Her Every Pleasure (9 page)

She nodded, looking away and finally showing a shred of shame for her outrageous snooping. “As I told you, I was just a bit…curious…about you.”

“If there was something you wanted to know, you could have just asked me.”

“You wouldn’t have answered!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m just a-a lowly Gypsy girl, and you’re my employer,” she said, eyeing him warily. “It’s not my place to ask you questions.”

He gazed at her for a long moment. “Why don’t you come back inside and have dinner with me, and you can ask me whatever you want?”

He suspected it was the offer of food more than his company that brought a ray of hope back into her eyes.

He could just imagine how hard Mrs. Moss had worked her today. He doubted the girl had had a decent meal since noon.

But she was still hesitant.

“What is it?” he murmured. Was she not satisfied with his apology? For God’s sake, that was as close to groveling as he would ever come.

“I’m not sure I trust you,” she said carefully, keeping her distance.

“Fair enough,” he conceded in a low tone. “I’m not sure I trust you, either. But I’m willing to put my faith in you if you’ll do the same for me.” He took a step closer. “You don’t have to worry about me, Sophia, all right?” he offered softly. “I’m not going to touch you. You have my word on that. I know I overstepped my bounds. It was a momentary slip and it will not happen again. You’ve got your knife back. If I even look at you wrong, just stab me, as you planned. I promise, this time I won’t resist. I’m sure I would deserve it after that.”

She returned his sardonic smile guardedly. “I wasn’t really going to stab you.”

“I know.” He held her stare with total sincerity. “And I would not in a million years force myself on you or any woman.”

“I know.” Her voice was barely a whisper; she dropped her gaze. “I think I can tell that about you.”

“Good.”

They stared at each other for a long moment in the moonlight. He shivered a bit, for the autumn night was cold and he’d run out without a coat. She was shivering, too, holding on tight to the strap of her knapsack over one shoulder.

He looked away, frustrated by the pathetic picture of the little errant waif. Damn, she was stubborn. What more could he say to persuade her?

“Sophia, I know you’re eager to get the hell out of here,” he conceded, summoning up a final dose of patience. “But the nearest coaching inn is about three miles away—which you probably already know, since I assume that’s how you got here. The stagecoach only passes once a day, and you’ve already missed it. I’ll bring you over there tomorrow if you like, and I already told you I’d buy your ticket back to London. But I simply will
not
be responsible for letting a young woman wander the countryside all night by herself. Come back to the house where I’ll know that you’re safe. Come now, chicken stew and a proper bed—that is my offer, take it or leave it.”

“A bed?”

“No, don’t worry—you misunderstand me,” he amended hastily “I mean I’ll make sure to give you a bedchamber where the door locks, nice and sturdy. Would it make you feel better to sleep with one of my guns under your pillow?”

“Yes, it actually would.”

“Well—all right then.” He hadn’t been quite serious on that last point, but if that’s what it took to persuade her she was safe with him, then so be it, he thought in startled amusement. “If that’s settled, come along, then.”

Still, she balked, studying him strangely.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Why do you even care what happens to me?”

“You’ve got spirit. I admire that. And I guess…I really could do with some company,” he admitted, lowering his head. “Come on,” he ordered after a moment. “You’re going to catch your death out here and I’m starved.”

“So am I.” She started toward him, but Gabriel frowned when he saw her limping.

He strode over, closing the remaining distance between them. “Let me help you.”

She eyed him warily, hanging back.

“I won’t bite,” he murmured. “Lean on me.”

Her dark eyes flickered mysteriously as she held his gaze, then she glanced down at his offered hand. “Thanks.” She laid her hand in his. “I won’t forget this, Gabriel,” she whispered as she let him guide her carefully over the rocky ground.

“Neither will I, believe me,” he answered with a dry glance.

She chuckled at his quip, and he shook his head, quite mystified by her.

“I’ve got to say, Sophia, you really don’t seem a harlot to me.”

“Well, you don’t seem much like an ordinary man.”

“I’m trying.”

She laughed and steadied herself with a hand on his arm. And they walked back together to the house.

CHAPTER
         FIVE         

I
nside the farmhouse was dark and empty, Mrs. Moss having returned to her cottage for the night. After Gabriel locked the front door, Sophia followed him into the dimly lit warmth of the kitchen, where the low hearth-fire still glowed beneath the simmering cauldron of stew.

“Sit, please. Make yourself comfortable,” he said with a gesture toward the table. “I’ll serve.”

“You’ll serve?” she echoed in surprise.

He sent her a quick smile over his shoulder. “I invited you in as my guest, Sophia, not as my servant. Besides, you should keep the weight off that ankle for a while.”

“It’s not bad,” she assured him as she set down her knapsack by the wall and slowly took off her cloak. “I just twisted it a little.”

