Cheryl Holt (11 page)

“Oh, spare me your egotistical drivel!”

Rolling her eyes again, she did everything she could to hide her true reaction, for he was right. She detested considering his existence outside her farm. In the brief period he’d been with her, she’d come to think of him as her own, as if he belonged with her. She couldn’t bear to remember that he was hers for just a short while, that she was healing him so that he could carry on as he had before they’d met.

She would only play a tiny role in what would be his lengthy, fruitful, eventful life, yet he’d already begun to mean everything to her.

How attached would she be if he stayed a month? Two? Six?

What a void he’d leave when he departed! What would she do with herself?

She had to rein in her fascination and fast! She couldn’t let him have such dominion over her emotions, couldn’t permit her bewitchment to rule. Nothing good could ensue from her budding fondness, and she refused to be desolate and bereft after he’d gone.

“How are you feeling?” she inquired, desperate to assert some control, to push their association to the more disparate level, where it had to remain.

“Terrific.”

“You’re not fatigued?”

Full of mischief, he evaluated her, commencing at the top and traveling downward, across her bosom, waist, crotch,
and legs. “I’m eager to bathe in the pool. Go fetch your bathing costume.” He halted and wiggled his brows. “Better yet, don’t fetch it. Let’s swim in the buff.”

At the indecent suggestion, she blushed such a bright red that she was surprised she didn’t burst into flames. “We most certainly will not.”

Embarrassed, she bustled around, tidying the room.

Was this the sort of thing he ruminated about during his boring hours of convalescence?

The bounder!

While she washed in the nude every night—by herself!—she couldn’t frolic so decadently with him.

Or could she?

Unbidden, several lusty, lewd images flashed into her mind. She could picture the two of them, wet, slick, hot, their torsos rubbing together.

The vision was so realistic, and so stirring! Was that what she wanted? Was she hoping for something so risqué to occur?

“I’ll go don my bathing clothes,” she primly stated, “but I intend to keep them tightly buttoned!”

“I won’t promise that I shan’t try to remove them.”

Would he? What would it be like to have him undoing her bodice, baring her breasts, her stomach, her bottom? Her heart raced, her nipples throbbed.

If he attempted to perpetrate such nonsense, would she stop him? She didn’t believe so, and the realization scared her to death. Where was she going with him? She knew she should tread carefully, but some insane, wild part of her didn’t plan to be cautious.

What had happened to her? Deep down, was she a Jezebel?

“If you can talk about merrymaking in the pool,” she admonished, “you must be much improved.”

“I’m definitely
better
,” he declared, and he raked her with
such an ardent look, that she felt as if she’d been scalded.

Whirling away, she rushed to her bedchamber, almost running to escape him, but also, to put on her outfit as rapidly as she was able.

What did she propose? What did he?

The prospects were so titillating and so terrifying that she couldn’t wait to learn the answer.

 6 

Stephen lounged in the soothing water, studying the grotto, the wall of rocks, the dam that formed the pond. Sun had set, and the gloaming was upon them. The sky was indigo, and the evening star twinkled on the horizon.

He shut his eyes and offered up a selfish wish. For a return to full health, to some semblance of how he’d carried on before disaster had laid him low.

A week previous, he’d have deemed such aspirations impossible, the yearnings of a desperate man. He wouldn’t have dared to trust, and he couldn’t explain how so much could have changed so fast.

It was all because of Anne Paxton Smythe. She had a curious manner, an attitude that precluded his languishing or declining further. She was so sure he could improve, and so adamantly opposed to a different conclusion. Her obstinacy had ignited a spark of optimism that couldn’t be doused.

While he couldn’t marry or sire children, there were other ways to lead a long and fruitful life. He could forge a new path, could locate diverse avenues to contentment. It was nothing short of a miracle that she’d brought about such a complete and utter transformation. He wasn’t positive how
she’d done it, but he wouldn’t question the Fates that had compelled Eleanor to drop him on her stoop.

Behind him, he could hear her puttering about, arranging towels, soap, and her other accouterments. She labored so diligently, was so focused on his recovery, and he didn’t know how she found the energy to keep going.

She’d instituted an exhausting regimen of diet, arm weights, and leg movements. The eccentric female had even ordered him to daydream about things he would most like to do when he was better. It was a peculiar method of therapy, and in the beginning, he’d resisted, bluntly telling her it was a stupid idea. But now, he spent his every leisure moment concentrating on pleasurable activity. A walk on the beach. A ride on his favorite stallion. Making love.

Clearly, his ability to copulate was gone and wouldn’t be restored, but he wouldn’t lose hope, and it was easy enough to fantasize. Over the years, many beauties had graced his bed. He’d been the toast of London, an unrepentant cad and libertine. So he had plenty of recollection to stir his reveries, but he also had Anne, herself.

Each night, she relished a quiet, relaxing swim, and like the worst voyeur, he watched her. He scolded himself, appreciating that he shouldn’t stare, that he should roll over and ignore her, but he couldn’t forgo the naughty delectation.

He would never again entice a woman to philander, because he couldn’t risk having her learn the extent of his war injuries. In his social circle, such news would sizzle like a wildfire, and he couldn’t abide such a public humiliation.

