Lady Meets Her Match (19 page)

The carriage bumped and rocked, and the outside candle lantern swung another shaft of light inside. His quicksilver stare pinned her.

“Miss Mayhew, have you ever wondered how a freehold farmer got to be in such a fine place?”

Fear comes from uncertainty. When we are absolutely certain, whether of our worth or worthlessness, we are almost impervious to fear.

William Congreve

If he was going to bleed his soul tonight, he'd hold nothing back.

His neck and shoulders tightened with discomfort stemming from a pain far beyond the evening's bout. Not even the iciest bath could drive away this hurt. He hated the wound he was about to reopen, but he would. He needed her to know the truth.

He sought the reward of basking in Claire's genuine affections. She incited a yearning in him. He craved depth with her, a want that could shake the most stalwart of men.

The whites of Claire's eyes widened noticeably at his bold question about his place in Society.

“As a passing thought, I've wondered about your success,” she admitted. “But your status in life has not been a preoccupation of mine, if that's what you're wondering.”

He chuckled at her forthrightness. “One need not worry about an excess of flattery from you.”

Her bright smile was his reward, a flash of white matching her white-blond hair falling wildly around her face. With her simple work woman's dress and flaxen tresses flowing to her waist, she reminded him of an engraved print in one of his sister's childhood fairy-tale books. The fair-haired maiden in the book enthralled him as a youth.

Growing up, his family possessed few books, but that translation of fairy tales had captured his sisters' interest night after night. They'd pore over the stories, discussing the merits of one character over another. One night, the treasured tome was open on the table, and he, stirring about for more food near midnight, stumbled on
her
.

The hearth's flame had lit the maiden's fine features, drawing him into her tale. The pretty woman had stolen one night in a castle, daring to dance with a prince. At midnight the maid fled, leaving behind a shoe. She returned to her old life where she labored long, living in a sparse tower. The fair-haired woman in the story became a hidden treasure in Cyrus's humble life, but her simple, gracious beauty stunned him.

The same as Claire Mayhew did now.

She inched closer to him. Under the blanket, her leg resting against his thigh was about to hook over his leg. He was certain she wanted to climb into his lap, but caution beset his pretty proprietress.

How many years had the fair Miss Mayhew been plagued with saying no to her body's wants after painful rejection from Lord Jonathan? Now, she struggled to reacquaint herself with saying yes. To him.

“You don't have to tell me if you'd rather not,” she announced.

“Says the woman who offered her listening ear.” His fingers stroked her hand with a featherlight touch. “Sounding a retreat?”

She said nothing, but her fingers curled into his. The sweetness of her hold could be a balm, spreading its healing powers inside his chest. Holding hands was a lost art, rarely found in the hot and sweaty grind of sex.

“You know, there's something singular about your nature. It sets you apart from other women of my acquaintance.”

“Something different than my wanting to be in business as an unmarried woman?” she jested softly.

“There is that.” He looked at her palms as though he could read them in the dark. “You want a man to bleed his secrets, his fears, all the things he doesn't want others to know.”

Her head canted sideways upon hearing that. Had he snared her interest with his insight? He had his years as a son, a brother, and a lover to women. He was not without some knowledge of the complex, fairer sex.

His thumbs stroked the flesh of her palms, making soft circles, all while sweet Claire waited patiently.

He took a bracing breath. “I've always been big. Brawling came natural to me. My mother forbade me to fight, but I had plans to make my way as a bare-knuckle fighter.”

“And your father?”

“He understood a lad needing to test his strength.” His confident smile spread. “Much as we loved my mother and sisters, we both needed a rest from the swelter of female emotions at home.”

“And he took you to fights?”

“No, he supported my mother and forbade me to go.” His smile quirked sideways. “But he'd look the other way now and then…give me the nod if a fight came Stretford way. The bouts were small. Organizers would let local lads have some fun.”

“Surely you had bruises and cuts. Wouldn't your mother know?”

