Recklessly Yours (38 page)

“I don't understand, Your Grace.”

“In time you will.” She smiled brightly. “Now, then, the two of you had best make yourselves ready to go. Douglas will be back with the team before you know it.”

Colin didn't know whether to laugh or tear at his hair in frustration. “Grandmother, the Ashworth family and all our prospects lie in shambles. How can you be so optimistic?”

She had no answer for him, only an enigmatic smile whose meaning eluded him. No matter. Within the hour he and Holly were barreling along the eastbound highway, Colin having entrusted the driving of the carriage and four to the capable hands of Douglas, Briarview's longtime coachman. Joshua would remain in Devonshire for a much-needed rest after his harried journey there, and then make his way home at his leisure.

Colin put his efforts into remaining on his end of the velvet bench seat, his spine pressed to the cushioned squabs and his hands fisted on his knees. How easy it would have been—too easy—to pull Holly into his arms and allow his hands to roam beneath the hems of the riding habit she had resumed wearing.

How easy to indulge their desires within the shadows of the carriage's interior. Like the tree that falls in the forest with no one to hear . . . would Holly be ruined if there was no one to see? No one to tell tales?

How easy to form the answer he would like to be true. But that wouldn't make it true.

He clenched his hands tighter. Bad enough they would arrive in Masterfield Park together like this—like the pair of lovers they almost were. He glanced over at her, his gaze tracing her profile. She sat with her hands clasped lightly in her lap, her body swaying with the motion of the coach. She seemed far less perturbed than in those final moments at Briarview, as if she'd reached a conclusion that gave her comfort. It made him wonder . . .

“What did Grandmother mean when she said your place was no longer at Briarview?”

He'd expected her to be startled by his sudden question, cutting like a knife through the silence. But as if she'd been pondering the very same matter, she only compressed her lips and peered at him through the ever-moving shadows. “I'm not sure. I thought at first she was angry with me, and wanted me gone.” She smiled wistfully. “Apparently your grandmother is confident that everything will come out well, and somehow my returning to Masterfield Park plays a part in that plan.”

“Do you believe she's right?”

She shrugged. “At this point I neither believe nor disbelieve. Events will unfold as they will. Your grandmother told me a story yesterday, and I believe it meant we must be patient and not resist what fate has planned for us.”

“Must we be passive?”

“No, we must believe that all things are possible.”

“Even curses?”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Perhaps that most of all. For what is a curse but the results of our own failure to have faith?”

He angled a gaze out the window at the passing fields dotted with sheep, cattle, and the occasional worker. “Faith is something I lost a long time ago.”

“Your grandmother hasn't lost hers.”

“Grandmother is an idealist.” A pang struck his chest, a sharp pain that was half remorse and half anger that his grandmother and mother had had so little to depend on in their lives, enduring husbands who had scorned their every attempt to usher happiness into the Ashworth family. For their pains they'd received ridicule and disregard, intermingled with bouts of drunken violence. Perhaps this was the truth of the family curse, not a spurned Celtic princess but a legacy of abuse handed down from one despicable individual to another.

He had escaped such a heritage only by
literally
escaping—into academia and his science, where the steadiness of logic overruled emotion and irrationality. His life at Cambridge had saved him.

But saved him for what? In the end, he was still Thaddeus Ashworth's son.

Crossing one leg over the other knee, he hunkered down lower on the seat and leaned his head back. “Faith is something Grandmother clung to by necessity, when she had nothing else.”

“On the contrary.” Holly paused, and he raised his face to regard her. A shrewdness that mirrored Grandmama's spread across her features. “The dowager duchess may resort to mythology to explain the world around her. She may even believe in that mythology to a point. But I assure you, your grandmother is a realist. And she possesses something you lack.” She chuckled softly. “And which I lack, too.”

“And what is that?”

“Patience.”

“Ah, true. Then what of faith, Miss Sutherland? What, if anything, do you believe in?”

“I have faith in God. And in my sisters.” She was quiet for a moment, then added, “And in Victoria.”

His hand reached across the seat before his mind even formed the intent to touch her. He caressed her cheek, a slight graze of his fingertips. “What about me? Does Holly Sutherland have faith in me?”

She hesitated in answering, and just as in Briarview's stable yard, he died a dozen small deaths while he waited, wishing he hadn't asked—wishing he hadn't
needed
to ask. Yet everything he'd always believed himself to be as a man hung in the balance, dependent, somehow—irrationally—on her answer.

Ha. Science hadn't really saved him at all.

But when it came, her whispered
yes
renewed him as nothing else could. He slid to her, and then she was in his arms, their mouths pressed, their breath mingled. His lust prodded, sprang to life, even as his heart opened on a torrent of emotion that enveloped him and sent unexpected words sliding from his lips into the sultry interior of Holly's mouth.

“If things had been different, had I not been an Ashworth, I'd have asked for your hand months ago.”

She went utterly still in his arms.

He drew back, then pressed his forehead to hers and shut his eyes. “You deserve to know that. Since our first ride together at Harrowood, I knew you were the perfect woman for me, that I could never want another as much as I wanted you—”

“You took pains to hide it,” she whispered hoarsely, her lips brushing his.

“Yes, I did, because I feared bringing you into my family, letting my father anywhere near you. . . . But I thought about you constantly. Then, just weeks ago, I thought I'd finally gathered the courage to face whatever the future brought—as long as I had you at my side. I was determined to speak to you, not to ask for your hand just then, but to reveal something of my feelings. I'm sure you've forgotten that morning in Simon and Ivy's morning room—”

Her hands tightened around his forearms. “Box hedges.”

Surprised, he pulled away to peer at her. “By God, yes. It was that morning.”

