Three Heroes (37 page)

She took a step forward.

A dog growled. She blinked, seeing four large hounds sprawled near the threshold in the sun. One was looking at her lazily, but with a warning eye.

“Daffy.”

At the word, the dog subsided. Hawk walked past, out of the house, Jetta still in his arms.

He stroked the purring cat, but his eyes were on Clarissa. “Welcome to Hawkinville.”

Now why, thought Hawk, did he feel almost shocked to see Clarissa here when she was fully expected?

It was as if the air had thinned, or as if he’d been riding and working to the point of wavering exhaustion.

He pulled himself together and answered questions. Yes, the sundial was very old and had come from the monastery at Hawks Monkton when it had been destroyed in the sixteenth century. Yes, the tower did date back to before the Conquest but had been fixed and improved a number of times.

Clarissa’s dress was a simple one for this day in the country. It had not seemed special before. Now the color reminded him of the richest cream in the cool dairy and made him want to lick something.

Yes, he said to Lord Trevor, there was a home farm, and this was it. The manor house also served as a modest farmhouse. There were more buildings beyond the wall to the right.

That dress was doubtless the simplicity of a very expensive modiste, but the effect was charming and comfortable and fit here like the roses. Her wide straw hat was caught down at either side with golden ribbons.

Why hadn’t he noticed before that it would prevent kisses?

She turned to look more closely at the sundial, leaning in but laughingly trying to protect her flimsy skirts from the rose thorns. He stepped forward to help, and she smiled up at him.

The buzz of insects among the flowers turned into a buzz in his head. Her hat shaded her face from the sun, but cast a golden glow and a hint of mystery. Her smiling lips were pink and parted, and he could almost taste their warmth.

What was beauty if not this?

With frightening clarity he could imagine her here as his wife. He would sweep her laughing into his arms and carry her upstairs to a bed covered with smooth sheets fresh from hanging in the sun. And there he would slowly, perfectly, ravish her.

He remembered to breathe, and when his hand was steady, he pulled out his penknife. “Let me cut you each a rose, ladies.”

He cut a pink one for Miss Trist, and carefully stripped the thorns before giving it to her. He cut a white one for Maria. But then he looked for a golden one, a perfect golden rose, just beginning to unfurl from bud, and gave it to Clarissa.

She remembered. He could tell by the way she blushed within the golden mysteries of her hat and raised the rose to inhale its perfume. He remembered his foolish, thoughtless words about roses…

And that she wasn’t for him.

Carpe diem.

The morrow was not for them.

He ached to reach out and touch her, simply touch her cheek. He wanted to tell her that this moment, at least, was true. He wanted to lock her in a safe and private place where she would never be in danger again.

The church clock began to chime, pulling him back to reality.

By the time it had struck the full ten, he could speak normally and invite his guests into the house. He steered them to the right, into the front parlor, then escaped, his excuse being having to tell his father they were here.

Clarissa looked around the modest but lovely room. The ceilings were low, and she’d noticed that Hawk had to duck slightly to get through the door, but it all created a coziness that wrapped itself around her.

She could imagine sitting here on a stormy winter night, a huge fire burning in the hearth, curtains tightly drawn. A person would always feel safe here.

Even the Devil’s Heiress.

She knew without doubt that she would be safe in Hawk’s arms, and in his home.

She raised the golden rose to her nose. The scent was light, almost elusive, but it was sweet and seemed to carry the charm of sunlight. A golden rose. That had to mean that his fondness was real, and her plan was good. Whatever the reason for his hesitation, it was not from reluctance.

Perhaps he simply felt it wrong to hurry her. Though it seemed like a lifetime, she had been in Brighton for only a week. Perhaps he’d set himself a restraint—that he not propose inside a fortnight, for example.

She inhaled the rose again, smiling. She was sure that restraint could be broken.

Maria sat in one of the old wooden chairs with crewel-work cushions. “Do you like the manor, Clarissa?

”

Clarissa pulled her wits together. “It’s lovely.”

“Perhaps it’s as well you think so. But at the least it needs new carpets.”

