Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (3 page)

She stepped back, took her book from his hand, and ran off, disappearing into the covert of trees.

Lazarus laid one hand to his heart and felt the little bump beside it.

His angel was even more than he could have hoped for, and certainly more than he deserved. Each new day was already a precious gift not to be taken for granted.

His endangered heart pounded with a renewed burst of enthusiasm. Lazarus returned to where he'd left his box of belongings, heaved it up onto his shoulder, and continued on his way.

***

His destination lay just on the border of the village, on rising ground from which he could see over the thatched rooftops and chimneys of Sydney Dovedale. In the opposite direction stood a somewhat forbidding stone fortress, moss clad and unprepossessing. His first impression, formed as he stared up at the dark, shadowy structure in the distance, was of a ruin, uninhabited and abandoned, so he turned his eyes instead to the house immediately before him. There, wedged into the flint-and-pebble wall by the gate, a carved sign proclaimed the name of the farmhouse—Souls Dryft.

He set down his box and pushed on the tall iron bars of the gate. As he lifted the latch, there was a groan of despair, and the gate dropped from the rusted top hinge. The bottom opposite corner fell to the ground with a thud, nestling in a deep ridge carved in the dirt, where it obviously felt at home, for it stubbornly refused to move farther. He struggled a while then made up his mind to find another route.

He climbed speedily up the rattling, protesting bars and leapt down into the yard. His mind, which was just as nimble as his body, had already taken note of the house's potential. His smile remained unchallenged, even as he found the shutters at the windows rotted and wormholed, the roof falling apart, and the walls bowed at such an angle it was a miracle they still stood upright.

Before he could fit his key in the lock, the door opened, and a wizened grey figure appeared, like a genie from a lamp. “Ye the fellow what leased the old place from the admiral, then, eh?”

“I am indeed.”

“Heard the rattling and thought it was that tomcat leaping over the gate again after the new chicks.”

Lazarus held out his hand and introduced himself.

The old man's prickly brows rose like startled bird's wings, and he lurched forward on bowed legs. “Lazarus? Like him what came back from the dead, sir?”

“The very one. But please call me Kane—not sir. And you must be Tuck.”

“Aye.” He sniffed proudly. “Been here, man and boy, nigh on sixty winters. Served a dozen masters, and sixteen mistresses betwixt 'em.” He squinted. “Ye alone, then? No wife?” This last was uttered hopefully.

“No wife, Tuck. At least”—he grinned—“not as yet.”

“Better off without one. Wife means woe. Better off without 'em.” Seeing the large box sitting by the broken gate, his face gathered in folds of distress. “That's yern, is it?”

Lazarus laughed. “Worry not, Tuck. I carry my own luggage, but I'll mend that gate first. I should be grateful for some luncheon and a mug of ale, if one could be found.”

Sniffing again, Tuck lumbered back into the farmhouse and beckoned for Lazarus to follow. “Should 'ave come round the back. There's a bit o' broken wall in the orchard big enough to get through. Youngsters use it to scrump apples in autumn.”

Ah, he thought, another item on the list of things to be mended. “Is that how you get in and out?”

“Oh no. I use the gate,” the old man explained. “There's a trick to it.”

Lazarus nodded. Yes, there was a trick to most things.

Rolling his shoulders to ease the soreness, he stepped down into the house and looked around eagerly. Mellow sunlight filled the musty interior, but the year was not yet far enough advanced for any real warmth to muster against stone much before noon. And although shafts of gold fell through the leaded windows, waking the house from its slumber, they lacked the steady heat necessary to touch that flagged floor. Tuck had begun cleaning the place for a new tenant, but despite the breeze through the open windows and the burning coals in the fireplace, the air was still thick with dust. Furniture was sparse and looked to be as old as the house itself.

Lazarus stood at the window and ran a finger along the deep stone ledge, gathering a cobweb.

“The admiral en't been home in nigh on thirty years,” Tuck explained, shuffling off to the pantry. “He leaves everything up to the solicitors in Yarmouth. They take care o' the leases, and I take care o' the house and farm.”

That explains it, then, thought Lazarus. He'd been somewhat disheartened by the sight of saggy-fleeced, depressed-looking sheep in the rough pasture, of fields overgrown with flowery thistles and tall, angry weeds. There was no activity such as he'd seen on other farms along the way, and a plow abandoned in the yard was too full of cobwebs to have seen much use in a few years. The hay cart he passed had oats and reedy grass growing between the planks where fallen seeds were left to do as they pleased. Rot and mustiness hung so heavily in the air he could bite it.

