Tempting Fate (14 page)

“For maneuvering you into spying on Kate,” he said, suddenly serious. “It was ill done of me.”

“Yes,” she agreed without the heat of anger. “It certainly was.”

“I’m sorry for it.”

A corner of her mouth quirked up. “Are you only sorry now that it’s become apparent that spying was unnecessary?”

“I don’t recall asking you to qualify
your
apology,” he evaded, suddenly paying much closer attention to his driving.

“You asked why I waited to offer it,” she pointed out.

“Only after accepting it to start.”

“You’re right,” she laughed and sat back against the cushions. “And it hardly matters now anyway. Apology accepted, Whit. Although, I don’t think it will do for us to start expressing regret for
every
past misdeed. We’d never speak of anything else.”

“You have a point.” He gave the matter some thought.
“Perhaps we should agree not to extend any more apologies for crimes committed against each other before the house party.”

“Will I have to apologize for getting you into trouble with your mother, then?” She grinned at him. “Because I’m not sorry I did it.”

“You would have been,” he promised her, looking quite smug. “Once I enacted my revenge.”

“Well if you’re
certain
of it, there’s really no reason for me to tell you I’m sorry. It would be redundant.” She tapped a gloved hand against her leg. “What was your revenge going to be?”

Whit shook his head. “I don’t think you should know. There’s no guessing how long our truce will last, and I’d just as soon keep it in reserve.”

Mirabelle had always found it aggravating to be kept out of a secret—which was only natural to her mind—and as this particular secret pertained directly to her, she found its continuing secrecy twice as aggravating. This would require, she decided, twice the usual tenacity in finding it out.

“How’s this,” she tried, “I’ll say I’m sorry—”

“Only you’re not.”

“True, but you’re certain I
would
have been, and that amounts to the same thing, really,” she explained reasonably. “But you first have to agree to tell me what you had planned.”

“I’ve done more agreeing in the last two days than I typically do in a year,” Whit chuckled.

“Can’t be helped,” she said dismissively. “What do you say to my offer?”

He thought about it—which she found perfectly reasonable—and thought about it—which she could forgive him for—and thought about it some more—which was a little annoying—and then finally decided.

“No. No, I don’t think I will.”

Which was entirely unacceptable.

“Why ever not?” she demanded.

“I don’t wish to,” he answered with a roll of his shoulders.

“You’re being stubborn, Whit. I don’t think that’s allowed under the terms of our agreement.”

“Of course it is. You’re just not allowed to criticize me for it.”

“That”—is probably true, she conceded, but only to herself—“is ridiculous,” was what she said to him.

“That might also be the case, but again, you’re not allowed to mention it.” He transferred the reins to one hand and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his blue eyes dancing. “In fact, now that I think of it, I can say or do near to anything now—as long as it’s not insulting to you—and you can’t disparage me in any way.”

“There’s always later.”

“Yes, but I’m a man who lives for the present.”

“You’re a braggart is what you are—and I mean that in the nicest way possible,” she was quick to assure him.

“I don’t think it is possible to call someone a ‘braggart’ without being insulting,” he scoffed.

“Of course it is. I’ve my own—and entirely uninsulting—definition for the word.”

He blinked at her. “That’s…”

“Yes? Go on, Whit,” she prompted with a silly grin. “Is it ridiculous? Absurd? Is it—”

“I’m at a loss for words,” he admitted with a laugh. “And it’s for the best, as it seems we’ve arrived.”

And so they had. Mirabelle craned her neck to see through the small line of trees that separated the road from the field beyond. The lake path they’d taken the day before may have been her favorite place to walk, but there wasn’t a spot on the Haldon grounds more ideally suited for a picnic. It had a wonderful feeling of seclusion about it, with the road hidden from view and the forest closing in on three other sides.

The occasional oak and maple had been allowed to thrive in the midst of the green and even now servants were spreading out blankets and depositing baskets of food under the shading branches.

The first guests were beginning to arrive, mostly the very young who had no doubt grown impatient with the adults’ leisurely pace and scampered ahead, but a few others were there as well—Kate and Evie among them.

