Matilda's Freedom (11 page)

Yet Matilda had done no such thing.

To say she wasn’t aware of him would be a lie—every move he made, every look he threw her way was like a brand, scorching and burning her soul—but that didn’t mean she had deliberately enticed him. Tonight was not the first time he had responded to her. Matilda was neither blind nor a sheltered child, and she knew arousal when she saw it. Men were no different to stallions, but tonight Kit had appeared somehow different.

Humiliation washed over her and quickly replaced the warmth his touch had engendered.

It was the following afternoon, and Kit was pacing across the sitting room. Backwards and forwards. Eleven steps. Turn. Eleven steps back again. Back to where he started.

He had hoped the rhythmic motion would clear his mind. He needed to find a solution to his current problem, but when one finally came to him, he didn’t much like it.

There was only one resolution.

The mantle of responsibility had passed to him. Barclay’s hand was reaching out to Kit from the grave and it was time to pay his dues. His mother was correct—he had a duty and a responsibility to the man who had so willingly saved them both from a life of penury. He had to do the best he could for his family, and if that included finding a suitable wife, then that was what he would do.

But he didn’t want to. He wasn’t shirking his responsibilities; he merely wanted more.

And ‘more’ was Matilda.

If he traced his finger over his lips, he could still feel the imprint of hers. His palms could still feel the touch of her silken skin against them. How he had managed to walk out of her cottage, he had no idea, and now he had placed himself in the most ridiculous position.

Ludicrous. What was a man to do?

Be responsible to his family and to society.

Mon dieu!
He was beginning to sound like his mother. The difficulty was in his mind’s eye—it saw hair like silken sunshine, eyes as bright as the summer sky, and the sumptuous curves that had tantalised and mocked him the previous evening.

Kit moaned aloud. There had to be a way out of this dilemma. How he wished he could knock on the door to Barclay’s study and sink into one of the soft, worn leather armchairs while his stepfather offered him advice on the matter.

He threw his shoulders back.
Advice!
He didn’t need advice. He knew what was needed.

His family needed Eliza, and the social standing and alliances a match with her would bring—not Matilda. He could not sacrifice that, no matter how enticing the delights she offered.

His mind was now made up, and Kit thanked God he had stopped on this path before it was too late. Free settlers did not marry convict offspring; such a foolish move would signal the death knell of his family’s standing in society. Hannah and Beth’s prospects would be ruined, and his mother would never fulfil her dream of returning to Sydney.

No, there was no alternative. He must go and call on Eliza and her family, and settle the matter once and for all while he still could.

Kit took the tea his mother offered him, listening with only half an ear. Today, her prattle was even more uninteresting than usual. Instead, his mind circled around the prospect of his trip to Sydney and Miss Eliza, as well as the one other responsibility his decision had thrust on him—explaining to Matilda how important this marriage was to his family. Quite why he felt he owed her an explanation he wasn’t sure as a brief kiss hardly counted as a commitment.

‘Christopher, I want nothing more than for you to honour and respect Barclay’s legacy, our inheritance and your sisters’ futures. Is that asking too much? You owe it to me, and you owe it to Barclay’s memory. Without him we would be …’ Her voice dwindled, as if it was too much to entertain the possibility of what might have happened if not for the timely intervention of his stepfather.

‘I understand, mother. Truly, I do.’ He patted her arm soothingly. She cleared her throat, dabbing at the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

Oh, why did she have to do that?

Kit hated when women cried because it made him feel inadequate. The memory of Matilda’s huge eyes, swimming with tears as he’d closed her door, filled his vision.

That memory, however, contrasted with his current view from the sitting room window, through which he could see the instigator of his torment laughing and cavorting under the spreading mulberry tree.

What was she doing?

Kit absentmindedly dropped his hand from his mother’s arm and walked closer to the window. Matilda stood with one hand on her waist and her hip thrust out. She held a book and was reading something aloud. Why couldn’t she sit down and read quietly like a normal person? Why did she have to make such a spectacle of herself?

