Priceless (9 page)

“Why do you say that?”

“We wanted t’ get married, John an’ I, but we couldn’t do it until we knew if we’d have a way t’ feed our babes. Why, His Lordship could have been one o’ those men who don’t want a village cluttering up their lands.” Gilda threaded the needle. “A lot of these merchantmen who buy a manor don’t understand about families who’ve lived in one place fer generations. They just say th’ village is wrecking their view, or some other silliness, an’ throw everyone out without a by-your-leave.”

“How frightened you must have been when you heard the manor had been sold,” Bronwyn sympathized.

Gilda waved the needle and thread through the air. “An’ how relieved we were when we found Lord Keane wasn’t one o’ those high an’ mighty gentlemen.”

Bronwyn remembered the formidable lord who’d greeted her on her first day. In surprise, she agreed, “He’s been very pleasant tonight.”

“Pleasant?” Gilda snorted. “Pleasant’s not th’ word I’d put t’ him exactly, but he’s a doer all right. Soon as he
started t’ build that big house, he had th’ road improved. Ye can imagine th’ difference that made t’ th’ inn.”

“He did it to hurry the construction,” Bronwyn said.

“A’ course, but he didn’t have t’ improve it clear down here, did he?”

Bronwyn watched as Gilda’s nimble fingers whipped through the material. “No, I suppose not. What else has he done?”

“Him an’ his mother are building a school, right here in th’ village, t’ teach th’ little ones until they’re ten. Doesn’t even matter whether they’re poor folks, he says, th’ boys are not t’ work until they’re eleven an’ got their growth. Have ye ever heard o’ such a thing?” Gilda shook her head in wonder.

Impressed, but not wanting to show it, Bronwyn agreed, “Quite radical.”

“Quite scatterbrained, if ye ast John. But me, I like it.” Patting her belly, Gilda said, “This child will go far with such learning.”

“What if it’s a girl?” Bronwyn asked.

Gilda pulled a face. “Then I’ll teach her t’ sew. No use her learning anything else.”

“We wouldn’t want the girls to improve themselves,” Bronwyn said sarcastically.

Sensing Bronwyn’s disappointment, Gilda insisted, “Even fer girls, Lord Keane says th’ little ones aren’t t’ be apprenticed until they’re eleven.”

“I suppose he has a care for his people.”

Gilda finished with her stitching and bit off the thread. “That he does, an’ there isn’t one of us who wouldn’t lie down an’ let him drive his fine carriage right over us.”

Bronwyn helped Gilda to her feet. “I doubt he’d ask so much of you.”

“A’ course. That’s why we’d do it.”

Much struck, Bronwyn thanked her.

Adam waited in the taproom, chatting with the men pressed close against him. Yet something brought his head up, and he watched her descend the stairs. Their eyes locked; the intensity of his gaze burned her, and all around the noise died. She reached his side without being aware of it, gave him her hand without knowing why. “My lord,” she whispered.

He lifted her hand to his lips, and she felt the expiration of his breath as he said, “My lady.”

She couldn’t maintain eye contact at such close quarters, and when she glanced about her she saw grins and nudges. They should have mortified her, but they didn’t. It just seemed pleasant that these people who thought so much of Adam should approve of her.

John interrupted the mutual admiration society. “We’re ready to start the dancing, m’lord.”

“Our signal to proceed, my dear.” Adam offered his arm.

When she laid her hand on it, he captured her fingers in his. He held her hand like a man with his sweetheart, fingers curled, palms together. The simple contact brought her gaze to his again. Again she found herself unable to breathe, to move, to think. Something about this man made her common sense collapse like a house of cards.

“The dancing?” John urged.

Adam drew her outdoors, into the heated darkness. A great bonfire leaped in the middle of the square, answering the flames atop the hill, calling in the summer. On a platform, a swarm of instruments—violin, flute, and harmonica—squalled. The players cajoled off-key bits of melody, then whole bars of music, and at last, inspired by the occasion, a rollicking song. Although Bronwyn had never heard it before, its concentrated rhythm set her foot to tapping.

With a tug of his hand, Adam had her in the center of a circle of clapping villagers. “I don’t know how to dance to this,” she warned.

“Nor do I,” he answered, placing his hands on her waist. “Have a care for your toes.”

She had no need to care for her toes, for Adam led with a strength that compensated for his limp. He kept his hands on her waist as he lifted her, turned her, swung her in circles. Under his guidance, she relaxed and began to enjoy the leaping, foot-stomping gambol. The community cheered, not at all distressed by the innovative steps, and the whole village joined them around the bonfire.

