Cheryl Holt (42 page)

She could see her breath, and the lower temperature sliced into her skin. Up ahead, steam rose, clouding the grotto with mist and fog, so that it looked eerie, mysterious, and she raced toward it, anxious to ward off her chill, to be immersed in its warmth.

Shedding her robe, she stood, naked, arms raised, absorbing the cold. She stared up at the stars, pausing to give thanks for her blessings, for being alive to enjoy and treasure them. The frigid breeze lashed at her, and she began to shiver, so she walked down the ramp and waded in. The water swirled around her, heating her, welcoming her. It felt extra hot, like jumping into a boiling kettle, and she hissed out a breath.

Her wounds prickled and stung, but she forced herself through the acclimation, comprehending that the pain would pass, that the water would heal her. In a matter of days, most of her gashes were closed, the bruising faded, and she no longer doubted the peculiar qualities the spot was rumored to have. It had worked its magic on her, had rapidly stabilized her condition, and she wouldn’t speculate as to how or why. She would simply be grateful.

Out on the lane, a horse approached, and she knew it was Stephen returning from Bath. She didn’t know why he’d journeyed to the town, or what had occupied him to such a late hour, and she didn’t intend to inquire.

Many events had occurred of which she didn’t care to be apprised. Ignorance really was bliss.

Willie McGee had disappeared, and it was clear that Stephen, Kate, and Prudence were aware of what had happened to him, but they would never tell a soul. When they’d believed her asleep, she’d heard them whispering. They’d reached an agreement, a sworn pact that would endure till death.

She should have been insulted by their having a secret that excluded her, but deep down, she didn’t need to have the particulars divulged. Any punishment leveled on the wicked, crazed maniac was fine by her, so long as he could never hurt anyone again.

Pru wasn’t in hiding, but rooming with Kate in the cottage behind the barn. She was busy making the decrepit place habitable, planting flower bulbs, cleaning, and painting, which attested to her assurance that Willie wouldn’t be back. Pru wasn’t worried, so Anne wasn’t either.

Her only regret was that she’d never had the wherewithal to muster neighborhood opinion against him. When she thought of what other women might have experienced due to his villainy, she felt ill.

She swam, waiting, and soon, Stephen marched across
the yard, the gravel in the drive crunching as he walked. Even in the dim light, it was easy to discern how tall he was, how lean and strong. Smiling, she remembered his plight when he’d initially been dumped on her stoop. It was difficult to conceive of him as the same fellow.

There was a vigor about him, an energy that floated out in waves. A dramatic incident must have transpired in Bath, which had been so climactic that his agitation hadn’t waned during the lengthy ride home.

She wouldn’t interrogate him as to what it was, for she was sure it involved his wrapping up of the calamity that had unfolded in Willie’s pasture. With his typical curt efficiency, Stephen had supervised the mess, settling the affair so quietly and so completely that not a single rumor had circulated as to her having been taken prisoner. As far as her employees were concerned, naught had befallen her. Stephen had demanded their silence, and none of her staff would fail to heed his dictate.

Like an adoring gaggle of adolescents, they followed after him, so awestruck and charmed by his magnificence that, in their estimation, he’d assumed divine attributes. He was their hero, their champion, and he could do no wrong. Whatever he asked of them, they would gladly provide.

His gaze locked on hers, and butterflies coursed through her stomach. He’d been with her for less than a week, and throughout the period, she’d been so worn down that she’d done little but lie around holding his hand, unable to let go, scared that if she did, he might vanish.

After that appalling afternoon of terror, he’d sworn he would never leave her, and she distinctly recollected his vow, but since then, she hadn’t pressed the issue, being too fatigued to learn what he’d actually meant.

Why wasn’t he in London? What about his engagement to Lady Felicity? A thousand questions plagued her, but she
steeled herself, as she always did, to live in the moment, to pathetically revel in whatever minor pieces of himself he chose to share.

As it was folly to pine away for impossibilities, she wouldn’t beg for more than he could give.

