Tarleton's Wife (16 page)

As she motioned her friends to be seated, Julia had no doubt about the purpose of the day’s outing. Jack Harding and everyone at The Willows, were reminding her that the world was renewing itself. Time for her to put aside the darkness and return to life.

After their excellent luncheon, the coachman continued southeast toward the lowest, flattest portions of Lincolnshire. Julia’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. What more had the conspirators planned?

Some twenty minutes later, Daniel, who had deserted the two women to ride on the box with the coachman, roared out an exclamation. “Mother of Heaven, will you look at that now?” he called. “Pull up, man, pull up, so the ladies can have a better look.”

Daniel flung open the coach door and bade both women look at the fields stretching out before them. “’E has the devil’s tongue, that one,” he declared. “Told me there’d be a sight to see, some pretty flowers for the ladies but would you look at that now? Nothing but flowers from here to heaven. Clever devil, Harding. See if I don’t dunk ’im the next time I help with his bath!”

Julia stood poised in the door of the coach, hanging onto the paneling so she could lean far out to view the countryside from the height of Laetitia’s Summerton’s lumbering old coach. Acres of yellow and gold daffodils stretched out before her, rippling in a gentle sea breeze off the Channel. In the distance she could make out a bright splotch of red, an entire field of tulips. “But what do they
do
with them all?” she gasped.

“Grows ’em for the bulbs, missus,” said the coachman. “Sells ’em, don’t you know. Not much use for the flowers thims’lves. Some are good for May Day, I reckon and the grave decorations are right purty but mostly they jes’ get picked off so the bulbs will grow strong and fetch a good price.”

“Oh.” Julia digested this in thoughtful silence. “Drive on,” she ordered. “Slowly.”

For mile after mile the coach moved through fields of flowers. Orange tulips, yellow tulips, salmon, scarlet, dark red, snow white. Daffodils of every shade from pale narcissus to deep gold. Dark green hedgerows neatly encompassed each field. An occasional small stand of trees punctuated the landscape, with a glimpse of a cottage beneath. Other than that—flowers, nothing but flowers.

The coach finally slowed and came to a stop at the beginning of a narrow trail running along the top of a dike, which cut straight across a broad expanse of salt marsh. Ahead, a mile or so to the east, lay the blue-gray waters of the English Channel. Overhead, seagulls screeched their high raucous notes as they dipped and swooped on the springtime sea breeze. Towering gracefully along the edges of the dike were stands of cattail, fluffy marsh grass and pink and white mallow whose natural beauty rivaled that of the neat fields they had just traversed. They had come as far as they could. Journey’s end.

For a long time Julia stood beside the coach and simply stared, her gaze swinging slowly from the choppy white-capped sea to the earth colors of the marshland and back to the brilliantly colored array of flowers behind them. She took a deep breath, gulping in the tangy salt air, the mingled odors of marshland and springtime flowers. The sharp clear smell of new beginnings.

“I have an idea,” she said.

* * * * *

Fall 1809

The fire in Julia’s bedchamber had dimmed to embers. The snappy bite of the early fall night should have penetrated the room’s cozy warmth but snug under the covers Julia knew only the glow of love and light.
He
had come. Once again he was with her. Rational thought was useless. No matter how firmly Julia told herself she was dreaming—that Nicholas was a figment of her fevered imagination—she could see him, feel him, taste him. Whether ghost or phantasm of the mind, he was with her and nothing on earth or in heaven could make her will him away.

Nicholas’ visits had been more frequent of late. As if he had discovered a crack in reality and found it increasingly easy to make the forbidden journey back from…where?

What did it matter how or why, as long as he was here?

Nicholas!
Eagerly, Julia held out her arms, welcoming him to her bed. He smelled of sharp mountain air, smoky campfires, horses and—smiling, Julia wrinkled her nose—and garlic. How unlike the fastidious Major Tarleton.

Yet there was no doubt it was he.

