When She Said I Do (21 page)

She leaned her head against the window glass, her hands dropping to her lap, her sewing nearly forgotten as she gazed dreamily out at the vivid landscape. Who was he? How had he come to be the way he was? What sort of man was he? He wasn’t unkind … yet neither was he precisely kind. He lived in this fine house, yet he did nothing to improve it. He had the eye and ear of the village, yet he did nothing to benefit his people. His family awaited his attention, yet he barely spoke to them. Could that be a good man?

Yes, he’d rescued her, risking himself to keep her from breaking on the cobbles of the yard, yet he’d been perfectly willing to die at Dade’s hand. Perhaps it hadn’t been a risk of anything he hadn’t been willing to lose.

Mr. Porter was indeed a puzzle.

A dark flutter at the edge of her vision caught her attention. She turned her head to catch it, idly sharpening her empty gaze a little. What she saw so jolted her that she sat upright and pressed one hand upon the glass. There, at the end of the lawn, between two shady trees, stood a man.

Callie had explored that area only a few days ago, so she knew the true size of those trees and that they seemed much smaller at a distance. The man, therefore, must be a giant.

Callie held very still, wishing she hadn’t moved so abruptly, hoping he hadn’t caught the motion, hoping that he couldn’t see her in her pale gown, sitting in the sun … it was worth wishing for at any rate. The man’s features were hidden beneath his shapeless hat … she cast a glance about the library over her shoulder, wondering if there might be a telescopic viewer somewhere about.

When she turned back to the window, the figure was gone. Though she strained her eyes searching the shadows, there was nothing where he’d stood but two majestic trees.

Tap, tap.

Callie’s heart thudded in her chest, but it was only the front door knocker. When she answered, she found that Betrice and Henry had sent over the mare they’d promised to loan her. The pretty red-coated creature danced at the end of the groom’s lead, already wearing a lady’s sidesaddle and bridle, ready for a ride.

The groom promised to prepare a stall for her in Mr. Porter’s stables so that all Callie would have to do was to unsaddle her and shut her in after her ride.

Hesitantly, Callie agreed. She knew how to ride, of course, but there was a bit of difference between posting sedately down Rotten Row in London with her brothers at her side and spending all day on horseback in the countryside.

Sally was the name of the horse. “Hello, Sally. You have very nice … ears. Very delicate and, ah, pointy,” Callie told her. Perhaps it was silly to compliment an animal, but Callie had learned long ago that being nice never did any harm.

The aforementioned ears swiveled forward at her voice and Callie felt herself quite thoroughly inspected by the creature.

Female, not heavy, and not particularly strong. No problem.

Callie lifted her chin. “Do not underestimate me, Sally. I raised four younger brothers.
Worthington
boys, yet. I can handle
you
.”

Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she saw a little of the smugness fade from Sally’s limpid brown eye.

The groom had left to see to his duties in the stable, so Callie tethered Sally to the iron circle imbedded into the post out front and ran lightly back into the house to fetch her drawing supplies. With Sally, it would only take minutes to ride into the village to consult with Mr. Button about the ball. That would leave the rest of the day free to explore the valley and add to her collected specimens!

She donned her spencer quickly and changed into her walking boots. With no proper riding habit, she would make a silly show riding in her gown, but there was nothing to be done about it. At least the saddle was not astride!

Chapter 17

Calliope left the house so swiftly that it was all Ren could do to saddle his own horse and gallop down the lane after her. Henry’s groom simply nodded respectfully when Ren rode by him in a rush, as if hooded madmen were an everyday occurrence. Ren spared a thought to wonder if Henry would lend him the fellow. Calliope was quite correct. They truly did need a staff about the place.

Once into the rhythm of the ride—once upon a time he could stay in the saddle for hours, even days if required—inevitably his thoughts turned back to his night with her … sword fighting in the library … Calliope on the floor before him, conquered and helpless … her shameless cries of lust and longing …

It wasn’t long before he spotted Calliope on Henry’s new filly, far before him. She slowed as she turned into the village lane, so Ren pulled the reins just past the bridge. It was just in time. Riding astride with an erection was ill-advised. He would linger out of sight until she finished her business in Amberdell.

