on his lips. He waited, daring Jamie to make an aggressive move. Jamie shook his head and staggered back a few steps, clearly unsure of himself, and then he turned and moved hurriedly back down the road toward the village. Scrambling to his feet, Billy rushed after his friend. The man in the dark blue suit smiled, watching them depart. They were almost out of sight before he finally turned his attention to me.

He stepped across the road, reached down, and took my hand to help me to my feet. He was still cool and unconcerned, showing not the least sign of exertion. There was a glint of amusement in those dark brown eyes. Awry half smile played on his lips.

“Brence Stephens,” he said. “At your service.”

And that was the beginning.

III

He was very tall, with the lean, muscular build of an athlete, all supple grace and strength. His navy blue suit was superbly tailored, the trousers snug, the jacket emphasizing broad shoulders and a slender waist. He wore a maroon and white striped waistcoat, his maroon silk stock neat, unruffled by the fight. His black knee boots were highly glossed. He had a deep tan, and his hair was jet black, rich and abundant. There was a tautness about his cheekbones, the skin stretched tight. His mouth was wide, the lower lip full and smooth and shell pink, undeniably sensual.

“Are you all right?” he inquired.

I nodded, brushing dust from my skirt.

“Lucky I happened along when I did,” he said.

His voice was deep and melodious with an appealing huskiness. Despite his gentleness with me, I sensed that he was accustomed to giving orders, accustomed to having them obeyed. There was a certain hardness about him that suggested a military background. He had clearly enjoyed the fight that had sent both strapping youths running with little or no effort on his part, yet he was unquestionably well bred. He would be as much at ease in an elegant drawing room as on a raging battlefield, always in command of the situation. He was without question the handsomest man I had ever seen, that strong virile beauty strangely augmented by the patina of hardness.

“I should have taken my horsewhip to those two,” he remarked. “Ruffians like that shouldn't be allowed to roam free.”

Having regained my composure, I pushed a lock of hair from my cheek and looked at Brence Stephens. The unpleasant encounter with Jamie and Billy might never have happened.

“No harm was done, Mr. Stephens.”

He lifted one smooth, finely arched brow, registering surprise at my accent. Obviously, he'd taken me for some country wench, and my cultivated voice made him look at me with new interest. A familiar assessment glowed in his eyes; he found me intriguing, and he found me desirable, too. That was quite plain.

“I must say, you seem terribly calm about the whole thing,” he said. “Most young women would be hysterical.”

“I find hysterics quite unattractive.”

“I was rather hoping you'd throw yourself into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably.”

“Indeed?”

“Then I'd be able to comfort you. I'd enjoy that.”

He spoke lightly, teasing with a smile on his lips, and it was impossible to take offense, yet I was on guard just the same. I had never met a man so utterly attractive. His features might have been chiseled by a master sculptor. He might have materialized from some schoolgirl's dream, and that made me uneasy. Feeling terribly young, terribly inexperienced, and disoriented by my reaction to him, I sought refuge in a cool, haughty manner that he seemed to find amusing.

“I'm at a disadvantage,” he said. “You know my name. I don't know yours.”

“I'm Mary Ellen Lawrence.”

“Mary Ellen,” he said.

He made it sound like music. He looked at me with dark brown eyes that seemed so wise, so knowing, and my disorientation grew. My cool manner didn't deceive him at all. I sensed that he knew exactly what I was feeling and why, even if I was unsure about it myself. Why should I have this pleasurable glow inside and this tremulous fear, both at the same time? I wanted to reach up and touch that full pink mouth with my fingertips, but I wanted to run away, too, before it was too late.

“I'll drive you back to the village,” he said.

“I don't live in the village.”

“No? Where do you live?”

“Graystone Manor,” I replied.

“Graystone Manor? I'm afraid I don't know the place. This is my first visit to Cornwall, you see. I'm staying with my cousin, Lady Andover. She and her husband live in the next county. Perhaps you know them?”

“I know of them.”

“I wanted to see something of the countryside. That's why I'm so far afield. Beth, Lady Andover, spends every afternoon playing cards with her cronies, and Freddie seems to devote twenty-four hours a day to his gun collection. I wanted to get out, get some fresh air. I borrowed this rig. It's lucky for you I did.”

“I—I suppose I should thank you.”

“You should,” he agreed. “It isn't really necessary, though. I love a good fight. Not that those two ruffians offered a real challenge.”

“You handled yourself extremely well.”

“I've had plenty of practice. In India.”

“You're a soldier?”

“I was. That's behind me now.”

A slight frown creased his brow, and his lips lifted at one corner in a show of distaste. Military life had obviously palled for him. I sensed a certain restlessness in him and a steely determination to succeed which fascinated me. I also had a vague, disturbing feeling that was almost like a premonition of danger. It was as though I had come face to face with my fate, and my instincts were warning me to flee.

“I—I'd better get back,” I said.

“I'll drive you.”

“That isn't necessary. I'll walk.”

“You'll ride,” he told me.

His voice was pleasant, yet his tone made it clear that he would brook no argument. Touching my elbow, he led me over to the carriage and helped me up onto the upholstered seat. He swung up beside me with athletic grace. As he gathered up the reins, I was acutely aware of his nearness. The carriage was a light open rig, designed for intimacy, the seat quite small. I could smell the clean male smell of him—it was heady and rather upsetting.

“A mile or so back I passed a large gray house surrounded by overgrown gardens,” he said. “Is that Graystone Manor?”

