The Perfect Kiss (11 page)

The mare lay wearily for a moment or two. Grace watched, entranced. The mare had raised her head to sniff curiously at her tiny foal. She moved closer, sniffing him, learning him, cleaning his wet, slimy coat with rough, loving sweeps of her tongue. She stopped every now and then to nudge him gently with her nose and snuff his new baby scent.

It was the most beautiful sight Grace had ever beheld.

The foal squirmed under his mother’s tongue. The mare whickered gently and the foal’s long ears flicked back and forth as he responded to the first sound of his mother’s voice.

Lord D’Acre stood beside Grace, watching over the half door. Grace gave him a misty smile. “It’s a miracle,” she whispered. “A miracle.” Her eyes were blurry with tears.

As she spoke the mare inside whickered again to her foal.

Their eyes met, clung, shared the moment. “Yes,” he said slowly. “It is a miracle.” He touched her cheek with one finger. It came away wet. “And so are you.” And he drew her into his arms and kissed her, a long, sweet kiss.

It was a sweet and simple kiss, tender and quiet, a sharing of feeling, a communion . . . and it stole Grace’s heart right out of her body.

After a time, she drew away from him, remembering who she was and who he was. She watched the mare, licking her foal, learning it.

“How does she know just what to do?”

“Maternal instinct,” he said quietly. “One of the most powerful forces in the world.” He said it almost reverently, and with deep conviction.

“Melly would love this,” she murmured.

“She likes horses?”

His question jolted Grace to an awareness of what she’d said. She hadn’t meant to say anything—it was for Melly to tell him, not her, but now, by speaking without thinking, there was an opportunity to push things along a little. Should she say something more?

She bit her lip, watching the mother lavish her baby with care. Upstairs Melly lay dreaming. Melly, overflowing with maternal yearnings, dreaming dreams that would never come true if she married this man. Yes, she should speak up. That’s why Melly had begged her to come, to help free her of an unwanted betrothal.

“No, Melly Pettifer doesn’t like horses; she’s afraid of them. But that.” Grace gestured at the mare, nudging her foal gently. “That is what Melly Pettifer dreams of.”

He gave her a sharp look. “What do you mean?”

“Motherhood.” She met his gaze somberly. “She loves babies. She yearns for the day she can hold her own babe in her arms. I’ve known her for seven years. She’s always wanted children.” She pulled her shawl more tightly around her and stepped away from him. “Always.”

He reached out to hold her, but she avoided him. “No. It’s not me you need to talk to,” she said and walked back out of the stables.

 
 
GRACE’S EYES FLEW OPEN AND SHE JERKED AWAKE WITH A START. Another dream, she realized. A faint gray light threaded through the curtains. Dawn. She decided to give up on trying to sleep. She knew she must have slept, but mostly the night had passed in tempestuous dreaming: dreams in which Dominic Wolfe played a far too conspicious part. Passionate, toe-curling kisses, jumbled in with phrases such as “Marriage is nothing but a business arrangement.” And lurching carriage rides and foals and a dark head bent with unbearable tenderness over a splintered palm. And babies and a silver horse and wood-chopping and a white shirt and wet breeches plastered to a hard, lean frame.

Who was he? One moment he was kissing her with a passion that still curled her toes, a whole day later, just thinking about it. The next he spoke with cool dispassion of marriage being nothing but a business arrangement. And then he labored over a mare and foal with such compassion, and afterward kissed Grace with such tenderness . . .

And what did he want? He desired Grace. That was clear.

And she desired him.

But he seemed to feel no contradiction between marrying Melly and desiring Grace.

Grace glanced across at the mound in the other bed. Melly was still fast asleep, poor thing. She was worn out with worry.

She could not let things continue like this. She’d promised to help Melly, and Melly was her oldest friend. Only what was help? It wasn’t as simple as it had seemed in the first place.

If Melly was even the slightest bit inclined to like Lord D’Acre, Grace couldn’t in all conscience interfere—not now. Even if—especially if—she wanted him for herself.

And she did. Rake as he was, immoral as he seemed, to her shame, she wanted him.

She’d always thought she was unable to feel the kind of passion her sisters had found with their husbands. She’d thought she could never give herself and her happiness into the hands of a man.

Or so she had always thought until a rake stole a few kisses. And sucked a splinter from her palm. And then kissed her until her very bones were like to melt . . .