A fiery gleam in his eye, he stopped at the bank and studied her. “You appear to be much improved, Mrs. Smythe.”

“I am better.”

“Good. Are you wearing any clothes under all that water?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Fully dressed, he tromped directly into the pond, and she laughed and shook her head. Despite his claims of penury, he certainly acted like a wealthy man with boots to waste.

He came to her and pulled her into a torrid kiss, his mouth on hers, their tongues sparring, the fabric of his garments rough and rubbing her nude torso. The embrace concluded, and he buried himself at her nape.

“I was so afraid for you,” he admitted. “Afraid that you’d been too battered, that your mind might have—”

“Hush,” she murmured. “Let’s don’t talk about it now.” She couldn’t discuss Willie’s foul deeds. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps sometime in the future. Or perhaps never.

Leading her to the rocks, he seated himself on the ledge, and snuggled her on his lap.

“I have something to tell you,” he stated.

For an instant, she stiffened, wary and alarmed that he was about to refer to the aftermath of her ordeal, or that he might mention his plans, that he was off to London or some such. She wasn’t ready to consider the harsh reality, couldn’t parlay over the details. At present, she wanted him with her, and she couldn’t peer beyond that simple wish.

“And
I
have something to tell you,” she injected, eager to forestall any sensational confessions.

“You first.”

“While you were out, I received several surprising letters.”

“From whom?”

“One was from your sister.”

“Eleanor?”

“She’s been trying to track you down.”

“What’s she up to?”

“She’s marrying your friend, Charles Hughes.”

“She finally relented! How wonderful.”

Anne thought they were an odd couple—the elegant lady and the taciturn, maimed soldier—but who could predict where love would bloom? Look at herself and Stephen. There was no rhyme or reason to it.

“It sounded as if they’re in a hurry.”

He whispered, “She’s having a baby.”

“Well, that explains the rush! The ceremony is next week at Bristol Manor, and you’re to be best man.”

“There’s nothing new in the distinction. I’ve always been the
best
.”

“Vain beast!”

Swatting at him, she endeavored to conceal how hurt she was that he hadn’t invited her to attend with him—not that she’d imagined he would, or that she would agree if he had. She tried to picture herself inside the grand mansion, being introduced to his ogre of a father, scrutinized by his two older brothers, snubbed by the servants who would accuse her of putting on airs.

The prospect was ludicrous, and she couldn’t figure out why she persisted with such whimsy. She was a fool, a dreamer, a miserable, smitten ninny, intent on building castles in the sky.

“Who else wrote?” he inquired.

“My brother, Phillip. And . . . and . . . my father.”

She couldn’t quite process the development, and her
heart pounded from her communicating the amazing fact aloud.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Perceiving her trepidation, he counseled, “This is marvelous news. Don’t be frightened by it.”

“I’m not. It was just so . . . so unexpected.” From the day her mother had moved them away, when Anne was three, her father hadn’t contacted her, and she was spinning with the implications. “They’re both getting married, too.”

“Phillip
and
Edward? You’re joking!”

“No.”

“Who are the lucky women?”

“Phillip has snagged himself an aristocrat. Lady Olivia Hopkins.”

“The devil you say!”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes.”

“What’s she like?”

“Very sweet, very bright, and pretty.”

“And my father is marrying her cousin.”

“Winnie Stewart?”

“Yes, that’s her name.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“They want me to come to Salisbury for the weddings, and to stay for an extended visit. They’re going to be celebrating from now till Yuletide.”

“I like their style.”

“Lady Olivia and Miss Stewart wrote to me, too. With the nicest messages. They were so kind, so . . . so . . .”

She started to cry. The letters were so special to her, arriving as they had, when she was weary and forlorn. For so long, she’d been alone, as she would be when he left. It was reassuring to realize that there were others out there who cared about her, who might be friends.

“What’s this?” He swiped at the trail dripping down her cheek.

“I could have a family again.”

The declaration brought on a bout of weeping. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t clarify, and the sorrow of a lifetime gushed out until she ached with despair. Throughout the episode, he cradled her to his chest, stroking her hair, and patting her back. He was unruffled, content to tarry while she vented her woe.

