Elisabeth Fairchild (12 page)

He hoped for more. Still she pondered Miles Fletcher’s meaning as they packed up the picnic remains.

“Your sister. Does she mean to return with us? Surely she is hungry?”

Fletcher was loading his horse with baskets. “I shall go and ask her.”

As before he whistled and received an answering noise. He made a move to set off in the direction from which the answer came and then turned to ask Aurora, “You do not mean to ride away while I am gone, do you?”

She shook her head, chastened by this mild reminder of her former rudeness to him in the ballroom.

“I shall only be a moment.” He set off with one of the baskets.

She watched him go. The phrases they had practiced would not stop running through her head, like the unending chorus of the dove whose voice came softly from the trees above.
You hav changed; kiss me; do you love me? Kiss me; Do not betray our secret; kiss me.
” The memory of his kiss touched upon her lips like the breeze that lifted hair from her brow. She closed her eyes and reminded herself it was Walsh she meant to have. Surely an earl’s kisses would taste as sweet, surely his touch would make her knees buckle just as much as this Miles Fletcher’s did.

Fletcher returned empty-handed. “My sister has been joined by three young men, your brother among them.”

“My brother?” She was surprised.

“Yes,” He laughed. “Her lure is strong.”

If it was half as strong as her brother’s, Rupert was in trouble. The blue eyes that watched her seemed to probe her thoughts. Aurora found it difficult to meet that knowing gaze. “I should very much like to meet this alluring sister of yours,” she said.

“And so you shall, but for the moment she is in the midst of a drawing, and will not be budged.

Aurora was pleased he did not expect her to make her introductions immediately. How did one converse intelligently with a stranger when one had just been kissing her brother?

They set off toward the Hall at a leisurely pace. This time she did not dash ahead of her companion, but rode at a companionable pace beside him. As they progressed, Aurora stopped on occasion and slid from the saddle, to break off a branch of shrubbery or pluck up a plant in order to stop the phrases that ran through her head like the chorus of a song just sung,
You have changed; kiss me; do you love me?; kiss me; do not betray our secret; kiss me.

“See this?” She handed the first specimen to him. “It is Enchanter’s Nightshade.”

“Do you mean to enchant me?” His tone was polite, almost jesting, but his words reminded her of the kisses that still burned hotly in her memory.

No
, she thought.
You have enchanted me.
Miles Fletcher managed to make everything a matter of flirtation, even when she would push such stuff completely from her thoughts. She refused to blush or answer in kind.

“There is nothing enchanting about Nightshade when one is raising sheep,” she said briskly. “The fruits get bristly and catch on the bellies and tails of livestock. Consider them a pest plant, along with goose grass, thistles, burdock and hound’s tongue. Such stuff tangled in a fleece reduces its value.”

They rode on, Miles studying the plant, until she found another that was worthy of his attention.

“What do you think of this?” She handed a lacy green leaf on a long stalk up to him.

“Is it parsley?” he ventured.

“Fool’s parsley. Now, crush one of the leaves.”

Miles did as she requested and recoiled from the odor. “It smells very unpleasant.” He dropped the plant to the ground in disgust.

“A stench it does one well to be acquainted with,” she agreed even as she was wondering if she were the fool today to let a man kiss her whom she barely knew, and to be affected by that kiss. “Fool’s parsley is poisonous in all its parts. Hemlock, dog’s Mercury and nightshade, all poisonous, have foul odors as well. I make it a practice to hold suspicious any plant that stinks.” She must hold her feelings for this practiced lover as suspicious as any smelly plant. She had seen him charm other women in ballroom and dining hall. He must not be allowed to charm her defenseless, to close her eyes to her goals with no more than a kiss or two.

“Are there many poisonous plants?” Miles wondered, looking out over the land on either side of them as if he were suddenly plunged into a place as dangerous as she considered his arms.

She felt settled only if they stuck to matters of plant-life and livestock.  “Parts of many plants are poisonous. Sometimes it is the root or tuber, sometimes the leaves or fruit. Some are always poisonous, some only when fresh. Some kill immediately, some only over time. Fortunately, sheep, cattle and horses tend to avoid the noxious smelling varieties if provided with a more pleasant alternative, but it pays to be familiar with the worst culprits in case a flock starts dropping dead.”