In one day he’d turned her world upside down.

And yet he still talked of marrying Melly.

Her plans to travel to Egypt and other exotic places had been based on the assumption that she’d never fall in love. A not unreasonable assumption: she’d been on the marriage mart for three years and had tried very hard to fall in love, even a little bit. And nothing.

She’d thought a man’s kisses would never move her. They never had. Even when the nicest men had kissed her, and their kisses had been very pleasant, she’d still felt nothing. Not the sort of thing she knew her sisters felt.

Until now. When she’d kissed a man she didn’t even know if she could trust, and who not only didn’t believe love and marriage went together, he could see nothing wrong with being betrothed to Melly while kissing Grace.

He should have been all wrong, and yet she’d felt so right in his arms. She’d felt . . . everything. More than she’d thought possible.

No, it was impossible. He seemed determined to go ahead and marry Melly. Melly, though she said she didn’t want to marry him, also thought him kind. And good-looking. Now that she’d met him, Melly might become reconciled to the marriage. Grace didn’t see how she couldn’t. Any woman would want to marry him, she thought despairingly. He was too attractive for his own good. Certainly too attractive for Grace’s good!

Lord D’Acre might change his mind about children. He’d said marriage was about heirs. And he seemed to be kind to children. That boy who’d brought the food last night thought him wonderful.

Oh, Lord, she ought to just cut and run. She couldn’t betray her friend and she wouldn’t stay to be torn apart. She should go to Egypt with Mrs. Cheever, put Dominic Wolfe and his compelling golden eyes and his toe-curling kisses right out of her mind.

Egypt, after all, had always been her dream. Since childhood it had been her ruling passion: to see the pyramids and the Sphinx for herself. To stand there in golden Egyptian sand and look at—be able to touch—the mystery of the ages.

She’d planned her trip to Egypt the way other girls planned their honeymoons.

She’d attended public lectures on Egypt and the exciting discoveries being made there all the time, she learned everything she could and was even studying Arabic.

She’d met Mrs. Hermione Cheever at one of those lectures. Mrs. Cheever was a wealthy, elderly widow with a similar passion for pyramids and the mysteries of the ancient world. Mrs. Cheever was going to Egypt in the autumn, visiting her poor bereaved cousin Henry Salt, the British consul, and avoiding winter, like the swallows, she’d joked. Why didn’t Grace accompany her? It would be such fun!

There was still time. If she left now, she could still join Mrs. Cheever. Grace was nearly one-and-twenty, and Egypt was waiting, as she’d always dreamed of.

But last night she’d been unable to sleep for dreams of a golden-eyed man who kissed like . . . like all the dreams she’d never dared to dream.

Oh it was all too confusing! Going back to sleep was impossible: she needed exercise. And breakfast.

And another good gargle with vinegar and water wouldn’t hurt, either.

She dressed quickly. The previous day she’d found an old gray riding habit in a chest of drawers they’d been clearing out for their own use. Grace had tried it on immediately. It had been made for a taller lady, but otherwise it fitted. It was old-fashioned in style but in perfect condition, thanks to the lavender and camphor it had been packed in.

Grace adored riding, but hadn’t brought a riding habit with her on this trip. Melly didn’t ride and therefore neither would her companion. But Sir John was bed-bound for a time and would never find out, and Melly was asleep and didn’t need her, so for the moment, Grace was free to indulge herself.

Holding her skirts high, she skipped across to the stables. Three pale and one dark equine heads poked over the doors curiously. He must have caught the third mare.

The silvery mare she’d ridden yesterday whickered a greeting and tossed her head. Grace was delighted.

“Oh, you remember me, do you, sweetheart?” She caressed the velvety muzzle and fed the mare a carrot. “I’m sorry, it’s a bit woody.” The mare didn’t seem to mind. She crunched it with apparent relish, while Grace fed carrots to all the other horses—extra for the little mother. The foal was standing up, drinking from his mother, his little tail wiggling in delight. Newborn foals were much nicer than newborn humans, Grace thought.

She’d brought a cloth to clean off the old sidesaddle she’d noticed yesterday. It was in better condition than she’d realized. She saddled her mare and slipped a bridle on her. The mare lipped gently at Grace’s jacket.

