Surrender The Night (32 page)

Ellie hugged Devon’s neck then moved back abruptly, going red at her own daring. “Thank ’ee, your lordshep,” she trilled. She bobbed a curtsy that Devon returned with a grave bow.

Smiling, Katrina retrieved the vegetables, wondering who was more discomfited.

Ellie made them tea from the leaves Devon had brought, and they were soon seated at the table chatting like old friends.

“How is your father doing?” Devon asked Ellie.

“At least his fever finally broke. The doc says he’ll live, but how well he’ll be able to work—” Ellie shook her head.

“I’ve brought brandy and laudanum for him. If you want him to see a doctor in London, I can arrange that.”

Katrina groaned. She didn’t have to look at Ellie to know her smile had disappeared. Even hinting at English superiority to a Cornishman, or woman, was like poking at a rabid beast.

“He’ll do just fine here—your lordship.” Ellie rose, nodded with dignity, then left the room.

Devon looked bewildered. “What did I say?”

‘ ‘The Cornish are proud folk, Devon. They don’t like feeling inadequate. Indeed, who does?’ ’ Katrina watched him, hoping, praying, he’d have some understanding, but his handsome face still looked mystified. She glumly swirled her tea. Why should he understand? What did this English lord know of deprivation, or of yearning for things he could never have?

Had she read his thoughts at that moment, Katrina would have realized Devon knew more of the latter than she supposed. While she stared at her tea he stared at her, yearning bare in his eyes. That awful gown. How he longed to rip it from her, love her, then clothe her in the silks she deserved. He smothered a sigh. Even that unlikely pleasure would not be enough. Any woman could give him sex; only Katrina could grant him happiness. One step at a time. After all, she’d voluntarily embraced him. In gratitude, aye, but it was a start. He’d ask nothing in return. If she wanted to give? Ah, that was another matter.

“May I see John?” Devon asked.

“Now is not a good time. Rachel scarcely lets
us
in the room. He’s sleeping now, anyway. Which is just as well.” Katrina shook her head wryly.

“Why is that?”

“If he knew what you’d brought, he’d be furious.”

“Poppycock! It’s little enough to do for a neighbor.” Or for the woman one . . . wants, he said to himself.

“Oh yes? Have property boundaries suddenly changed? The last time I looked, this house sat on Carrington land.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “I was speaking figuratively. Damme, you’ve become as stubborn as these folk you’ve taken so to heart.”

“I’m glad to hear you understand that at least. Are your miners giving you trouble?”

He snorted. “That’s a mild description. They’re kicking and screaming as I
try to pull them into the modern age. They’re even arguing about the type of pump I want to buy. I don’t know why they won’t accept a reasonable wage. It’s a much more reliable way to feed their families than this outmoded cost-book system.”

‘ ‘Perhaps because they fear what your idea of a ‘reasonable wage’ is. Those who already work for wages are paid a pittance. At least those who share in the success or failure of the mine have a stake in its future. Can you not see the difference? Especially to men of pride?”

“Of course. But so many of the copper mines hereabouts have become so expensive to operate that it’s hardly any wonder some of the miners are living in such penury.” Devon glanced around the kitchen. Odd. He’d remembered vegetables hanging from the rafters the last time he was here about a week ago. He opened his mouth, but Katrina hurried into speech.

“You need to be careful, Devon. I’ve . . . heard rumors that some of the miners are so discontent that they’re talking about . . . violence.”

H
e
knew she was trying to distract him from looking about the kitchen. Why? He humored her, more out of amusement than concern. “Really?” he drawled. “I daresay you think my face could stand some rearranging.” He lifted a taunting eyebrow. She didn’t disappoint him.

“Oh no! I like your face just the way it is.” She blushed and sent him a shaming look when he burst into laughter.

“And that, my dear, is the most honesty I’ve had from you in many a day. Shall we try for a little more?” He put his palms flat on the table and levered himself to his feet. God, she was adorable when she blushed. He longed to pounce on her and kiss her senseless.

Apparently she recognized his expression, for she leaped up and tried to leave the kitchen. He blocked her easily, so she swung in the other direction.

He followed, coaxing, “Come, let me show you how much I admire you, too. We’ve danced about one another long enough. It’s time for the climax of the performance.” He let his voice go deep and low, matching her retreating steps with advancing ones.

He was satisfied when she went from pink to vermilion. Her eyes dropped, and he was glad of his long coat. She shook her head and turned blindly away into the door behind her. He followed. He knew she wasn’t ready to come to him again, but it was so delicious to tease and pretend. He’d learned as the veriest lad that a woman who feels wanted, wants more readily in return. He’d not take her crudely here, even if she lost her head, but dear Lord, he longed for her lips. Five minutes could give him the fifty years he yearned for. . . .

She froze two steps into the small, dim room, and he bumped into her. He caught her shoulders to turn her into his arms, but something in her tension gave him pause. The stiffness in her muscles owed naught to passion. For the first time he glanced around. Nothing but bare shelves. Except ... he reached out a long arm.

Inside a small jar sat three forlorn dried pears. The larder, as he now realized this was, held nothing else. He slammed the jar back down, dropped his other hand from her shoulder as if burned, and staggered out of the tiny room. Once outside, he took deep breaths, and the fury that had made him light-headed settled to a nauseated lump in his stomach.

When she came out and looked at him warily, he crossed his arms over his chest and said evenly, “So, you prefer starvation to me. If ever a fellow had a clearer send-off. I’ve yet to hear of it. Keep your virtue, madam. What’s left of it.” He spun on his heel and hurried to the door, his eyes burning with hurt tears he refused to shed.

He was three steps out the front exit before she caught up with him.

“Wait, Devon!”

He turned his head haughtily. The tears streaming down her face eased his resentment some. She was hurting, too.

