by Tracy Sumner
She absorbed his discomfort until her lungs felt near to bursting. A roar, like a wave crashing over her, filled her ears. “Enough,” she gasped and dropped his hands.
Blinking hard and coming back to the present, she found Edward sitting straight and tall across from her, the crescents beneath his eyes expunged. His scarlet cuffs matched the startling rosiness of his cheeks. His eyes were as wide as her teacup’s saucer. “M’lady,” he murmured and swallowed.
“Every morning at this time, meet me here. You have the strength to manage this. I’ll help you find that strength, the ability to channel and release. You’re letting your gift govern you when you must govern. Or face being torn apart at the seams.”
She pressed her hand to her chest at the sudden thought: Like Julian was being torn apart.
With a mumbled agreement, Edward bowed and exited the room with a lively step, much restored.
Piper groaned and dropped her head to her hand. No wonder sleep had been difficult as traveling the boy’s mind had been like trying to cross a crowded London thoroughfare while blindfolded.
An iridescent shimmer of awareness slipped past like a warm sigh.
She lifted her head to find Julian propped against the doorjamb, light from the window high above his head waterfalling over him. Attired for the country, his open collar revealed a patch of sun-dusted skin; his informal breeches clung to his muscled thighs. He dressed with purpose, with subtle restraint. From their first encounter in her grandfather’s study, when he’d worn tattered cast-offs but still looked the part of a young man not to be taken lightly.
He flipped a wide-brimmed hat between his hands as he studied her. There was a coiled stillness about him today. His jaw clenched, and she suspected he kept himself from crossing to her.
“Healers must heal,” she said, each word deliberate like she traversed a ballroom floor littered with shards of glass.
Their gazes locked and held. The hat stilled in his hands. Desire sparked and erupted as his aura brightened to a crisp, sharp blue. She clasped the back of the chair to keep from accepting her body’s challenge, a ridiculous impulse to finish what they had started years ago. An impulse Julian would soundly reject. A clock somewhere in the house ticked off the seconds as she slipped under a spell she knew he didn’t seek to cast. Her blood rioted through her veins, and she marveled that he could still stun and enthrall.
She came to her senses first, gesturing to the chair and the hulking footman no longer there. “I must do it. If I’m to be accepted in the League, I must.”
Shoving off the doorjamb, he sent her an enigmatic look. He beat his hat against his thigh in a tight rhythm. “I’m not going to fight you.”
She sat up straighter. “Well, good…because I’m not going to fight you, either.”
“That, Yank”—he jammed the hat on his head—“would be a first.”
“One of those for everything, I believe.” Hiding her trembling hands by clenching them in her skirt, she rose. Sought his gaze, which had turned from her to an inspection of the dour canvases at her back. Only a gossamer of yellow—caution—lit his aura, so he had not blocked himself off yet. Not completely. And his lips held a tilt she could possibly consider a smile.
With a mental handshake, she accepted the truce.
“Yours?” She gestured to the painting he perused, a father and son in ceremonial attire from a century prior.
“No,” he said with a low laugh. “But I’d rather house them than my own, so here they remain.” He cupped her elbow and led her into the hall. It was a veiled touch, familiar, relaxed. Yet it sent a whisper of cognizance through her as if he’d trailed his fingers along the nape of her neck.
She questioned them occupying the same space if he continued touching her.
“Would you like to ride?” he asked, breaking the charged silence.
Her step faltered. “Astride?”
“In that skirt?” He turned to walk backward, one step, then another. His hands rose in entreaty as he noted the stiffening of her shoulders. “Get a proper habit. Then we’ll talk. Put it on Minnie’s list.” Light snuck beneath his hat brim, revealing eyes the color of mist rising off a cobbled lane, and her heart gave a powerful squeeze. “I’m quite happy if you rip around Harbingdon like a hooligan—as long as a guard accompanies you. Unpretentiousness should be considered a benefit of country living. Though who would be surprised were you to play the hooligan in the middle of a London ballroom,” he added and turned to cross the terrace with a purposeful stride.