He felt oddly alive … alive and lusty and prone to daydreaming about hot, wet, sweet places. And yards of pale ivory legs. And creamy breasts topped with raspberry nipples.

And long, honey-mead hair spilling across his chest. And a gamine grin. And teasing hazel eyes that looked directly at him …

He shifted restlessly on his mount, making the gelding sidle and snort. God, now he was infecting his horse with his agitation.

Would she never finish her business in Amberdell?

He cast an impatient gaze about the area. She could not have passed him, could she? No, he was being rid—

A chill went through him. There, on the crest of a small hill, as still as the great limestone boulders that had hidden him, there was the silhouette of a man—a giant.

Ren had known a giant once … a killer, the most dangerous man Ren had ever encountered. Once they had been on the same side, and Ren had even felt a wary camaraderie with the fellow.

But he had been betrayed and had turned his back on that man and all his kind.

Surely that man was still safely in London, where he could do no harm to Ren and what he held as his. Surely.

Yet, there were not so many giants in the world. When the man turned away, disappearing over the crest of the hill, Ren nudged his gelding into a trot, heading for the mound of boulders. He simply had to be sure.

*   *   *

As she neared the village, Callie dismounted. Leading Sally would perhaps lessen the impact of her incorrect riding attire. Oh, where were her clothes?

Dade, I am going to eviscerate you.

There was a horse post outside the smithy. Callie left Sally there, where the smith’s young son stared adoringly at the bay filly. “She’s a right one!”

With her borrowed mount in caring hands, Callie knew she could take her time in the village … whether she liked it or not. Still, there was business to be done. First, she posted a letter home, relating a great deal about the house and village and nothing at all about Mr. Porter—and nagging, er, reminding her family to send her things on.

When she entered the post office, dead silence fell upon the half-dozen people within. They parted before her, mostly women and a few elder men—for of course the able-bodied men would be doing something farmish on such a fine spring day—and allowed her passage directly to the postmistress.

Callie smiled and handed over her letter, trying for some harmless commentary on the fine weather.

“Naught but too dry, it is, missus.”

Callie translated the woman’s thick Gloucestershire as, “Good weather is bad in the spring when we need the rain.”

Her smile faltering slightly, Callie nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I was only admiring the wildflowers.”

The woman slid her eyes to the others waiting behind Callie. Someone grunted. “Weeds.”

“Yes, well … Good day.”

She fled.

Outside, she felt resentful gazes following her like vengeful wasps. It was only a few steps past the church and school, yet to Callie it felt like miles. In truth, the entire village wasn’t much more than a collection of smithy, church, shops, and, down closer to the river, a mill. Callie had yet to see the place on market day, when everyone from the surrounding farms would come in to trade, but on a day like this the village almost seemed oppressive, as if occupied by nothing but pessimists and naysayers.

If ever a place needed a ball, it was this one.

At last Callie entered Mr. Button’s shop—or rather, Madame Longett’s shop where Mr. Button seemed to have taken over. She was dismayed to find herself at the end of a long queue of customers. There was no parting of the seas for her this time. Even in the country, fashion was a deadly serious matter.

However, Mr. Button spotted her at once and waved an assistant over to take his place serving a stout matron who seemed to be dithering over a selection of lace. Callie was distracted by the highly ornamental fellow. Goodness, he was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen! Elektra would be beside herself.

“His name is Cabot,” Mr. Button said nearly in her ear. “Shut your mouth, dear, you’re a married woman.”

Callie gurgled, blinked, and then remembered her terribly urgent business that had caused this morning’s unpleasant venture into Amberdell. She turned to Mr. Button, grasping at his hand.

“Mr. Button, I think someone is trying to kill me!”

*   *   *

She found herself tucked away in Madame Longett’s frowsy sitting room, with a cup of strong tea in her hand and Mr. Button’s full and undivided attention.

“Have you informed your husband of these attempts?”

