The Misguided Matchmaker (11 page)

Maddy
pulled to a stop beside him, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “To quote some
long-forgotten poet, monsieur, ‘
Mine
is the hunger of
a hundred ravening wolves.’ I warn you, I take no responsibility for my actions
if my supper is lost to the clumsiness of some tavern wench who mistakes you
for your generous-hearted twin brother.”

Tristan
felt an unfamiliar heat surge into his cheeks and swore softly under his
breath. Not since his sixteenth birthday had any female made him blush like a
callow greenling. “As I started to say,” he continued, ignoring her jibe, “we
shall take our supper here, then look for a place to sleep. Though, I fear we
shall have to opt for a hayloft or horse stall. This is the wrong time of year
for haystacks.”

Maddy
didn’t comment. Tristan could see her gaze was fixed on the giant waterwheel at
the rear of the gristmill and the sparkling brook that tumbled down a rocky
verge above it to turn the paddles in a slow, steady rhythm. Beyond the
waterwheel stood a wooden platform on which a dozen or more sacks of grain were
stacked.

“We
can sleep there,” she said, pointing to the platform. “We can bathe in the mill
pond and the sacks of grain will make a splendid bed.” She searched the sky
above her. “And there will surely be stars tonight for the sunset was
spectacular.”

She
turned to Tristan, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Please say we may. Sleeping
under the open sky on a night like this will be an experience I’ll remember all
the rest of my life.”

Tristan
felt certain he, too, would remember lying beneath a starlit sky with this
bewitching minx who turned his blood to molten fire by simply laying her hand
on his arm—and therein lay the problem. He neither needed nor wanted to spend
the balance of his days haunted by such memories of his brother’s wife.

“Please,
Tristan. What could be more ideal?”

It
was the first time she had ever called him by name without prefacing it with a
sarcastic “Father.” The effect was devastating, especially with her enchanting
Gallic pronunciation.

“
Treeston?
”
she pleaded again, and as if by magic the word “no” disappeared from his
vocabulary.

A
feather-soft breeze caressed Maddy’s cheeks as she sat atop the mound of grain
sacks, her back to the stone wall of the ancient mill. For the first time in
days, she had eaten her fill. The
fricassée de poulet
served by the inn
had been creditable, though lacking that particular zest the proclaimed it the
creation of a master chef. She had taken the innkeeper’s wife aside and
suggested that in the future she use a white veal stock base and add a touch of
thyme and a few juniper berries.

Later,
she had bathed in the mill pond with the bar of soap Father Bertrand’s
housekeeper had slipped into the knapsack. Two such luxuries had made all life
seem a great deal more pleasant.

Now,
the sky above her was a black velvet cloak on which some celestial hand had
sewn a thousand brilliant diamonds, and the full moon perched at its apex
bathed the landscape in a bright, silvery light. Stretching out her legs, she wriggled
her bare toes and breathed in the elusive scent of the honeysuckle climbing the
wall beside her. She could hear the creaking of the waterwheel far below her
and a splashing sound she knew to be Tristan bathing in the mill pond.

Eyes
closed, she imagined the clear, crystal water flowing over his strong
limbs—limbs whose masculine beauty she felt certain must rival the statue of a
young Spartan warrior she had once admired in a Lyon museum. It was a
deliciously wicked thought that had her blushing hotly when a few minutes later
he climbed the stairs to the platform.

“That
was probably the coldest bath I’ve ever taken,” he grumbled, dropping onto the
grain sack beside Maddy. Bracing his arms on his updrawn knees, he stared
morosely at the dazzling moon. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, he had been
against sleeping outdoors. He still was, from the scowl that darkened his face.

“You’ll
soon warm up, as I did,” Maddy promised. “Isn’t it worth a few moments of
discomfort to feel clean again?”

His
answer was a noncommittal grunt.

Maddy
tried again. “The breeze is so mild, my hair is already dry.” Her gaze strayed
to his hair. Jet black and glistening, it curled damply against his strong
neck, making him look more than ever the brigand she had likened him to when
first she’d glimpsed him.

She
smiled to herself, imagining how shocked her despised former chaperone would be
to find her alone with this enigmatic Englishman in such a romantic
setting—indeed, with any man in any setting. But the old virago would never
again make her life a misery.

