The Vicar's Frozen Heart (6 page)

Ah. Of course.
The priest must protect his reputation and deep down she could not blame him. Still, for some strange reason it hurt that he wanted her out of his sight and mind as soon as possible.

He stood, and so did she. “I understand. You do not want me here because you are a clergyman and must protect your status within the church and village.” She gave him a brisk nod. “What type of woman travels in the dead of night, especially without a chaperone? One that is beaten and robbed and not fit company for one such as yourself. Yes, I understand.” Her voice did not conceal her annoyance. Damn this man. Why he stirred her emotions in such a toxic way that she became a rude, shrill bitch--she could not say.

The vicar walked toward her, stopping at a distance of mere inches. She caught a scent of the outdoors, fresh air, and pine. He leaned in; his warm breath feathered her cheek. “No, Eliza. I don’t want you here because I am a man. And you are temptation personified.”

He clasped a loose tendril of her hair and wrapped it around his gloved finger, then lifted it to his lips and kissed it. Eliza looked up at him. For once his silver-gray eyes were alive with emotions she could not guess. But just as quickly the icy glare returned. He let go of her hair and stepped back, creating a chasm between them wider than the actual distance.

Had she imagined what just passed between them? Looking into his emotionless face it appeared so. What to say? Acknowledge the attraction that pulsed between them with a life of its own? Yes. He was a man. She’d noticed that salient fact the moment she clapped eyes on his tall, broad-shouldered form. Last night merely drove the point home. She needed a swift kick in the arse for lusting after a man directly after her scandalous dalliance.
No shame.
Best to let these moments of weakness on both their parts pass without comment. “Then I best fetch my coat and hat and we can be on our way.”

The left corner of his lips quirked and then settled back into their taut line of indifference. “I will need your assistance getting your trunk out to the gig. Can you manage?”

“Yes, I believe I can.”

“Very well. I will bring the wagon to the door.” With a swish of his long coat and a thump of his cane, he exited.

The sooner she was gone from here, the better. Regardless of his cold manner, this man enticed her.

* * * *

Muttering curses under his breath, Tremain made his way to the barn. What possessed him to let down his guard and admit aloud that she rattled his control? Good thing he kept his coat buttoned or the young woman would have been subjected to the hardened proof of his unbridled lust. The last thing he needed in his life was a lusciously curved woman upsetting his thin veneer of calm and control. Grumbling, he entered the barn and hitched up the second horse, which would allow Pegasus to recover from the previous journey. An entire day wasted seeing to this woman, this…intruder. This usurper of his well-ordered life.

Well, he had needed to travel to town today, at any rate. After seeing to poor Ruth and her son, he returned to the pub and consumed a hearty meal provided by the Tompkinses. Complaining would not hasten the duty. It was common Christian charity to assist someone. What angered him was not the young woman herself, but the complicated emotions she stirred in him.

By the time he lead the horse and gig to the front entrance of the vicarage, Eliza had already dragged her trunk outside.
Strong girl.
Together they lifted it to the back and he tied it down. He held out his hand to assist her into the wagon. With a frown, she glanced at it and then at him as if she loathed touching him.

When she did, nothing could stop the crackle of electricity from affecting him even through their gloves. Sitting side-by-side in the small gig provided no further relief from his aroused state. Try as they might to refrain from touching, the uneven movement of the wagon pushing through the snow on the road caused them to collide into each other from shoulder to lower legs.

“Are you feeling well, Miss Winston? Any ill effects from your unfortunate incident?” Tremain did not particularly want to carry on a conversation but needed a distraction from her presence and his desire.

“I am rather sore and bruised. But will recover.”

“I admire the way you have handled the situation. Most young women would be quite hysterical by this point. You take it in stride. Courageous of you.” Damn, now he paid her compliments as if he were a courting swain.

“Why thank you, Mr. Colson. Compliments. I have the feeling you do not hand them out easily, I’m gratified.” Sudden ruts made her lose her balance and fall against him once again, causing another dip of his insides. Slowly, Eliza slid back to her side of the bench seat. “When one is brought up in an orphanage, and a Catholic one at that, crying and feeling sorry for oneself is strictly forbidden.”