Callie shrugged. “Yes. He thinks I am either mad or childish.” She shuddered. “As if I would make up a thing like those snakes! That is why I came to you. I just wanted someone to … to tell me that I’m not mad.”

Mr. Button sat back in his chair and gazed at her with his head tilted. “Is there even the slightest exaggeration in what you have told me?”

Callie closed her eyes in resignation. “You don’t believe me, either.”

Mr. Button tapped her sharply on the wrist. She opened her eyes in surprise to see him frowning at her.

“Don’t be an infant,” he admonished tartly. “I believe you, my dear. I am simply after all the facts. Tell me about this man beneath the trees again. Was he truly as large as you say?”

Callie picked at the tassel on her reticule. “In fact, he was a bit bigger. I didn’t wish to sound, well … mad.”

“You would know him if you saw him again?”

She wrinkled her brow at him. “It would be effortless. He was quite the largest man I have ever seen.”

“Hmm.” His puckish face looked, just for an instant, ever so slightly … lethal. Much the way that Mr. Porter sometimes did, when he seemed to stand at the edge of what normal people called sanity. Callie felt a flicker of alarm. She kept encountering all these dangerous people …

Then the little dressmaker smiled and the ridiculous notion fled her mind. He patted her hand gently and gazed approvingly at her. “You must come to me at once if anything else should happen. Do you understand?”

Callie felt better immediately. Nothing had truly changed. Her situation was still very strange, indeed. However, a sympathetic ear could be as good as a helping hand sometimes. Sometimes a girl just needed someone to listen.

As she made her way out through the women flocking into the shop, she noticed Betrice near the door and made her way across.

Betrice greeted her easily, if a bit reservedly. Callie could hardly blame her, with all the eyes of the shop upon them.

“Are you shopping for the ball?”

Betrice nodded. “I received my invitation this morning. Goodness, you certainly have lovely penmanship.”

Callie slid her gaze to the heavenly Cabot, who quirked a single perfect brow at her from his post behind the counter. “Er … I’m so glad you’ll be coming. Is Henry excited, as well?”

Betrice looked down, folding her gloves together. “Henry will enjoy visiting with the other farmers, of course. I very much doubt he shall dance.”

Callie laughed. “If Mr. Porter can dance, I’m sure Henry will find it within him to do so.” Oh, dear. She’d spoken loudly enough to be heard over the hubbub—right when the hubbub hit one of those inexplicable silences. From all around the shop, wide gazes pinned her like a bug in a collection. She swallowed and tried to keep her smile even. Then the whispers erupted anew, louder than ever.

Even Betrice was staring at her. “Lawrence will be attending? Dancing? In front of the entire village?”

I have no earthly idea.
“Of course he will!”
Perhaps I shall run away to Jamaica.
“It is his ball, after all.”
Dear God, I’m rhyming.
“I daresay he will dance with all the ladies!”
Someone stop me, please.

Cabot appeared at her elbow. “Excuse the interruption, madam, but I have a question about the sprigged day gown you ordered. Which of these ribbons would you prefer for the trim?”

Across his large, elegant palm lay two ribbons of nearly identical tints of pale green. Callie stared down at them in blind panic. With a spastic wave of one hand, she apparently selected the one which Cabot most approved, for he bestowed a breathtaking smile upon her and bowed himself away.

When Callie turned back to Betrice, she was surprised to find her friend had disappeared into the crowd. Surprised but honestly relieved. When she got back to the manor, she was going to have a very stern talk with her runaway mouth!

It wasn’t until she had made her escape and was safely halfway back to the smithy that Callie realized that she hadn’t ordered a sprigged day gown with pale green trim.
Bless you, Cabot!

*   *   *

Cabot entered the sitting room where his master sat idly stirring a cup of tea with a spoon. Since Cabot knew perfectly well that Button never took sugar, he maintained a respectful silence during his master’s “deep think.”

Eventually, Button ceased stirring and took a sip. Then he put the cup down on its saucer with a clink. “Yes, I believe steps must indeed be taken before matters get entirely out of hand.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When one takes on such an assignment, one must be prepared to deal with the unexpected.”