Dearest Rogue
Page 20
“It was the only one I had,” Trevillion muttered, knowing as he said it how weak the explanation sounded. The truth was, he’d liked putting his mother’s ring on Phoebe’s finger, and he liked the ring even more each time he saw her wearing it.
“Your mother was a good woman, too,” his father said.
Trevillion stiffened at the words.
“Your mother was gay and young—too young—but she was a good woman. Just not for me.” His father stopped and looked at him. His eyes were the same color as Trevillion’s—bright blue—set in a face lined by wind and age. “Lady Phoebe is a good woman too, but not for you.”
Trevillion watched his father for a long minute and knew the older man believed what he said from the depths of his heart.
As did he.
“I know.”
PHOEBE SAT AND listened as Dolly kneaded the dough for bread later that morning. They were in the kitchen, which smelled wonderfully of flour, yeast, and tea—Betty had made a pot for her—and every now and again Dolly picked up the dough and threw it back down on the table with a great whack.
“Why do you throw the dough, Dolly?” Phoebe asked.
Wakefield House had three cooks—one who did nothing but the baking—but she’d never actually been to the kitchens. She had no idea, really, how bread was made.
“It’s to knead it,” Dolly said.
Betty, who was busy cutting vegetables, said, “Makes the bread rise better, it does, when it’s thumped around a bit.”
“How very interesting,” Phoebe said. “Dolly, is James your older brother or your younger?”
“I’m older than Jamie,” Dolly said proudly. “He’s my brother. He reads me books. But not anymore.”
“Perhaps he will again now that he’s back from London,” Phoebe said.
“And letters,” Dolly added. “I saved his letters.”
“Letters?”
“Wrote regular like,” Betty put in. “From London. And he sends little presents to Miss Dolly and Miss Agnes.”
How odd—all this time Trevillion had been living a secret life and she’d never known it. Never even thought to ask about it. But then most people had secrets in their lives—especially when it came to those closest to them.
“Phoebe!” Agnes burst into the kitchen with a clatter and Toby panting on her heels. “Uncle James said to fetch you.”
“Fetch me?” Phoebe repeated, amused. “I sound like a forgotten glove.”
Agnes giggled. “Come on.”
“Well, if you insist.” Phoebe swallowed the last of her tea, bid farewell to Dolly and Betty, and let Agnes lead her from the kitchen.
“Where are we going?” she asked the girl.
“It’s to be a surprise,” Agnes said with excitement in her voice. Toby barked once alongside them, apparently caught up in the mood.
Outside, Phoebe could feel the sun on her face. They were walking in the direction of the stables and she wondered if Trevillion meant to show her Lark again.
And then she heard a whinny.
Agnes giggled.
“What’s this?” Phoebe asked.
“I thought we might go riding,” James said from nearby. “Riding when we aren’t being chased, that is. You’ll have to be on the horse with me. Is that amenable to you?”
“Oh yes,” she said, thrilled at the prospect—both of a horse ride and of being close to Trevillion again.
He took her hand, his warm and large. “This is Regan. Owen’s holding the bridle for us while we mount.”
“She’s got a nice even gait, does Regan,” Owen called.
“And she’s one of our largest horses,” Trevillion said. “She should carry us both without a problem. Now here is the step.”
She felt for the step with her hand and then mounted it, fitting her shoe into the stirrup before swinging herself up. Regan shook her head and stepped back a pace. Phoebe patted her neck.
She felt Trevillion swing on behind. “I’ve got her, Owen. My thanks.”
“Aye,” Owen called.
Then they were away. Trevillion started at a walk, his arms around her, and it was lovely to be out in the open, to feel the horse beneath her and him behind her.
“Where will we go?” she asked.
“Wherever you want,” he answered. “Though I have a place I think you’d like.”
“Then I leave it up to you,” she said, laying her head back against his neck, inhaling horse and sandalwood, bergamot and Trevillion—pure Trevillion.