“I heard that,” she said and hurried to catch him as he took the steps two at a time.
Julian angled down a narrow footpath with a glance to ensure she followed. An enchanting blend of hardwoods dotted the trail: crack willow, Scots pine, field maple, wych elm. She stumbled over a root as she craned her head to see through the needled canopy. A governess once gave her a book on dendrology, the study of trees and shrubs. Knowledge contained mostly in her head, as she’d had no chance to explore, but she’d taken a liking to the subject.
The terrain was a lush, mossy-olive spill. A dense forest closing them in on all sides, as strong a defense as a moat.
Julian had planned well for his community of misfits.
The path ended abruptly at a building constructed of chalk-white brick, where a groom was leading two horses through a stable doorway streaked with sunbeams and shadow. His trouser leg caught on the rounded edge of the knife concealed in his boot as he handed Julian the reins to a gorgeous thoroughbred.
“Thank you, Murphy,” Julian said and swung a leg up, settling effortlessly in the saddle. The horse took note and began to sidestep, where he delivered a calming word and a stroke to her neck to reassure. Piper frowned as Minnie’s comment squeezed between the sharp smell of hay and the humid splay of sunshine: Men be men, miss.
Apparently, Julian was very good at soothing females.
His little dog sat by the stable door, his coat a perfect complement to the brick. Piper squatted, extending her hand with a whispered appeal.
“Henry,” Julian said from atop the black.
“Henry,” she called, deciding he looked quite like a Henry. Arrogant, a bit cunning. “Come.”
The dog tilted his head, thoughtful, then sauntered into the stable.
“Smart boy,” Julian said.
Turning her back on dog and man, she grasped the reins of the magnificent beast Murphy presented to her. The saddle had two pommels, thank goodness, which allowed freedom while still maintaining her blasted modesty. “Medieval torture,” she said with a sharp look at Julian, his muscular thighs gripping the horse’s flanks like he owned the world. She had learned to ride in America, where all was shocking and indecorous, she supposed, but where one learned to ride correctly.
With a leg thrown over each side of the horse.
The English method for women, in almost every aspect of life, chafed.
“M’lord,” Murphy whispered with a back-step toward Julian. “Stewart be spirited, and he can smell rain in the air. Be he perchance too much for the miss?”
Piper huffed a breath and indicated Murphy assist her up. Grasping the pommel and settling into the saddle, she crossed her right leg in front of her and shoved her left into the stirrup, which hung low. Frowning, she wiggled her boot, and Murphy rushed to adjust the strap, something she should have done before climbing atop her mount. Once again, temper caused carelessness. “I’ll have you know I’m as good a rider as he. Better even,” she added, though Julian’s burst of laughter crowded out the comment.
Murphy nodded when it was clear he fathomed little. He likely believed her crazed. Henry objected, after all.
Julian didn’t look too sure, either.
“Thank you,” she said when Murphy presented her with a pair of butter-smooth leather gloves. She turned to find Julian tugging on his own, rich black, matching his horse and his pressed breeches perfectly. She suspected he concealed a smile beneath the brim of his hat.
&n
bsp; She felt her temper stir. Bloody happy I amuse.
“Lunch be in the saddlebag, sir. As requested.”
Piper glanced at him as they rode from the stable yard. Lunch. With Julian. A pleased glow lit, and she looked down to hide it, though Julian’s eyes had not strayed from the path.
He lightly tapped his mount’s flanks and moved into a trot, those impressive shoulders flexing, one hand holding the reins, the other resting on his thigh. He rode as he lived and breathed, with artless, measured elegance. Nevertheless, she was as good a rider. As natural a seat. She claimed this without conceit because it was a simple fact. She had learned to ride beside a man with no allegiance to propriety, no allegiance to anyone. Her equestrian skills were a gift, the only her father had given her.
