Waiting for a Rogue

by Marie Tremayne

  Inhaling their fragrance, she let out a happy sigh, contented for a moment, and her hands dropped into her lap. How she enjoyed these flowers and the folklore that surrounded them in shadowy intrigue. Some of the stories bordered on sinister, while others were lively and fun. But her favorite had to be—

  The jingle of a harness startled Caroline from her daydream and she sat up straight, turning her head apprehensively to spot a white horse standing on the other side of the grove, its head lowered to graze on the flowers at its feet.

  Mr. Cartwick didn’t ride that horse . . . or did he?

  Unable to recall his steed from the day they’d met on the road, she rose on wobbly legs to venture closer. Her hand trailed across the rough surface of the tree trunks and she peered around as she went, afraid of who she might find. Would it be worse to discover an unknown man or the American? Who she saw certainly surprised her. Cartwick’s gray-haired land agent, Mr. Conrad, was seated with his eyes closed, leaning against the trunk of a tree. Caroline took a deep breath.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The man jerked in surprise and his top hat fell off his head. “I, er—” He raised a finger in pause and leaned over to retrieve his wayward hat, then scrambled to his feet and straightened, his eyes round in apprehension. “Mr. Cartwick is set to meet me here in five minutes—”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, is he?”

  “Indeed, my lady. Knowing his fondness for punctuality, I decided to arrive early and, ah! There he is,” he said, pointing behind her and removing a kerchief from his pocket to mop his brow in relief.

  Caroline whirled around. There was his majestic bay—she remembered it now—the horse walking idly in her direction through the scattered fence of silvery trees. Cartwick had been all but silent or else she would have spotted him sooner, and the shock of finding him there caused her to fall quiet too. His eyes caught hers as he approached, and he brought his horse to a stop with a brief tug on the reins. Cartwick looked down at his hands with a sigh.

  “Mr. Conrad, perhaps now is not the best time for this.”

  “I quite agree, sir,” answered the land agent who was already hurrying over to fetch his horse. “I’ll await word of our rescheduled meeting.” He paused for a moment, shooting a slightly terrified glance in Caroline’s direction. “Good day to you, my lady.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded to the man. He was attempting politeness, after all, and he was leaving, which was even more important. Conrad mounted his horse and with a lift of his hat to both of them, spurred the animal into a gallop for a hasty retreat. The agent disappeared down the hillside, and in the space of a breath, Caroline realized she was now alone with Cartwick. Again. And with him staring down at her from his position on his horse, she could see the muscular clamp of his thighs around the saddle, the calloused surface of his palms as he relaxed them around the reins and the breadth of his chest beneath his brocade waistcoat. Not unpleasantly, it reminded her of the day they had met.

  Caroline glanced away, striving for nonchalance. “If you aren’t coming down off your horse, feel free to follow your land agent,” she said with a sniff. “I don’t even want to know your purpose in coming out here today.”

  Cartwick’s eyebrows raised, and he swung nimbly off his horse to land on the ground.

  “Is that better?” he asked.

  Had she just goaded him into staying? Frowning, she said nothing and walked away while he looped his reins around a tree. Her heart was pounding frantically in her chest and she had a few guesses as to why. She couldn’t help but notice that his masculine form, clad in a striking black frock coat, seemed larger in the screened privacy of the grove. They were alone here, in relative seclusion, and the knowledge caused Caroline’s body to tremble excitedly. And the knowledge that she had so little control over herself in his presence was disheartening to say the least.

  No longer feeling cheerful, she tossed the cluster of bluebells she’d been holding tightly in her fist, sending them tumbling to the ground.

  “No,” she heard him say, his footsteps approaching. “Don’t do that.”

  She watched in surprise as Cartwick dropped to his knees to retrieve the flowers. Rising to a stand, he paused, then extended them back out in Caroline’s direction. She stared at them.

  “What does it matter to you?”