For a moment more she simply enjoyed the ride, but then she remembered all the questions she wanted to ask him.
She sighed. “James?”
“Yes?” He sounded relaxed and happy for once and she wondered if she should really bring up all the things that troubled her.
But if not now, then when?
“Why did you say that you had a price on your head last night?” she asked quietly. “Why is it dangerous for you to be in Cornwall?”
Immediately she felt the stiffening of his arms. “Do you really want to—”
“Yes.” She twisted a bit in his arms to face him, so that she could talk directly to him. “All this mystery, all this anger and hurt between you and your father. Don’t you think I want to know you and your past and what affected your life?”
“God, Phoebe, it doesn’t reflect well on me—not at all.”
She inhaled slowly, bracing herself. “Even so.”
He sighed. “Very well. I beat a man once, nearly to death. His name was Jeffrey Faire and his father is the local magistrate. As a result Lord Faire called for my arrest. I fled the town, Cornwall itself, at the urging of my father. That was when I joined the dragoons.”
She knit her brow, thinking. “Why? What happened between you and this man?”
“I got angry,” he drawled.
That made her mad. “I don’t believe that. You wouldn’t have resorted to violence without reason, not even as a young man.”
“Perhaps you ought not to have such faith in me, my lady.”
She was beginning to dislike it when he called her “my lady” instead of plain Phoebe. “But I do.”
He didn’t reply, but his arms tightened around her.
Another thought suddenly struck her. “Is Lord Faire still after you?”
“No doubt.”
“But we should leave at once,” she said. “James, we ought never to’ve come here if you’re in danger.”
“I’m not in danger,” he replied, sounding irritated. “Lord Faire has no idea I’m here.”
“And if he finds out?”
“He won’t. This was the safest place I could think of for you. We’re almost to the ends of the earth—or at least the ends of England.”
She wanted to shake him, she really did. What did he think would happen if he was arrested? How would Agnes and Mr. Trevillion feel? She couldn’t bear the thought of his making such a sacrifice for her.
But moving Trevillion once he’d made a decision was nearly impossible. Perhaps if she enlisted the aid of Mr. Trevillion or even Agnes, she might make him see reason.
Phoebe shook her head.
“Come. Don’t let’s argue,” he said finally. “Would you like to gallop?”
Her heart caught. “Can we?”
In answer he pulled her tight against his chest, leaned a little forward, and gave Regan her head.
Phoebe shrieked as they galloped into the wind, Trevillion’s body surging behind hers, the horse’s muscles bunching and releasing beneath them. This felt like true freedom, like life itself.
When he pulled Regan to a canter and then a trot again, Phoebe realized that she could hear the ocean’s roar.
“Where are we?” she asked, her heart still beating fast from the gallop.
“There’s a beach,” he answered in her ear. “I thought you’d like to walk it.”
“Did you used to come here often?” she asked as the mare began going downhill. “It must be beautiful.”
“Did you ever see any?”
“No, but you can be sure I looked hard. The only sort of thing I saw in the waves was more like to be smugglers bringing in French brandy.”
“Smugglers?”
He chuckled. “There are quite a few in these parts. Had my dragoon regiment been assigned to Cornwall, I would’ve spent my nights chasing them down in the surf.”
Regan was now walking on level ground and Phoebe could hear and smell the surf coming in. She hadn’t been near the ocean since she was a little girl.
Since she’d become blind.
Phoebe caught her breath. “Can we get down?”
“Of course.” He brought Regan to a standstill and dismounted. She felt his hands on her waist. “Come here.”
She slid into his arms. He held her a moment, his chest warm and strong. The wind was blowing gently off the ocean and she could smell it: brine and fish and the wildness of the water.
“There’s sand here,” he said in her ear. “Would you like to take off your shoes and feel it?”
“Yes,” she whispered, not knowing why she kept her voice low. She was trembling a bit.
