Lisbon (10 page)

Standing in his stocking feet in the hall below—for he had surrendered his shoes to Livesay—Tom Westing thought he had never seen anything more beautiful. Charlotte had toweled her wet hair almost dry before combing it, and it now cascaded from its riband down her back in a blonde shower of silk. The shapeless clothes in which he remembered her had given little hint of the beauty of her slender form, any more than had the wet bedraggled homespun in which she had greeted him today, but now her young loveliness was deftly revealed by the white voile gown. He had left behind him a child, but he had come back to a woman. He stood the straighter and drew a deep breath. It seemed to him that everything a man could possibly desire in this world was coming toward him down the stairs.

“Charlotte,” he said wonderingly, “you’ve become a beauty. ”

There would be no compliment in her life Charlotte would ever treasure like that one.

They went in to the dining room, which, under Livesay’s supervision, was set out as majestically as if the master was entertaining Lord Pimmerston from nearby Castle Stroud. The board was heavy with silver—most of it tarnished, for there’d been no time to clean and polish it. There was a loaf of sugar and a pair of great salts, and a large white linen cloth—clean but mended, for the master cared little for such things.

It didn’t matter really. Neither Tom nor Charlotte saw anything but each other that night.

Tom was looking at her wistfully down the long board.

He had meant to bring his ship’s wages and throw them— along with his heart—at her feet. He had meant to propose marriage and ask her to run away with him, for he was not fool enough to suppose that her uncle would favor a marriage between a man like him and the niece of the master of Aldershot Grange. On shipboard, all those nights away from her, it had seemed possible, reasonable even. He would return, she would be waiting . . .

And he had returned, and she had been waiting, and now none of it was possible because he’d been fool enough to let himself be robbed in some dark alley in Carlisle. Now he had nothing to offer her, nothing.

Looking into each other’s eyes, they ate Cook’s best hasty supper—and never knew afterward what they ate.

They sat long at table, laughing and talking, and when they had done at last, Charlotte rose and spoke to Livesay, who hovered nearby.

“Master Tom and I are going to take a stroll in the garden if it’s stopped raining,’’ she told him. “Please have Ivy prepare the green bedchamber for him when we return. ” Livesay frowned, and when Charlotte ran upstairs to get a light shawl against the damp, he went up to Tom, who stood waiting by the garden door. Livesay might not have been wearing livery these days, but he knew what life in a gentleman’s household should be like—indeed
had been 
like when Charlotte’s grandfather was alive.

“I’m sorry to speak out like this, young sir,” he began. “But seeing as there’s no proper chaperon for Mistress Charlotte about the place—”

“I take your meaning, Livesay,” Tom interrupted. “Very commendable of you to mention it. I won’t be sleeping in the house tonight, or any other night, but I will avail myself of a space in the stables if that’s convenient?”

“Oh, most convenient.” Livesay looked vastly relieved. “And there’ll be clean sheets on the straw and a pillow waiting for you in the loft. Timmy, the stableboy, will show you just where they are. And come morning there’ll be a basin and towels for washing too. ”

Tom chuckled. “You’ll spoil me, Livesay, that you will.

And you can rest easy about Mistress Charlotte. I promise not to overstep the bounds, chaperon or no chaperon."

Then Charlotte appeared and Livesay melted away obsequiously into the background while she took Tom into the garden.

They walked past dripping rosebushes unburied at last from the weeds, for Charlotte had been getting the garden ready for this walk for over a year and a half now. Their feet trod the wet stones of the narrow garden path and Charlotte had to swish her lifted skirts toward Tom s knee breeches to keep them from getting wet from the dripping shrubbery.

The moon cast a silvery radiance over the Derwent Water, and nearby there was the whir of owls; the scent of roses, made clinging by the dampness, filled the air with a heady perfume. Somehow at that moment Charlotte felt more aware of the world around her than she had ever been. Somewhere nearby a bird trilled a single sleepy note and the small questing sound went right through her. The tall man beside her was looking down at her with love in his eyes, and his very nearness made her dizzy.