Julian knew this. They’d raced across her grandfather’s estate many times. Not sidesaddle, which was intolerable. An excellent way to show off trim ankles in Hyde Park, but absurd for a seasoned horsewoman.
“Quit sighing,” he called back. “We’ll get the habit.”
“Anything you say, m’lord,” she murmured and pulled Stewart in line with him. Julian glanced over, but his hat shaded his eyes and his expression. Tilting his head in thought for a long beat, he then looked away without comment.
She slowed and let her gaze linger, examining him freely as her heart raced. It was a wretched spot of luck that Julian Alexander was the only man who had ever fascinated her. There had been other kisses aside from the one they’d shared—precisely two. Men of interest, or men interested, during the horrid season her grandfather had pressed upon her.
She had tried to find someone else who lit her up, phosphorus to her sulfur. Find another person who made a room blaze when he stepped into it. Because with Julian, it was hopeless. His defenses were stronger, his reasoning in place and firmly protected. He had, mallet to stone, crushed every entreaty.
Heedless to her internal debate, Julian pointed out areas of interest as they traveled a well-worn path through the meadows. He identified something noteworthy about each section of his property. A herd of muntjac lived here, a pack of fallow there. Fishing was excellent in a series of lakes below the house, duck hunting possible along the parkland drives surrounding.
“Is Harbingdon profitable?” she asked as they passed through what Julian called a conifer plantation.
“If managed by a titled fop, it wouldn’t be. Although I’m still looking for a steward to join the League, to shoulder the management. Until then…” He slowed, bracing his hands on the pommel. The black sidestepped at the sudden halt, and Julian tightened his leg at the flank. “I’d been saving, keen investing, and some luck. Funds unconnected to the viscountcy, on principle not committed to being funneled back in. Mismanagement forced Harbingdon to market and my attention. I knew from the first moment that it was perfect for my needs and those of the League. Rife with opportunity, if one was willing to put in the work, which the former owner was not. A piece of the estate closer to the village was let under a fruitful farm years ago, and plans are to explore the property’s timber and mineral rights, again, when I locate a steward. If I’m to have others live here, we need a self-sustaining model.” He drew a breath and sighed it out in a gust. “Takes time to untangle the mess created by the foolish young baron who sold me the place, but I’m learning as I go along.”
“Repairs?” she asked to his back, as he’d turned to study something over the rise. There was evidence of restoration to the ceiling and floor in her bedchamber.
“Substantial. And the cash flow from my titled properties is locked up keeping those relics afloat.” He lifted his hand to his neck and rubbed as if it pained him to discuss the viscountcy. “It takes an astounding amount of cash to keep a five-hundred-year-old family seat propped up. We have faithful retainers connected to the estates for centuries, thank God, or I would be up a muddy creek with the rest of the ton.”
They continued, the wind picking up as it raced across the open savannah, tugging at her skirt and sending tendrils of hair into her face. She caught a hint of precipitation, as Minnie and Murphy had suggested. “The other buildings I see in the distance?”
“Gardener’s cottage.”
“Hmm…yes.” She took a brief inventory of the surroundings, profuse with rose bushes, flowering shrubs, not a pruned specimen among them. The air was dense with various fragrances. “I’m guessing it sits empty.”
“Actually, it does not. But the gardener, well”—Julian shook his head, issuing a brief shrug—“he’s quite knowledgeable about the occult, and his work with the chronology has occupied most of his time.”
Piper wanted to laugh. Of course. “The smaller building, lovely brick and ivy?” she asked instead.
His brim lowered, a hesitation. “The lodge.”
“That one is—”
“Mine.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but he moved on.
“I thought to ask you about assisting with management of the gardens. As for the gardener’s cottage, we’ve been lodging the newly arrived League members there. The main house is too active for a restless mind, and often, those arriving are troubled. You’ll be able to help them, I hope.” He shifted in the saddle, slowing to a walk and allowing her to come alongside him. “Minnie stayed there, as did Murphy. We placed Edward, the footman, too soon in the main house.” He smiled sheepishly. “You see, he’s the only arrival to date trained for his position, so I assumed it would be an easier transition. He should have stayed here first, a calm setting. Instead, he’s losing his mind, or thinks he is.”