He guided her to a boulder and she sat as she drew off her shoes and stockings.
Lifting her skirts up, she tentatively patted the sand with her toes. It was cool and dry here—they must be sitting in the shade.
She stood, holding her skirts. “Can I walk in the water?”
“Yes, the waves are low today.” His voice was warm and close. He hesitated. “Do you want to take my arm?”
“No.” She turned her head in his direction, hoping he understood. “Just tell me which way to go. Maybe walk with me?”
“Of course. I’ll be right by your side.”
“Have you taken your shoes and stockings off as well?” she asked, curious. He was usually so stiff. So formal.
Especially with her.
“Naturally,” he replied, a laugh in his voice. He sounded nearly boyish. “It’s de rigueur at the beach. Come, walk this way.”
And she did, feeling the sand beneath her feet, the wind flattening her dress against her legs. As they neared the shore, she could hear the waves crashing louder, a roaring thunder. The sand was damp now, warm and squishy, an odd feeling but enjoyable nonetheless.
And then a wave lapped at her feet, cold and sudden.
“Oh!” she exclaimed.
For a moment she stood stock-still, feeling the cool water coming over her instep and then retreating, sucking the sand out from between her toes.
She took another step in. The water covered her instep as her toes sank into the suddenly softer sand, and then the wave retreated again, leaving her feet wet and cold.
She laughed aloud, breathlessly, the sun on her back, Trevillion at her side, and tilted her face up as she stood, her toes dug into the sand beneath her feet. The waves caressed her like a sister’s touch, warm, alive, and familiar.
Eternal.
She must have looked like a madwoman but she didn’t care at all.
Not at all.
And all the while Trevillion didn’t say a word, simply stood by her, there in case she needed him.
She felt as if she could soar. She hadn’t been so free in years.
TREVILLION WATCHED PHOEBE in the sea, the waves lapping about her ankles. She was laughing, her skirts lifted to her knees, her face shining in the sun, and he wished he could paint the scene. Keep it in his memory always.
Somewhere, at some indefinable point, he’d crossed a bridge and the bridge had crumbled behind him. There was no going back. He cared for Lady Phoebe Batten more than anything else in life. More than his family. More than his honor.
More than his freedom, should it come to that.
Bringing her joy was worth more than any amount of money. He knew—without doubt, without fear—that he would kill for her.
That he would die for her.
It was almost a relief, this realization. He might fight intellectually against it, using all those well-worn arguments: he was too old, she was too young, they were too far apart in class, but it simply didn’t matter. His heart had performed a coup d’état over his mind and there was nothing more to be done about it.
He loved Phoebe Batten, now and forevermore.
Phoebe turned almost as if she’d heard him speak aloud. “Are there shells upon the beach?”
“A few.” He bent and collected several small shells, then walked to her. “Hold out your hand.”
She did, staring sightlessly at nothing, a soft smile still playing at her mouth. The wind had made her cheeks pink, had blown loose a few strands of her hair.
He thought he’d never seen anything so lovely in his life.
Trevillion took her hand and placed the shells in her palm like an offering to a goddess.
She dropped her skirts and felt the shells with the fingers of her other hand. “What do they look like?”
He cupped one palm under the hand holding the shells, and tangled the fingers of his other hand with hers. “This one”—he touched a smooth little shell with their index fingers—“is a dark blue on the outside, paler gray-blue on the inside. This one”—he directed their fingers to a ridged open clamshell—“is a delicate pink.”
The exact shade of her cheeks, in fact, though he did not say that.
She looked up, so close, the wind throwing a lock of hair across her plump mouth, and she smiled just for him.
He wanted to hold that smile, to keep it in his chest forever.
Instead he cleared his throat. “We have a picnic basket Betty made.”
Her face lit up. “Oh, how wonderful!”
