by Sophia James
‘I didn’t know I had skill at anything.’
Fell shrugged. ‘Well, now you do. I’ll ask Ma to teach you some of her tricks when she returns next—I’ve a feeling you’ve a gift for it.’
He closed those odd eyes for a moment, thankfully missing Sophia’s rosy blush. The blood fled to her cheeks and burned there, a heated reminder of his words as she turned them over inside her mind. Never before could she recall anybody telling her she was good at anything, let alone something as useful as tending wounds. A novel feeling rose up to smile upon her like a burst of sunlight, one she struggled to name until with a start she realised what it was.
Pride.
The very idea of it was one she felt she ought to turn away from, yet Fell’s low mutter wouldn’t be denied.
First hope for my sinning soul and now pride. What will this strange man conjure next?
‘Oh. Why…thank you.’
‘Aye, well. I should be the one doing the thanking. It took courage to stand between me and Turner, and possibly magic to make him ashamed. I don’t know anyone else could have managed it. That was very well done.’
Courage? Very well done?
They were the kinds of things she’d wished Mother would say, long ago when Sophia was a child who didn’t yet know any better than to waste her time longing for a day that would never come. Instead, it was Fell who spoke them, unprompted and apparently in earnest, and the glow of hesitant delight Sophia felt occupy her very being was one she had never thought she’d ever feel. A lit candle seemed to have taken up residence in the hollow of her chest, burning there with a warm light she never wanted to snuff out.
Fell’s gaze found hers and she saw something in it that made all other thoughts turn to background murmurs.
‘Have you given any thought to what I said yesterday?’
She stilled, the damp cloth hanging from her fingers. The worst of the blood had gone from Fell’s cheek, leaving behind a clean gash like a tiny curving mouth, but it couldn’t tempt her to return its smile. ‘A little.’
Liar. You know you barely slept last night for thinking of it.
‘And what conclusion did you reach?’
The secret candle’s flame flickered a little beneath the cold wind of Sophia’s doubt. She held Fell’s stare for a heartbeat, but the steady look in his eyes made her glance away in confusion.
Ever since I can remember Mother told me the way things were. I never had cause to question it. Can there truly be something in what Fell says now?
The desire to believe her husband was so strong it almost took her breath away all over again and now Sophia felt her head swim in the same way it had at the sight of blood spilling down his face. It was a face more precious to her than any other, she could no longer deny, and the desire to accept his words once and for all seized her in a punishing grip.
And yet…
She shook her head, still not meeting his eye, and when she spoke she cursed herself for sounding so unsure.
‘I still don’t know. You were so kind to comfort me yesterday, but you must understand what it’s been like for me—to think one thing for all these years and then be told another. It isn’t that simple.’
With her gaze trained stubbornly on the floor it made her jump to feel a hand unexpectedly touch her downturned chin and lightly raise it up. Her eyes flew to find Fell’s, mouth opening but no words starting from her lips at the explosion of sensation coursing from her chin down her neck to curl in her throat like a river of pure gold.
He watched her for a second; just one second with his fingers to her face as gently as he might cradle a newborn babe, so frank and honest it took Sophia’s breath away before he slowly retracted his hand.
‘I understand, although I’ll say this: what you did today was something no useless person could have done, no matter what your mother might say.’ There was an edge to his voice so startlingly close to anger it took her by surprise. ‘You deserve far more than neglect and contempt. It’s time you started to believe it.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Days blurred seamlessly into each other at the cottage, bright mornings giving way to hazy, sun-filled afternoons, followed in turn by humid nights to begin the cycle again.
As August wore on Sophia’s skin became more golden, the sun chasing away the unhappy pallor left by imprisonment at Fenwick Manor and encouraging a smattering of freckles standing proud across her cheeks. The black tint had faded from her hair and once again it shone like burnished copper in the light, a flaming river that ran down Sophia’s back with an abandon she’d barely thought possible.
Nobody seeing her now would think she’d been born into luxury, her formerly porcelain face tanned and the bright gown on her back—a gift from Fell she’d blushed to receive and thanked him for far more than was necessary—more suited to a proud Roma woman than a lady. Even Mother herself might have hesitated before being able to identify her own daughter, changing as she was day by day from the unfortunate creature she had once been into something…else.