“God, I’ve missed you," he murmured, and she went wordlessly into his outstretched arms, felt her knees grow weak as she leaned against that deep chest and listened to the strong regular beat of his heart.

She wanted to tell him how much she had missed him too, but her heart was too full at that moment to speak. The magic of the world was all around her—and then he bent his lips to hers, slowly, tenderly, with grace, and the world disappeared and there was only Tom. Tom, her lover.

She felt his mouth change position over her own, she felt his tongue now delicately probing her lips, finding its way gently, demandingly between them, she felt her young body bent backward until she seemed to be lying on his strong outstretched hand, and she twined her arms around his neck and gave herself up to whatever lay in store.

Nothing lay in store.

Tom put her away from him suddenly and his voice was roughened with feeling.

“You’re too much for me tonight, Charlotte. I’ll say good night.’’

Charlotte opened her eyes and looked up into his rueful face. For a moment she felt confused, indignant; then it came to her that he was not rejecting her—in his way, he was
protecting
her. And with the knowledge came a wonderful new feeling, of being precious to someone, and all the joys of being a woman flooded through her.

Still lying back on his spread hand and outstretched arm, she smiled her enchanting smile and slid her arms from around his neck to cup his face in her hands.

“Why, Tom?’’ she asked with innocent witchery. “Tell me why.’’

He groaned. “You
know
why, Charlotte,’’ he said firmly, and straightened her up and abruptly removed his arm. “Good night.’’

He was moving away from her before she said, “You’re going the wrong way. The house is over here.’’

Tom turned. “Aye, it is.’’

For a dreadful moment she thought he was leaving Aldershot Grange, and the moonlight lost its luster.

“Didn’t you like the green bedchamber?’’ she asked, crestfallen. “It’s the one I had made up for you.’’

His deep sigh reached her across the scent of roses. “I liked it, Charlotte. But I’ll not be sleeping in it. I’ve already told Livesay to bed me down in the stables.’’ “You’ll
not
sleep in the stables!’’ she flared.

“I will,’’ he said. “And that’s final. I’ve a care for your reputation if you do not. You’ve no female chaperon here and your uncle’s not in residence. Do you want word to get around that you’re entertaining a gentleman caller— and one who’d be placed below the salt at that—
overnight? 
In the green bedchamber?’’

His humorous assessment of the situation brought an answering flicker to her violet eyes, but she was prepared to insist.

“Nevertheless,’ she said, “you
are
my guest, and—” “And therefore bound by honor to remain on good behavior,’’ he said lightly. “Should your uncle arrive in the night, I’d not like him to find you entertaining a male 
guest in the house. Just suppose he arrived toward morning, Charlotte—what do you think he’d do?”

“If he didn’t like your explanation, he’d most likely horsewhip you,” admitted Charlotte with a sigh.

“Right,” he agreed cheerfully. “And he’d be within his rights. No, I’ll be better off in the stable loft and you’ll be better off if you let me have my way in the matter. ” Charlotte pouted, but she bade him good night. From the garden door she watched him head out for the stables.

After all,
she told herself sternly,
for all they were in love, they hardly knew each other. . . .

But all her admonitions to herself faded when she went back to the kitchen to find Cook and Livesay gone—and Tom’s sheets neatly stacked on the kitchen table on top of a pillow.

“Well, look at that!” marveled Wend, coming in just then. “Ivy must have forgotten to take those sheets out to the stables when she spilled the drippings and Cook chased her out of the kitchen!” Her smile on Charlotte was bland. “Would you like me to take them out to Tom?”

“Oh, no, you’ve been fetching and carrying ever since he got here,” said Charlotte hastily. “I don’t mind doing it, Wend.”

Indeed she glowed as she swooped down on the table and swept the bedding up in her arms. For this meant she would se^ him once again before she went to bed. She spun about so swiftly that her skirts swirled out, and marched through the moonlight out to the stone stable.