“We abandoned poor Sophie to the wolves,” Evie informed them as Mirabelle and Whit made their way into the field. “But Alex wouldn’t let her walk any faster, and I couldn’t stand another second of Miss Willory’s tittering.”

“Do you know,” Kate said as they chose a blanket and sat, “that before I met her, I hadn’t known a person outside of a book
could
titter?”

“It’s a rare skill,” Mirabelle replied. “With any luck, we’ll never meet another who’s acquired it.”

Luck, as it happened, was on their side that morning. By the time Miss Willory arrived, the spaces on their two blankets had been filled. Perhaps not with their favorite guests, as the pompous Mrs. Jarles and silly Miss Sullivan numbered among them—the latter of whom received a very nasty look from the isolated Miss Willory—but it was a more pleasant group than might have been expected. Alex and Sophie failed to arrive in time to claim a space, but Miss Heins had.

The topic on everyone’s mind, of course, was Mirabelle’s unfortunate—and, in her opinion, embarrassing—tumble down the hill and subsequent—and even more embarrassing—rescue.

“It’s not like you to pay so little attention,” Kate commented. “It’s really more something I would do.”

“Perhaps the hermit McAlistair was hiding behind a tree and snuck up behind to give you a push,” Miss Sullivan breathed. “I shall be terrified to go into the woods alone again.”

Mirabelle couldn’t imagine the pampered Miss Sullivan ever having had the urge, or the occasion, to go into the woods alone, but knew better than to voice that opinion out loud.

“McAlistair is no threat to you,” Whit assured the group. “And as he hasn’t seen fit to show himself to guests for the past eight years, I can’t imagine why he would suddenly choose to do so now.”

“McAlistair isn’t even real,” Kate said with an eye roll. “Whit made him up years ago with the express purpose of frightening three poor unsuspecting little girls.”

Whit snorted at the image. “The two of you were already out of the nursery,” he pointed out to Mirabelle and Evie. “And you—” he continued, looking at Kate, “—may have been a little girl, but you were neither poor nor unsuspecting. You’ve refused to believe it from the start.”

“I
was
rather clever for my age,” Kate conceded.

“If Whit had wanted to f…frighten us,” Evie said softly, her discomfort with being the center of attention manifesting in a stammer, “it seems to me he’d have made McAlistair more…well, frightening.”

“Never say you believe in such rubbish, Miss Cole,” Mrs. Jarles admonished.

Evie ducked her head and made a small movement of her shoulders. “I don’t c…care to discount things before they’ve been proven one way or the other.”

“Which goes to prove one needn’t always grow out of their childhood cleverness,” Whit commented with a smile and a gentle tug on Kate’s bonnet ribbon.

“The woods are safe enough,” he continued. “But I’ll have to ask you ladies to stay away from the far north pasture for the remainder of the party.”

“That pasture is more than three miles away,” Kate murmured. “Why…Oh! Have the Rom returned, then?”

“Just this morning, I was informed.”

“Gypsies! Here?” Mrs. Jarles spun her head about as if expecting one to pop out from behind the nearest tree.

“Not here,” Whit assured her. “Not at the moment.”

“But on your land! You’ve allowed them on your land?”

“I have, as I do every spring and fall when this particular clan passes through. As they keep to themselves, I see no harm in it.”

“No harm in it?” Mrs. Jarles very nearly screeched. “We could all be murdered! Murdered in our own beds!”

“Would you prefer the parlor?” Whit inquired with a politely interested tone.

Mirabelle covered a surprised laugh with a cough, but even over the distraction she could clearly hear Mrs. Jarles wheeze out a loud breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

Whit shrugged and reached for another piece of cake. “You seemed so set against the deed being performed in your bed, I thought you must have someplace else in mind.”

“I…I…” Mrs. Jarles stammered and blinked rapidly.

“Personally, I’d just as soon be asleep,” Whit said nonchalantly. “If one
must
be cut open by a drove of murderous gypsies, one would probably be better off being unaware of the whole nasty business.”

Evie and Kate turned bright red with suppressed laughter, while Mirabelle debated whether she could contain her own mirth long enough to see how the conversation—such as it was—played out.

Mrs. Jarles drew herself up as far as her position on the blanket, and sadly inconsequential height, allowed. “The indignity—” she began, and in such a way that Mirabelle was uncertain whether she was referring to Whit’s comments or her possible death at the hands of the gypsies.