All eyes were drawn to her. Even his mother had risen from her chair and now stood watching as Hannah and Beth leapt to their feet and cavorted in a circle with Matilda. Their chanting and cackling wafted through the open window.

‘What on earth are they playing at?’ he snapped.

‘I believe Matilda took my words of the other evening to heart and is introducing the girls to Shakespeare. I’m not sure if it is suitable, but I am impressed by her versatility. There’s more to the girl than I gave her credit for.’

There was more to the girl than he had given her credit for, too. But a kiss—no matter how gut wrenching—hardly mattered, and they would be foolish to let it go any further. Not only would her reputation suffer if such news got out, but it could also end her chances of marrying another.

He felt a stab of jealousy as he contemplated Matilda in another man’s arms.

The charade continued a little longer until the circle of cavorting females slowed and made stirring motions with their hands.

‘I would hazard a guess that they are re-enacting Macbeth. It would appear she has more of an education than you had led me to believe.’

Perplexed, Kit turned and gazed at his mother. Had he led her to believe anything about Matilda? Truth be told, he had very little information about her other than what the Bainbridges had relayed to him.

At least today, she was dressed appropriately in a skirt and some sort of long-sleeved white blouse that nipped in at the waist. He stared, mesmerised, as she raised her arms above her head, and he imagined those slender arms once again wrapping around his neck.

With a disgruntled sigh, he turned from the window.

His sanity was diminishing daily. His ability to concentrate had been shot to pieces. How could he have just spent half-an-hour gazing out of a window, watching three young women re-enact the witch scene from Macbeth?

Madness.

If nothing else, the choice of play was appropriate. Indeed, Matilda was a witch; she had bewitched him against his will. He had to reassert himself and follow through on his decision. As the man of the house it was his responsibility to ensure the best for his family—and Matilda—at whatever cost.

He would travel to Sydney and bring Eliza and her mother back to The Gate. Once committed, he could then take his mind off Matilda and be better able to move forward.

‘Mother, I think I will leave at the end of the week for Sydney. If I return in two weeks with Eliza and her mother, will that give you sufficient time to have everything organised?’ There, it was done.

I must move forward and break the spell that Matilda has cast.

‘Christopher, darling, I am so pleased.’ The paper-thin skin of her hand was cool and dry as she clasped his hand and squeezed. ‘I shall go and speak to Bonnie, and make arrangements.’

She left the room in a cloud of dried, dusty lavender.

He sneezed and turned back to the window.

What’s done is done.

Matilda was pacing, too. Up and down the lawn she went, wringing her hands. Her words drifted to him. ‘Fair is foul and foul is fair.’

He stepped out onto the veranda and made his way across the grass to the mulberry tree.

‘Hello, girls. What are you up to?’

‘We’re reading Shakespeare.’ Hannah looked up from her seat on the grass, her eyes alive with pleasure. ‘Macbeth. I always thought Shakespeare was a bore, but Matilda assured us he wasn’t. She was right.’

Obviously, one of her many talents was bringing boring characters to life. She’d made him come alive, too.

‘Oh, it’s perfect. We need someone to play a character. Kit, will you be our Macbeth?’ A desolate look crossed Matilda’s face before quickly being replaced by a smile that failed to reach her eyes. Determined not to be drawn in, Kit took the leather-bound copy of Macbeth from Hannah.

Matilda was one step ahead of him. ‘Come now, girls I think our lesson is over. Why don’t you take the books back to the house? We don’t want to disturb your brother, and I am sure he has work to do.’

The book disappeared from his hand. He glared at Matilda, but she wouldn’t meet his eye. Surely the kiss last night hadn’t caused this shift in her demeanour. It was as though she already knew the decision he had made, but that was impossible.

No one knew except his mother.

As Matilda bent down to collect the remaining books scattered on the ground, a lock of yellow hair came loose from the neat, constrained bun at the base of her head. He resisted the temptation to tuck it back behind her ear.

Straightening up, Matilda held the armfuls of books out to Hannah and Beth. Kit moved forward, intent on relieving her of the weight, but she guardedly took two paces back. Hannah stepped between them.