Still puzzled by his solicitude, she watched Gabriel cross to the hearth. Of course, she was used to people waiting on her, but they did her bidding because they had to—it was their duty—not because they wanted to. Not necessarily because they cared.

Gabriel was so different. He seemed to be concerned about her simply as a person.

Over by the large fireplace, he took a towel off the mantel and used it to protect his hand as he lifted the heated lid and peered into the simmering stew pot.

“Looks good.” He glanced over his shoulder at her with a beguiling smile. “Smells even better. Hungry?”

“Starved,” she admitted with a smile.

“Me, too.” He set the lid aside and reached for the large serving spoon that hung from a peg driven into the thick wood mantel.

As he used the big spoon to stir the stew, she watched him with a mystified air. “You certainly seem to know what you’re doing over there.” When he shrugged in his modest way, she lifted her eyebrows. “A man who can cook?”

“Enough to avoid starvation,” he said dryly. “Army life teaches you to become self-sufficient. Fast.”

Recalling all the trouble she’d had with the simple household chores she had been assigned today, Sophia dropped her gaze with a self-conscious wince. “Well, if you can cook, I can at least set the table.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, no, please.”

“Fair enough.” He sent her a nod. “Thanks.”

“Dining room?”

“I usually just eat here,” he said, glancing at the rustic, old kitchen table.

Sophia nodded. “All right.”

While he got the food ready, she moved around the kitchen, gathering bowls and cutlery, and carefully setting the table, but picturing Gabriel eating alone here night after night made her want to touch him, just to reach out. The truth was, she ate alone a lot of the time, as well, an army of silent, stone-faced servants arrayed around her in the lonely grandeur of her dining hall.

Maybe on this dark and lonely night, both of them were more desperate for simple human contact than either really cared to admit.

He hung the large spoon back on its peg again and then fetched a candelabra to add more light to the table for their meal. He placed it on the center of the table, but when he turned around, they nearly ran into each other, for Sophia was coming up behind him with the salt.

They exchanged a rather shy smile, avoided a collision, and circled around each other. Sophia tried not to stare, but a ripple of tingling awareness moved through her as Gabriel brushed past.

While she stepped into the old buttery, where the air was dark and damp, cooled by an underground spring, he went back to the hearth, then returned with a long match and transferred its small flame to the candelabra. Sophia collected the squat little ceramic tub of fresh butter from a shelf, then retrieved the basket of wheat rolls from the pantry, and when she had put them on the table, Gabriel smiled at her.

“I think we have everything ready now.” He pulled out one of the plain wooden chairs for her, ever the gentleman.

She nodded, smiling at him, then lowered herself into the chair. He pushed her in politely, then turned away and went back to the hearth.

Her heart pounded with her awareness of him as he filled a bowl of stew and brought it to her. Sophia watched him avidly as he set it down before her, as though his simplest motions were the most gripping spectacle in all the world. She nodded her thanks, then he went back to fill a second bowl for himself.

Returning with his soup, Gabriel set it down, then paused, lifting an eyebrow. “Hm, something’s missing.” He walked over to the cabinet and took a bottle of wine down from the top shelf.

Before long, he had poured it for them and, at last, sat down with her. They looked at each other for a long moment…cautiously, searchingly. He picked up his glass and raised it to her in a wordless toast.

She smiled, blushing a bit; somehow there was more sincerity in this hard soldier’s silent offering than all the flowery eloquence of a hundred flattering courtiers.

She lifted her glass, clinked it softly against his, and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Thank
you,
” he replied.

“For what? Setting the table?”

“Giving an idiot male another chance.”

She snorted at his wry self-deprecation. “Cheers.”

He smiled sardonically, took a swallow of the white wine, and then began to eat.

Sophia lingered over her wineglass, watching Gabriel try the stew first. Ever since her father had been poisoned, her mother, Queen Theodora, had ordered her and all her brothers always to let the royal food tasters sample every dish before they partook. Without even thinking about it, Sophia waited, watching him.

“Well, go on,” Gabriel urged her with a smile, noticing her hesitation. “I thought you said you were hungry.”

She blinked in surprise, realizing only then what she was doing out of mere habit. She couldn’t help laughing at herself a bit, but she gave him a warm smile, then picked up her spoon and joined him in the meal. After all, no one bothered poisoning lowly Gypsy girls.

“Delicious,” Gabriel remarked as he finished swallowing another mouthful.

Sophia glanced at him, pleased by his enjoyment of food that
she
had helped to cook. She had never cooked a meal for anyone before. Watching him, she was beginning to wonder if her role as princess was isolating her more than she had realized from life’s simple pleasures.

When she thought of all the precautionary measures she had to take in life—food tasters, bodyguards, decoys—she could certainly understand his desire to be just an ordinary man.