“You’re Catholic?”

“I am nothing. I neither believe nor disbelieve in the existence of God. I do not subscribe to any religion. The term that applies to me is “agnostic.” I recently read of it in a magazine.”

Tremain could not be more surprised. “Let me guess,
The Freethinker
?”

“How did you know?” she gasped.

“Read it myself.” He snapped the reins and Tarsus responded with a shake of his head and a faster trot. “Just because I am a clergyman does not mean I no longer wish to know and understand what others believe. A free-thinking governess. I am all astonishment. Good for you, Miss Winston.”

Eliza gave him such a warm, open smile that he nearly dropped the reins. “It is refreshing to find a man of the church open to other opinions. Good for you, Mr. Colson.”

For some reason, her praise pleased him greatly. Surprising, since he was not a man who longed for adulation and admiration. They traveled along in companionable silence. The snorts and nickers from Tarsus was the only sound in the cool winter air.

“Are you from this area, Vicar? We’re in the district of Kent, are we not?”

He swallowed hard, unsure of how much to reveal, if anything. He kept his own counsel and for good reason. “I was born near Hastings, in East Sussex. South of here.”

“Regardless of the snow, it seems a pretty bit of country. I think I will like living in this area.”

“You plan on settling here?” he asked.
Damn it all.
Having her nearby would not assist his hope of avoiding the distraction she caused, as he had assumed her stay would be temporary.

“Why not? I have no family. Nowhere to go. I would prefer it over a city which I find too noisy, smelly, and boisterous. Do you agree?”

“I don’t mind the city. But what I do mind is aimless prattle on nonsensical subjects,” he replied gruffly.

Eliza sniffed, clasping her gloved hands in her lap. She looked away. He was not sure he hurt her feelings, but his rudeness did silence her for the rest of the journey. It also managed to make him feel like a complete heel.

* * * *

Insufferable man.
For a moment--a brief span in time--they managed to have a civilized conversation. Actually, she enjoyed it. The man was obviously intelligent, with opinions she would enjoy discussing. Beyond her annoyance, the vicar’s cool, dismissive tone
did
hurt her. She would not show it, though; her tears hovered at the surface.

Before she knew it they arrived at Hawksgreen. Two neat rows of buildings lined each side of the main road, either brick or Tudor style, about ten or eleven on each side. Located at the opposite side of the village was a large wooden windmill. With a pull on the reins, the vicar halted the wagon in front of the red brick building at the end of the street. The swinging wood sign above the door read ‘The Rusty Cockerel.’ A plump, middle-aged couple burst from the entrance. The man snapped his fingers to a young lad standing nearby.

Mr. Colson slowly descended from the gig and then hobbled to her side, holding out his hand to offer assistance. Eliza didn’t want to touch him again as her insides still rolled and churned with desire from the last time they touched and also the close quarters of the wagon. But she could not refuse as the innkeeper and his wife looked on. It would be a grave insult to give the vicar, the cut direct.

Slipping her hand in his, he helped her down. Mr. Colson didn’t let go at first; instead he gave her hand a slight squeeze, causing her breath to catch. Heat travelled up her arm, and before she could react further, Eliza found herself in the ample embrace of Mrs. Tompkins. Eliza stiffened as she was not used to being held in such a way, especially from a stranger. Introductions were made.

“Oh, you poor, dear girl.” Mrs. Tompkins clucked sympathetically. She stood back, keeping a firm grip on Eliza’s arms. “Look at your lovely face. Do not worry, Vicar. We will care for her. Of that you can be sure.”

“I have no doubt of it, Mrs. Tompkins,” he murmured.

“Tommy, lad. Fetch the trunk and take it up to the attic room.” Mrs. Tompkins gave Eliza a broad smile. “The room’s been cleaned and aired out and as soon as you’re settled, we’ll get a hot meal into you.”

The woman’s kindness was almost too much to bear. If Eliza replied she would start to blubber.

“I bid you goodbye, Miss Winston.” The vicar--Tremain--gave her a stiff bow. She stood on the threshold and watched him depart. Eliza kept her gaze firmly on him until he disappeared around the bend. It was then the tears came. Everything she had been holding back. The exhaustion and the ramifications of her horrific experience. But most of all, she bemoaned his departure, for it left a gaping hole in her heart that made no sense at all.