Only the top of Matilda’s bent head remained visible, and he saw that the shiny shafts of hair growing from her scalp formed an intricate pattern. He had cradled that head in his hands. He had threaded his fingers through that hair as it lay around her shoulders like a mantle.

Had that only been last night?

He lifted his hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sounds of longing escaping his lips. He was too late.

Matilda’s eyes opened wide, and she looked directly at him over the heads of the girls. She had recognised the sound for what it was.

His face grew heated. ‘Girls, take the books to the house as Matilda told you. I have matters to discuss with her.’

Beth took off across the lawn. Hannah made to follow but not before she had arched an eyebrow at Kit. That one was undoubtedly growing up too quickly.

He took Matilda’s arm and led her across the lawn, ‘Will you sit with me a while?’

Inclining her head, she said nothing. He cupped her elbow, trying to ignore her unyielding pose, and led her to the old makeshift seat under the mulberry tree. She sank down with a sigh.

He remained standing in front of her, scuffing the toe of his boot in the dry grass. He felt as though he was a child awaiting a reprimand, but had no idea why.

Had what he had done been so bad? It was nothing she hadn’t wanted as much as he had.

Kit sucked in a deep breath. ‘Matilda. I believe I owe you an apology for my brutish behaviour. I should not have forced myself upon you.’

She gazed up at him, her mouth slightly open, and the tip of her tongue tracing her lower lip. ‘Your apology is accepted but unnecessary.’

Kit waited, trying to ignore the frustrating rush of heat in his body.

Unnecessary?

‘Thank you,’ he said. The thought she might have welcomed his advances almost made him lose his composure, sending a tremor of desire through him. It would be so easy to reach out and touch, smell, even taste her. He wanted nothing more than to slowly undress her, run his tongue across the smooth skin of her firm thighs, and then make slow and sensuous love to her.

But he couldn’t. ‘I have come to a decision. I have thought about it long and hard, and I want to assure you that our,’ and here he paused and corrected himself, ‘
my
indiscretion will make no difference to your position here. In fact, it will strengthen it.’

Matilda’s head tipped slightly to one side, and a tiny frown puckered her forehead.

Kit was uncertain whether he should continue. From the puzzled look on her face, she seemed to not understand his dilemma. He was under no obligation to tell her he had decided to marry another, but he somehow felt the need.

‘Matilda, I am not a free man and I find myself in the dubious—’

The look of incredulity on her face brought him up short, and she interrupted him. ‘Not a free man? I don’t see any chains.’

He laughed dryly. ‘My chains may not be visible but they are every bit as real as any convict’s.’

Her disdainful snort caused him to pause. How to explain? If he had been a free man, he wouldn’t have returned to Australia when Barclay had died. He wouldn’t be contemplating this marriage, either. ‘I am not a free man. I am tied by my responsibilities and commitments to my mother, my stepsisters and, most of all, Barclay. So, I will be leaving for Sydney in a matter of days.’

Her lips formed a perfect ‘O’. It was perfect like everything else about her was perfect, and the sight sent a shiver of delight through him. He forced his gaze away from her mouth.

‘I am …’ He cleared his throat.

Why is it so goddamn difficult to get the words out?

He cleared his throat.

‘I am going to Sydney to ask Eliza Ramsbottom for her hand in marriage.’

‘I see.’ Matilda paused for a moment and then said, ‘I think this is the moment I offer my congratulations, is it not?’ Her cold, measured words cut at him like a knife.

Kit inclined his head like a penitent, waiting and hoping for her to say something that would wash away the feeling of abject misery his words had caused him. The silence lengthened until he could bear it no longer. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured, hoping she understood his difficult position.

She didn’t. ‘I don’t understand you, and I don’t think you know the meaning of the word freedom. My father was not free. He was transported here in chains for a crime he did not commit. My mother gave up everything to follow him and together they worked their way up from chains to freedom. They learned the meaning of the word
free
.’

‘Responsibility is a different kind of restriction.’