“You see?” whispered Wend, watching Charlotte’s progress through a crack in the kitchen door. “I did right to tell the stableboy to get lost for a while—just like you did right to ‘forget’ those sheets, Ivy! Did you see how happy she looked when she ran out the door?”

Ivy, who at Wend's insistence had been hiding in the buttery, now came out.

“What will Livesay say?” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “He won’t know,” Wend said coolly. “He’s off locking the front door, and Cook’s gone out to keep him occupied by complaining about the meat he’s been buying. ”

Wend had a talent for intrigue.

Charlotte, when she opened the stable door into what seemed total darkness, wished she had brought a lantern along.

“Tom,” she half-whispered, for she was aware that the stableboy slept here—somewhere, she thought, at the far end of the big hayloft above.

“Yes?” he answered her instantly, almost as if he had been expecting her.

“I’ve brought your sheets and a pillow. Ivy forgot to bring them.”

Tom came down the ladder. Now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, she could see him vaguely, and when he crossed a shaft of moonlight she walked forward and deposited the bedclothes in his arms.

“Thank you,” he said gravely, and with them under his arm he went whistling up the ladder.

Charlotte followed him up.

“Someone must make your bed,” she declared anxiously. “And since Ivy forgot ...”

She made his bed in a shaft of moonlight that came in through chinks in the roof, chinks that the stableboy had complained must be repaired. Tom watched her silently.

She looked so dainty and industrious there, carefully spreading out sheets on the hay, arranging his pillow, plumping it. Every bone in his body ached to claim her.

“Here, lie down and see if this won't do. ” She threw out an arm, indicating that he should try out the bed.

Reluctantly Tom took off his shoes and lay down.

“There,” she said. “That will do nicely.” And suddenly she was kneeling beside him. “Oh, Tom, won't you reconsider the green room? I don't want you to sleep in the stables while I . . .”

Her voice trailed off, her face was very near, he could smell the slight perfume of her hair, like wildflowers, and her breath was sweet and light upon his face. His arms seemed to move of themselves, to sweep her toward him to lie across his broad chest. His cheek grazed her own as he pressed hot kisses upon her lips. His hands stroked her back, her arms, and were suddenly easing down her tight bodice.

Charlotte felt a summer madness stealing over her. Tonight she did not care what he did—indeed whatever he did would be right,
must
be right. They loved each other, they would always feel exactly as they did at this moment, and around them the dark stable, moonlit through the chinks in the roof, with only the sound of a sleepy barn owl moving on its roost, and the restless hooves of the horses disturbing the straw below, seemed of a sudden the most romantic spot in the world.

Her right shoulder was out of her gown now and the two top hooks of her bodice had burst open from the strain of his probing fingers. Tom s warm hand was cupping her breast through the thin cambric of her chemise, and she moaned as he pulled the riband that held her chemise and the fabric slid away, leaving her breast bare to his lips, which found and toyed with the shell-pink nipple. It hardened tensely at his touch and she felt her breath coming fast and now faster. She was lying across his hips and she could feel the hardness of his manhood against her thigh. She moved restlessly, swept away by new feelings that crowded about, exhilarating, sweet.

And suddenly she found herself lying on her back on the linen sheet, hearing the soft crunch of hay as Tom s knees on either side of her bored downward with his weight. She was looking up at him with arms spread wide, lips parted, eyes alight, when he jerked himself away from her with a groan and stood breathing hard, looking oown at her.

"Get up,” he said, and his voice was uneven, husky with desire. "Get up and leave. Now!”

Charlotte gave him a hurt look and sat up. She tugged her bodice back up over her shoulder—which was agony for Tom, watching the ripple of her young flesh. And she hesitated deliberately, letting her fingers flutter over the hooks that had pulled free, so that the upper part of her firm young breasts was still exposed to his avid gaze.