“Maria,” said her husband, “don’t start doing over someone else’s home.”

They shared a teasing smile, and Maria said, “That will be for Hawk’s wife to do.”

“Not until his father’s dead,” said Lord Vandeimen, and Clarissa saw a slight reserve touch his face. At thought of wife, or thought of father? Maria Vandeimen was discreet, but there might have been coolness in her mention of Squire Hawkinville during the journey here.

That was a small cloud on the horizon, she had to admit. She adored this house, but what would it be like sharing it with Hawk’s father, especially if he was an unpleasant man?

A small price for heaven.

“So,” said Maria, “what do you think on the subject of carpets, Clarissa?”

Clarissa looked at the faded and worn Turkish carpet that covered the rippling dark oak floor and felt that any change would disturb something as natural and perfect as the roses in the garden. When she looked carefully, she could see that the cushions on the old chairs sagged and the embroidery was faded and worn with time.

“I think they suit the house,” she replied with a smile, and Maria laughed.

“It’s as well we have different tastes, isn’t it?”

Clarissa glanced at Lord Vandeimen, a fine-looking man and pleasant, who stirred her not at all. “Yes, indeed.”

Maria chuckled.

A huge fireplace took up most of one wall, and an old oak settle sat to one side of it. The front wall was a bank of small-paned windows that stood open to the sunny courtyard. Clarissa wandered over. Soft perfume drifted in—rose, lavender, and many other plants she could not even name. Sparrows chirped in the eaves, doves cooed nearby, and all around, birds sang.

Oh, but she wanted Hawkinville Manor!

It seemed almost wrong to feel that way. It was Hawk she should want, and she did, desperately, but she was tumbling into mad love with his home as well.

More than love. It was as if the place was her setting, where she fit perfectly. She felt as if she were putting down roots now, tendrils winding through faded carpet and old oak floor into the earth beneath, determined to stay.

A gig rattled by outside the gates, startling her out of her impatient thoughts. Two women hurried past, chattering, laughing. Clarissa stepped back as if they might look and see her there, might see her yearning, but all the same she loved the way the house was part of the village, not stuck far away in a huge park.

Then Hawk returned, making her heart do a dizzying dance. The cat was still in his arms. “Let me show you around this floor. I’m afraid the manor isn’t a showplace, just a simple home.”

Clarissa went forward into the flagstoned hall.

The walls were wainscoted in blackened oak and painted white above, hung with the occasional painting.

A small table against one wall held a bowl of mixed garden flowers. It wasn’t a formal arrangement, any more than this was a formal house, but it was pretty and entirely right for the setting.

A faint purr hummed from Jetta. Clarissa knew she would purr too if Hawk was stroking her in that absent-minded but continuous way.

“It’s lovely,” she said.

“I think so. It is doubtless impractical of me, but I don’t want to see it change.”

“Who would?”

He flashed her a smile. “Most people, especially if they had to actually live here. And are tall.” He ducked slightly to lead her into a dark-paneled dining room with another huge fireplace, ancient oak sideboards, and a thick table. That table had been polished so long and lovingly that the glossy top seemed to have the depth of a dark pool.

A mobcapped, aproned woman came in bearing plates. She bobbed a curtsy and went on with her business.

“Aren’t you tempted to have the doorways made higher?” she asked.

“It would be a serious structural challenge. I’m learning by painful experience.”

He led the way through an adjoining door into another parlor.

Another bank of windows almost filled the wall, and a window seat ran the width of it. Beyond lay a simple garden with lawn, rockery, and beds of flowers. And beyond that flowed the river. Two swans glided past as if completing the picture for her particular delight.

How wonderful to spend long summer evenings on this seat, by this river.

With Hawk.

It was not just wishful thinking.

Clarissa was determined that it would be so.

They walked over, as if in perfect accord, to look out at the view. Beyond the river lay peaceful fields, some with crops and some with cows. The land rose in the distance to the downs that lay between here and Brighton.

“What is the big white house up there?” she asked. “Steynings?”