Tuck reappeared, bearing a tray of bread, cheese, pickled onion, and ale, which he set before Lazarus with a disapproving sniff. “I don't know why the admiral don't sell the place and have done with it. Might be best for the village to have a constant fellow here—not just one stranger after t'other.” He wiped his nose with the back of one claw and gloomily surveyed the tray as if it might be the last supper for a man about to be hanged. “Folk here don't care for strangers, and no one stays in this 'ouse long enough to make a difference.”

Lazarus pounced on the hastily assembled luncheon, both arms on the table as he shoveled food into his mouth. “That old ruin up on the hill—is that part of this property too?”

Tuck's expression struggled between a scowl and a grin. “That
ol' ruin
is the residence o' Mr. 'Enry Valentine, but he won't take kindly to 'earing it called such. And whether or not 'tis part o' this property, well…” He finally conceded defeat in a dour chuckle. “That's a matter in dispute. Mr. 'Enry Valentine's father, God rest his soul, gave this house to the admiral to clear a debt. But Mr. 'Enry says it were only a temporary arrangement for the lifetime of his father and Souls Dryft should come back to him now old Mr. Valentine is dead and gone. The admiral reckons otherwise.”

“Are there no records of the transaction?”

“Oh, aye,” Tuck flung over his bent shoulder. “The solicitors 'ave fancy papers of all sort, on both sides. All of 'em as genuine as 'Enry Valentine's lush head o' hair.”

Lazarus paused, ale tankard halfway to his lips. Then he laughed abruptly, shook his head, and continued his meal. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he gazed at the grimy window, eyes narrowed. With two work-roughened fingers, he rubbed a clear patch to look out and survey the cobbled yard.

There was a lot to be done to get this place in order, and he wasn't entirely sure where to begin.

Perhaps with the acquisition of a little property of his own. Time to stake his claim. He'd waited long enough.

Lavinia Valentine stretched out on the old Grecian couch and kicked off her slippers to free her stubby pink toes. “Stop it, Sophia,” she hissed at her sister-in-law. “I feel your bitter resentment burning holes in me even as I lie here with my eyes closed, trying to nap. No wonder my head hurts and my stomach churns, with you so miserable and bitter and glaring at me. And to think, I'm a well-brought-up lady from a fine family, yet I'm reduced to this…exiled to this dark, damp, dull place with no society of fashion. When I think of what I might have had!”

She wriggled like a plump grub and adjusted her bosom—an appendage frequently in need of some handling, apparently. Sophie thought a well-brought-up woman from a fine family should probably not punctuate every small insult by plumping her bosom like two saggy pillows. But there was no point remarking upon it, for she would be reminded only of how
she
was once caught
in
flagrante
with a young gentleman whose breeches were around his knees. So she was hardly in a position to question anyone else's etiquette.

In the cooler months of the year, the residents of the fortress spent most of the day and evening in the cookhouse for the sake of economy. The fire must be lit, in any case, to warm water and cook food, so the family gathered here too, saving all the coal otherwise required to heat the drafty tower keep with its dank walls and icy-cold stone floor. Lavinia had ordered this button-tufted couch moved into the cookhouse, because she found the other chairs and benches insufficient cushion for her delicate posterior. “At the very least,” she'd complained to her husband, “I might be permitted the comfort of a cushioned seat, even if I must be reduced to a life in the servants' quarters.”

This morning, Lavinia wore yet another ostentatious new gown, although she intended to do nothing in it but lie on her couch: a well-fed sow napping in the warmth of the fire, eyes closed, and multitude of chins trembling like a naughty child's slapped buttocks.

By midday—or sooner should it become stained—that gown would be changed for another similarly ugly garment, made with an excess of expensive material and trimmings. Sophie, having quietly observed this extravagance on several occasions, suggested the need to budget a little better, as well as consider the burden of laundry.

“I wear what I please, thank you very much! I shall be glad when I'm treated with the respect I'm due in this house! Never have I been so put upon. If Henry had any care for my comfort, he would be rid of you once and for all! Scratching at me with your scornful comments. It's jealousy, of course. I wouldn't be surprised if you tried to poison me, and that's why I feel so ill today. Henry ought to send you away.” Her mean little eyes caught sight of Aunt Finn giggling under her quilt. “And that wretched, old crone can go to the workhouse with you!”