All
at once, she felt like a bird that had escaped its cage to savor its first
taste of freedom. Something deep inside her stirred to life and she found
herself longing to try her wings in the great, intriguing world that had
heretofore been denied her. A night sleeping under the stars was a beginning.
It probably didn’t seem very exciting to a worldly fellow like Tristan; to her
it was the most breathtaking of adventures.

Tristan
watched the myriad emotions play across Maddy’s lovely face and found himself
wondering what thoughts were making her mouth tilt in an entrancing smile, her
eyes dance with mischief. “What are you thinking?” he asked, though he wasn’t
certain he really wanted to know.

Bracing
her hands at her sides, she tilted her head back to stare at the star-studded
sky directly above her. “I am thinking there has never before been a night as
glorious as this one. Nor will there ever be another. Everything about it is
magical.”

She
turned to face him, and the glow in her amber eyes put the moonlight to shame.
“Stop it,” he ordered hoarsely. “Stop looking like that.”

Her
eyes widened. “Like what?”

“Like
a woman yearning to be kissed.”

Too
late, he realized what an improper charge he’d made. He expected her to dress
him down, at the very least deny it, as any woman with a proper sense of
decorum would do. Instead, she merely studied him solemnly, as if pondering his
statement. “I hadn’t thought of it, for I’ve no experience in such things,” she
said gravely. “But now that you mention it…what could be more perfect than to
experience my first kiss on this most perfect of nights.”

She
leaned toward him and expectant look on her face which heated Tristan’s blood
far more effectively than the warm evening breeze. He drew back, cursing
himself for every kind of fool known to man for making the provocative
statement that had whetted Maddy’s curiosity.

“The
night may be perfect; the man is anything but,” he stated flatly. “I am the
last man on earth with whom you should share your first kiss, Maddy.”

“Why?”

“Because
I have done every despicable thing you’ve accused me of—and more. Hell and
damnation, I have done things in the past six years that an innocent like you
would not even be capable of imagining.”

“Including
kissing, I presume.” The mischief was undeniable now, vying with the moonlight
in her eyes. “I suspect you’ve become quite adept at that, which to my way of
thinking would make you the ideal man to give a person her first kiss. Rather
like establishing a standard of excellence one could use to judge all future
kisses,
n’est-ce pas
?”

She
slid closer to him until they were sitting side by side. The clean scent of her
hair filled his nostrils and the touch of her hand on his arm made him feel as
if he’d drunk a flagon of wine instead of the two paltry glasses with which
he’d washed down his supper.

“You
are playing with fire, lady,” he managed hoarsely, drawing away until his back
pressed against the cool stone of the wall behind him.

Ignoring
his warning, she eyed him curiously. “Am I supposed to close my eyes or leave
them open when we kiss?”

“There
are no hard and fast rules,” Tristan murmured, staring at her soft, full mouth
as if mesmerized. How had he, until this minute, failed to notice the
tantalizing fact that her lower lip was slightly fuller than the upper, a
phenomenon which somehow made her mouth appear indescribably kissable?

He
moistened his own lips with a swipe of his tongue. This was madness, he
reminded himself. Maddy was slated to be his brother’s wife. If he so much as
touched her, he would be betraying Garth—in truth, betraying everything he
himself held sacred.

“The
eyes are a matter of personal preference, then,” she said solemnly. “I think I
shall close mine.” She did so and leaned toward him. Instinctively, Tristan
caught her before she tumbled forward. A mistake. The instant he touched her he
knew he was lost to all reason.

“Are
you going to kiss me good night, Tristan?” she asked in a throaty voice, her
eyes still tightly closed.

Tristan
swallowed hard. “Yes, devil take it, I am. Though I suspect we may both live to
regret it bitterly.” Still, he no longer had a choice. The woman was driving
him mad. It was either kiss her or strangle her, and how would he explain her
murder to Caleb Harcourt—much less Garth, who depended on him to deliver the
bride who would save Winterhaven for him?

With
a groan, he lowered his head and covered her lips with his.

The
kiss was everything Maddy had imagined it would be…and more. Hungry. Demanding.
More angry than tender, but with an underlying loneliness so acute, it
shattered her own solitary heart into a million jagged fragments.

It
was as if she had been waiting for this man and this moment all her life, and
recognizing him, she responded with every fiber of her being. Coiling her arms
around the strong column of his neck, she abandoned herself to the sheer joy of
the moment and to the magic of this most wondrous night of her life.

