Lois Greiman (8 page)

S
he read the primer with slow, childish caution. But she read.

Nicol prowled the room again. Eight days had passed since their arrival at Woodlea Farm. In that time she had slaughtered the King’s English, learned to walk with passing grace, and nearly managed to best him at chess. In short, they had barely left the damned chamber.

He felt as dishelved as a battered hound, plus he was losing his mind along with half his possessions. He’d finally been forced to borrow a razor from Mrs. Barnes and had recently implored her to replace his mysteriously missing button with something that didn’t quite match the row of silver spheres on his favorite waistcoat. The irregularity made him feel strangely off-balance…and old. And tired, painfully tired. There was a bed right there, soft, yielding, seductive, and yet he had hardly slept more than an hour at a time. While she…He glanced at his student. She was bent over a book, her eyes narrowed in concentration, and in that moment she looked as
young as a child. But then she slept like a corpse. Why would she not look young and rested. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was the sleep of the innocent. And maybe his was the insomnia of the guilty. He turned away, almost laughing at such ridiculous notions. Guilt. It wasn’t in his nature to feel guilt. He was a viscount after all. Perhaps some years ago, before his uncle’s death. Before his father’s death, he could have felt some shame. But no more. Wasn’t that what money was for? To buy absolution. Money he had plenty of. Sleep, on the other hand, was in short supply. And buttons! Dammit! There was one missing from his jacket! He scowled at it and realized suddenly that the reading had ceased.

He glanced up. Megan was watching him expectantly. He wondered darkly if he’d been staring at his jacket like a brainless oaf, but he clasped his hands behind his back and paced, refusing to blanch.

“Continue,” he said instead.

“I’ve finished.”

God’s bones! Where was his head? He stopped his pacing and stared at her. “And did you understand the message?”

She returned his level perusal. “I believe it meant that the dog sat, and the cat sat, then the dog ran and the cat ran.”

Damn her facetious little soul. She was mocking him, and he deserved to be mocked; he’d lost his buttons, his razor, his concentration, and his mind all in one fell swoop, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed being mocked.

“So you think you’re ready for something more difficult?”

“That would be entirely up to you, my lord,” she said. She had been strangely docile for the last several days. She had also eaten her weight in sugared almonds. “What is your wish?”

She had the most amazing lips. Phenomenally full and as bright as red wine.

“My lord?”

He snapped his mind back into place. “Nicol,” he said.
“Call me Nicol.” He’d corrected her a million times in the week past, but for reasons unknown, this one mistake bothered more than all the others combined.

She nodded succinctly, and there was something about that simple, elegant motion that moved him, that made him want to reach out and touch her face, to feel her skin, to make certain she was still earthy and touchable and—

“Chess!” he said.

“What say you, my lord?”

“Let’s forget the books for a time and relax with a round of chess.”

“Very well, my lord.”

He ignored her refusal to call him by name as he placed the wooden forms in their appropriate places. His were stained dark, hers were honey-hued. She watched with some interest.

“These pieces,” she said, picking up the rough-hewn knight. “Did you whittle them yourself?”

“No,” he said, setting his pawns in a row.

“But they’re yours.”

“Yes. And one of the few things I’ve not yet misplaced since arriving at Woodlea,” he said, and eyed her for a moment.

She didn’t seem to notice. “You travel with them?”

He took a seat and motioned for her to do the same. “Do you remember how to begin?”

She perched on the edge of her chair but refused to answer. “Did your father make them?”

“They’re simple chess pieces, lass,” he said, and gestured for her to begin. “Not so very interesting.”

“But that is precisely why I am interested,” she countered, raising a regal brow. “Because they are simple. I would expect a man of your position to have a more costly board.

Perhaps he was surprised by her elegant expression, or perhaps it was her insight that made him answer. “They were my mother’s.”

“Did she make them?”

“Do we begin, or do we return to the books?”

Perhaps she was as tired of reading of cats and dogs as he was, for she focused on the game for the next forty-five minutes. But in the end he won and took her pale king from the board with more than a little satisfaction. She was not an easy woman to best.

Palming the king, he suddenly remembered his mother’s face. She was smiling down at him, her face shining with love.