His sojourn at Anne’s emporium might be the sole occasion he’d ever have to gaze upon a nude female, and if it was to be his last opportunity, he wasn’t about to pass it up. The furtive sight was an unexpected boon, a divine gift of sorts, that allowed him a final glimpse of a prior road fading away.

She wasn’t aware that he had an unimpeded view of the
grotto, or maybe she believed he was sleeping, so she was oblivious to his spying on her. She always looked so sad and forlorn, and he wondered what thoughts induced her melancholy. Her farm? Her business? Himself?

Smiling, he discounted the foolish assumption. If she reflected at all, it was likely on her deceased husband, and more and more, the notion disturbed him.

She never spoke of her spouse, and he’d never been rude enough to pry, but he often pondered the lucky fellow who’d snagged her. Had he realized how fortunate he was? Had their marriage been one of joy and passion? Or had it been tame, a marriage of convenience, contracted for property or money?

He didn’t like contemplating that man, didn’t like being reminded that she’d once belonged to another. Their many intimacies made it seem as if she was his, and had never previously shared any of her unique qualities.

She appeared to cherish him, as evidenced by her visiting him in the wee hours, tucking him in, or checking his fever. Her tender ministrations had him feeling special, precious, and they tugged at something deep inside, an empty spot he hadn’t recognized to exist.

Since he’d arrived home from Spain, it had become apparent that he wasn’t close to anyone, except perhaps Charles and Eleanor. He could count on one hand the number of supposed friends who’d called on him at Bristol, and a couple of those—he was convinced—had stopped by to determine his condition so they could spread juicy stories in town.

He was disconsolate, isolated, and Anne filled a wretched loneliness.

In a few minutes, she would join him, would exercise his limbs and wash his body. She went about her duties with the utmost professionalism, but it was difficult to be with her and not want to misbehave.

Something was going on between them, something
dramatic and sensational. He was so very attracted to her. To her comeliness, certainly, but to her personality, as well. He admired her intelligence, her character, her sense of humor. His emotions toward her were much more intense, much more extreme, than any he’d ever felt for another, and after spending so much familiar time with her, he imagined it was just as well that he’d never have a wife, for he couldn’t fathom being embroiled in a typical aristocratic union. A detached, conventional marriage held no appeal whatsoever.

As she’d finished her chores, she entered the pool, gliding under the water so that it lapped at her bosom and shoulders. She was dressed in her blue-striped bathing costume. It was baggy and frilly, with abundant ruffles across her bust to conceal it once the fabric was saturated. Still, he was sporadically granted a hint of breast or nipple, and the fact that he observed so carefully, anticipating an indiscreet peek, was the best indicator of how quickly he was improving.

She swam to the other end of the pond, her outfit poofing with air over her shapely rear. He wished he could coax her out of it, which he considered the height of optimism for a chap in his feeble state.

If he got her naked, what—precisely—did he propose to do with her? Would he merely ogle her, like some aging, perverted reprobate?

She came toward him, and he grabbed her wrist, and pulled her near.

“Are you ready to begin?” she asked.

“Not yet.” He snuggled her onto his thigh, and she fell forward, her chest pressed to his own.

He was attired in a nightshirt, but it was a thin, summery garment, and so was her apparel. When the two pieces were moistened, and their torsos melded together, it seemed as if they had nothing on. Her breasts reacted to the indecent contact, her nipples growing rigid and poking at him.

What would she say if he confided how he spied on her in the dark? He almost spilled the beans, but sanity prevailed, and he bit down on a confession. It was a lascivious secret he wasn’t prepared to reveal. Maybe he never would.

“What is it?” she inquired, her pretty green eyes searching his.

“I’m mending so rapidly.” He didn’t add how thrilled he was, or how afraid that it was a chimera, that it wouldn’t last.

“Yes, but don’t forget: you’ll have reversals. You can’t be discouraged. Healing isn’t a straight line, where you continually advance. It’s more like a meandering stream.”

“No, I’m better. I can feel it on the inside.”

“And I can see it on the outside.”

“Why is it happening so swiftly?”

“I’ve told you: it’s all in your mind. You’ve decided to recover.”

“I think there’s something about this pool.”

She laughed “It’s just water, Stephen.”

“And your potions and recipes are magical, too.”

“Absolutely.” She laughed again.

“Why did you invent them?”

“They were created out of necessity. I nursed a widow—I inherited this place from her—as she died a slow death. So did my mother. The doctors and apothecaries were so incompetent that I was forced to make up my own remedies.”

“But how?”

“Trial and error.”

“It has to be more than that. You’re so proficient. Why?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are you a witch?”

As if he’d poked her with a stick, she lurched away. “That’s not funny.”

She tried to escape, but he now had enough strength to keep her from leaving. “I was joking.”

“Were you? Not long ago, they burned women at the stake over such idiotic comments.”

“They don’t anymore.”

“Don’t be too sure they wouldn’t. You could destroy my business, with such a dangerous innuendo.”

Could he? He hadn’t realized that she could be so vulnerable to public opinion. “I’d never let anyone harm you.”

“You wouldn’t be here to prevent it, would you?”

Too true. There would come a day when he would be revived, and he would have to depart, which was so depressing.

Where would he go? To Bristol Manor, to reside under his father’s authoritative influence? To London, to sponge off friends?