“Would hardly signify,” Whit assured her easily. “As you and everyone you know would be dead.”

“Scattered about the house in their literal and figurative
deathbeds of choice,” Evie spluttered out in one quick breath before turning a brighter shade of red and gaining her feet. “Excuse me, I need to…I need…”

The remainder of her sentence was drowned out with a coughing fit and the sound of her quickly retreating steps.

“I’ll just go see if she’s all right,” Kate mumbled and followed her friend’s retreat with a coughing fit of her own.

“How odd,” Whit commented, biting into his cake. “I wonder if perhaps the cook used a heavier hand than usual with the spice. Between the marauding locals and poor food, I shan’t take offense, Mrs. Jarles, if you choose to cut your visit short.”

He sent a wicked glance at Mirabelle. “You look a little peckish yourself, Mirabelle. Do you need to follow Kate and Evie?”

Mirabelle bit her lip, hard, and shook her head. Then nodded, grabbed her cane, and made a stumbling escape.

Mrs. Jarles would not have been surprised to discover that there
was
a man hiding in the cover of the trees. A man who was no stranger to murder. A man who knew all too well what it felt like to steal life from a sleeping form.

But he hadn’t come today to kill.

He’d come to watch, as he always watched.

And to yearn, as he always yearned.

No, Mrs. Jarles would not have been surprised to see the dark form crouching in the woods. She would have been
very
surprised, however, to learn that someone else knew the man was there.

Eleven

T
he picnic ran later than expected—as all successful outings do—and the sun was making its golden descent by the time Whit again helped Mirabelle into the curricle.

“What are you looking for, Whit?”

“Hmm?” Whit turned his attention from the trees and started the horses forward with a soft flick of the reins. “Nothing. Thought I saw a deer, a buck.”

“Why didn’t you say something? The children would have loved to have seen a buck.”

“I only just noticed—”

“You’ve been peering into the woods for the last twenty minutes.”

“My mind’s been wandering a bit. Have your eyes always been chocolate?”

“I…” She was too startled by the question to consider that its purpose was to change the subject. Confused, she reached a hand up to touch her cheek. “They’re brown.”

“No, they’re richer than brown. Perhaps it’s only noticeable in candlelight or when the sun turns gold.”

Was he being poetic? she wondered, and wished she had a way of knowing. She’d never inspired poetry in a man before—confidence perhaps, and friendship certainly, but never the pretty words that were invariably reserved for beautiful women. The fact that she wasn’t a beautiful woman answered the question well enough, she concluded.

“First you tell me I have hair the color of bark, and now I’ve chocolate eyes.” Her lips twitched with humor. “I’m a cacao tree.”

“Do cacao beans grow on trees? I rather thought it was bushes.”

“Trees,” she assured him. “At any rate, my eyes are the color they’ve always been. Maybe they’re a slightly different hue when I’m angry.”

“And I’ve only ever seen them angry,” he said with a nod. “Why is that, imp? Why have we never gotten on at all before now?”

“You said once it was fate,” she reminded him.

“Ah, yes, the divine ordinance argument. Clever of me.”

“Quite.”

He stopped the horses suddenly, and turned in his seat to look at her. “I don’t believe in fate, actually.”

“You don’t?”

“No. Aside from the inescapable realities of birth and death, we’re responsible for the paths our lives take. We each make our own choices.” He bent his head and whispered against her lips. “And I choose to do this.”

It was Mirabelle’s very first kiss. She was the eldest of her friends, but until this moment, she was the only one of them to have gone unkissed. Even Kate had stolen a kiss with Lord Martin—her heart’s greatest desire at one time—during her first Season. Kate had decided shortly thereafter, for reasons she kept to herself, that her heart had been sadly misinformed.

Mirabelle wondered if hers was as well…until Whit’s lips met her own. Nothing, she decided then, absolutely nothing could possibly be wrong about kissing Whit.

It was everything she imagined a kiss would be—and absolutely nothing like she would have expected a kiss from Whit to be—not that she ever allowed herself to imagine kissing Whit. But if she had it would have been forceful and—