Thunder and Roses (7 page)

When the journey was half completed, the trail widened so that they could travel side by side. Nicholas said, “You ride better than I would have expected for someone who learned on that old slug of your father’s. The beast had a mouth like granite.”
                         

She smiled. “If I seem competent, Rhonda must get the credit. It’s pleasant to ride an animal that’s so responsive and has such smooth gaits. Willow had his points, though. My father was an absent-minded horseman, and he never had to worry that Willow would bolt if neglected.”

“Small chance of that. More likely Willow stopped and grazed whenever your father’s mind wandered.” Without a change in tone, he continued, “I’m curious about how bad my local reputation is. What do people in Penreith say about the melodramatic events of four years ago?”

Rhonda stopped and tossed her head unhappily as Clare’s hands tightened on the reins. Forcing herself to relax, she said, “It’s believed that after years of trying to break your grandfather’s heart, you finally succeeded by seducing his wife. When he found you in bed together, he suffered a fit of apoplexy that killed him. Your own wife, Lady
Tregar
, was
horrorstruck
when she discovered what had happened. Terrified that you would injure her, she fled Aberdare. The night was stormy and she died when her carriage went off the road and crashed into the river.”

When she fell silent, he said lightly, “Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough?” she said, her tone edged. “Perhaps you’ll be gratified to know that there was speculation that your grandfather really died of Gypsy poison, and that your wife’s death may have been less accidental than it appeared. The fact that you left Aberdare that night and never came back was fuel for the fire. However, the magistrate’s inquiry found no evidence of criminal conduct.”

Voice laced with irony, he said, “Surely there are those who believe that Old Nick was capable of bribing a country magistrate to conceal the truth.”

“It was suggested, but the magistrate was much respected. Also, Lady
Tregar’s
coachman swore that it was a genuine accident that resulted from her insisting that he go faster, against his better judgment.”

“Did the coachman ever mention where Caroline was going in such a tearing hurry? I’ve sometimes wondered.”

Clare thought a moment, then shook her head. “Not that I know of. Does it matter?”

He shrugged. “Probably not. I was merely curious. As you know, I left in a hurry, without learning all the details. Still … does the coachman live in the valley?”

“No. When you left, most of the servants were dismissed and had to go elsewhere.” She was unable to resist adding, “At least thirty people lost their jobs when the house was closed. Did you ever think of that when you went storming out?”

After a long silence, he said, “To be honest, no.”

As she studied his profile, she saw a tightness that belied his casual manner. She had wanted to prick his conscience, yet now that she had, she found herself needing to ease his expression. “You had supporters as well as detractors. My father never believed that you could have behaved so badly.”

Like her father, Clare had not wanted to believe the worst. She hoped that Nicholas would take this opportunity to deny the charges, offer some plausible explanation for what seemed like vicious immorality. Instead, he only said dryly, “Your father was a saint. I, however, am a sinner.”

“You take great pride in that, don’t you?” she said, disappointment sharpening her voice.

“Of course.” His expressive brows arched. “One must have pride in something.”

“Why not pride in your integrity, or your charity, or your learning?” she asked with exasperation. “The virtues of adults instead of the vices of small boys.”

For a moment he looked startled and off-balance. Then he recaptured his insouciance. “At Aberdare, my grandfather laid claim to all the virtues. Vice was the only thing left to me.”

Clare scowled at him. “The old earl has been dead for four years, and you’re a grown man. Find a better excuse, or learn better behavior.”

His expression darkened. “You scold more like a wife than a mistress.”

Realizing that she had said too much, she said, “More like a schoolmistress than either.”

“I’m sure that all your lessons will be sober, high-minded, and worthy,” he said thoughtfully. “But what lessons are you going to learn from me?”

Though Clare remained silent, she knew the answer to his question: any lessons she learned from Nicholas would be dangerous ones.
        

             
4

 
It had been years since Nicholas had visited the old quarry, and then he had accepted it casually, without deeper thought. This time, however, he studied the rocky outcroppings more carefully. As he swung from his horse, he said, “This whole area appears to be slate with a thin covering of soil.”

“A friend who knows about slate says it would take decades to quarry it all.” Clare stopped her pony and prepared to dismount, then froze when Nicholas came to help her.

He looked into her alarmed face and smiled reassuringly. In her well-worn boy’s clothing, she looked younger and much less severe— an appealing urchin rather than a schoolmistress. “You must work on becoming more relaxed around me instead of reacting like a hen that has been cornered by a fox.” He helped her from the pony, then retained her hand in his. “A mistress is supposed to enjoy her lover’s touch.”

Her fingers fluttered anxiously for an instant, then stilled as she accepted that he was not ready to release her. “I am not a real mistress.”

“You don’t have to share my bed, but I intend to treat you like a mistress in other ways. Which means that you’ll find the next three months much more pleasant if you let yourself relax and enjoy it.” Gently he caressed her slim fingers with his thumb. “I like touching—female flesh is delightfully different from that of males. Your hand, for example. Small-boned, rather delicate, yet it’s not the soft, helpless hand of a lady who never does anything more vigorous than lift a fork. An enchantingly capable hand. If you should choose to use it for making love, it would be wondrously skilled.”

