Smuggler's Lady (6 page)

“I am rather occupied, sir,” she replied in a definitely muffled voice, turning her head away abruptly back to her task. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Pleasure? Somehow, the word doesn't carry a ring of truth,” Rutherford mused, hitching himself into the loft. In the dim, dusty light, he saw her crouched in a corner under the eaves where a round window let in a smidgen of light. “Perhaps I may be of help,” he offered.

“I do not think so, sir.” Resolutely, Merrie kept her back to him, trying not to react as she heard and felt his approach. The devil take the man! Why did he always catch her at a disadvantage? She was dressed like a milkmaid with straw in her hair, grubbing around in the dust. She could not even play the horror-struck, prim, matronly widow in these circumstances—not with any conviction, at least. But then, after last night, that role would carry little credibility with this audience. “If you wish to be of help, Lord Rutherford, you will leave as quietly as you can. They are frightened enough as it is, and I am afraid they will die of heart failure. They are such fragile little creatures.”

Rather than ask what she was talking about, Rutherford decided he would do best to find out for himself. Crossing the rafters, he came to stand behind her. The sunlight in the round window gave the crown of auburn hair a rich luster that distracted him for a moment from his mission. Her simple print gown of faded muslin was an immeasurable improvement on the previous evening's bombazine, clinging as it did to the supple curves of a deliciously slender frame. Slender, but again he noticed that tautness that had so struck him last night. She held herself almost like a soldier as if her body was a machine under her control. What could she possibly have done in this retiring life she seemed to lead to have taught her that? It was a fascinating question and one to which he would soon find an answer. But unless he could overcome the very clear hostility radiating in his direction, he might as well return to Mallory House.

He saw that she held in her lap a bird's nest, perfectly formed, containing three fledgling house martins. Instinctively, he dropped onto his haunches beside her, asking softly, “what's to do with these babies?”

“The mother has abandoned them,” Merrie heard herself explain in the same soft tones, “because they would not fly. I have been watching these last few days, and she has been quite frantic trying to teach them. They are too frightened, the sillies, although they are quite big enough. I have it in mind to take the nest below and put it on the lower window. Perhaps they would be willing to try from there.”

“More like the cat will get them,” Rutherford observed.

“Well, it is that or starvation up here,” she declared matter-of-factly. “I intend to try. If you will go back down the ladder, I will pass the nest to you. The ladder is a trifle unsteady, you understand. I am unwilling to climb down in these skirts with only one hand.”

“A wise decision,” he murmured. “Had you not been wearing skirts, the matter would have been different.”

Damn the man! He was laughing at her again. Then it occurred to her that her statement had sounded a little peculiar. It only made sense if she was in the habit of not wearing skirts, as his lordship had just gently pointed out. Why the devil did he have to be so sharp? Or she so careless? She had meant exactly that. In her britches, she wouldn't have thought twice about descending the ladder encumbered with a nest of chicks.

The only safe course was to ignore his observation. “Would you be kind enough to take the nest, my lord, while I stand up?” She spoke with creditable dignity, holding the nest up to him. The fledglings twittered in distress as he received their home in cupped palms. Rescuing baby birds was not an activity the soldier had experienced before. He had rescued comrades on a battlefield, women and children from marauding armies, and he'd done his share of killing, too. So what was he doing concerning himself in the fate of these pathetic, fragile, little creatures whose chances of survival were minimal at best?

Rutherford shrugged mentally and accepted whatever direction fate and whim chose to take him. Such abdication made a refreshing change, and he clucked comfortingly at the fledglings, who, sadly, were not to be comforted.

Merrie stood up, shook out her skirts, brushing off dust and straw impatiently. Wisps of hay clung in the shining auburn coronet. Such an opportunity was not to be missed, his lordship decided with an almost apologetic sigh.

“Pray take the nest for a minute.” She received it automatically and with lamentable lack of caution. “You are very untidy,” he explained, “and, since you do not have a mirror, it will be best if I put you to rights.” Merrie stood rigid under his hands as they moved over her hair, picking out straw, fluff, and feathers. Hampered by the nest of baby birds, she had no choice but to keep still as he dusted down her skirt, straightened her linen collar, and retied her sash. “There, that is much better.” Standing back, he nodded with approval. “Now, if you give me back the nest, you may hit me again. Since you have my permission, I will not retaliate this time—unless you should wish it, of course.”