Sympathy for him on that point made her reluctant to ask the questions about his military career that had been burning in her mind ever since she found his traveling trunk. Outside, he had told her that if she came back, he would let her ask whatever she wanted, but right now, it was good just to share this meal in companionable silence.

She hadn’t noticed how often she was glancing at him until he pointed it out.

“Sophia,” he drawled in an offhand manner. “You are staring at me again.” Reaching for the butter, he eyed her with a roguish twinkle in his cobalt eyes.

She blushed. “Sorry.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Not really.”

“Then eat, girl! Anyone ever tell you you’re too skinny?”

“I am not!”

He tossed a roll at her and she laughed as she caught it. “Very well.” She took some butter and smeared it onto her supper roll. “So, what did you do today, Major? I did not see you much around the house.”

“No, I was off traipsing around the countryside trying to find the owner of that bay gelding.”

Her eyes widened, but she quickly chased all signs of guilt off her face—she hoped. “Any luck?”

“No,” he replied nonchalantly. “It is the dashedest thing. None of the farmers around here have ever seen the animal before. A fine horse, in excellent health. Well trained, too. How he wound up here has quite mystified us all.”

“He must have run away,” she proposed.

“Indeed. Very careless of his owner. At any rate, I left word at the surrounding farms in case his rightful owner comes looking for him. I wouldn’t want to be accused of trying to steal the animal. After all, horse stealing is a hanging offense. You do know that, don’t you, Sophia?” he added softly, pausing over his meal.

“You think I had something to do with this?” she exclaimed in answer to his searching stare. “If you’re accusing me again—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. But you must admit, it does seem a bit…coincidental that you both showed up here at about the same time.”

“I thought we’ve already been through this. I’ve never stolen anything in my life,” she declared and set her spoon down.

“I’m only wondering if some—beau or brother of yours might have followed you into the area and might be responsible for, shall we say, liberating the animal.”

She shook her head, her attitude cooling toward him. “I have no beaux, nor any brother within many miles of here.”

He gazed into her eyes for a moment, his own so deep and ocean-blue.

He was such a solid man; Sophia felt terrible all of a sudden for lying to him about everything.

“Very well. I will say no more about it,” he conceded, then he smiled cautiously. “But I do find it hard to believe that you have no beaux.”

“Well, my dear Major,” she said with a sigh as she picked up her spoon again. “Some women were just not meant to be tamed.”

He leaned nearer and murmured, “Those are my kind of women.”

Though Gabriel didn’t quite trust her and didn’t believe half of what she said, something about Sophia charmed him all the same. She was much more sure of herself than the women he was used to. The trait intrigued him.

He was warmed by her fire and vibrancy, drawing him back to the mortal realm. The contrast between this night—hearing Sophia’s laughter, her heated exclamations; watching the lively play of emotions chase across her expressive face by candlelight—and the cold, dark night before, alone in the ruined church, fighting his demons, could not have been more marked.

The simple communal bond of sharing this meal with her, as plain as it was, felt like pure decadence. The luxury of her company made him feel like a king.

As their conversation flowed with surprising ease, he could sense her pulling him out of his isolation, yet he was hungry tonight in more ways than one.

He forced himself to banish tormenting images of brushing the plates aside and making love to her right there on the kitchen table. Everything in him longed for her, but he was
not
giving in to that impulse.

She had forgiven him once and placed her trust in him. He was not going to slip up again, especially after he had given his word not to touch her. Still, with the wayward drift of his thoughts, he couldn’t help musing that it was remarkable how innocent she seemed, given her profession.

Innocent yet strong. She could not have known many men before she came here, he thought, taking another swallow of wine. A shocking thought suddenly struck him. Surely Derek was not devilish enough to have purchased a virgin for him.

Good God.

“So,” Sophia said at length as their meal wound down. She sat back, slowly swirling the wine in her glass. “You are a cavalry officer.”

He tensed. “Was. I’ve sold my commission,” he said.

“Did you serve in the Peninsula?” she murmured, watching him intently.

He shook his head. “India.” His mood turned a little impassive at her cautious questioning, but he knew he had promised to answer if she would agree to come back. She had, so he must, and there it was.

“India,” she echoed, gently encouraging him along.

“I was born in Calcutta. My father was once highly placed in the East India Company, but he retired from his post some years ago and is now quite the gentleman of leisure.” Gabriel smiled, speaking of his father. They had always been very close. “Lord Arthur Knight.”

“Lord?”

“Oh, yes. Father’s elder brother was a duke, now deceased. The present duke’s my cousin.”

She lifted her eyebrows, looking both amused and impressed. “Which one?”

“Hawkscliffe.”

“Ah, the Tory who turned Whig and married his mistress.”

Gabriel’s lips twisted wryly. “Quite so.”