Sophie bowed her head to hide her expression and continued her sewing. She should have known better than to raise the subject of economy, for any advice she tried to give Lavinia dropped into small, ineffectual ears muffled by ringlets and attached to a very small brain incapable of understanding any will but its own.

“To be thus attacked and criticized in my own home. Me, a married woman of consequence and property, from good family and well brought up! To be lectured daily by a tight-lipped spinster who's here only on my husband's charity. I've never heard of such a thing. I am outraged that
you
think to tell
me
how to behave!”

The wisest course of action would be to ignore her. After all, Sophie should be accustomed to it by now. It was apparently her lot in life to always be in the way, unequal to anything and unwelcome to everybody. But even as her conscience politely reminded her she was almost thirty and ought to be darning stockings by the fire with her aunt, only occasionally discussing the ins and outs of her health with no one who cared, she simply must relieve her anger somehow.

She was supposed to be a reformed character these days. Alas, the same naughty, rebellious imp that once urged her to leap from a balcony, not knowing how far she had to fall or what lay directly below, thrived inside her still. It would not sit in a corner and be quiet.

She stood quickly, set aside her sewing, and walked out into the yard and round the corner. There she waited a moment, fists at her side, gaze darting back and forth.

“Put upon,” she muttered. “
Put
upon?
”

She turned in a tight circle, bristling with anger.

Aha! There were two large sacks of chicken feathers and goose down against the wall, waiting for the pillowcases she and her aunt were sewing. Grabbing a stick from the woodpile, she ran up to the sacks and began beating them, imagining they were her sister-in-law.

“You should be put upon and often,” she hissed. “And if your husband dislikes the duty, I'll gladly do it!”

A cloud of feathers flew up as the first sack burst open, and she found the sensation so satisfying she turned her wrath on the second sack, until the air was full of feathers. She swung that stick so wildly she heard the stitches ripping at her shoulder, but it felt too good to stop. When she tossed the stick aside, she picked up the sack and emptied the last of the feathers, shaking it hard overhead. “One of these days,” she gasped, “I'll clap the side of your big head with the bacon kettle!” Dropping the sack to the ground, she stamped on it, grunting.

“I beg your pardon, madam, I tried the bell by the gatehouse, but there was no reply.”

She spun around and found him right behind her, his hat under one arm, a pair of darkly curious eyes studying her in part bewilderment, part amusement.

Goose down drifted all around her, and her hairpins were falling loose, but she was frozen to the spot.

It was he: the man who'd stood under her tree earlier and undressed her with those same sinister eyes—the eyes of a barbarian. The man who'd made her kiss him. Shocked by it, she'd tried to put it out of her mind, as if it never happened. Now here he was again to remind her.

She puffed out a breath of surprise, along with several small feathers. When his fierce gaze moved to the torn shoulder of her gown, she felt the heat on her exposed skin, as if it were burned by the sun. She quickly placed her left hand over the tear, and her fingers fumbled to cover the ripped stitches. He'd made her kiss him before; what would he make her do next?

As if he'd read her mind, his smile widened.

She scowled, blew another chicken feather from the tip of her nose, and backed up a step. Face to face, yet again, with this black-haired, gypsy-eyed stranger, Sophie Valentine—the reformed version—sensed trouble. The untamable creature was still very much alive within her, however, and it scented something else. Something new and exciting.

Lavinia must have spied the stranger crossing the yard, for she finally ventured from her couch to see what he wanted. “I am Mrs
.
Valentine, sir,” she chirped as she waddled around the corner. “Can I be of assistance?”

He was still looking at Sophie, holding her trapped in his steady, thorough regard. “Then you are
Miss
Sophia Valentine?”

She held up her sleeve and backed away with as much dignity as her bedraggled appearance could allow. He followed her, smiling slowly, and she knew he too thought of earlier, when they'd met under the shade of the chestnut tree. He'd seen her book, her legs, and the Lord knew what else. If she was of a more ladylike constitution, she supposed she might have fainted. Instead, because she was a widely acknowledged, wicked hoyden, she felt remarkably well. Her heart was beating only a little faster than usual, because twice now he'd caught her doing something she shouldn't.

Had he just winked at her?