  His broad shoulders raised in a shrug. “You just seemed so very peaceful earlier, when you picked them.” He hesitated, his eyes scanning over his offering, seeing the way the green stems had been mashed together.

  Caroline snatched them from his grasp, her cheeks burning. “You were watching me?”

  “It was incidental, I assure you.”

  “Well I’m not sure why you stayed, Mr. Cartwick. I’ve nothing to say to you,” she said, squaring her shoulders.

  “Oh? Now that would be a first.”

  Caroline met his gaze and took in that enthralling mix of soft brown and warm amber. Her strongest inclination was to pull him into the sunlight so she could see every detail of those extraordinary eyes for herself. Instead she clenched her fists, feeling her body stiffen in challenge.

  “I find it funny that you would say such a thing when just over a fortnight ago you willingly entered the vipers’ den of gossips.” Her voice sounded more offended than she’d been hoping to let on.

  A shadow passed across his face. “Truly,” he conceded. “Lord and Lady Hedridge are the worst sort of rumormongers.”

  Caroline flinched. What had they told him? If Eliza’s letter was any sort of clue, she had a feeling she knew exactly. She needed an escape. The possibility of being cornered with an awkward question was best avoided.

  “Yes, I believe I knew that. Good-bye, Mr. Cartwick. I’m going to walk back—”

  “Is it true that your last season was exceptionally difficult?”

  Frozen in place, her mouth fell open in silence before she could formulate her words. Caroline hadn’t actually expected him to voice such a personal question to her, but with him all bets were surely off. She was unsure whether he was implying something less than ideal about her character, but the discovery of her aunt’s illness was a chance she was unwilling to take. She would have to avoid that topic, and focus on the other. Girding herself against his judgments, she met his gaze.

  “If you are vaguely referring to my being jilted by Lord Braxton, you should know it is a most impolite thing to do.”

  Cartwick looked away. “I did not intend to speak lightly of such a thing,” he muttered. “But I struggle to understand you sometimes.”

  “Do you need to?” she asked, gesturing beyond them to the hillside that was dappled in golden sun. “It seems your priorities have been very clear since your arrival. What difference does one neighbor make, and what can possibly be gained from learning about her failed season?”

  Cartwick shoved his hands into his pockets, considering her question.

  “I admit, there is nothing to be gained,” he said at last. “Perhaps only an answer.”

  “An answer regarding what?” she asked incredulously.

  He took a step closer and she tensed in response, staring helplessly as his eyes dropped to the bluebell-carpeted ground beneath their feet. “An answer to the question of why you seem to harbor such disgust for me, when you must be capable of civility, and even softness.” The muscle in his jaw clenched. “Were you not kind to Lord Braxton?”

  Caroline uttered a quiet laugh that was entirely without humor. “Oh yes, I was kind to him, and he repaid me with humiliation. But since when are we comparing you to a man who once courted me?”

  A quick twitch of his head. “We’re not. I mean—that was not my aim.”

  “Then what, exactly, is your aim?”

  Cartwick’s lips twisted, and she had the inconceivable urge to tug on the lapels of his coat . . . to taste that tempting mouth until his resistance slipped . . . until he was gripping her tightly, hands on her waist as they’d been once before .
. . ravishing her with slick openmouthed kisses of his own . . .

  Caroline fidgeted with her flowers nervously. She’d never even been kissed and had precious little idea what she was thinking about, although her body did seem to have ideas of its own. His vocalized ponderings about her former suitor had certainly managed to rouse all sorts of . . . feminine feelings. Impulses that were better left unexplored, especially with him.

  He finally made a sound of annoyance. “Nothing . . . there is no aim other than to correct this blasted boundary as quickly as possible.”

  Her posture straightened. “Fine.”

  “Fine,” he bit back, reaching upwards to snap off a thin branch from an overhanging tree.

  “I can’t promise I won’t try to make things difficult for you.” She owed Eliza, after all.

  Cartwick rolled his eyes. “Would it please you to know that you already have?” He whipped the branch at a patch of bluebells near his feet.