“I’m going to help him. I could have before—”
“You were too busy playing Madame DuPre to help.”
She ripped off her glove and threw it at him. It hit his chest exactly at the tantalizing open point of his shirt. “You abandoned me. Left me to fend for myself. I had no idea you were building the League into an organization my grandfather never envisioned. Healing and support and assistance. Why, a place to live should one not have any other options. Why not bring me in sooner? Why wait until I’m hunted and have to be guarded within an inch of my life?”
He halted his horse and considered her glove as it fluttered to the ground. “Residing with a failing old woman certainly didn’t curb your temper. And you were never left to fend for yourself. I was close, even if you didn’t think I was.”
“No one trained for their position.” Her gaze fell to the leather embarrassment resting on the stalks of golden grass. “That explains Minnie, who is no more a lady’s maid than I am a lady.” It also explained the scattered Harbingdon household, so unlike the lock-and-key discipline of a typical aristocratic one.
Julian dismounted with a resigned air, going to his knee to retrieve her glove. Grass brushed his thigh, drawing her gaze to the shifting muscle as he knelt. “This is not a country home for hunting season, Yank. Here, we live and work together. Sadly, abuse and denigration are our familial connection.” He glanced up, regarding her through eyes gone quicksilver in the sunlight. The faint lines drifting from them as he squinted were new to her. She was fascinated. Entranced with a mere look, as always. An intense look that crawled inside, softening her against her will. “Most shared their gifts as children. You know this. Such honesty is a lovely aspect of being a child but horrible for someone, anyone, different. I’m untangling more than finances on these lands. I’m sorry if my mission is a surprise, but if I’m devoting my life to this, giving up so much, it’s going to mean something.”
She was speechless as Julian stood and extended the glove to her. His undertaking seemed exceedingly benevolent and amazingly naïve. Her grandfather had only wanted to complete his research, keep his granddaughter safe, and understand why the gift of healing had traveled through their family like a big nose or a particular eye color.
Julian sought to right wrongs and build a community on an entirely singular level.
And what, exactly, did he mean by giving up so much? Did he include her in what he h
ad to give up? She folded and refolded the glove, afraid to ask. “How democratic,” she finally said for lack of a candid comment.
“Democratic.” He laughed softly and came around to assist her dismount. His touch was offhand, and he immediately moved away, but the heat of his body had transferred at each point she’d grazed on the way down, tiny patchworks of fire lighting her skin.
“Your glove chose an adequate spot for lunch,” he said, his moist breath crossing her cheek. Then he surprised her as he’d never surprised her before. With a gentle, easy smile, he lifted the hat from his head and settled it on hers. It sank low on her brow, held up by her ears. When she continued to stare, dumbfounded, he said simply, “Your cheeks are freckling,” and turned from her as if nothing earthshaking had occurred.
She was left standing in a field with his tantalizing fragrance drifting from his hat to her nostrils, the lingering warmth of his body dissipating, carried away on the breeze.
It was heaven and hell.
Julian gathered her bay and his black, giving them apple slices with murmured appreciation for their patience. From his saddlebag, he removed a tightly rolled blanket and a leather satchel. Ripping off his glove with his even, white teeth, he settled the blanket on a patch of grass beneath a towering blackthorn she imagined to be as old as Harbingdon.
She crossed to the picnic spot with uncharacteristic hesitation, pressing her glove between her palms until she noticed Julian studying her with a muted, yet challenging smile. Her hands stilled, her chin lifting. “Strangely, I feel tested.”
His movements slowed, long fingers neatly tucked under the corner of the blanket. His gaze met hers, then fell back to his task. “Perhaps I test myself,” he replied, then turned to unpack the bounty contained in the satchel, negating any explanation about a comment she was sure to spend a sleepless night puzzling over.