The Summer of You (17 page)

She laughed then, one that made the heat of shame begin to flood Jason’s cheeks.

“That summer,” she continued, “the one you and I finally spent together—all flushed and fumbling, our hearts open to each other . . . when it ended, I despaired. Absolutely wretched to be around, my mother would tell you. But out of those explorations, those idle hours, my heart became prepared to meet Brandon.”

Penelope turned her body to him then—no longer the lithe young frame of a girl at seventeen but that of a woman. Still trim and young, but she had borne children, and putting her body to its purpose had lent her a woman’s gravity. “I would not trade our summer together for anything.”

“Nor would I,” Jason found himself saying, his own voice surprisingly thick.

“But with every leer, every propositioning word you make now, you taint those memories. It strips me of an hour or two of the past. Do you understand?” Penelope asked.

Jason did understand and was ashamed of it. He felt the blood drain from his face, utter embarrassment leaving him stern and white. He looked down at his shoes, at the grass, anywhere but at her.

Penelope took pity on him then, extended her hand: the northern offer of friendship and a modicum of absolution for Jason.

He did not take it.

Slowly, she withdrew her hand. “I may not be the girl you remember, and you not the boy I recall, but I had wished to go on as friends, my lord.”

Jason set his mouth in a grim line and gave Penelope a curt bow. “Of course, Mrs. Brandon.”

Penelope looked at him once more, dead in the eye, and Jason saw exactly what she was thinking. She felt sorry for him. It was written plain as day on her face. But all she did was curtsy politely, and then she turned and left him alone by that tree, in the dark of night, the only noise the breeze moving the shrubbery . . . while she went into the assembly to join her husband. Her life.

She felt sorry for him? Well, of course she did—he was in a right sorry state. Banished to the country, feeling provincial and rejected by the one person he truly wanted to see here. Jason had never made friends easily, the way Jane did, but he didn’t expect to be pitied by the only one in the county he counted as one.

He was stuck here. Stuck in this godforsaken outpost of Wordsworth tourism, and all he wanted was to feel like himself again. Not the Duke’s son, not his heir, not fettered and weighted with those titles’ inherent responsibilities. He wanted loud. He wanted new. Anything to distract from this constant silence.

Well, why not? he thought. Why not kick the dust off this sleepy little town? He may not be able to leave with ease, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t invite the fun to join him.

Perhaps it was time Charles and Nevill paid the Cottage a visit.

They waited until they heard Jason’s retreating footsteps before exhaling. He did not move toward the assembly but rather up the high street . . . likely toward one of the pubs. Maybe he’d escape the village proper and go all the way out to the Oddsfellow Arms . . . if Mr. Johnston would take his business. But Byrne decided if any man ever deserved a drink tonight, it was Jason.

Still crouched low in the bushes, Byrne watched Jane digest everything she had overheard. He had watched her during the whole conversation, watched as at first her eyes had bulged with shock, then as she blushed with embarrassment, and then finally, as she became drawn with sympathy.

She pressed a hand to her heart as her brother faded into shadow, massaging away the phantom pain.

“Oh, Jason,” she breathed. “Oh, you fool.”

Byrne couldn’t think of anything to say to her, did not know how to console a person for her brother’s folly.

Although Byrne’s own brothers might have some insight.

So instead he placed his hand over hers, tentatively, in a gesture meant to soothe, to calm.

So when she jumped and shrieked, it caught him slightly off guard.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she whispered. “I just didn’t expect . . .” her voice faded into a giggle. And then it wouldn’t stop. A terrible fit of giggles overtook her body and lit her face with mirth.

It shot through his body like a ripple, full of life. This soft laughter, her wide welcoming smile made him want to dive at her, push her into the dirt, scatter the apples . . . they were alone in the shrubbery, after all, they were ignored by the party . . . it was summer, and it was the two of them, under the starry sky . . . it was perfect.