  “Yes. And you really shouldn’t do that,” she said.

  He paused. “Why not?”

  Caroline lifted her flowers and twirled them around. “Legend has it that a field of bluebells is intricately woven with fairy enchantments.”

  “Ah,” he said, casting his eyes cautiously about the blue carpet at their feet. “And why would that worry me?”

  “Because,” she replied, “the fairies are not known for being nice to humans. Especially uninvited Americans who think they know everything.”

  He stared for a moment, then threw his head back in laughter. It both unnerved and delighted her to think she had been the cause. She frowned as her gaze lingered upon the dimple that had shown itself again . . . across the sharp line of his jaw that glinted with just a hint of stubble . . .

  “Tell me, Lady Caroline,” he said through his mirth, wresting her attention back from her more inappropriate musings. “What else does legend say?”

  She removed a single flower from the cluster in her hands and pinched it between her fingers, holding the trembling bloom that was precariously attached to its stalk. “Well, according to folklore, if one hears a bluebell ring out loud, they’ll soon be dead.”

  His smile vanished. “I don’t care for that particular historical tidbit.”

  “I didn’t say it was all sunshine and romance,” she replied, tossing the flower to the ground.

  “Romance,” he said evaluatively, coming closer, tapping the branch in a staccato rhythm against his thigh. She swallowed hard, struggling to hear him against the heartbeat thundering loudly in her ears. “I’m not surprised you would spurn such a notion.”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” she replied in a low voice, suddenly worried.

  He shook his head slowly, his amber eyes never leaving her face. “That’s not entirely true.”

  Oh, God. What did they tell him?

  Caroline stumbled backwards. She couldn’t bear the thought of receiving any censure from this man based on the lies he may have heard. If she had behaved scandalously in London, it had been solely out of love and the necessity of protecting her aunt. She extended a finger in his direction.

  “Say nothing else . . . I don’t want to hear it. To be honest, I’m not surprised that you would blindly accept the word of people like the baron and his wife.”

  The branch ceased its incessant tapping upon his leg, and his gaze grew bright. “Likewise, I am unsurprised at your judgment of me. It seems to be the one trait of yours I can rely on with any certainty.” His mouth clenched shut and he turned his head to the side. “If you wish to avoid others drawing their own conclusions about you, perhaps you shouldn’t pride yourself on being such an enigma.”

  “So, if I don’t wish for my private affairs to be constantly picked apart by the hungry vultures of the ton, I must be at fault in some way?” Caroline laughed harshly. “Oh, Mr. Cartwick . . . welcome to England. You’ll fit right in.”

  Throwing the rest of her flowers aside, she stomped past him out of the grove and through the long grass that led back to Willowford House. Her rapid breathing and the rustling of her tangled skirts were the only noises she could discern at first in her rush to escape him, until his boots could be heard hurrying through the grass behind her.

  “Caroline—”

  She spun around in fury at his presumptuous familiarity.

  Cartwick halted and placed one hand above his eyes as if his head had suddenly started to pound. “Lady Caroline—”

  His hand fell away, and when he glanced up, whatever words were next suddenly died on his lips. She saw that his gaze was focused on something beyond her, and when she turned and spotted what had caught his eye, a cold bloom of dread took root in her chest.

  It was a figure dressed in white, zigzagging haphazardly across the field below.

  No, she thought weakly. It couldn’t be—

  Before she had a chance to think about all the ways this could be disastrous for her, she picked up her skirts and bolted down the hillside. She did not hear Cartwick following but knew it would happen eventually given the urgency of her reaction.

  Gravity tugged her to her destination, and before long it took more effort to keep her from toppling over headfirst than it did to keep a fast pace. Still, the white shape in the distance remained an ever-elusive speck, and she realized in the midst of her panting exertion that it was much farther away than she’d initially believed—or maybe it was only her panic making it seem that way. She’d made the journey from Willowford House to Windham Hill hundreds of times, but never truly appreciated the steepness of the incline or the distance from home, especially since she usually rode her horse.