In spite of the lack of moon or fire, she could see him clearly against a background of shimmering mist. New lines seamed his face. His sandy hair was lightened by flecks of white. He was the veteran solider now, tempered from iron to steel. He came to her on a whirlwind, driving her back into the pillows, hard lips demanding all she, in her inexperience, could give. And more.

On a shuddering gulp for breath, Nicholas broke their embrace long enough to strip off her nightdress. The calluses on his hands added exciting texture as he touched her breast, caressing, teasing, exciting. His other hand slid sensuously up her inner leg from ankle to knee to thigh, until, finally—when she thought she might die of it—his fingers reached the innermost source of her femininity, questing, stroking, plunging into the moistness of her desire.

Julia gasped as his mouth replaced the hand on her breast, the flickering strokes of his tongue, the nip of his teeth, the rhythmic pull of his mouth flooding her with sensations that cried out for fulfillment. A whimper of protest rose in her throat as Nicholas, on a long-drawn sigh of pure satisfaction, buried his head between her breasts. The warrior finding respite on the ultimate symbol of nurture and rebirth.

He clung to her as if to life itself. As if she were his hold on reality, the thin thread that bound him to earthly existence. If he let go, life would fragment, dissolve…fade to black.

Tension radiated from him. There had been other nights like this—manifestations of their brief moment of love in La Coruña—but somehow, tonight, new images formed in her mind. Fleeting, erotic images of unknown, unimagined pleasures. Shocked and more than a little fearful, Julia trailed her fingers down Nicholas’ back, eliciting a moan of pure ecstasy. He shifted his weight to allow her insinuating fingers to find their goal as they seized his rigid manhood with practiced ease.

In some far corner of her mind Julia marveled at the mystery of it. The young virgin and the very proper major had spent one night together. Whether these nighttime fantasies fulfilled a need brought about by the agony of their suffering in Spain, by pure lust, or possibly even love, they had certainly
never done this
. So how could she dream about it when such a way of loving was unknown to her?

With a rumble of warning, Nicholas rolled away. “Damn it, Julia, I’ll not make a fool of myself like some raw recruit!” Clutching the edge of the bed, he took several deep breaths before, still struggling for control, he returned to the attack, teasing open Julia’s feminine folds and plunging his tongue into the glorious dark depths.

Julia’s startled cries swiftly faded to murmurs of sheer pleasure. Whatever Nicholas was doing to her, she wouldn’t live through it, of that she was certain. Rolling swells of passion grew, quivering just out of reach. Tantalizing, terrifying. What if they stopped? The waves rose to mountainous height, taking her with them, rolling, crashing, thundering, into a mindless realm of sensation.

Before her body could crumble into rubbery chaos, Nicholas rose above her, fitted himself to her and rode the storm, plunging, retreating, driving himself home.

Into the blinding light. Into warmth. Fulfillment. Love.

And, ultimately, into the pitch-black void from which he had come.

Chapter Eight

September 1810, Lincolnshire

The thatched cottage which had once been the charming, comfortable abode of Miss Sophronia Upton was almost unrecognizable. On either side of the front door—in a concession to conventionality—a haphazard mix of dahlias, chrysanthemums and marigolds brightened the whitewashed walls. But the winding entrance road to the cottage was rutted with the tracks of heavy vehicles and what had once been a modest park and flower garden had been transformed into an undulating sea of herbs. Every variety that could be cultivated in the cool dampness of Lincolnshire stretched out behind Sophy’s cottage, augmented by a small section devoted to a determined effort to grow herbs foreign to the English climate. Inside, the cottage bore even less resemblance to its days as Miss Upton’s retirement home. It was, in fact, no longer habitable.

As Julia descended the steep central staircase after an inspection of the upper rooms, she paused, leaning back against the wall as a series of sneezes swept over her. With a grimace of annoyance she blew her nose and continued down the stairs, her vision nearly obscured by row after row of drying herbs hanging from a network of cords strung among the rafters above her. Indeed, every room in the cottage had been given over to bunches of herbs hanging upside down, many cupped with slings of white gauze to catch precious seeds as they dried and fell from the plant. Only the kitchen, for which Julia had bought a modern flat-topped stove, remained free from the overpowering melange of nature’s wonder plants, its function now wholly devoted to processing Willow Herbals.