Sitting now on the front doorstep, her bare feet soaking in a puddle of sunshine, Sophia examined a callous on her palm with a curious mixture of dismay and satisfaction. The lovely white hands of which she’d once been so careful were more like those of a real maid now, a twist of fact mirroring the fiction she’d once hidden behind. The skin at the base of each finger was rougher, hardened by actual physical work—a house wouldn’t run itself, she’d realised, and it was with an absurd burst of pride she traced what felt a little like a medal.
Pampered, idle gentlewomen didn’t get anything as vulgar as calloused hands; but Sophia would never be one of those ever again, and as she felt the ruined softness it was a tangible reminder of how far she had strayed from her former existence—and how much further she could still strive, now her future might hold more than guilt and fear.
‘What do you say, Lash? How many fires will I need to build before my fingers look like Fell’s?’
The dog stretched out beside her on the bare earth thumped his tail without opening his eyes and Sophia absent-mindedly ran a hand through his dusty fur. Speaking of Fell reminded her how evasive he’d been about where he was going that afternoon, loping off up the lane out of Woodford with his usual long strides. In his absence Sophia had enough time to fetch more wood for the stove, sweep the kitchen and draw water from the pump—and still he hadn’t returned from his mystery errand, leaving her with little else to do but sit with her face turned towards the sun and the summer breeze gently stirring the Titian locks of her hair as she lost herself in thought.
For weeks now the secret she carried had sat inside her like a stone, a weight she couldn’t shift no matter how hard she tried. Her feelings for Fell remained as strong as ever, renewing themselves with each smile and touch of his hand until her arms felt as though they might snap from the strain of being so tightly prevented from reaching out and twining around his neck. Each night they spent together was as wonderful to her as the first, the perfect melding of their bodies in a rhythm they worked on with delight that couldn’t be faked. More than that: the tiniest thread of hope now wound its way through her thoughts to wonder if his appreciation for her might have grown beyond the physical.
Lash huffed a tortured sigh and turned over, momentarily breaking Sophia’s reverie to make her smile. Nothing could distract her for long, though, and within moments her mind was dragged back to the blacksmith who lingered in her dreams as well as her bed.
A few short weeks ago Sophia would have known without doubt she was the creator of her unhappy former life, but now she was no longer so sure. Fell’s belief in her had shaken the very foundations of the woman she’d always thought she was, a direct challenge to every cruel word Mother had instilled in her since she was a child. The desire to accept there might be a crumb of truth in Fell’s assertion that she wasn’t to blame for Papa’s death ha
d gnawed at her ever since he had taken her cold hand and sent a flood of fire roaring beneath her skin, a recollection that even now made her shiver despite the glaring sun. Surely a man who lacked any tender feeling for her wouldn’t have said those words, or looked into her eyes with such unnamed emotion… It was enough to make her wonder and that wonder took advantage of her longing to make her ache for Fell both in his presence and when he was away. It was an itch impossible to scratch, a yearning like a starving man seeing a banquet just out of reach behind a pane of glass…
The sound of hooves clipping steadily along the lane behind the cottage made Sophia’s head snap round, heart immediately leaping to settle into a beat that would have shamed a hummingbird. It was nothing new for a rider to appear, wanting shoes, but each time it reminded Sophia of the nightmarish day Phillips had trotted into the yard as if he owned it and held her future on a knife edge. A wedding certificate safe in the top drawer of the sitting-room bureau had taken all Phillips’s power away should he ever return, but still the idea of Mother or Septimus discovering where she had fled made her blood run cool in her veins. Probably she’d live in fear of them for ever, the scars of Mother’s cruelty marking Sophia for life and nothing completely erasing the terror she might one day wake up to find herself back in the decadent prison of Fenwick Manor.
She was on her feet and halfway through the cottage door when she realised the identity of the man sitting easily astride the grey mare entering the yard, a sudden flash of heat in her chest registering his face before her brain caught up with her heart. Fell lounged in the saddle as if he’d been born to ride, one hand resting on the reins and the other laid nonchalantly on his broad thigh, and the curve of his lips at Sophia’s look of confusion did nothing to slow the racing of her pulse.
‘Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon yourself.’ Sophia shaded her eyes with her hand as she squinted up at her smiling husband, noting that he looked uncommonly pleased with himself. ‘I see you’ve brought a friend home for dinner. Whose horse is this?’
‘Yours now. If you want her.’
‘Mine?’ Surprise made Sophia’s voice a little higher and Fell’s grin widened.