Girls with their sweethearts, men with their wives, old folks with their grandchildren, all whisked by as Adam twirled Bronwyn around and around. Bronwyn laughed until she was out of breath, and when she was gasping, the music changed. The rhythm slowed, the frenetic pace dwindled.

She saw Adam’s amused expression change as he drew her toward him. His heavy lids veiled his gaze, and she knew he’d done so to hide his intention. She wondered why, then felt only shock as their bodies collided.

Shutting her eyes against the buffet of his heated frame against hers, she breathed a long, slow breath. The incense of his skin mated with the scent of the burning wood, and beneath the shield of her eyelids fireworks exploded. She groaned as her own body was licked by the flames.

Before she was scorched, he twirled her away, then back, in accordance to the rules of the dance.

There were people around, she knew, but she pretended they weren’t watching their lord and lady. She pretended Adam and Bronwyn were alone.

Ignoring the proper steps, Adam wrapped himself around her, one arm against her shoulders, one arm at her waist.

Her hands held his shoulders. Her fingers flexed, feeling the muscles hidden beneath the fine linen. She could hear his heart thudding, hear the rasp of his breath and his moan as she touched his neck with her tongue. She only wanted a taste of him, but he mistook it for interest, for he scooped her up.

Her eyes flew open. He’d ferried them to the edge of the dancing figures, planning their escape like a smuggler planning a landfall. A whirl and they were gone into the trees. Looking back, she could see the sparks of the bonfire, like a constellation of stars climbing to the sky.

This was what she wanted, what she dreaded, what she longed for. Since she’d met Adam, she didn’t understand herself. His gaze scorched her, and she reveled in the discomfort. His hands massaged her as if he found pleasure in her shape; they wandered places no one had touched since she’d been an infant, and it excited her. Even now, as he pulled her into the darkest corner of the wood, she went on willing feet.

He pushed her against the trunk of a broad oak and murmured, “Bronwyn, give me your mouth.”

She found his lips and marveled at their accuracy. His arm held her back, his hand clasped her waist; all along their length they grew together, like two fevered creatures of the night.

He exalted at the explosion of heat. This little virgin kissed like a dream. Willing, whimpering just for him, she created impulses he’d believed stifled by maturity. He wanted to pull her onto the grass and lift her skirt and plunge into her. He wanted her breasts in his mouth, his hands on her thighs, and a long night ahead. Was this midsummer madness, as the villagers claimed? No doubt, for madness pounded in his veins and brought him pushing at her like a stag with a doe in heat.

Lifting his head, he looked down on her face, dappled with moonlight, and knew he’d never forget this moment. The angles of her face, the pale brows, the sensitive mouth—they were engraved on his mind. Propelled by need, his hand caressed her throat, then slipped to the ruffle that teased her bosom. She didn’t move; he wondered if she were too stunned. Wanting to weave the magic around her, he whispered, “Don’t stare at me with those
big eyes. I won’t hurt you.” Delving below her corset, he found what he sought.

Her breast felt smooth, firm, topped with a nipple already tightened by his kiss. He groaned aloud and couldn’t believe his own unbridled reflex. His response recalled adolescence: the clumsy fumblings, the unrestrainable passion, the wholehearted delight. What had this girl given back to him?

What had she taken? Where was his restraint? She
was
a girl, in experience if not in age, and a gently bred girl at that. He was a cad to press her. Obviously she didn’t understand the ramifications of his actions—of her pleasure. Obviously he’d taken her far beyond her experience. But temptation whispered in his ear, telling him they’d be married soon. That the wedding could be moved up if this night bore fruit. That the wedding would have to be moved up, for he couldn’t wait to have this girl in his bed every night. Couldn’t wait to sample her without hurry or secrecy.

“Dear, let me—” He swooped before he could finish his plea. Lifting her, balancing her on the knee he’d thrust against the bark, he licked her throat, covered her collarbone with a trail of kisses. Artfully he freed her breast; whether so artfully she didn’t realize it, he didn’t know, or care.

Ah, she knew, for she moaned as his mouth closed on her nipple, and when he suckled she went wild in his arms.