Tears glimmered in her eyes. “But why did you never get past asking about those blasted hedges?”

He felt as though a dagger was slowly piercing his chest. “You were so beautiful that morning. So lovely and fresh and candid. It made me think of my family again. Good God, Holly, how could I bring you into such a family?”

“I'm stronger than you know.”

“Perhaps, but I found myself unwilling to take the chance, to risk losing the person you are by exposing you to things that would change you.” He sat up straighter, moving his hands to her shoulders and creating space between them. “I did right. What if I had spoken of my feelings, my intentions?” She started to answer, but he pressed his fingers over her lips. “No, Holly. Look at me now. I am a horse thief and a traitor, with a curse over my head. It doesn't matter if curses are real or not. The result is the same. I cannot offer you the life you deserve.”

She blinked her tears away, and swiped angrily at the one that still spilled down her cheek. “You're a fool, then, Colin Ashworth. I would have stood by you.” She pulled away from him and angled her gaze out the window. “I'd have stood by you through everything.”

Yes, and that would have hurt most of all. Not the consequences of stealing from the queen, not the repercussions at Briarview should the colt never be returned, but knowing she suffered for his sake.

“Why did you even bother telling me?” she asked in a flat voice.

“Because surely my feelings must have become obvious to you these past several days. I thought it only right you knew the truth.”

She turned back to him, her countenance sharp, her eyes accusing. “You believe that to be the truth? That you were protecting me?”

He nodded.

“As I said, you are a fool. You weren't protecting me. You were
underestimating
me, as you do with everyone else in your life.” His mouth opened but she cut him off. “You were right about one thing—you don't have faith, not in anyone. You believe you must face adversity alone because no one else is strong enough to stand with you. Because in your eyes no one else can be trusted not to wither away and die. You'd rather wither and die alone than risk putting your faith in anyone. In me.”

 

“You don't understand . . .”

Holly stopped listening to him. He could go on and on about wanting to spare her from the unpleasantness of his family, but he would never dissuade her of what she knew to be the truth. He didn't believe in her, didn't believe the love that had been growing steadily between them was stronger than any difficulties life could throw at them. For better or worse. She believed in that. She was strong enough to live by such a vow.

Perhaps if she had been a woman like Penelope Wingate, she could see the sense in his actions. If she were a woman who wanted little more than the status and wealth of being a future duchess, then yes, of course such a marriage would be unsatisfactory. But she didn't care a whit for the
things
he could give her. She wanted only him. Colin Ashworth the man. And while his hardheaded, noble desire to step between danger and those in his care was part of that man, and part of what she loved about him, his stubborn refusal to accept help made her want to slap sense into him.

What angered her most was his refusal to allow her a choice. He had simply decided what was best for her, and brooked no debate. As though she were a child. Even now, as he moved away to occupy the far end of the carriage seat, his troubled expression held a certain self-assurance, because no matter who suffered, he apparently felt justified in his decision.

She crossed her arms in front of her and tried to settle in for the remainder of the ride. He had promised a grueling pace, and he hadn't lied. She had long since lost track of the hours, even of how many times they stopped, each respite proving all too short before she'd had to fold her aching limbs back onto the carriage seat and endure endless miles of incessant jostling.

His confession had denied her any comfort she might have derived from traveling together toward a shared fate, a common goal. Instead, she understood now that they were traveling to an end, and that once they arrived in Masterfield Park she would no longer have any claim on him, or hold any significant place in his life.

She dozed, then awakened to find him staring across the seat at her. For a moment her heart gave a lift as she thought perhaps her reproving words had forced him to reconsider.

“Where does my mother believe you to have gone?” he asked.

The question caught her off guard, and filled her with disappointment. “I . . . er . . . down to London. Why?”

“I think we should separate at the next coaching inn. I'll arrange transportation to take you the remaining distance to Masterfield Park.”

“What on earth for?”

“You know how quickly the rumors will fly if we're seen returning together.” His words struck her like rapid gunfire, equally as jarring. “There is no reason to sacrifice your reputation.”

The irony of that statement, considering the unnecessary sacrifices he seemed willing to make, pushed mirthless laughter from her lips.

His nostrils flared as if she had offended him, rather than the other way around. “I won't be responsible for destroying your future,” he said.

You already have, irreparably.
“You are not responsible for me, and you don't owe me anything,” she said evenly, proud that she could prevent the mutinous tears from putting a tremor in her voice. For it had suddenly occurred to her that along with not believing in her sufficiently, perhaps he simply didn't
love
her sufficiently. Perhaps that had been the trouble all along. Oh, he admired her, esteemed her, perhaps found her an intriguing contrast to the elegant young women who typically crossed his path. But when it came to actually marrying her . . .

“Very well, then, we'll continue on together.” He slid the window open. “Can we go any faster?” he called out to the driver.

“We'll be changing teams at the next coaching inn, my lord,” the man shouted back. “I daren't go any faster till then.”

She shivered at the cool air streaming in the open window, then wished she hadn't when she once again felt his scrutiny. She very nearly admitted she was cold so he would hold her, or at the very least remove his coat and drape it around her shoulders. If she couldn't have his arms around her, couldn't have
him
, his sleeves, warm with his musky scent, seemed the next best thing. “I'm all right,” she said to his unspoken question. “Just stiff.”

Without a word he slid closer, and in a haze of exhaustion she watched his arm come up and his hand reach for her. As it closed around her shoulder and pulled her toward him, anger and longing fought inside her.

“Don't,” she protested weakly.

“Let me.” He tugged the ribbons beneath her chin and tossed her bonnet onto the seat at his other side. She felt his lips on her hair. “I am an ass,” he whispered.