Byrne had wanted women before. And there was a time when the species came rather easily to him. But now . . . his need had never been this focused. He had felt it pull at him since he arrived at the assembly, pull him to her side. There was a moment, earlier, when they had found themselves standing beneath the oak Jason had just abandoned, that Byrne was certain she felt the same pull. But instead she had cut the line and left him floundering.

Like he was floundering now.

“Why are you laughing?” he grunted. “I may not like your brother very much, but it’s rather poor sport to laugh at him.”

“I’m not!” she protested between her giggles. “I’m laughing because nothing ever changes. I might as well be twelve years old. Jason is still mooning after Penelope, and I’m still getting into scrapes and hiding in the shrubbery.” She looked about her, bemused. “Why are we still hiding in the shrubbery?”

She turned her smile to him then, her eyes wet with laughter, shining, happy.

She had a leaf in her hair. A smudge of dirt on her elbow. And that pull tugged at his core.

Oh to hell with it. “This is why,” he said and took her mouth and kissed her.

It was hard, quick. She gave a small yelp of surprise, quickly muffled into a moan.

And it was thrilling.

He released her before she could protest further. From the shocked look on her face, he suspected she might have.

“Why . . . why did you do that?” she asked in a whisper.

He shrugged. “It was worth the doing,” he whispered back. He grinned into the darkness. Hell yes, it was worth the doing.

She could have slapped him. She could have left in a huff; he wouldn’t have stopped her. But whatever her delayed reaction would be, they were destined to never know. Because at that moment, a different set of voices approached them—and these, even more interesting than the last.

The shrubbery was proving remarkably useful that night.

“Did you see ’em?” the first voice said, in a rushed whisper. “Gold, diamonds . . .” It was unrecognizable, but clearly from the area by his sharp accent. “Loads of people here—I’m tellin’ ye, we could make a fortune on the road out of town.”

They were walking quickly, moving past the bushes as they spoke. Byrne tried to see through the vines and twigs, but the season had made them thick with new leaves. Excellent for hiding, not so good for seeing.

Byrne couldn’t make out what the other man said, even though he strained to hear. They were too far away now, their voices melding with the hum and bustle of the assembly.

After a moment, Byrne cleared his throat. “Well. Hiding in these bushes is proving more informative than originally thought.”

“I should say,” she breathed. “Is that what I think it was? The highwayman?”

“Possibly.” Byrne chanced to bring his head up, peer over the edge of the bushes, and look in the direction the men had moved, up the path into town. But it was too dark to see anything, too dark to tell.

“You should go after them, capture them!” Jane cried.

“On what charge? Conversing about the traffic the road out of town is going to have tonight? You yourself said we need proof.” Byrne stared into the darkness, the black abyss of the long road. “I’m going to follow them.”

“I’ll come with you,” Jane volunteered.

“You absolutely will not,” Byrne countered. “What would your father say if both his children left the assembly without him? What would the town?”

The excited color faded from Jane’s face. “Oh! You’re right of course. I really should get back . . . how long have we been out here?”

“No more than a few minutes,” Byrne assured her as they rose to their feet carefully. To his leg it felt like hours. To the rest of him . . . mere seconds.

He watched as Jane gave herself an efficient once-over, checking to make sure that her hair was in place, her dress straight. She rubbed the smudge of dirt off her elbow.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked quickly.

He couldn’t resist. Reaching over lightly, Byrne pulled a small leaf from the copper tendrils of hair just behind her ear. “You’re perfect,” he said.

That made her smile. And because she smiled, and because he felt that pull inching him toward her, telling him to ignore his purpose, Byrne let those be the last words he said to her that evening.

He turned and moved down the high street, letting the darkness fold in around him, becoming little more than a shadow.

Hunting his prey.

He did not look back.

IT cannot be thought surprising, given the events in the shrubbery, that Jane forgot to tell Victoria about her younger brothers’ apple-tossing abilities. Therefore, the morning after the assembly, Michael and Joshua Wilton found themselves pleasantly unpunished and therefore able to perpetrate their next adventure.