“Come.” He took the hand not holding the shells and led her up the beach to where Regan was lipping at the sparse grass. He unbuckled the basket and an old blanket from the back of the mare’s saddle and brought them to a patch of dry sand. “Here’s a place we can sit.”
He spread the blanket and she lowered herself.
“Oh, I’ve got my skirts wet,” she murmured.
He glanced over. Her damp hem was over her bare feet. “Flip them up. There’s no one here to see but Regan and I doubt she’ll care.”
“But what if someone comes?”
He shrugged. “There’s not much cause for people to come here—unless they want a picnic.”
She smiled and pulled up her skirts, baring her lovely legs to the knee.
He tore his gaze away and opened the basket. “Betty’s given us some bread, cheese, and apples, and a bottle of wine.” He looked up at her. “That’s a disappointment, I know, after days of beer.”
“Silly.” She held out her shells. “Can you place these somewhere safe?
Trevillion found himself stowing the common seashells as carefully as if they were pearls.
He poured her some wine into an earthenware cup and wondered if she’d ever drunk from such a plain vessel in all her life. She didn’t seem to mind, though, sipping the wine while taking delicate bites from the slice of cheese he’d given her.
She turned to him suddenly, her face unusually grave. “Tell me, has Dolly always been the way she is?”
“Simpleminded, you mean?” His words were harsh, but his tone was not. He’d lived with Dolly most of his life. “Yes, or so I’m told. She was a difficult birth for my mother and at first they all thought the baby would die. But she didn’t. She was sickly as a child, but she lived.” He broke off a piece of the bread, but then just stared at it. “She’s very affectionate, you know. She used to follow me about when I was a boy, even though I was four years younger. She’s been my duty for as long as I can remember.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well…” He took a bite of the bread and ate it before answering. “My mother died when I was four, as you know, so there was only Father. He had the horses to tend to. We did have servants—Betty came when I was ten or so—but Father made it clear it was my job to watch Dolly. Make sure she didn’t harm herself with the fire or wander onto the moor. That sort of thing.”
Phoebe’s brows knit. “It sounds like an awful responsibility for a little boy.”
He shrugged, though she couldn’t see it. “Father knew what he was doing. Someone had to watch Dolly while he worked and he trusted me.” He grimaced bitterly at the thought. “And then we both grew up and I was supposed to keep her from other harm.”
Phoebe knit her brows. “Other harm?”
He looked up at her, realizing. “Ah. You don’t know. Dolly’s quite pretty, despite… well, everything. She’s got dark hair, graying now, of course, and our father’s blue eyes. When she was younger…” He inhaled sharply, remembering that day. His fearful worry for Dolly. Finding her at last with her dress and hair all undone. The confusion on her sweet childlike face. His rage—and the shame when he’d had to tell his father. “Well, suffice it to say I failed in my duty. Failed completely.”
“James,” she said, sounding distressed, “Is that… is that how Agnes was conceived?”
“Yes. I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “I shouldn’t have brought up such awful things.”
She cocked her head. “I rather think it’s I who should apologize for making you relive these memories.”
He couldn’t say anything to that.
She sighed. “Tell me what Agnes looks like?”
“Pretty. Dark like her mother, like all the Trevillions, except for her eyes. They’re green.” He threw the bit of bread rather viciously at one of the wheeling seagulls.
“Your eyes aren’t green, are they?” She’d scooted closer to him. “Your eyes are blue.”
He stilled, watching her venturing closer. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Hero and Artemis told me what you looked like,” she said, a little smile playing about her mouth. “I was curious, so I asked.”
He blinked, wondering how the duchess and Lady Hero had described him. Wondering when Phoebe had become curious about him.
She knelt in front of him now, reaching out one hand. It connected with his cheek.
“Blue eyes,” she murmured. Her fingers spread and trailed down his cheek, a butterfly’s touch. “High cheekbones.” Her forefinger found the bridge of his nose and followed it down. “A straight nose.” She found his lips and ran her finger across his mouth.
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