In the two days that passed since Eliza’s arrival to The Rusty Cockerel, she managed to settle in as best she could. The older couple could not be more convivial. Instead of putting her to work right away, they allowed her to adjust to her new surroundings before the training commenced. She learned how to operate the three beer pumps and about the different varieties of beer and their cost. Since her staid governess wardrobe would not do, Mrs. Tompkins assisted her in selecting appropriate clothing for her new occupation. At least the peasant blouse had a high neckline, but Eliza balked at wearing the lace-up leather corset over it.

“I know it is not quite proper, my dear. But the customers do expect a certain look. You have a fine figure, why not show it off? More tips for you, and aye, more profit for us.”

Eliza eventually agreed, but there was no denying she showed more of her curves than ever before.
A tavern wench. Oh, well.
The dark green shade of the skirt and corset did compliment the shade of her eyes and auburn hair. Another discussion ensued over the idea of wearing her hair pinned up or loose over her shoulders. It was decided she would wear it tied back and wear a small lace cap since she would also be serving food from time to time.

Thankfully, the bruises on her face turned a light yellow, and with a dab of powder were not as noticeable. The plaster remained on her nose and it seemed to be mending properly. Though not particularly vain, she did hope there would not be too perceptible a bend.

Hours of operation for the small pub ran from eleven in the morning until eleven in the evening. Though nervous about her first shift, so far it remained uneventful. The regulars were pleased with her look and warm smile, and the many travelers passing through seemed polite and well-behaved--though Eliza discovered the voices became livelier as more ale was consumed. “’ere, luv. Bring us another pint.” Eliza hurried behind the bar and filled the tankards while smoke from the men’s pipes made her eyes water. Yet she soldiered on and watched the door, breathlessly hoping the tall, handsome vicar would pass through it.

Once she delivered her orders, Eliza gathered up empty tankards and placed them on her tray. Pathetic, but she could not shake Tremain from her mind. Why? The man did nothing to garner such secret adulation. Well, except rescue her. Could that be the reason she remained fixated on him? He certainly acted as a hero, albeit a gruff and standoffish one. And there was no denying the man looked the part. If her ill-thought-out affair proved anything, it seemed she was more of a featherbrain than she thought when it came to handsome men. However, she had seen more than one in the pub this day and none of them caused a reaction from her. Nary a ripple of interest.

Mrs. Tompkins bade her to sit as she brought them a tray of foodstuffs: meat pies, fresh bread, and mugs of steaming tea. Eliza’s mouth watered. She was famished and her feet ached. The pot man scurried behind the counter to change the kegs before heading back to the kitchen to wash the glasses and crockery from the lunch period.

“You’re doing well, lass. Keep smiling and the time will fly by,” Mrs. Tompkins said. She buttered her bread and took a bite. “Turned out well, if I do say so myself.”

“Your meat pies are delicious, Mrs. Tompkins. No wonder it is busy here during luncheon.”

“Thanks, my dear.”

As they ate, Eliza wondered if she should mention Tremain. “I wonder if you can tell me anything about Mr. Colson.”

Mrs. Tompkins’s fork halted in mid-air and she gave her a shrewd look. “Interests you, does he?”

Eliza could not stop the blush from spreading across her cheeks. Yes, damn it, he did. She gave a slight nod.

Mrs. Tompkins chuckled, took a bite of the pie, then swallowed. “Cannot blame you a bit. The man is handsome enough, to be sure, and sends many a heart fluttering around here, including my own. I may be on the dark side of fifty, but I appreciate a fine, strapping man when I see one.” She chuckled again and then sobered. “I don’t know much. He be under the patronage of Viscount Hawkestone, that’s who brought him here about two and a half years past. He keeps to himself, living a quiet life, and though he be a stern sort of man, he has a heart well enough.”

“Does he?” Eliza sipped her tea. “I’ve seen no proof.”

“He doesn’t show it to just anyone. The vicar doesn’t suffer fools lightly and lets you know it. As for his past life, I know nothing. Nothing at all.”

“He told me he hails from the Hastings area.”