“Sometimes I came away unscathed, sometimes not.” He shrugged a shoulder, the wool of his coat scraping the squab. “With eight of us children at home, my mother eventually had to choose her battles. I was near full grown.” His voice snagged on those last words. “But my rebellious choice caused us all no end of sorrows.”

Claire's leg slid over his. His sore body tensed, preparing for the worst.

“I'd slipped away to a local fight. We'd been repairing our barn, but my father let me go, said he'd finish the job himself.” An awful weight crushed his chest in the retelling. “I was gone an hour.” His voice threaded unevenly. “When I came back…he was dead.”

Claire gasped.

His body chilled, shuddering at the picture his mind refused to erase. Claire's hand in his was a lifeline.

He sunk lower on the seat, his words gutting him like sharp, vicious knife points. Claire's other hand reached for him. Her fingers touched his jaw—or rather, he saw them in the darkness, but he couldn't respond. He couldn't fully feel them.

“A beam fell on him.” Thickness strangled his throat, holding him hostage in a dark, arid place. “If I'd been there…”

His gaze dropped to the carriage floor. Hauling eviscerating memories out for another to witness was a painful endeavor.

“I was sixteen, and I was a fool.” His voice sharpened on the last syllable. “And my sainted mother never blamed me for one second.”

Her hand slipped lower, finding its way inside his coat.

“Because she loved you…it wasn't your fault. It was an accident.” Claire's hand rested over his heart, the fabric of his shirt a flimsy barrier between them.

The warm touch gave him connection, grounding him.

“After what happened, I'd like to say I grew up quickly, but I didn't.” He stared into the gloom. “I was the head of our farm at sixteen, something I never wanted. But my mother, my sisters counted on me to take care of them. And I failed miserably.”

He turned away from Claire. Had to. Acceptance softened her features; her goodness proved too much. She offered tenderness, the gentleness washing over him, clean and kind.

The woolen murk beyond his carriage window swirled as heavy as his self-loathing. His eyes shut against the pain, keeping private the humbling wetness on his lashes.

Claire scooted closer, leaning her head against him. Could she hear his heart's erratic pounding? Her hand caressed his chest over his shirt, the fabric hushing whispers with the movement.

Then she slipped her hand inside his shirt, the fleshly contact a sharp, sweet pain. He shuddered. Her touch was an undeserved gift. Claire's hand rubbed a circle over his heart, her warmth and nearness crumbling him. The tender-souled, midtown maiden lured him, pulling him back from the abyss.

His eyes opened, and he took a deep breath, shaking his head.

“I wasn't a good farmer. My family suffered under my inept care.”

“You were sixteen.”

She said the quiet words as though the number was sufficient explanation. Her gentle hand cupped his chest, the caress discovering the heaviest curve. He should rejoice at her blatant exploration, but he needed her to understand, to know the man he really was.

“For years we struggled, then my sister, Elspeth, married. Her husband ran the farm, but we needed more funds to rebuild the herd. We'd already lost many swine to a fever, losses caused by my mistakes.” His voice was graveled and sparse. “I did the only thing I knew. I sought fights whenever possible, took on odd jobs.”

“And you never got hurt? From the fighting?”

With her cheek pressed close to his coat, her voice vibrated on his skin, as intimate as a kiss. Her tender trust softened him, making him want to be the man worthy of her.

“Knocked around some. Nothing bad,” he said. “But I found a position helping one James Brindley, an engineer. He was set on a two-month survey of Midlands territory for the Duke of Bridgewater.” His low laugh was a dry sound. “We'd heard of the duke's half-cocked plan to build canals, some in places where no river ran. The Duke's Cut it was called.”

He closed his eyes a needful second. Her thumb rubbed his breastbone, and those feather-light touches led him like a bread-crumb trail through this dark forest to keep going. He needed to finish this…have her know the full truth.

“James and I got on well. I was quick with numbers and good for moving logs.” He opened his eyes and smiled thinly.

The heel of her palm grazed his nipple, sending jagged shocks through him. His breath caught. Of course she meant to render care—his mind knew this, but his ravaged body would not discern lust from gentle ministrations.