Then
suddenly it was over. With a harsh, indistinguishable sound deep in his throat,
Tristan thrust her from him. Bereft of the security of his arms, she fell
backward until she was lying flat on her back across the grin sack on which
she’d been sitting. “
Nom de Dieu,
” she exclaimed staring up at him. “I
had no idea a kiss would be so…so astonishing.”

He
stared back, a stunned, almost haunted, look in his pale eyes. “Do not feel
alone,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear his mind of some puzzling
confusion. “The astonishment is as much mine as yours.”

Like
a man in a trance, he rose to his feet and grasping the massive sack of grain
next to the one on which Maddy lay, he stood it on its side, then positioned
another beside it, creating a barricade around her. Maddy raised herself on one
elbow and peeked over the top. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“Making
certain necessary adjustments to our sleeping arrangements.” Groaning from the
effort, Tristan braced the two sacks with a third. “As I recall, the practice
is called bundling, a term the early American colonists gave to the method they
devised to keep inquisitive young innocents like you from getting into the kind
of trouble you are courting with those flirtatious ways of yours.”

“You
think I have flirtatious ways?” Maddy asked, intrigued by the idea that he
considered her a
femme fatale.

His
answer was merely another of his noncommittal grunts. He unrolled the carriage
blanket and spread it over her. Then, pulling off his boots, he stretched on
the opposite side of the barricade and disappeared from Maddy’s view.

“I
have always felt a contempt for the Americans,” he muttered, she suspected as
much to himself as her. “The few I’ve met appeared to be rather crude and
unmannerly. I see now I have not given our former colonists the credit due
them. While their backwoods customs may lack a certain refinement, they do give
a fighting chance to some poor sod
who’s
being tempted
beyond his limits by an impossible female.

L
ong after the moon had deserted the
sky, Maddy lay awake lost in the wonder of the kiss she had shared with
Tristan. Over and over, she relived the moment when his firm, warm lips had
claimed hers with such hunger and passion she had found herself responding
without thought or inhibition.

She
tried to tell herself the experience had been so earthshattering simply because
it was her first kiss. But she had never been good at lying, especially to
herself. The plain truth was, the earth had trembled beneath her because the
lips that had claimed hers had been Tristan’s.

He
was obviously a worldly sophisticate who knew a great deal about kissing—and
whatever else went on between a man and a woman. But his expertise was only a
small part of the allure of this man; there was an inexplicable bond between
them that transcended the physical. When he’d deepened the kiss with such
unexpected intimacy, she’d felt as if their very souls had somehow touched each
other.

He
had warned her that they would both live to regret succumbing to the attraction
they felt for each other. What a fool she’d been to ignore that warning. What a
silly, childish fool to prattle on about “establishing a standard of
excellence” for kissing. No wonder he had accused her of playing with fire.

Well,
she’d live to pay the price for that bit of folly. For with that one brief,
passionate caress, her eyes had been opened to the truth she had been trying so
hard to ignore. She had been falling in love with this stubborn, bad-tempered
Englishman from the very first moment she’d seen him.

And
she couldn’t even say why—except that he was the only man whose every glance
made her heart beat faster, whose every touch made her feel wondrously,
gloriously alive.

She
sighed. But of all the men in the world to whom she could give her heart, he
was probably the one most likely to break it.

Unless…he
had appeared almost as startled as she when he’d thrust her from him after that
heart-stopping kiss; he had even felt honor-bound to erect a barricade between
them for the balance of the night because she “tempted him beyond his limits.”

Maybe…just
maybe he was not as jaded as he appeared. Maybe his heart was as vulnerable as
hers.

She
sighed again. And maybe indulging in that amazing flight of fancy was the most
foolish thing of all.

The
small heartfelt sighs emanating from the other side of the barricade told
Tristan that Maddy was having as much difficulty falling asleep as he. Probably
for the same reason.

That
blasted kiss.

What
had possessed him to do such a thing? And why should kissing Maddy make him
feel as wonder-struck as the greenest bantling who’d just discovered girls were
different from boys? He’d chalk it up to “forbidden fruit,” but that simply
wouldn’t fadge. He’d plundered that orchard too often in the past and walked
away unperturbed by the experience.

He
could deny it no longer. He wanted the woman who would soon be his brother’s
wife—wanted her passionately with every fiber of his being. And the wanting
went much deeper than the mere physical attraction he’d felt for far more
voluptuous women in the past.