“She was a fine whittler,” Megan said.

“Yes.” The memories were softened for a moment. Perhaps he kept the pieces with him because of those memories, to reach out and hold them in his palm from time to time. “A simple woman with a good—” He stopped himself and scowled at her. “If you concentrated on the game more, you would do better.”

“But I wouldn’t be as likely to trip you up,” she said, and smiled a little. “Why did you take my king?”

“Because I won.”

“It seems to me the queen is more valuable.”

“How so?”

“She has all the power. The king does nothing but hide behind his subjects.”

“An interesting perspective,” he said, and pocketed the piece.

She watched him, looking half-peeved and half-arrogant. “When I win I shall take your queen.”

“Lass,” he said and shook his head. “No one bests me at chess.”

Her smile was full-blown now, bright and pretty and as insolent as hell. “Good,” she said. “That will make it all that much more enjoyable.”

“God’s balls!” Nicol gritted, and jerked to his feet. “The word is ‘saint.’ The two vowels together make an ‘a’ sound. Is that so very difficult to remember?”

The girl remained seated but pursed her luscious mouth and turned her wide eyes up toward him. “My mistake, my lord.” Her words were apologetic, but her jaw, small and peaked, spoke of treason. Her lips, on the other hand, always spoke of pleasures too seductive to contemplate.

“I am not your lord!” he snapped, and in that moment she jerked up beside him.

“I have been reading since dawn,
my lord
.” Her eyes flashed like dark emeralds. “I can barely see the damn book.”

“Ladies—” he snarled, leaning close, “do not curse.”

“And gentlemen”—she, too, leaned in—“don’t abduct young women and ’ide them away like…” She motioned wildly. “Rotting mackerel.”

He was about to argue, about to rave at her, but it would do no good. Nothing would do any good, except a full night’s sleep and maybe…He yanked his gaze away from her lips and massaged his brow. “Rotting mackerel, lass?”

She didn’t respond and when he dared turn his attention back to her he saw that her lips were pursed and her brows slightly lowered, though he’d told her a hundred times to keep her forehead smooth.

“You hide me away as if I’m something to be ashamed of,” she accused.

He didn’t respond, for there was wounded pride in her tone. He had hurt her, and if the truth be told, he had no idea how to right that wrong.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked,” she said. “I’m reading.” She indicated the pile of books with a sweep of her hand. Her fingernails were no longer rimed with black, but they were not exactly clear either. He would have to ask Mrs. Barnes for some lemon to whiten them. “I eat with all
due elegance, and I have ceased to drop my aitches.”

“And I suppose you think you deserve a respite?” he growled. Prolonged confinement was never good for his disposition. Sleeplessness was hard on his constitution, and celibacy was a downright bitch.

“I think I deserve a barge of sugared almonds and a week abed,” she growled back.

A barrage of arguments flooded to the fore, but her delicate hands were formed into fists like a tiny pugilist’s and he couldn’t help but grin. “We’re out of almonds and you’ve already slept more than any living soul, but…” Reaching for the door, he swung it open and bowed, sweeping a hand in front of him. “After you, my lady.”

She looked stunned, almost frightened. Like a canary too long confined. “Where are we going?”

“To get some air. Stretch our legs. I’ve been neglecting your physical needs. Go ahead,” he said, but as she brushed past him he caught a whiff of her scent. Lavender and femininity. And he knew it was his own needs that were going unmet.

It took only a moment for him to don his redingote, a bit longer to help her with her cape. He draped it across her shoulders. His thumbs brushed her collarbones and for reasons unknown his fingers fumbled, making it difficult to tie the ribbons. And when the task was done, his hands seemed strangely unwilling to draw away.

“It’s almost dark,” she said, and somehow her words cleared his head. He pulled his hands stiffly to his sides and managed to open the door. Her dark woolen cape brushed his leg as she strode past, and he gritted his teeth as he followed.

Outside, the air was chill, but there was no wind. Giant snowflakes fell like angel dreams from a darkening sky. Up ahead, the widow’s old carriage horse flicked his long ears
and whickered hopefully over the uneven timbers of the fence. An owl called mournfully from the woods.