“What time is it?” Joshua mumbled, as Michael poked and prodded him awake.

“Not yet dawn,” Michael whispered. “Hurry up and get dressed. Bridget and Minnie will be up soon, and they’ll stop us.” He tossed his younger brother his trousers as he pulled on his own. No stockings or shoes—the whole house would hear them; better to go bare-foot.

Joshua yawned through the quick minutes it took to get dressed. “But what are we doing, Michael?” he asked.

“We are going to stand on the deadhead,” he replied with a grin.

Joshua’s eyes opened immediately. “The deadhead?” he squeaked.

The deadhead was a massive tree trunk, a log felled decades back and dropped in the middle of Merrymere by enterprising fishermen, stuck into the muck at the bottom. The theory being that a sunken object would become an attractive place for trout to gather and hide—and therefore a perfect fishing spot. Local fishermen had sunk a variety of objects over the years. A bed frame, a wagon with broken axles . . . all with the hope of attracting more fish. And any sport fisherman worth their salt would tell you it worked . . . although they would be hard-pressed to tell you the last time they had successfully caught a fish at any of those locations.

The deadhead itself was approximately forty feet long, stuck at an odd angle in the lake floor. It was mostly underwater, but a foot or so stuck out at the top. It was the absolute ultimate act of derringdo to stand on the deadhead, and none of their friends had done it yet. They were all too scared—it was too far out, they said; the water was too deep.

Truth was—it was too creepy. It gave them all a fright, every time they rowed by it.

But Michael wasn’t scared. No, he and Joshua were going to be the first to stand upon it, conquer the fear.

But Joshua didn’t look so sure.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Joshua whined, once they had snuck out the kitchen door and into the gardens.

“It’ll be brilliant,” Michael replied. “All we have to do is borrow Mr. Morgan’s dinghy and row it down the river and out onto the lake.”

“But won’t he notice his boat’s gone?”

“Everyone was at the party last night—they’ll be sleeping in,” Michael argued, secure in his logic. After all, if he’d been eating and dancing until three in the morning, he would sleep until at least nine—as would Michael’s parents and sisters.

“But what if he doesn’t?” Joshua asked again.

“He won’t.”

“But what if—”

“Don’t be such a namby-pamby, Joshua!” Michael cried.

“But . . . it’s the deadhead,” Joshua replied, coming to a complete stop.

“You don’t want to stand on it? Fine,” he said as he crossed his arms. “Then you can be a namby-pamby like everyone else. But I’m not scared. I’m going to go stand on the deadhead, and you can just watch me.”

Michael turned and started walking down the riverside, toward the Morgans’ farm, where he knew Mr. Morgan kept his dinghy tethered. It was mere seconds before he heard his brother’s footsteps catch up to his.

“I’m not scared, too,” Joshua said, and trotted alongside his brother, ready to face this next adventure.

Byrne hadn’t slept much or well. He hadn’t expected to. He had stressed his leg last night, first crouching for so long in the bushes, eavesdropping on everything from lust unrequited to a possible highwayman plot, and then following after the suspects, who, after a half hour of skulking in the shadows, he had found neither hide nor hair of.

There was very little more frustrating than discovering you have been chasing nothing, so Byrne had declined rejoining the assembly and grabbed Dobbs, who had the carriage ready and waiting. He could feel the burn in his thigh beginning, the long night he had in front of him. He needed a hot brandy and a cold compress. He needed to be home, away from people, before he began snapping and growling like a beast.

Oddly though, he realized in the wee hours of the morning, as he massaged the cramping muscles of his leg, it had felt good to be on the chase again. He had been too desperate in London, helping Marcus, to enjoy the skills it took to hide in plain sight, the senses of sight and hearing he had spent years refining. But it felt worthwhile to be using them again. It felt as if, for a few short minutes, he had a purpose again. Even given the frustrations of not knowing if what they’d overheard had anything to do with the highwayman, and the annoyance of losing the men in the darkness, it had felt right.