  The pounding of hoofbeats caught her attention and she turned to glance behind her, tripping slightly as she did. Cartwick pulled hard on the reins to stop his bay just short of her position, the grave look on his face holding a hint of confusion. He still wasn’t aware of exactly what was happening, but he would know very soon.

  He pulled his foot out of the stirrup and reached toward her.

  “Get on.”

  There was no more time for anger or hurt feelings; Caroline simply placed her foot in the stirrup and let him take her hand, warm and strong around hers. She gathered her skirts tightly then pushed off. In one swift motion he swung her around so she came to rest just behind the saddle, inching as close to him as she could to avoid flying off the back of the horse. Cartwick gripped her wrists and tugged them roughly around his waist. Lowering her head, she gasped quietly against the hard plane of his back, locking her hands together before he took the reins again and jabbed his heels into the horse’s flanks with a sharp yell. The bay took off and she tightened her hold, some disbelieving part of her unable to ignore the way she was pressed against him.

  But this was not the time for such thoughts. His horse flew down the hill and she jostled wildly upon its back, clinging tightly to Cartwick. It was as thrilling as it was terrifying, and after what seemed like forever—but had likely only been half a minute—the ground evened out into gently rolling meadows. The ride became less bumpy as the figure in white came startlingly and painfully into view.

  It was indeed Lady Frances, and although her appearance was in disarray with gray hair unbound and eyes darting wildly, she was at least covered by her ivory morning wrapper. It was not entirely appropriate for out of doors, but it was a far sight better than the chemise Caroline feared it had been from her distant viewpoint on the hillside. They’d only just pulled up beside her when Caroline slid off the horse that had not quite stopped yet, narrowly avoiding its stomping hooves. She heard Cartwick call out. In anger? Concern? It was hard to tell.

  “Caroline!”

  Ignoring him, she lurched forwards and gripped Frances’s shoulders in both of her shaking hands.

  “Auntie,” she cried, her gaze scanning hurriedly for any signs of injury. “What are you doing here? Why are you not inside?”

  Cartwick had dismounted to approach the group from behind, and she felt his hand slid
e protectively under her upper arm. Her eyes flicked up to his briefly, and Zeus himself could not have been more intimidating with the expression of thunderous disapproval that greeted her. No matter. She turned back to Frances.

  Her aunt’s filmy hair floated upon an errant breeze and her confused expression sharpened into focus, one motivated by determination. She leaned forwards as if imparting a great secret.

  “I need to find Crumpet.”

  Caroline’s heart sank.

  Cartwick’s hold on her arm suddenly loosened. He didn’t say anything, thank goodness, but she could tell he was trying to piece together what was happening.

  “Auntie, Crumpet made his way back to the house. In fact,” she added confidently, “he’s with Meggie right now.” She tugged the wrapper more firmly around her aunt’s delicate frame.

  Speaking of Meggie, the maid would have some explaining to do. Caroline assumed Frances had been assisted in dressing this morning, so how Frances was able to slip out of the house undetected was still yet to be heard. But Caroline needed more staff and she knew it. She’d been advertising in the village but had yet to find any capable candidates who were trustworthy enough to both care for her aunt and keep her condition a secret.

  “Oh,” Frances said in a quiet voice, her eyes roving across the meadow. “I’m sure I saw him dash through the grass—”

  To Caroline’s surprise, Cartwick stepped closer and bowed deeply to Lady Frances, as if there was nothing odd about the fact he was greeting her in a field when she was wearing little more than her nightclothes.

  “My lady, would you care for a ride back to Willowford House?”

  It was unclear at the moment if her aunt recognized her American neighbor, but one thing was for sure if her blushing smile was any indication. Caroline had to grin. She wasn’t sure how such an adorable flirt had not managed to land herself a husband in her earlier years. Frances did not like to speak of it.

  “How kind of you to ask,” she said with a tinkling laugh, “although I don’t think I can lift myself up onto your saddle.”