“Why do you torment us this way?” he burst out. He longed to snatch her close, but didn’t dare. She had her own arms clasped about herself as if she’d fly apart without their support.

She shook her head, muttering over and over, “Don’t you see? Don’t you see?”

“See what?” he shouted. He closed his eyes, then looked at her and went on, ‘ ‘I see a beautiful woman who reciprocates the passion of the man who wants her desperately. I see a man who wants to clothe her as she deserves, feed her until she’s fat as a sow if she so wishes, gift her with jewels enough to delight a princess. And this woman, who obviously wants this man and all that comes with him, treats him as if he’s got the plague.”

She composed herself at his words. Her arms dropped. ‘ ‘And do you know what I see?’ ’ she countered, wiping her eyes with a steady hand.

“I apprehend you intend to tell me.”

She continued as if he’d not interrupted, “I see a man who knows much of women, but little of me. I see a man I . . . desire.” She held up a staying hand when he took a stride forward. He stopped. “A man who’s bad for me, because he steals my wits, seduces my body, and leaves me with naught but self-hatred. This is a man any woman of sound mind would avoid.”

‘ ‘Or a man any woman of sound mind would cleave close to.” He hesitated, but if fear of being hurt again kept her from him, he had only one way to convince her to take that chance. Never had he put his pride at such risk, but never had he known anyone more worth the gamble.

He spanned the small gap between them and caught her hand to bring it to his chest. He put his own hand gently over her left breast. “Anger parted us, two years separated us, counties divided us, but still we found one another again. Here we stand, our hearts throbbing as one. Were I a peasant, you a queen, I believe we would feel the same. Why can’t you see
that our differing positions in life matter not a whit? In the end we’ll crumble to the same dust and stand before the same God. Let me share with you our small measure of time before that day.” A tiny, telltale gasp escaped her. She stepped back, forcing his hand to drop, and he sensed that she had to distance herself or leap into his arms. By an effort of will he stayed put, leaving the next move up to her.

“Do you . . . mean what I think you do?”

A glimmer of a smile lit his mordant eyes. “As declarations go it’s the best I’ve ever made.” When her face fell, he clarified. “In truth the only I’ve ever made. I’ll go down on my knees if you like.”

She nibbled at her lip, then stammered, “D-do you offer marriage?”

He closed his eyes in fury at himself. Damme, he should have couched his words more carefully. Must they always replay the past’s mistakes? He took a step toward her, longing to lead her into a better future, but she backed away, her hands lifting to ward him off. He hated it when she did that; hated it when her color paled to match his linen.

The harsh sound that escaped her was neither laugh nor groan, but a combination of both. “I see from your face that you don
’t. Then your fine words mean nothing, do they? A devotion so shallow would scarce last a year, much less a lifetime.”

He slammed a fist into his palm and bit off, “Equating the measure of devotion with a gold band is as superficial as equating a woman’s soul with her body. I quit doing that with you long ago. Why can you not do the same?”

She lifted her head. He stared, for she might have been the princess he longed to make her as she said quietly, “Because to me, body and soul are not separate entities. I cannot give the one without giving the other. Do you know how it would hurt me to be your kept woman and see you wed another, beget heirs on another?”

It was his turn to pale. Somehow, in all his deliberations about her, he’d never considered that. Had he been willfully blind?

“If you ponder how it would hurt you to see me wed another, with another man’s children”—her voice broke before she steadied it and went on—“sitting in my lap, you’ll have some idea of why I’ve kept you away, why I was even willing to starve rather than be indebted to you. Indeed, did you not prove just minutes ago that when you give, you want to receive?’ ’

He winced. He deserved that. But truly, concern for her and those she loved had brought him here. Could he help it that once he came, he couldn’t restrain his own longing? “I only wanted a kiss, Katrina. Not in payment for what I brought, but given freely in the spirit of what we were to one another, and could be again.” His breath caught as her expression softened. Had her eyes ever been so blue, her smile so sad?

Her silken voice whispered gently over him. “That’s easily enough supplied. Perhaps then you’ll understand what I’m trying to say to you.” While he was still gaping in shock she lifted graceful arms about his neck and brought his head down to her level.

Soft lips covered his. Passion was a weak word for the feelings she communicated with her gently sucking mouth. He stayed still, for the first time in his life knowing how it felt to be loved by a woman other than his mother. Warmth filled him, and he was afraid to move lest she cast him out again. Yet ... as the kiss deepened, he began to understand.

Would that he could say his wits went begging, for then he could enjoy the pull of her luscious mouth without the concomitant tug on his heartstrings. The depth of her emotion vibrated from her, to him, and back again. Who was maestro, who was violin? He couldn’t say. He only knew the music they made together was both the sweetest he’d ever known, and the saddest, for it had no climax. It echoed gently to a stop, the poignant notes dying midrefrain. He knew he had only to look in the mirror to see the author of the cruel destruction.

When she pulled away, he could no more hide the sheen of his tears than she could. “You really love me, don’t you?” he whispered huskily.

“Did you feel a bottom to my love?” Her own voice was choked with emotion.

“No, only an end. One forced upon you.”

“Then you understand.” With the gentle pride that was so much a part of her, she lowered her lashes and turned away.

“Kat . . . Katrina, wait.” He cleared his aching throat, but his madly beating heart seemed permanently lodged there. What could he say? The only words that could make her stay seemed stuck somewhere between the heart that encouraged and the mind that kept him silent.

She stopped, but said without looking at him, “Please, Devon. You know now why I don’t dare let you close. Not because I care too little, but because I care too much.”

“And what if I tell you I feel the same?”

She turned her head at that. “Then I would tell you to go home. You’re swayed by the emotion of the moment and will come to your senses soon enough. Besides, even if . . . you were willing to wed me, it’s too late.”