How could anyone be so insufferable! Meredith's eyes narrowed, a chilly smile touched her lips. “Why would I want to hit you, Lord Rutherford? I am grateful for your assistance. If you will be good enough to go down the ladder, I will pass you the nest.”

Rutherford grinned ruefully, raising his hand in the gesture of a fencer acknowledging a hit. “Touché, Merrie Trelawney. A thousand pardons for such a clumsy piece of swordplay. I crave your indulgence.”

Why did she want to laugh? A moment before, she could cheerfully have shot him through the heart! All the cynicism had left the gray eyes, the bored, disdainful curl of the lip was gone, even the arrogance appeared mitigated by his seemingly genuine acknowledgment of defeat. He was almost a different person. And that was a most disturbing thought. Meredith turned abruptly toward the ladder, looking for a new and safer topic of conversation.

“How did you know where to find me? Seecombe would not have said, I'll lay odds.”

“No,” he agreed. “Seecombe would have cut his tongue out first. Fortunately, as I was being turned from the door, young Rob bounced in.”

“Ah, that would indeed explain all.” Merrie chuckled inadvertently. “Why did he not accompany you?”

“He and Theo had a falling out,” Damian said carefully, “and—uh—appeared to forget all about me.”

“Oh, dear.” Meredith sighed, continuing for some reason as if her companion was in some way a family intimate. “Poor Theo finds Rob such a trial. I suppose, when one is fifteen and trying to be dignified, eleven-year-old brothers
are
a sore trial. I had thought to send Rob to Eton rather than to Harrow in order to spare Theo embarrassment, but Trelawneys and Merediths have always gone to Harrow and none of them would hear of such a thing.”

“I do not think you need concern yourself. If memory serves me right, Theo will have ample support in keeping his brother in his place, and I'm convinced Rob has already learned that first years do not know fourth years. What goes on at home will not be repeated at school.” He offered the truth with a degree of impatience. Schoolboys were hardly the most fascinating of topics. When her troubled expression cleared miraculously, he instantly regretted his brusqueness.

“That is such a comfort,” Merrie said. “I was so afraid Theo was being made miserable at school. But you would know about such things, after all.”

Damian nodded, marveling at the extraordinary sense of warmth he felt at having reassured this unconventional woman who, for a moment, had looked as if she were carrying the burdens of the world upon those slender shoulders.

Merrie saw the strange darkening in those gray eyes and felt suddenly uneasy. The disdainful cynic was much easier to deal with than a Lord Rutherford with humor and compassion in his eyes. At least, when they were engaged in a battle of wits, she was sure of her ground, sure of her feelings. For a moment, tension tautened like string stretched between them, then Rutherford, to Merrie's relieved annoyance, returned their relationship to its normal footing. “If you will give me the nest, I will carry it down. Since I am not hampered by petticoats, I may do so with ease.”

Meredith set her lips in a thin line but meekly handed over her charges, unable to think of any logical objection to this modification of her plan. She followed him nimbly down the rickety ladder, clearly needing no chivalrous assistance, and Damian placed the nest on the broad sill of the only window.

“I hope you were not right about the cat,” she muttered with a worried frown. “If you will but stay here and watch over them, I will dig up some worms. I am sure they must be starving.”

“You will do
what
?” Rutherford exclaimed. Then his shoulders began to shake. “Oh, Merrie Trelawney, you are too much! You really would go grubbing for worms as if you were a grimy little boy with a stick and a bent pin for fishing!” Leaning against the barn wall for support, he gave himself up to the rich laughter rippling through him. He hadn't laughed like this for many many months, and his entire body seemed to open with the pleasure of it.

Meredith stood nonplussed for the moment it took her to realize why he was laughing. The suggestion had seemed perfectly reasonable when she had made it, but now, remembering the masquerade she had played for his benefit last night—prim, proper widow Blake, murmuring idiocies, dropping her possessions in her fluster—she could hardly wonder at his hilarity. Her cheeks warmed with a mixture of indignation and discomfiture. “Oh, do stop,” she said crossly. “It is not
that
amusing.”