She wasn’t fighting him. Thank God, she wasn’t fighting, for she’d roused the hunter in him, and he would have been out of control. But perhaps the way she wiggled against his leg was worse. Hampered by her skirts, she tried to slide close to his loins. When she couldn’t, she rode him like a horse, moving toward some ever-closer goal. Her eager fingers hugged his head, combed through his hair, discarded his ribbon. When he nipped her, she wailed, “Oh, Adam,” and his name never sounded so good.

Keeping his arm around her waist, he let her down and ordered, “Let’s go.”

“Where?” she asked, but her question didn’t interfere with her headlong flight beside him.

“To the house. To my bed.”

“To your bed?” She jerked him to a stop. “I would be
ruined in your bed.”

With a stately nod, he agreed. “That’s true.”

“My reputation would be destroyed.”

“No doubt. And no doubt, too, you’ve lain awake in your virgin bed, dreaming of the sweetness of love.” He leaned close, so close that the scent of him mixed with the scent of new leaves and new life. “There’ll be little sweetness between us. In my bed, it will be hot and sweaty. There’ll be a stab of pain and endless craving. Little mercy, but a wave of passion. Once you’re in my bed, you’ll never forget it. You’ll never leave it.”

Faint with the promise of desire, she whispered, “I won’t want to leave it.”

Even in the dark she could see the fire in his eyes. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.” She couldn’t believe she’d said it, but she had no second thoughts.

“Promise me you’ll stop padding your bosom.”

Her jaw dropped.

He lowered his face to hers, and nose to nose he said, “You don’t need it. Your breasts are round and sweet and need no augmentation. Promise me.”

Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t that, and she contented him with one numb nod of the head. As if he couldn’t resist, he snatched a kiss and led her on. The house loomed before them, all the windows lit with the glow of candlelight. Her feet faltered as it reached out to illuminate their disorder. The extravagance of their hunger seemed more at home in the woods, in the dark, with the sky above them and the ground below. The civilization implied by four walls and a roof oppressed.

He felt her hesitate, for he caught her close. Chest to chest, he kissed her until her knees buckled and logic flew away. Then he urged her with his arm around her waist. “The servants will be in bed. We’ll go around the back by the stables.”

She glanced at him and blushed. He looked almost savage in intent, like a great dark lion protecting his mate. His hair swung untamed about his shoulders, his skin taut across his cheekbones. His mouth looked ready to devour her, and a shiver ran up her spine when she considered it.

What a willing sacrifice she would be.

They crept onto the wide veranda. Adam tried the door into the darkened parlor. It opened with a click. Putting his finger to his lips, he signaled her inside. Once there, she didn’t know if they’d ever go any farther. He kissed her, and she wanted his knee between her legs again. She didn’t know why she liked that so much, why something magnificent had almost happened, but he incited her curiosity.

With every step toward the hall he touched her, caressed her. Yet a whinny through the open outside door struck her with horror and she burst out, “We forgot the horse.”

“What?” He stared as if he were as lost to the world as she.

The fire in his gray eyes almost made her forget, but she gasped, “The horse. The cart.”

“The horse? My God, the horse!”

He looked so amazed, she laughed. He laughed. It was
the exhilaration of the night, quickly roused, quickly extinguished, and that was how Northrup found them.

“Sir?” Northrup lifted his candle. “Can I help you?”

Appearing as astounded and guilty as she felt, Adam stammered, “Northrup!” He recovered and stepped in front of her. “Northrup, what are you doing up at such an hour?”

“It’s not late, sir. Almost midnight. I was working on the figures you requested for the South Sea Company.” Northrup craned his neck to see Bronwyn, and his mouth tightened. “I think you’d be interested in them.”

“In the morning, Northrup,” Adam said.

“Now, sir.” Lifting his candle high, Northrup displayed a stubborn streak Bronwyn had never noted before. “I must insist you see the figures now.”

As if he couldn’t stand to let her go, Adam’s grip on Bronwyn’s wrist tightened. His fingers trembled, then relaxed. “Of course. If you would give me a moment to wish Bronwyn a pleasant sleep.”

Northrup didn’t move.

“I’ll only be a moment,” Adam insisted.

Surprised to find Adam complying with Northrup’s demand, Bronwyn watched Northrup’s retreat with accusing eyes.

Adam reached out one hand to touch her lower lip, and it lingered there. “I can’t take you upstairs now. You must see that.”

She couldn’t see any such thing.

“Dearest, Northrup would come after me with a gun if I laid another hand on you.”

“It’s not Northrup’s business.” Her shaky voice betrayed her indignation.

“He’s a gentleman. He’s made it his business.” His mouth twisted in a self-deprecating grimace. “What’s more, he’s undoubtedly right, damn him.”