“And have you had flocks affected in this manner by no more than a weed?”

His deep blue eyes seemed more open than she remembered. His curiosity was genuine. She swallowed hard and would not look at him.

“Yes, on occasion. Last year I hired a Scotsman as shepherd--superb with both sheep and dogs, but unfamiliar with a plant that does not grow in the north, white bryony. A dozen sheep had miscarried premature lambs before the man’s ignorance was recognized. I was afraid I might lose an entire flock.”

“How unfortunate,” Miles Fletcher’s voice was so gentled by empathy she could not stop her mouth from twisting with the pain of remembering.

She nodded, bit her lower lip and bent to pluck up another weed, hoping her expression did not give away the sorrow inside of her. This polished fellow, no matter how sympathetic his manner, could not truly understand the depth of her feelings for her stock, could he? She willed her voice not to shake.

“Ragwort is another nasty weed. Widespread. You are sure to see it in your pasturage.” She tipped back her head to hand him the ragged leaved yellow flower, unaware that the tears she had stopped from falling, glistened brightly in her eyes. “Ragwort’s effect is not immediate, but it is quite dangerous to cattle if they eat it on a regular basis.”

As dangerous to cattle as she was become to him, Miles thought as he watched emotions play across the freckled complexion of the female before him. He felt a trifle inadequate. Here stood a woman who nurtured flocks and was moved almost to tears by the state of their health. Here was
L' Amazon
, who rode like the wind, kissed like a temptress, shot arrows like a man and knew all there was to know about breeding cattle and fertilizing the land. She housed a storehouse of useful information, deeds and knowledge. Whenever she spoke he could not help but wonder just what it was he had so long wasted his time doing with himself.

Could the buying and selling of antiquities and the mastering of drawing room etiquette even begin to measure up? He thought not. And then, defensively, and because he had always considered himself a worthy fellow, he convinced himself that he was trying to compare Kent’s genius with architecture to Constable’s eye for scenery. The world was surely big enough and varied enough for both he and Aurora Ramsay to co-exist. In the process they stood to learn from one another. He certainly hoped they might eventually learn more of one another’s lips.

So valuable were the lessons she offered in more serious matters, that he was more determined than ever to offer her equal measure. He must set things right. He would see to her wardrobe if she would allow it. He would teach her to dance if she so desired. He would, by God, polish the rough edges of this gem few recognized. He would. . .

“Whoa! Stop right there!” he insisted. They had clattered into the stable yard and Aurora was preparing to dismount in the very competent fashion with which she had climbed up and down from her mount all afternoon.

“What?” She turned.

“Stay right where you are,” Miles insisted, sliding from the saddle and moving swiftly to her side. With a smile, for he enjoyed his every exchange with her and could never predict her reaction, he gently touched her arm.

“Another lesson, Miss Ramsay. You must never dismount from a horse unaided when there is a gentleman nearby to assist.”

Aurora, who had unhooked her knee from the sidesaddle in preparation of jumping down, cocked her head to stare at him skeptically. “I am perfectly capable of an unassisted dismount, sir, and well you know it. I have been on and off this saddle at least six times this afternoon in fetching plants to you.” Her tone and expression were meant to be quelling.

“Yes, and each time I was struck by the feeling I proved a most inattentive riding companion in allowing you to do so.” Miles held out his arm in assistance, though she had just as plainly told him she did not require it. “You would be wise to display your competence judiciously,” he murmured, as he stepped closer to her horse. “You will meet many a fellow who neglects to offer you such courtesy, but when a man would be gentlemanly and help you down, especially any man whom you respect and trust, or simply find interesting, you are honor-bound to encourage his inclination for acts of gentility.”

“As I suppose I must indulge yours now?

“Precisely!” He held both arms up to her in invitation.