“No, sweetheart, no more carrots. What’s your name, I wonder? I can’t keep calling you sweetheart.” She loved this mare already. “Maybe I’ll call you Misty, because you look so much like morning mist. Do you like that name?” She used a manger as a riding block to mount, and rode out.

After the storm the previous day, the world was newly washed and clean and the air was fresh and tangy with the faint promise of autumn.

Her mare was frisky and her mood infected Grace, so first they had a glorious gallop across the fields. The scent of crushed summer grasses and damp earth was intoxicating. Grace didn’t take much notice of where she was: all through this valley the gray solidity of Wolfestone was visible, so she wouldn’t get lost.

After a while, a field of brown-and-white cows attracted Grace’s attention and diverted her path in the direction of a prosperous-looking farmhouse. Where there were cows she hoped there would be milk. And butter and cheese.

There was, and Mrs. Parry, the motherly looking farmer’s wife, was only too happy to entertain a young London lady staying at the castle. She ushered Grace into the parlor and gave her a glass of fresh, creamy milk and some of her special gingerbread. And she was delighted to answer all the questions Grace put to her.

Yes indeed, she’d send milk and cheese and butter up to the castle straight away. Young Jimmy would take it right after he’d finished in the dairy. Would miss want some fresh eggs, too, perhaps? And what about a nice pot of honey, and some of Mrs. Parry’s damson jam?

Miss would indeed like all of the above. And would Mrs. Parry recommend the best place to buy bacon? And bread? And coffee.

“Oh, the Wigmores are the ones to see for bacon, miss—they killed a pig not too long back, either, so I know they’ll have plenty. Just go along this path toward the village and you’ll see a cottage with a gate made of a rowan and a willow, all entwined. She be a witch, o’ course, old Granny Wigmore—but a white one, so don’t be a’feared. A grand healer, Granny be.”

Grace nodded. She was well acquainted with country superstition. Her grandfather had despised it, which naturally had made all the Merridew girls sympathize with it, even if they didn’t believe. And Great-Uncle Oswald adored trying out folk remedies for his various ailments.

“Most likely Granny will be sitting out the front. She doesn’t sleep much and likes to know what’s happening.” Mrs. Parry winked. “Now, you’ll get bread and coffee in the village. You’ll smell the bread baking as soon as you get there, so just follow your nose.”

Grace thanked her and got up to leave. “Oh, and Mrs. Parry—if you know of anyone who needs a few weeks’ work, you might send them up to the castle.”

Mrs. Parry beamed at her. “Ah, miss, that’s grand. There’s plenty o’ folk will be grateful for a little extra. Times have been hard in Wolfestone. I’ll spread the news, indeed I will. And my Jimmy will be up wi’ everything in a basket for you—and miss, I’ll pop in a jar of my best buttermilk, just for you.”

“Buttermilk?”

“For your complexion, miss,” Mrs. Parry said confidingly. “Bathe it three times a day in my buttermilk and those nasty freckles will fade like you wouldn’t believe.”

Grace thanked her gravely and left. She’d have to freshen up those nasty freckles with henna in a day or two. And touch up the roots of her hair.

A little further down the valley, she turned a corner and saw the very house Mrs. Parry had described. It was set in the middle of a lush garden of herbs and flowers, and the living archway of entwined rowan and willow at the front gate was unmistakable. It was ancient and gnarled and strangely beautiful.

As predicted, an old woman was sitting in front of the cottage in the early morning sunshine. A sprightly old crone with rosy cheeks and hair in white elflocks, she was on her feet and at the front gate by the time Grace reached her.

“You are Mrs. Wigmore, I think. I am Grace M—” She corrected herself. “Miss Greystoke.” Grace slipped from the mare and held out her hand.

To her surprise the old woman took her hand and kissed it, saying, “Welcome, Lady. The sight of ye gladdens my old eyes, it does. Wolfestone needs ye, needs ye powerful bad.” She produced a piece of apple and fed it to the mare. “A grand omen that you’ve returned.”

Grace supposed the old lady had mistaken her for someone else. She smiled. “You gave me directions last night to the doctor’s, remember? Thank you very much. They were excellent directions. Um, I was hoping to buy some bacon.”

“Aye, I have ’un here.” The old lady produced a wrapped packet from her apron. “There’s enough there for everyone up at t’castle to break their fast. Young Billy Finn’ll bring a flitch o’ best bacon up later—save ye luggin it on that ’orse.”