Megan glanced toward the forest. “Where are we exactly?” she asked.

“We are at Woodlea Farm, Lord Landow’s country manor,” he said.

“And where is that?”

He turned toward her, wondering why she wished to know, wondering about her plans. Her eyes shone like living gems in the eve’s last light, and snowflakes melted languidly on her hair. It was the color of autumn wheat and was pulled back with a single blue ribbon, but a few wayward tendrils had escaped, hinting perhaps that while she might be tamed, she would never be broken.

“Here,” he said, and, reaching toward her, pulled the hood over the crown of her head. His wrists brushed her hair, and for a moment, he was almost tempted to run his fingers under the flaxen mass of curls. Their gazes met and caught. “I don’t want you getting sick,” he added, and drew his hands slowly away.

She blinked, then turned and started toward the stables again. The world was silent but for the crunch of their soles on the hard-packed snow. “Are those your horses?”

“The chestnuts are mine.” Behind the split-rail fencing, all three steeds watched their progress.

She searched the paddock. “Are you referring to the red ones?”

Her diction was flawless, but he kept his expression nonchalant. It would hardly do to fawn all over her every time she said something correctly. Time was running short. The test was soon to come. “They’re called chestnuts…or sorrels…when their manes and tails are flaxen.” He glanced at her. “It’s not so different from the color of your own hair.”

“Oh?” She glanced their way. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Do you like horses, lass?”

She shrugged. “I’ve had little to do with them.”

“We’ll have to change that.”

They had reached the fence and strolled along the line of it toward the barn. The latch caught under Nicol’s fist, but he pulled it up and motioned her in. She went with some misgivings.

It was dim inside and smelled of sweet clover and freshly split oak. From the corner of the barn, the Barnes lad glanced up, startled, the wooden prongs of his fork lying lax on the hay for a moment. His wide gaze moved from Nicol to the girl, then remained steady. Had he quit breathing as he stared at her? Nicol wondered. Were even young boys entranced by her? But who would not be? She had changed a great deal since her arrival there.

“My wife needed a bit of fresh air,” he explained, perhaps simply to see if he could break the lad’s concentration. “I thought I’d introduce her to the horses.”

“I could do that if you like, Govner,” said the boy breathlessly. “If you’ve no wish to soil your fancy shoes.” He stood very straight now, and in that moment Nicol realized the lad was older than he seemed. A boy on the cusp of manhood.

“My thanks,” he said, and quieted the odd knot of resentment that twisted in his gut. The boy hadn’t yet reached puberty. “But my wife is unaccustomed to horses. I think I will acquaint her myself.”

“Right then,” he said, stabbing the fork expertly into the fodder and hurrying outside with his load.

Lifting his hand to Megan’s back, Nicol ushered her to the far end of the barn. Once there, he took some ear corn from a pile and lifted the gate latch to step into the horses’ paddock. The girl remained where she was, looking doubtfully into the enclosure.

“Come along,” he urged.

“I am accustomed to the city, my lord.”

He canted his head, amused and more than a little amazed. She could bash him on the head and steal his watch quick as a thought or face a room full of drunken men without batting an eye. But put her in a barnyard, and suddenly she was as timid as a parlormaid.

“Surely you’re not afraid,” he said.

She raised her chin but remained where she was. “I’ve no wish to ruin my frock.”

He laughed at such an obvious ploy. Behind her, the lad reentered the barn, watched them for an instant, then hurried back to the hay.

“Come along, lass,” Nicol chided, and, slipping his arm around her waist, ushered her into the horse pen.

Her brow was slightly furrowed, her steps slow, and somehow her uncertainty made him want to wrap her in his arms and promise his protection. But that was foolishness. She needed protection like a warthog needed ale.

The chestnuts trotted forward, eager to see what he offered. Megan shifted back a half step, but Nicol tightened his arm around her waist and held out the corn. The gelding snuffled at the bright kernels, but the mare hung back, then stretched her neck over her companion’s rump to see what transpired. Beneath her thick, wayward forelock, her blaze looked bright and narrow, matching the gelding’s to perfection.