Julia burst through the door into the kitchen and slammed it shut behind her. Collapsing into a utilitarian wooden chair pulled up to a large worktable, she once again blew her nose before gulping in a deep breath of relatively untainted air. “It’s a curse,” she announced with some feeling to the room’s sole occupant who was lounging in a similar chair, his booted feet propped up on the table before him. “All the work we have done and I can’t enter this place without turning into a watering pot. Look at me! My eyes are quite red, are they not?”

Jack Harding cocked his head to one side, surveying her with mock seriousness. “Stunning as ever, my Jule. Just stay in the kitchen and mind your decoctions and leave the inspections to Miss Sophy. It is not required for the mastermind to personally sniff every leaf and bloom.”

Julia gave a watery gurgle of laughter. “Oh, very well but I warn you I am planning to beg space from you next. We are full here and every cottage on the estate is nearly as bad. I swear there’s not room for one more stalk. It’s a wonder the men have not rebelled at what their women are doing.” Julia gave her guest a rueful look. “My apologies. As if you need to listen to my complaints.”

At the sudden warm look in her eyes, Jack groaned. “No, do not thank me again. This enterprise is entirely your doing. I merely stand and watch in awe.”

“But there would be no enterprise without your help with Mr. Tyler. That was a hurdle I could not have managed alone. His ideas are rooted in the Dark Ages. I swear he suspects us of witchcraft.”

“Oh, Lord, yes,” said Jack cheerfully. “He’d have had you all burned by now. Not a female left on the estate.”

“It’s fortunate he’s basically a coward,” Julia pronounced with grim satisfaction. “Though I grant you he’s competent enough.” Her face brightening, she abruptly closed the subject of her vanquished estate agent. “When Daniel brings back the orders from his current trip, I believe I’ll be able to say we are well on our way to turning a tidy profit this season. In fact, I expect Mr. Woodworthy will soon be demanding a tithe.”

“I’ve often wondered,” Jack mused, “what Nicholas would have thought of all this. Tarleton’s wife going into trade.”

“You’re serious,” said Julia flatly.

“Yes.”

Her eyes took on a militant glitter. “Growing and preparing herbs are a most genteel lady’s occupation.”

“More like enough to get you shunned!” Jack ignored her quick protest, continuing, “Have a care, girl. You’ve put the men to work clearing ivy, repairing cottages, digging gardens, rigging drying space. And you’ve given their women a new cottage industry. In the eyes of the local gentry you’ve lowered yourself to the merchant class. You actually work for money.
Not one of us, my dear
,” Jack mocked, shaking his head. “
Not one of us.
I doubt that’s what Nicholas wanted for you,” he added on a more somber note.

Julia made no effort to disguise her hurt. “Why? Why bring this up today, Jack, when you know how pleased I am with the way things are going?”

Jack’s feet hit the floor with a thump. “Because I care for you, damn it. My best advice—spend a little more time cultivating the local tabbies and less time with your blasted plants.”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!”

Jack’s scowl charged the air between them. “I am beyond redemption. You are not.”

“
You
wished me to help the cottagers.” Julia waved her hand in an arc encompassing the contents of Miss Upton’s cottage. “
You
and your radical ideas started all this. How dare you tell me it’s time to draw back. And after the tales I’ve been hearing of you this summer.” Julia left the challenge hanging between them.

Jack slumped back into his chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him. Slowly, tauntingly, he placed one hand and then the other behind his head, the green pools of his eyes carefully studying the cooking pots hanging from the ceiling. “What tales?” he inquired softly.

“Captain Hood tales. ’Tis said you’ve grown bored with local mischief and have begun to stir up trouble at the mills in Nottingham. Is it true?”

“And if it were?” Jack pursed his lips and began to whistle a nearly tuneless melody.