Her eyes widened and her hand shivered within his. It was not a reaction of distaste. Clare hungered for physical warmth, though he doubted that she knew that herself. He must use that hunger, slowly coax it into a craving so intense that she could no longer deny it. But he must go slowly, because she was going to fight him every inch of the way.

Again he wondered which would prove stronger: her virtue or his powers of persuasion. The uncertainty of the outcome made him feel more anticipation than he had known in years.

He released Clare and tethered both mounts, then put a casual hand on the small of her back and escorted her across the grass to the nearest outcropping of slate. Through the layers of coat and shirt, he felt her tense, then relax and accept the familiarity. As he savored her supple movements, he gave an inward smile. Intimacy was a web spun of many strands, and each small submission on her part was a point won for him.

When they reached the rocky projection, he moved away from Clare and examined the irregular layers of dark, light-absorbing stone. “I never realized that slate breaks in such flat planes.”

“It doesn’t always—this is a particularly high-quality vein. But even the beds that have the most clay mixed in will make good roofing slates.”

An idea occurred to him. “Stand back.” He lifted a sizable rock, then smashed it onto the outcropping with all his strength. There was an ear-piercing crack of sound and a spray of stone chips. A large slab of the outcropping sheered away, leaving several square feet of absolutely level surface.

He skimmed his palm across the slate. “This might make a good surface for a billiard table.”

Her brows drew together. “Why would you want to put slate on a billiard table?”

“Wood often warps, especially in damp areas like Wales,” he explained. “Fit together several slabs of this slate, cover it with green baize, and one might have a superior table.”

“That’s a frivolous use of good slate.”

“Here’s a lesson for you, Clare. Frivolity is usually far more profitable than necessity.” He dusted his hands and turned away. “I’ll have the estate carpenter use some of this to resurface the table at Aberdare. If it works, we might have a profitable new market for the best of the slate.” He draped a casual arm over her shoulders. “Show me the rest of the site.”

They spent the next hour scrambling over the hillside, studying the extent and quality of the exposed slate, and laughing at the antics of the lambs that skipped around their grazing mothers. Nicholas found that it was as amusing to work with Clare as it was to skirmish with her, for her quick mind and direct manner made her unlike any woman he’d ever known. As a bonus, she looked enticing in her severe boots and breeches.

They ended by the lowest visible outcropping. Nicholas studied the slope, then pointed out a ridge that curled down to the southwest. “This looks like the best spot for the tramway. It isn’t far to the river, and it’s all Aberdare land.”

“How soon would it be possible to start working the quarry?”

He considered. “Probably by midsummer. The tramway might not be completed, but finished slates can be held here until it is. Before work can begin, I’ll have to go to London to arrange financing. We’ll also have to visit a large slate quarry to study the techniques, and perhaps hire an experienced manager. Then there’s the matter of the new quay on the coast. A site must be found, an engineer hired.” He gazed absently at the valley, thinking of all the details that he would have to take care of; money was no substitute for personal attention.

“You’re smiling,” she said softly. “As if you’re looking forward to the challenge.”

“My feelings are mixed. I’d been thinking of selling Aberdare, but everything you’ve asked me to do will bind me more closely to the place, at least for the next year or two.”

“Sell Aberdare!” she exclaimed, as shocked as if he wanted to ship the whole estate —bag, baggage, and sheep—to China. “But you’re Welsh—this has been the Davies home for centuries!”

“I’m no Welshman,” he retorted. “I’m half Gypsy, and even though my grandfather liked to proclaim himself a descendant of Welsh kings, the truth is that generations of marrying English heiresses had made the Davies blood more English than Welsh. Aberdare represents only a small part of my fortune, and I would like nothing better than to turn my back on the place forever.”

Observing her appalled expression, he said, “The idea shocks you more than anything else I’ve done, doesn’t it?”

Rallying, she said, “Surely you can’t sell even if you want to. Isn’t the estate entailed so that you are only a life tenant, holding the property in trust for your own heir?”

He shook his head. “An entail has to be recreated in every generation. Ordinarily the resettlement is done on the heir’s twenty-first birthday, or his marriage. However, my grandfather’s own sons died before inheriting, and since the old boy never wholly accepted me as his heir, he kept putting off the resettlement. Since he died suddenly, it was still undone when I inherited. I think I can break the entail if I try.”

“But you were his heir, and would have been even if his second wife had given him another son,” she said, bewildered. “What did he hope to achieve by not accepting that?”

“He was praying for a miracle,” Nicholas said dryly. “Very pious, my grandfather. He was sure that God would provide something better than an heir who was tainted by Gypsy blood.”

Seeing through his mocking tone, Clare regarded him with too-perceptive eyes. “Is that why you hated him?”

Wondering why he had said more to a near stranger than he had ever revealed to his closest friends, he said, “That’s no business of yours, my dear.” He took her arm and headed up the hill to their mounts. “Has anyone ever pointed out that you’re too clever by half?”

“It’s been mentioned. Why do you think I’m a spinster?” She swung into her saddle, then looked down at him gravely. “Your grandfather had a reputation as a good Christian and a conscientious lord. I’m beginning to think that the truth must have been less flattering.”