It
had something to do with her guileless honesty and her courage and the fact
that she constantly surprised him by doing the very thing he least expected her
to do. In truth, if he believed in such a thing, he might almost think he was
falling in love with her. And from her passionate response to his kiss, he
could only surmise she felt the same about him. He would wager his last groat
that someone as honest as Maddy would be incapable of responding with such
ardor unless her affections were seriously engaged.

Which
was why he must never again make the mistake of kissing her, or indeed touching
her in any way. There must be no more sleeping beneath the stars or in
haylofts, no more sharing of attics or secrets. He would push the horses to
their absolute limits from dawn to dusk until they reached Calais, and if he
had to sell both the pistol that had been a gift from Lord Castlereagh and the
old earl’s watch to do so, he would secure proper sleeping accommodations from
now on.

Honor
dictated that he keep his promises to Father Bertrand and to Garth, and return
Maddy to her father as chaste as the day he’d found her.

With
a sigh of relief that he had finally come to grips with the problem at hand, he
silently slipped from his bed on the grain sacks, climbed down the ladder to
the mill pond, and took his second icy bath of the evening.

Maddy
woke at dawn, determined that moment forward she would show Tristan a mature
and sober demeanor that would erase once and for all the image of foolish
naïveté she had heretofore created. Long before the sun had slipped above the
horizon, she lay shivering in the chill dawn, rehearsing what she would say to
smooth over the embarrassment of facing him after their passionate embrace.

She
could have saved herself the trouble. He gave her no opportunity to say
anything whatsoever to him. In fact, he made such an obvious effort to keep her
at a distance for the next three days, she could draw only one conclusion. He
had taken her in complete disgust after—she blushed to even think if it—she had
practically demanded he kiss her.

It
was not enough that he remained unfailingly polite, but distant, during their
daytime travels; he also made a point of securing them separate chambers at
opposite ends of ramshackle coaching inns each night, despite his claim he had
barely enough money to pay for their meals. It wasn’t until she innocently
inquired the time of him that she learned he’d gone so far as to sell his
ornate jeweled watch to pay for those accommodations.

She
wanted to cry with vexation. Was the conceited lout so puffed up with his
opinion of his own male charms he expected her to try to ravish him if he came
close enough for her to get her hands on him? She couldn’t remember when she’d
been so angry or humiliated.

By
the morning of the fourth day she was so weary of his boring politeness she
abandoned her vow of decorum and racked her brain to think of something she
could do that would irritate him enough to make him resort to his usual surly
ways.

“Like
it or not, you will have to help me into the saddle,” she declared after they’d
stopped to water the horses at a small, bubbling brook. “I am too stiff of
joint from riding astride to mount by myself.”

“I’ll
do no such thing,” he grumbled, turning his back on her. But she stood her
ground, and grim of face, he finally relented. Cupping his hands to give her a
toehold, he literally catapulted her upward—a move for which Maddy was totally
unprepared. She missed the saddle and, clutching at it wildly, fell back into
his arms.

“I
told you I felt stiff and clumsy,” she said, laughing up at him.

Tristan
wasn’t laughing. For a long moment, he simply clasped her to his chest while
his eyes darkened with some indefinable emotion. Maddy’s heart leapt in her
breast. “Tristan?” she asked in a voice soft with wonder.

His
brows, black as crows’ wings, drew together in a scowl. “Devil take it, Maddy,
how many times must I warn you? Don’t make the mistake of pushing me too far. I
am doing my best to act the gentleman where you’re concerned, but it doesn’t
come naturally—and believe me, you’d not like the beast you’re so foolishly
tempting.” With those amazing words, he set her on her feet and strode to his
horse, leaving her to mount her own as best she could.

For
the next hour or two, Maddy followed him in a daze, her senses reeling. She
hadn’t misread his reaction to their kiss after all. He did feel the same
magnetic attraction for her that she felt for him, but he was too honorable to
declare himself while they were traveling alone and in such compromising
circumstances.

Was
he planning to court her once they reached London and he could do so properly?
She shivered in anticipation. The thought of being courted by Tristan literally
took her breath away.

With
the bright spring sun beating down on their heads, they rode northward toward
Paris through the lush vineyards of Bourgogne. Maddy scarcely noted the
breathtaking beauty of the scenery around her. She was much too engrossed in
her daydream of the moment when Tristan would, on bended knee, declare he had
her father’s permission to ask for her hand in marriage.