Jane would crow with triumph when he told her.

And thoughts of Jane automatically turned to thoughts of kissing her. He could chalk up his actions last night as a product of the stars, the summer air, and the gaiety of the other partygoers. The excitement and intensity, the nerves and the relief of having survived the gauntlet of villagers. All were perfectly good excuses for an errant kiss. But Byrne didn’t think they held true.

The truth was, he had been headed in this direction for weeks now, since he first offered friendship with a tin of tea. Perhaps even months, since he first saw her standing with her father at the Hampshire Racing Party, proud and sad.

Of course, Byrne didn’t know how she would act the day after—if she would play coquette and invite such advances, or bury their memory, acting as if nothing ever happened. He suspected the latter, more’s the pity.

He gave up on sleep just past dawn, his leg still a little stiff, but working. He walked out onto the porch and gazed out at the fog-covered lake. The sky was clear, so the sun would burn the mist off quickly, but for now, it seemed as if there was nothing in the world but his house and the water.

Byrne could hear Dobbs whistling in the stables beyond. He would be saddling up to ride into town for fresh bread and eggs—a hearty breakfast for hearty men, he liked to say.

He tested his weight on his leg. A twinge, not enough to keep him from exercise, but if he were being careful, he would wait until the afternoon or tomorrow to dive in. But he didn’t want to be careful.

She said she would come by today with the pages from the ledger. He couldn’t simply spend the whole morning waiting for her. He wanted to swim, to put everything out of his mind for a short hour, and let his thoughts become clear and calm.

It was just him, the water, and the morning mist as he stripped down to his smalls and dove in.

Joshua and Michael managed to get the dinghy down the river and out onto Merrymere without raising any hue and cry, which Michael took as a good omen. He was going to do it! Nothing could stop him!

The oars sliced through the water cleanly—although with Joshua on one and Michael on the other (and Joshua being markedly smaller than Michael), there was a slight listing to one side that required several course corrections as they made their way out to the deadhead.

It wasn’t in the middle of the lake—Michael doubted there was a tree tall enough to go all the way to the bottom of the middle of the lake—it was about a hundred feet offshore, on the eastern side of the lake.

It was sunny and clear by the time they pulled up alongside, Michael reaching out and grabbing the top of the deadhead to steady themselves. Despite the clear day, the deadhead loomed out of the water like a demon from the deep, disappearing into the abyss of muck and water below.

“Ew!” he cried happily. “It’s all slimy!”

“That’s disgusting—let me touch it!” Joshua stood up, nearly oversetting them in his haste.

“Joshua, sit down. You have to hold the boat steady as I stand up!” Joshua settled back into his seat, taking control of the oars, as Michael stood in the dinghy, balancing himself on the plank that served as their seat. Once he was upright, slowly, and with infinite care, Michael put one foot out, and placed it on the slimy, moss- and muck-covered top of the deadhead.

“Careful, Michael,” Joshua whispered, as Michael transferred his weight to the deadhead, and quickly brought his second foot to join the first.

He put his arms out for balance, and held for three seconds, four, five . . .

“I’m doing it!” he cried in the still morning air. “I’m standing on the deadhead!”

Of course, that was when he fell.

Quickly arcing into a dive, Michael splashed into the cool water, then surfaced several feet away, laughing. He had done it! He had stood on the deadhead!

“The other boys are never going to believe it!” he cried, pushing his wet bangs off his forehead as he treaded water. Minnie was going to yell at him for being all wet, and if Mr. Morgan found out they’d taken his boat, they were about to be skinned alive, but he didn’t care, because just then, he was the king of the lake.

“I want to try,” Joshua said, leaping out of his seat and balancing himself on the plank seat.

“All right,” Michael replied, as he started back toward the deadhead. “Let me get back into the boat first.”