Over his coat, he set his hand on the shape of hers hidden under his shirt and coat. “During those two months, James spoke to me of things beyond the world of Stretford. Of the duke's plans to build canals all over England, of the warehouses that needed building where good men like me could get a leg up in the world.”

Claire tilted her face to him and listened attentively, their breath mingling.

“When construction began, I was twenty-six and my connection with Brindley gave me a good position overseeing other laborers. But I wanted more, could see this was going to be something big. Then the duke came one day to survey progress in Stretford.”

A deep, looseness expanded his chest.

“I'd been digging and was covered in mud, but this was my chance. Brindley had spoken of me to the duke and brought me up to meet His Grace.” He tipped his head back against the squab. “I surprised everyone by asking for a moment of his time. I had a business proposition.”

“Then you understand bold persistence well, don't you?”

He could hear the smile in her voice.

“I understand going after what you want,” he agreed. “I walked the trench line with the duke, asking how much would it take to become a stakeholder in his new scheme.”

“He didn't laugh, did he?”

“The bankers with him did, but I had little to lose in the asking.” His mouth curled in a smile of a different nature. “And now those men work for me.”

“A bit vengeful are you?”

He snorted. “More like practical. And the duke, to his credit, listened. Too many people thought his plan for canals the mark of lunacy.”

“Apparently, you and the duke were visionary.”

His shoulders lifted under her praise; he was warmed that she wasn't put off by his brashness or that he was a man who once earned his way by hard labor.

“His Grace was at least, but the minimum starting investment was a thousand pounds.” His head rested again on the squab again. “The duke said he'd come Stretford way again in one month. If I had a
hundred
pounds, he'd let me in.” He snorted. “For the likes of me, he could've said a million…both amounts were nigh to impossible.”

“Then you brawled your way to a hundred pounds.”

“If it were only that easy. I fought at every opportunity. But the month was ending and I was still seventy-five pounds short.”

“But I thought you won enough money?”

He shook his head. “I went south to the Bristol Inn. Famous for bare-knuckle bouts. Men come from all over…Scotland, Ireland, the Netherlands, Germany…all to fight. Sailors, farmers, soldiers. A few knew of me as the Stretford Bruiser, but this was big, and I had this one night.”

“They had me squared off against an Irish lad, younger and less experienced, but the same size as me. Everyone expected me to win.”

“And that's how you won the seventy-five pounds?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He had to face this moment.

“No,” he said, looking into the fog beyond the window. “I cheated.”

Claire's body went taut against him, a tenuous change, but she didn't move. He would finish this and lay all bare before her. An inner drive made him want no secrets between them.

“I asked a friend to take all my money and bet steep odds against me. He wanted to leave for the colonies, so we worked out a plan. I took a punch from the Irish lad. Let him knock me out.”

Claire's exhale stirred his open shirt. “Then, my forging your signature doesn't look quite so bad.”

“More like I understand desperation and going hard after something you want. And I understand Mr. Fincher's bold move tonight.” He reached for her, running a single lock of white-blond hair between his fingers. “Most of all, I hated how easy it was to be dishonest.”

For a moment he was suspended, free of past failures and judgments. His evening's toils charged his joints and sinew; the price would be stiff movement tomorrow, but tonight, he sailed with newfound freedom. There was lightness in confession, an easing of the shared burden of condemning choices.

“Aside from my friend who left for the colonies, no one knows, save you.” He brushed hair away from her face. “Even my family thinks I managed to scrape together enough funds from my fights.”

Claire turned her head slightly and kissed the hand touching her cheek. The innocent peck was a ray of light breaking him free of this murky part of his past.

“I went home and met the duke soon after. I did what I had to do to help my mother and sisters,” he said, his tone striking firm. “Over time, I was able to pay for tutors for my nephews who showed interest in advancing themselves, buy a farm for another sister, and pay for a curative tea for Lucinda's lung ailments.”