She
frowned. But how could a man recently retired from the profession of spying
hope to support a wife? She studied the proud set of his head, the strong line
of his back and shoulders as he sat his horse. She doubted a man like Tristan
would allow his father-in-law to support him regardless of how wealthy that
father-in-law might be.

Would
his brother the earl, deed him one of the family estates once he declared his
intention to wed? Of course. That was the solution. They appeared to share a
deep affection despite the fact that Tristan was born on the wrong side of the
blanket. A noble family such as his must own any number of small holdings in
the English countryside where one could raise sheep—and Tristan had a penchant
for sheep. She’d seen the gleam in his eyes whenever they’d passed a flock
grazing in a meadow.

Maddy
felt suffused with a warm glow of happiness. She had found the man with whom
she wanted to spend the rest of her days, and he felt the same about her. If
the truth be known, she didn’t really care where they lived. Life with Tristan
would never be dull.

A
raindrop splashed against her cheek…and another and another. She’d been so
absorbed in her happy musings she’d failed to notice the dark clouds gathering
on the horizon. She could see now that a spring squall was about to burst upon
them.

“We’ll
have to find shelter,” Tristan shouted over the rising wind.

Shielding
her eyes from the rain now lashing her face, Maddy searched for a barn or shed
to wait out the storm. None were in sight. But off to her left, in the lee of a
vine-planted hill, she spied one of the
cadoles
in which the vineyard
workers slept during harvest. The tiny, stone beehive-shaped structure might be
dark and windowless and just barely large enough to hold two people—but it
would protect them from the downpour.

“Over
there,” she directed, pointing to the barely discernible mound of fieldstones.

Tristan
turned his head and his handsome features froze in horror. His face paled and
he swiped at his brow as if beads of perspiration were mingling with the
raindrops. “You cannot be serious,” he choked. “It’s scarcely large enough to
hold a family of ground squirrels…and it has to be as black as pitch inside.”

Maddy
smiled to herself as she urged her horse toward the
cadole
. Was Tristan
afraid that if they holed up in such close quarters, he would be tempted to
kiss her again? For a confirmed rake, he had certainly become a stickler for
propriety. This latest revelation made her more certain than ever that he
intended to court her once they reached London.

“This
is no time to quibble over details,” she declared, and promptly dismounted,
tied the mare’s reins to the nearest grape stake and crawled through the narrow
entrance into the
cadole.

“It
is roomier than it looks from the outside,” she called over her shoulder.

Tristan
gave no answer and she poked her head out to find him standing beside the hut
in the pouring rain. “Don’t be so foolish,” she chided. “There is plenty of
space for two people as long as you keep your head down.”

Tristan
groaned. Nothing in the world could induce him to crawl into that tiny stone
hut and huddle in the dark until the storm passed. “I’ll wait out here,” he
said tersely. “It is just a spring shower and will soon be over.”

“Not
soon enough to keep you from catching a case of lung fever.” Maddy peered up at
him, a frown puckering her brow. “Do not think I am unappreciative of your
concern for my reputation. Your honorable conduct does you credit, but how do
you think I will feel if in protecting my good name you make yourself seriously
ill?”

Tristan
stared at her, mouth agape. What was the fool woman prattling on about now? And
what bearing did his fear of enclosed spaces have on her good name? Then he
remembered she couldn’t possibly know he turned into a craven coward at the
very thought of being trapped in such a space.

Devil
take it, he might as well confess his problem. He knew her well enough now to
be certain she would never let up on him until he did—and what did it matter if
she took him in disgust? Better that than the starry-eyed look she’d been
giving him ever since he’d made the mistake of kissing her.

“My
honor notwithstanding, I could not make myself crawl into that hut if my life
depended on it,” he said grimly. “I have had a terror of enclosed spaces since
I was a small child—especially small, dark, enclosed spaces. The
traboules
were hellish enough; I would turn into a raving lunatic if I crawled into this
hut.” There, he’d said it; let her scoff if she wished. Until now only Garth
and Carolyn had been privy to his shame.

Maddy
peered up at him from the entrance of the hut. “I have heard of such an
affliction,” she said matter-of-factly. “I do not believe it is terribly
uncommon. But why in heaven’s name didn’t you mention this in the
traboules
instead of turning into a snarling beast every time we entered an enclosed
space?”