With a sigh of resignation, Aurora placed her hands on

Miles Fletcher’s perfectly tailored shoulders and slid down from the roan. Miles caught her around the waist as if she were a child who required assistance from the back of a pony, but when her heels hit the ground and she dropped her grasp on his shoulders she realized he was not at all interested in treating her like a child. His hands remained familiarly in contact with her waist!

“There are advantages to allowing oneself to be assisted in such a manner,” he said suggestively, his eyes meeting hers with unmistakable intent as she realized herself neatly trapped between horse and man, and both too close for comfort.

She was tempted to box his ears. “You may take your hands off of me now, Mr. Fletcher. I am safely come to ground.

“Ah!” He complied. “I thought you were yet knocked a trifle unsteady.”

Oddly enough, she did sway a little when he let go his warm, bracing hold of her. She wondered why she felt unaccountably dizzy. Perhaps it was the memory of the last time he had held her.

He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm as the horses were led away and leaned close, to say in an under voice, “As you can see, the dismount is a deliciously unremarkable mode in which a male and female may for an instant come into contact with one another.”She flinched away from him, away from the warm, tickling sensation of his voice in her ear. “And why should that be of the slightest interest to me, Mr. Fletcher?” she inquired tartly.

His blue eyes twinkled. “Oh, but you must learn to take advantage of what few opportunities lie open to a female if you truly mean to pursue the attentions and affections of a gentleman such as Lord Walsh.” He neatly dismissed her offended air.

Aurora glared at him, pride completely undone. She could not think of a word with which to respond. She was used to using sarcasm as a shield against any man who rattled her feeling of control, and Miles Fletcher had unexpectedly done just that throughout the course of this afternoon. How galling that not one single witty or biting remark occurred to her.

He patted her hand and as if it weremore than commonplace, said, “It has occurred to me that our next lesson might best be conducted after dinner---in your room.”

She wrenched her arm from his clasp. “In my room? What

mischief is this, sir?”

“Tut, tut,” he smoothed his sleeve, deftly recaptured her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm again. “You miss another opportunity, Miss Ramsay. There are any number of ways to respond to such a provocative statement, and indignation, while an admirable reflection of your character, is perhaps not the wisest in this case.”

“Sir, you insult me,” she snapped.

“Shame.” He nodded. “Yes, that is another possibility, though much in the same vein, really.”

“I am going to pummel you if you do not make an attempt to explain yourself at once,” she promised, her voice low and angry as they crossed the channel and approached the hall.

“Threat. Hmmm!” he considered. “That is certainly another stab at it.”

He dodged a kick in the shin and winked at her.

“Violence, my dear, is quite out.”

She stopped, unable to control a laugh. “You are become unbearably irritating, sir. Do tell me why you dare to suggest a tête-à-tête in my chambers before I go mad and jump into the channel.”

“Bravo!” He squeezed her arm, his face a collected picture of approval. “You come at last to the more productive means of dealing with most any situation. Humor. It is a priceless commodity. Nurture it, and discard all mad thoughts of throwing yourself into the channel. I will now explain my somewhat forward suggestion that I invade your privacy--in a single word: wardrobe.”

“Wardrobe?”

He smiled his contained little smile, neither lip fully engaged. “Indeed, Miss Ramsay. I would see to the dressing and undressing of you.”

She gasped and opened her mouth to voice again her indignation.

The lifting of one sleek dark eyebrow silenced her. “Humor me with humor, Miss Ramsay.”

She closed her mouth on the acid retort she had been about to utter, thought a moment and then tipped her head to say. “I have a proposition, Mr. Fletcher.

“A most promising beginning,” he said with approval. “Pray tell me, what is this proposition?”

“I will allow you the dressing and undressing of me, sir, if you allow me equal favor.”

His eyebrows rose. “My dear, you are a quick study. I am intrigued. Please go on.”

She could not suppress a smile. “Well, the next time we ride together I would see some more practical color on your person than white. You are your valet’s nightmare, sir. A gentleman should not be required to sit upon a napkin rather than soil his breeches on a picnic.”

He smiled. “If you indeed mean to dress and undress me, Miss Ramsay, I will follow you about with nothing but bells on if you think it suits me.”