His regret soothed her, if only a little. “Come later,” she urged.

He laughed as if he were in pain. “Little devil. You stand there and tempt me with yourself, then you tempt me with your words.” He took her hand, then dropped it as if her flesh burned him. “No, I won’t come later. Come.” He led her into the hall and to the staircase. “Allow me my good sense.”

She followed reluctantly. “Why?”

Lifting her onto the first step as if she were too fragile to climb it herself, he smiled tenderly at her. “Because I’m the man and men are more pragmatic than women.”

Under the prod of lights and frustration, her tumult faded just a little, and she grumbled, “You jest.”

He seemed not at all offended. “Allow me my illusions.” He whipped the forgotten garland off her head and presented it with a flourish. “Dream of me.”

Eyes locked with his, she stumbled up a couple of steps and turned. She walked up two more, glanced back. He observed her with such interest, she wanted to roll down onto his feet. She restrained herself, watching instead as he strolled into the open door to his study. Then she withered down onto the staircase and pressed her face against the banister.

What a man! If what she’d experienced in his arms was half what her wedding night would bring, she’d give him a child to force his hand. Giggling softly at such whimsy, she didn’t listen at first to the murmur of male voices.

But the murmur grew, and she had to listen when Northrup’s voice rang out. “Sir, she’s a gentlewoman! You can’t treat her like a trollop.”

Adam’s cool voice answered, “Apparently I can.”

Stiffening, she wanted to go upstairs, but a dreadful inquisitiveness held her in place.

“I saw her,” Northrup said. “She had stars in her eyes. I know you’re a cold bastard, but even for you your actions are dastardly.”

“What, exactly, are my actions?”

“You’re creating false hopes in that girl. I heard what you said about her when she arrived, I saw how angry you were at being cheated out of your beautiful bride. Are you seeking some kind of revenge? Bronwyn can’t help it if she’s homely.”

“I wouldn’t call her homely,” Adam interposed.

“Good,” Northrup said sarcastically. “Call her ugly, you bastard.”

From inside the study, Bronwyn heard the rattle of cut glass against a decanter and knew Adam poured himself a drink.

She didn’t want a drink. All the ale she’d consumed came back to haunt her now, and she felt sick when Northrup continued, “I know why you’re marrying her. She’s an Edana. She’ll open doors for you, assist you as you join the cream of society. She’ll keep out of your way. Aren’t those reasons enough to be happy with your bargain? Do you have to seduce Bronwyn, too?”

“But it’s so easy.” Adam sounded light, amused, and Bronwyn bit the back of her hand to keep back a sob. “Who knows, Northrup? Perhaps if I seduce her, it will so addle her brains she’ll lose that distressing tendency we discussed.”

“What tendency?”

If Northrup sounded suspicious, it was nothing compared to the foreboding Bronwyn experienced, and she put her hand to her mouth.

“The tendency to sound learned.”

Bronwyn groped behind her, found the riser, scooted her bottom up one step. With that supercilious voice, he’d sliced her to ribbons. She didn’t want to hear any more, but when he spoke she couldn’t help but hear.

“It’s well known if a woman is kept busy in the bedroom and in the nursery, she’ll have no time to make a fool of herself.”

A fool of herself? She went up another step. How could
she make a bigger fool of herself than she’d made tonight? In the woods, in the parlor, she’d been embarrassed by Adam, by her response, but only because she wasn’t used to such intimacy. Now she was ashamed, and she could kill him for destroying even the memory of physical enjoyment for her.

She knew he wanted her to be someone she wasn’t. She’d always known it, but she thought they were reaching some kind of accord. He seemed so interested tonight when she’d told him about the Gaelic manuscripts.

It struck her like a blow, and she leaned her head onto her knees. Oh, God, had she truly told him about the manuscripts? Wasn’t it a figment of her imagination, created by a combination of her longing for empathy and the abundance of church ale? She hadn’t told anyone about those manuscripts for years. When she’d left Ireland, the nuns had let her take them, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a prayer. They’d let her take them in the hopes she’d translate and return them. Every spare moment she’d worked on those translations, telling no one for fear they’d object because the manuscripts were Irish, or because they were Catholic, or because she was a woman and she might “sound learned.”

She whispered the words, “Sound learned.” It tasted bitter in her mouth, as bitter as the tears that trickled down. In a flurry, she stood and scrambled up the stairs.