As for herself, she was humiliated by her behavior, but she couldn’t prevent the outpouring of melancholy. She was mourning for the little girl whose father had sent her away, but also for the adult woman she’d grown to be, the one who’d been stupid enough to love the wrong man, who would love him forever.

It was all so sad, so tragic.

Eventually, the tide ebbed. She was exhausted, and she collapsed onto him.

“Will you go to Salisbury?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t see myself there. It would be so difficult.”

She had the same vision as she’d conjured of herself at Bristol Manor. She would feel so awkward, would be so out of place.

“How about if I went with you?”

“As my what?”

She glowered at him. When they’d romped at her farm, they’d been afforded a substantial amount of privacy, but there was no way they could continue outside the confines of her property. She could never account for him to her father, her brother, their fiancées, or anyone else who might be curious.

He occupied no position that could be discussed in polite company. Previously, she’d been able to deal with the concept that she was merely his paramour, but with the catastrophe

she’d recently suffered, her nerves were raw, her passions inflamed. She couldn’t pretend that he didn’t matter to her, couldn’t feign indifference as to what he might do next.

In her current condition, courtesy was beyond her.

“What
would
I be?” As if the question was humorous, he grinned. “It does appear to be a month for weddings.”

“There must be something in the air.”

“Perhaps I should plan my own.”

She gaped at him, her mouth falling open in stunned shock. How could he mention his union with Felicity? Had he no circumspection? No shame? Couldn’t he discern how vulnerable she was? How defenseless? Why would he raise such a painful topic?

“By all means,” she remarked bitterly. “Plan your own.”

Anxious to swim away, she slithered off him. Tears were welling again, another round of sobbing about to inundate her, and she yearned for solitude as she shed them. He grabbed her, and though she struggled and fought, she couldn’t escape.

“Calm yourself,” he urged.

“No. I’m tired, and I’m angry, and I hate you.”

“Are we back to that?”

“I don’t think we ever left. Just go to London. Wed your precious Lady Felicity, and leave me be.”

He laughed! The wretch! “I’m not marrying Felicity.”

Lordy! Had he already found someone else? Very likely, he had a whole harem tripping over themselves. “Who then?”

“You.”

She cocked her head, shook it. She couldn’t have heard him correctly. “What?”

“I wish to marry
you
.”

“Well, you can’t, so quit being such a boor. It’s cruel to tease me.”

“Who’s to tell me I can’t?”

“The entire world. As you’ve so vehemently claimed.”

“Since my jaunt to the city, my opinion of the entire
world
is a tad jaded.” He fumbled under the water, dug around in his wet coat, and after much grubbing, he lifted his hand, a finger extended. There was a gold band slipped onto it, the ring jammed to his knuckle, and obviously intended for her. He wiggled it to and fro, and she followed the motion as if he was a mesmerist.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Disdainful, incredulous, she was scared to attach any gravity to the object for fear of what it might—or might not—signify.

“Just what it looks like. A betrothal ring.” He tugged it off and nestled it in his palm. “I realize it’s rather plain, but it was the best I could find without traveling to London.”

He’d gone to Bath to purchase an engagement ring for her? Was he mad?

“It’s a fine piece of jewelry,” she said noncommittally. “What sort of woman would crave anything more?”

“Let’s see how it fits.” He glided it onto her finger. It was snug, perfect, glowing as if it had always been there. “My dearest Anne,” he began, “would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Flummoxed and bewildered, she stared at him, trying to detect if he was jesting, but no one could be that callous. Especially not him.

“Why . . .?” There were a dozen interpretations to the query. Why would he? Why had he changed his mind? Why did he presume that their situations had been so drastically altered?

“Because I love you more than life itself, and I want you by my side forevermore.”

Steady, true, earnest, his resolve settled on her like a benediction. “You’re serious.”

“Of course I am, you silly girl.”

“But what about Lady Felicity?”

“Whilst I was away, she fell in love with her cousin.”