“Oh, but it is,” he gasped. “It is utterly delicious.
You
are utterly delicious, Merrie Trelawney—a wondrous conundrum that I have to solve.”

Cold fingers marched down her spine at these words and she found refuge and diversion in anger. One sandaled foot stamped vigorously. “Stop it, I say! I will not have you laughing at me. You are trespassing on my land, or, at least, you are here without invitation, and I will not tolerate further discourtesy.”

Rutherford stopped laughing although merriment still lurked in the depths of his eyes. “Then I should perhaps make amends—with a little civility,” he said softly, placing his hands on her shoulders. Meredith stepped back, a strange fluttering sensation in her belly, but she could not evade his hold drawing her against him. “There is a passion in you, Merrie Trelawney. One that I would delve,” he whispered, moving one hand to palm her scalp as he brought his head down until his lips covered hers. Merrie's eyes closed as she inhaled deeply of the fragrance of his skin, a sun-warmed scent that seemed one with the taste of him as his tongue explored the soft cavern of her mouth. His hands ran down her back, feeling her skin, warm and pliant beneath the thin material of her dress, stroked over the curve of her hips, kneaded her buttocks as she reached against him with a low moan wrenched from some place deep within herself.

“Sweet heaven!” Rutherford murmured in a tone of awe, raising his head slowly. “What
are
you, Merrie Trelawney? I think I am bewitched.”

Meredith stood in a shaft of sunlight, the back of her hand pressed to her warmed, tingling lips as the world steadied again on its axis, and she saw her predicament in all its dreadful truth. She could not now deny her response to this man, either to herself or to him. But if she could not deny it, what
could
she do about it?

“Merrie? Merrie? Where are you?” Rob's imperative yells shivered the tension like a stone on crystal.

“In the barn,” she called back, moving swiftly to the door, her eyes slipping past those of her companion.

“Oh, you found Lord Rutherford,” Rob announced, appearing in the doorway. “That's good because Theo and I forgot all about him for a minute. Seecombe says it's time for nuncheon, and if you don't come quickly the oysters will go cold. They are cook's special recipe,” he informed Rutherford solemnly. “She will be as cross as two sticks if they spoil. Won't she, Merrie? Of course, if I hadn't come to find you, Hugo and Theo and me could have had them all to ourselves.” He beamed at his elders. “I hope you like scalloped oysters, Lord Rutherford.”

Meredith blinked in a bemused fashion. Had Rob just invited his lordship to nuncheon?

“One of my favorite dishes,” Rutherford was saying, smiling at the boy.

“Oh, that is good. There is plenty for everyone, and Hugo is most anxious to meet you.” With that, he slipped a hand into Rutherford's larger one just as if they were the oldest of friends and proceeded to lead him back to the house.

There was nothing to be done but follow with a good grace. At least the company of her brothers would ensure a thoroughly domestic, undramatic atmosphere.

Nuncheon at Pendennis, his lordship discovered, was far from a light meal. The refectory table in the dining room bore both sirloin and ham, a tureen of rich vegetable soup, the promised scalloped oysters, cheeses, and fruit—a repast clearly designed to satisfy the appetites of growing boys. Rob and Theo did ample justice to it, their earlier quarrel apparently forgotten. Hugo Trelawney, a rather pale, spindly young man with an overly serious expression, responded politely when introduced to Lord Rutherford and toyed with his food. Or at least, Damian qualified silently, gave the appearance of toying with it. A substantial quantity of meat nevertheless found its way onto his plate and subsequently disappeared. Meredith drank tea, the boys lemonade, Lord Rutherford was presented with a foaming tankard of ale that Hugo informed him solemnly was their own brew.

Meredith apologized for the fact that she could not offer him claret but explained nonchalantly that any bottle from their cellars would require an hour to breathe if it were to be appreciated. Since they had not been expecting guests, they were unprepared. “You will find that to be the case in most houses in the neighborhood,” she said. “We pride ourselves on our cellars.”