I nodded. Brence Stephens clicked the reins and turned the carriage around, his strong, capable hands applying just the right amount of pressure on the reins. In moments we were heading back down the road. The horse moved at a leisurely pace, its glossy coat gleaming dark, tail and mane rippling like silk. Seagulls circled against the pearl-gray sky, crying their shrill cries, and dazzling sunlight bathed the open land. I could see the ocean beyond the edge of the cliffs, a surging blue-gray expanse that melted into a misty steel and gold horizon.

Neither of us spoke. The man beside me seemed oblivious of my presence. Lost in thought, he might have been alone in the carriage. I studied his profile, noticing the stern set of his jaw, the full curve of his mouth. His cheeks were lean, with faint hollows beneath those taut cheekbones, and his rich black hair made a striking contrast with his evenly tanned complexion. He would have acquired that tan in India, I thought. I had the feeling that he had just recently returned to England.

Several moments passed in silence broken only by the steady clop of horse hooves on the road and the cry of the gulls. Brence Stephens finally sighed and gazed at the open land with critical eyes.

“Interesting place,” he remarked.

“You don't like Cornwall?”

“I've been here a week, and I've rarely been so bored. There's not all that much to do, and Beth and Freddie aren't the most stimulating company. I felt obligated to visit, for Beth's my only living relative, and she begged me to come. I had some time on my hands, so—here I am.”

“You said you're no longer with the military.”

“I resigned my commission. Military life can be extremely limiting. One can go just so far, climb just so high. I'm going into the diplomatic service. It was arranged by … uh … a friend of mine before I left India. In a few weeks I'll be leaving for Germany as aide to the English ambassador of a tiny state you've probably never heard of. It's an insignificant post, but it's a beginning.”

“I'm sure you'll go far.”

“I intend to,” he said firmly.

I suspected that the “friend” who had arranged his post was of the feminine gender. Probably the wife of some official, I thought, an older woman with a pouting mouth and worldly eyes who sought a return to youth in the arms of younger men. A woman like that would find Brence Stephens impossible to resist, and I suspected that he would have no qualms about using his male allure to achieve his own ends.

“I suppose you're engaged to some local squire,” he said.

I shook my head. He lifted an eyebrow in surprise.

“No? I should have thought you'd have been long since spoken for. There must be suitors by the score.”

“There are no suitors, Mr. Stephens.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I'm sure Lady Andover will be able to explain things to you. Once, long ago, she was a—a friend of my aunt's.”

“Ah,” he said, “so there's a mystery.”

“There is no mystery,” I replied.

He didn't pursue the matter, but I could tell that he was intrigued. Undoubtedly, he would ask his cousin about me and, undoubtedly, she would tell him that I was the bastard daughter of an aristocrat and her gypsy lover. Lady Andover knew all about me, and by this evening Brence Stephens would, too. Some of the old resentment returned, but I banished it immediately.

The horse followed a curve in the road. In the distance I could see the towering oak trees and the large graystone house surrounded by shabby gardens wild with a riot of flowers. Directly behind the house the moors began, ground covered with grayish-brown grass faintly touched with green, gradually rising in a series of small hills. The terrain was ancient, windswept, savagely beautiful. Beyond those barren hills there were more moors leading to the grove where the gypsies used to camp.

For a moment, thinking about the camp, I forgot the man beside me. I could see the little girl with pigtails rushing across the moors. I could see the painted caravans, the campfires that blossomed among the trees as twilight fell, and I could see those dark, exotic men and women who were fierce and volatile but so very kind to me, taking me in, making me a part of that intimate, tempestuous family. But that was all in the past. I was grown now. Never again would I be a part of that vibrant world.

“You love this land, don't you?” Brence Stephens said.

“It's part of me,” I replied.

“You must teach me to love it. My cousin tells me I must see Land's End. It's not far from here, I understand.”

“A mile or so,” I said.

He tugged on the reins, stopping the horse in front of the gate set in the low gray wall that surrounded the property. The gardens were ablaze with color, and the towering oak trees cast long, heavy shadows over the road; the house was only partially visible behind the low hanging limbs. Brence Stephens climbed out of the carriage with indolent grace and reached up to help me alight, his hands encircling my waist. His fingers tightened, lifting me, drawing me toward him. When he set me on my feet, he maintained his hold for several seconds, peering into my eyes. His own dark eyes were inscrutable.

“I'd like to see you again,” he said.

“I—I don't think that would be wise.”

“No?”

He let go of my waist. I felt relief and disappointment at the same time. He continued to look into my eyes, and again I had a desire to reach up and touch those full, finely carved lips. The premonition I had felt earlier returned, even stronger this time. Every instinct told me that this man was a threat to me, and somehow that made him all the more alluring.

“You're afraid,” he said. “It's there in your eyes.”

“You're imagining things, Mr. Stephens.”

“There's loneliness, too, and sadness.”

“I must go inside.”

“Don't be afraid, Mary Ellen.”

His voice was gentle and persuasive, husky, like music. It was beautiful, and he was beautiful, too, aglow with rugged vitality. Disturbing new emotions blossomed inside me, unfolding like petals, and I tried to hold them back. I didn't want to feel them. I didn't want to step over that invisible threshold that beckoned. I drew back, wishing he would leave, wishing I had never gone to the village. His eyes held mine, compelling me to accept those things I tried desperately to deny.