“Yes.”

“Why is the village only on this side of the river?”

“The Eden’s deep here and tricky to cross, and the bridge is quite recent. Before that a person needed a boat or to go downstream a mile to Tretford to cross.”

She saw an old boathouse off to one side, unused now, wrapped around and split by wisteria.

“So Lord Vandeimen’s house wouldn’t have been built over there before the bridge.”

“Not unless he wanted to keep his inferior neighbors at bay.”

She sat on the seat and smiled up at him, simply happy. Happy with everything. “And did he?”

His hand continued to stroke the blissful cat. “When the first Baron Vandeimen settled here, he was inclined to look down on our simple ways, they say. Foreign, you see. Over the generations, they are beginning to fit in.”

Clarissa heard a laughing comment from Lord Vandeimen, but her attention was all on Hawk. His eyes were warm and full of humor. And something else?

He was very hard to read.

He looked out at the view again. “My bedroom is directly above here. We experimented with flashing candlelight messages in the night. Van and I could see each other’s lights, then Van and Con could send messages clear across the vale.”

“I’m surprised that isn’t done more often.”

“It is used—especially by smugglers—but, of course, it’s subject to bad weather. Come on, I’ll show you something else.”

He guided her back across the hall and up a short flight of stairs into another room as if she were the only one on this tour.

“But this is too big,” Clarissa said, looking around at a space that seemed as big again as the house.

“We call it the great hall, which is a little grandiose, but it serves the function. My mother held the occasional small ball here.” He led her further in. “Now you’re in the old tower.”

Then she understood where the extra space had come from. Most of the room was inside the hexagonal tower. To her right were the arrow slits she’d seen from the courtyard. Now she could see that they were glazed. There were more at regular intervals, but in the side of the tower opposite the door, another bank of windows had been cut. Since the tower walls were deep, the window seat was in an alcove of its own.

She went to kneel on the cushions to look out. This view was on a diagonal, looking out at a kitchen garden and an orchard, the trees already laden with small fruit. To the right she glimpsed the farm buildings he’d mentioned, and beyond, the river wound on through yet more fertile countryside.

“The kitchens and such are below, which is why this is raised.” He had come over to stand close behind her, so Jetta’s purr almost vibrated through her. If she turned, how close? “And that, I’m afraid, is all I can show you today. My father does not want to be disturbed.”

She swiveled and found that her knees almost touched his. “He is very unwell?”

“He’s partly paralyzed. He’s improving, but it’s slow and he prefers not to show himself to strangers. He’

s also often out of temper.” He took her hand and gently tugged her off the cushioned seat. “Let me take you out into the garden.”

It was a surprise to find the others in the large alcove with them, and frankly she wished they weren’t.

According to Queen Cleopatra, she needed to be apart with him.

Then she realized that Hawk held on to her hand. She still wore her gloves, but they were cotton lace and it was almost skin to skin. Queen Cleopatra had been right about the potency of that.

His other arm still cradled the cat, who was eyeing Clarissa suspiciously through slit eyes, but at least wasn’t hissing as yet. She liked the thought that the cat was jealous. Animals were supposed to have good instincts.

As they followed a stone-paved path down to the riverbank, she felt as if she and Hawk blended at palms and fingers to become one, but when they reached the riverbank he abruptly disentangled them.

Almost as if he’d only just noticed the joining.

She was lost without a map in a wilderness of emotions and touches.

A family of ducks paddled busily around, bobbing for food, ducklings quacking and dashing. Jetta leaped down from Hawk’s arms to lie in the sun watching the ducklings, as if she hoped one would come close.

“Don’t you dare,” Clarissa warned.

The cat only blinked.

Clarissa decided to stay close, just in case, but she turned back to look at the house. It seemed contentedly slumberous in the sun, wrapped in its blanket of climbing plants and thatch. The sun was warm on her skin and gave a glow to everything.

This was one of life’s perfect moments. She hadn’t had many, but she recognized it. It was a moment she would never forget, but she hoped there would be many more like it.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he said.