If only she could hate Adam. She
should
hate Adam, but one night had proved the truth of Olivia’s accusation. She loved him, and she didn’t think she’d ever be able to rip that awful emotion from her soul.

Like an avenging angel, Bronwyn stalked into the breakfast room.

“You look refreshed.” Adam stood and smiled, all his charm directed at her. “Did you dream about your future husband?”

She shriveled him with a glare. At least she tried to shrivel him, but he seemed unaffected. As she went to examine the sideboard where the food rested, he strode to her side. Taking her chin in his hand, he dropped a kiss on her lips. She didn’t respond, didn’t swoon, didn’t even close her eyes, and he frowned. “Too much ale? Still half glazed? I’ve got something to make you feel better.”

“I feel fine.” She spoke without unclenching her teeth, a clear signal, she thought, that she wished him in hell.

He didn’t pick up on the signal. Instead, he turned her toward the table and gave her a little shove. “Go sit. I’ll fix you a plate.”

In lieu of Adam, she glared at the other occupants of the table. “Olivia, we missed you last night.”

“So I told her.” Adam placed a heaping plate in front of his betrothed and slipped onto the chair beside her. “I suspect the festivities would have cured her headache.”

“And your mother,” Bronwyn said. “Where was she?”

“She made no excuses, sent no regrets.” His warm chuckle sent an unwanted thrill along her nerves. “I believe she hoped the evening would fall out much as it did, but without the roadblock Northrup represented.”

“She would.” That sounded like Mab, and Bronwyn knew she wouldn’t scold the lady. Friends they might be, but Bronwyn never made the mistake of presuming on Mab’s good nature. If a situation would further her son’s happiness, Mab did what she perceived necessary, and damn the consequences. As Adam poured her milk, Bronwyn looked at the food before her. “I can’t eat all this.”

“It’s a seaman’s breakfast. No one knows more about curing a hangover than a seaman.” Adam picked up her fork and inserted it into her hand. “Now eat.”

“I’m not ill.”

He put a piece of bread into her open mouth. “Chew.”

She could do no less, and Olivia giggled behind her
hand. Adam winked at Olivia, saying, “Your sister’s not a person who rises with a smile, I see.”

“No,” Olivia admitted. She squirmed, swallowed, as if the effort of conversation with Lord Rawson intimidated her. But the sight of Bronwyn’s misery must have moved her to pity, for with a visible effort she added, “She likes to work late, and that affects her disposition.”

“On the manuscripts?” Adam asked.

As Olivia gaped at them both, he cut a bit of beef and fed it, rather forcibly, to Bronwyn. “Oh, yes, she’s told me about them. Do you share her interest?”

Mute with surprise, Olivia shook her head.

“A pity. It sounds fascinating.”

“She says it is.” Something about Adam’s interest must have convinced Olivia to speak, for she added, “When she tells me tales of early Ireland, I’m engrossed. But the work seems tedious and difficult to me.”

“I can’t imagine the patience such work requires,” Adam said.

“I’m glad you support her.” Like a swimmer preparing to submerge, Olivia took a breath, then another, and appealed to him with enormous eyes. “I believe Bronwyn would run away rather than give up her precious studies.”

Bronwyn moved aside from the threatening fork. “Perhaps after the wedding I’ll be so witless with love I’ll no longer entertain notions above my womanly station.”

Adam’s gaze sharpened on her rebellious face. “More bread,” he decided, and barely avoided losing a finger as he fed it to her. “With a tutor such as I, you’ll be proficient in both love and learning.” He grinned, inviting her humor, but she scowled. Puzzled but determined, he said, “In fact, I have a present for your feminine side, something I ordered just for you.” From beside the jug of milk, he lifted an ivory fan. As he spread it wide, the lace scrolls and carvings gleamed with gold leaf trim.

Admiration overwhelmed Olivia’s reserve. “It’s a work of art.”

“It’s from China,” he told them. “It has no edges to fray, no silk to destroy. You can pick at it all day, Bronwyn, and you’ll not hurt it.”

Fury, instant and blinding, roiled through her veins. How dare he? How dare he spell out his preference for a different woman so blatantly? He didn’t want
her
, he wanted an elegant caricature of her. Never in her life had she spit food into someone’s face, but she was tempted now.

He knew it. Wary as an unarmed man facing a bear, he asked, “Bronwyn? What have I said?”

From her other side, Olivia murmured, “Bronwyn? He’s being nice to you. Really, he’s being quite pleasant.”