***

She wore a stained apron over a blue gown, which had the appearance of something well loved, oft worn, and long past new. Her face was heart shaped, her eyes bright as a buttercup-sprinkled meadow, the two brows above them curved upward. When he looked into those eyes, he was pulled forward, every nerve and tendon in his body drawn to attention. Then she looked down at the cobblestones, dampening the hot spark that glowed under her lashes, and, for the first time in his memory, Lazarus Kane was unable to read a woman's mind. Challenged, he searched her small, prim face for the clues that were usually so abundant, but she closed herself off like a hedgehog retreating under its prickles.

Earlier, when he kissed her under the tree, she had not been so defensive. But then, of course, they were alone, witnessed by no one. And she evidently enjoyed her secrets.

The other woman lifted on tiptoe, creeping back into his view. “Did my husband expect you, sir? He said nothing of any visitor.”

He looked down at her, vaguely irritated she was blocking his path. This one wore no apron. Her frock was arrayed lavishly with ruffles and bows. As if unable to choose between the many trimmings, she'd settled for all at once. Her dark hair was curled into ringlets so tight they shot out sideways from her head, their only movement a slight vibration when she twitched nervously.

“No, madam, I doubt your husband would mention me. I'm the new tenant of Souls Dryft. But it's Miss Sophia Valentine I've come to see.”

“What on earth do you want with
her
?”

He looked over her head at the feather-strewn woman who, like a child knowing she's about to be punished, tried slipping away around the corner. “I come in answer to her advertisement.”

“
Advertisement?
”

“For a husband,” he said calmly. “I've come to marry Miss Valentine.”

***

Sophie had written that advertisement in a very foul temper after another quarrel with her sister-in-law, who took every opportunity to remind her she was in the way and a burden on her brother's finances. Throughout the writing, blotting, sealing, and posting, her fury remained in high heat, but as soon as the letter left her hands, she regretted it, as she did many other rash decisions before this. When her temper had cooled, she wished the entire thing undone, but it was too late.

If only she could prevent herself from these reckless actions, but the ideas popped into her head always when she was at her most desolate. Even the advance of years failed to dampen the urge for mischief, much to her chagrin. Thus it was with a mixture of feelings, none cordial, she looked at the man who had come that morning.

Was he actually so desperate for a wife he sought one in a newspaper? He did not look as if he should have trouble finding women. He saw too much, pried inside her with those dark eyes, and had thought nothing of bribing her for a kiss earlier. At her age, she was quite done with the sort of misadventure he offered. At least, she should be.

She'd backed up all the way into the cookhouse, but he continued walking forward, eyes agleam with amusement. Strands of her hair slowly tumbled to her shoulders. Her ladylike hairpins had not been enough to withstand the force of her violent tantrum, and she felt those ill-behaved tendrils curling wistfully against the throbbing pulse in her neck, whispering and slithering over her hot cheek.

He was swarthy, with a tumbled mess of coal-black hair falling almost to his shoulders, which appeared to span beyond the width of the door. Only their sheer breadth probably prevented him from stepping over Lavinia and following his quarry into the cookhouse. Sophie's gaze traveled downward, and she noted four things in quick succession: the scarred knuckles of his hands, his snug breeches, his filthy, scuffed boots, and then his snug breeches once again, just for good measure. Her brow quirked. Very Good Measure.

But then she already knew that, having been thrust up against his body earlier that morning. Again, it was something she'd tried to put out of her mind, in case she might be obliged to admit it happened. That she'd allowed it to happen.

Finally she forced her attention back to his face. A warm, satirical spark broke through the wariness in his steady gaze, and suddenly his eyes were devilishly enigmatic, drawing her in and whirling her about until she was dizzy.

Her pulse scattered like spillikins.

Perhaps she could…

But she really shouldn't.

Lavinia was squawking and flapping, something about his coming back later when Henry was home. As the stranger watched Sophie slip farther away into the shadows, he gave her a quick bow and departed in haste. She went immediately to the nearest chair and sat before her knees gave out under the strain. If she'd had a fan, she would have used it, but the little puffs of breath shot out from the curve of her lower lip would have to suffice as a cooling agent instead.

Once, years ago, her heart palpitated for the sight of a broad-shouldered warrior riding to her rescue. Now here he came, and the old adage, “Be careful what you wish for,” ran giddily through her mind.