But Joshua wasn’t listening. He put his foot out, placed it on the deadhead. Then, quickly, too quickly, he brought his other one on—kicking the boat away and setting it adrift.

“Joshua, no!” Michael burbled, but it was too late.

Joshua had stepped on too fast, he hadn’t given enough time to balance, and his second foot caught only the edge of the top of the deadhead, and slipped on its slimy surface.

He didn’t fall away from the deadhead, like Michael had. Instead, he fell down, and hard, hitting his chin on the log as he went.

Michael didn’t know what he did next, didn’t know how to move his arms or legs—all he knew was he heard himself screaming as his brother disappeared beneath the surface.

Byrne heard the boy before he saw him. His head surfacing from a stroke, the cry rent the still, cool air around him. He had been swimming for almost an hour, the fog on the water had dissipated, and the sun gleamed off the surface, blinding Byrne as he looked around for the source of the sound.

Then he caught sight of the screaming boy.

“Help! Help me! Joshua!” the boy cried from a hundred, maybe two hundred yards away, near the log that stuck haphazardly out of the water—the one the locals called the deadhead. Several yards away a small dinghy was floating aimlessly.

“Joshua!” the boy yelled again, then burbled as he went underwater.

Byrne put his arms and legs to work. He moved through the water faster than ever, faster than he had ever dared to push his body. Kick, stroke, breathe, kick, stroke, breathe . . .

Finally, he reached the boy’s side—apple-tossing Michael Wilton, part of his brain recognized dimly—as he surfaced once more for air, and yelled for his brother. Byrne grabbed him before he went back under.

“What happened?” Byrne cried over Michael’s splashes. The child looked wildly about, and finally saw that Byrne was holding him by the shirt collar.

“He hit his head—went under. I told him not to do it!”

Byrne looped Michael’s arms around the deadhead, growling, “Stay here!” before he gulped air and dove under.

It was murky beneath the surface. Byrne’s eyes stung with the freshwater and algae that clouded his vision. He went down, down deep, the temperature dropping with every inch, using the deadhead to feel his way, climbing down it like a ladder, while he scanned the world around him.

A glint of silver in the distance—a fast-moving school of fish. A flutter below him—a length of seaweed, twined around an arm of the deadhead. His lungs began to burn, and he was about to surface to gulp a breath of air when, suddenly, he saw him.

He was drifting slowly down, his arms raised up as if reaching out for help, his body lifelessly limp. Byrne didn’t think about how still he looked, didn’t speculate about how long the boy could have been underwater—he laddered down the deadhead as fast as he could, grabbed the boy underneath his arms, and kicked furiously for the surface.

He burst through into the sunlight, gasping for air. The unmoving body of little Joshua Wilton did not. Byrne treaded water as he turned the boy around in his arms, brought his face to his. He shook him, slapped the body lightly, tried to rouse him.

“Joshua. Joshua!” Byrne cried, but to no avail. Joshua remained still.

Dammit. He couldn’t do this treading water. He needed to get to land. Byrne glanced at the dinghy, now floating even farther away, then to shore. A quick calculation of time—shore was the better bet.

“Can you swim?” Byrne asked Michael brusquely. Michael, who had been watching wide-eyed since Byrne surfaced, nodded quickly. “Come on!” he said then, and cradling Joshua in his arms, Byrne kicked his way toward shore.

It was agony. His thigh burned every time his leg came down in the water. It burned twice as much when he raised it up again. But he did not allow himself to think about it. He concentrated on the boy, on how to get him breathing again, awake again.

Byrne only glanced back once. Michael swam behind him, not as fast but steady. He was a strong swimmer—which was good, because Byrne doubted he’d be able to swim with both their weight. Finally, after what felt like eons but could only have been a few minutes, they reached land. Byrne collapsed to his knees, dropping Joshua as gently as he could manage on the rocky, muddy shore.