‘Yes. Well, mine, too, of course, but I imagine you’ll become her favourite. Bess feels more kinship with women, I fancy.’
The mare pushed her velvet nose into Sophia’s outstretched hand as if in agreement and delicately nibbled at her palm with soft lips. Her silvery flanks gleamed in the sunshine and her warm brown eyes gazed at Sophia so kindly her new mistress was taken with her at once.
‘I hadn’t realised you were in need of a horse.’
Seated high above her, Fell shrugged, the same old movement of muscular shoulders that always caught Sophia’s eye so effortlessly. ‘Not for myself, particularly. I was thinking more for you. I can walk any distance, but I’ll not be the man dragging his wife and children behind him when it would make more sense to have a cart, or for you to ride at the very least.’
Sophia nodded, feeling a familiar blush climb her neck and spread across her cheeks. It was the one that crept up any time Fell mentioned their future, the prospect of them as parents to little ones they would make together in nights when she would lie breathless in his arms. She would be a better mama than Mother had ever been, she had sworn fiercely to herself more than once; no child of hers would ever be made to feel worthless or bow its head beneath the weight of guilt it might not deserve—just as she now questioned her own sins, prompted by the man who leaned down to hold out his hand.
‘Up you come. See what you think of her movement.’
He beckoned her closer, ready to haul her up to sit before him on Bess’s broad back. Sophia hesitated, part of her wanting to grab on while another doubtfully took in the worn tack.
‘That isn’t a side saddle. I couldn’t possibly…’ She trailed off, thinking quickly. Riding astride with her skirts hitched up to show her ankles?
Only a lady ‘couldn’t possibly’ and I am no longer one of those. Mrs Barden can do anything and everything poor Miss Somerlock could not—and might even take pleasure in it.
Before any remnant of her prissy manners could complain Sophia thrust her feet back into her boots, grasped Fell’s fingers and the next moment there she was, attempting to find a comfortable position with a leg either side of the horse and her back warmed by the heat of Fell’s body pressed behind her. He sat tall and immovable and it struck Sophia as feeling like being in an armchair with such a broad chest to lean back against—but then he twitched the reins and she scrabbled to clutch the pommel for fear of falling, and Fell’s hand sliding around her waist to anchor her to the saddle overcame all other thought.
‘Ready?’
His voice so close to her ear lit a stack of kindling inside her to burst into flames, joining the smouldering of her spine held against the long length of Fell’s body. Seated so intimately it was as though they were connected by more than just proximity; Sophia felt her breathing change to match that of the man at her back, her chest rising and falling in symphony with the firm one planted so immovably behind her. For a fleeting moment it was hard for Sophia to tell exactly where she ended and Fell began, one moulded against the other so tightly nothing could have slipped between.
Without waiting for a reply Fell gently tapped Bess with his heels and she obligingly lengthened her stride into a brisk trot, carrying them out of the yard and down the lane that cut through Woodford like a dry river. Heads turned as they passed the squat houses and scattered shops, as always outright curiosity present in the eyes that followed the horse’s progress to make Sophia wish she’d thought to put on a bonnet. She just had time to spy Turner sloping out of the tavern as they rode by, his bruises faded now but his nose still a misshapen lump that did nothing to enhance his already unfortunate face. He stared after Fell with powerful loathing that made Sophia shudder, the malice in his expression so reminiscent of Mother’s contempt tiny hairs stood up on the back of her neck.
‘I don’t think Mr Turner has forgiven you yet.’
Even without twisting to look back at him Sophia could tell Fell’s brow would be furrowed with scorn as he snorted audibly into her hair. They’d left the village behind in a few of Bess’s easy footfalls, but Sophia doubted Fell would have troubled himself to look at the farmer even if he’d been standing beside him.
‘Don’t expect he ever will. He’ll think he’s the victim even though he tried to land the first blow. As far as I’m concerned I did him a favour—at least a flat nose makes his face interesting now instead of merely unpleasant.’
Sophia folded her lips into a straight line.
I wish I could disregard the man’s anger as easily as Fell has. I can’t help but worry he might try to repay us.
If life at Fenwick Manor had taught her anything it was to always expect an attack, the instinct to watch her back ingrained so deep it was like a brand on her soul. Fell didn’t seem worried, but perhaps he ought to be, if the intense hatred on the farmer’s face was any indication of the dark path of his thoughts.
Oblivious to the growing unease of his wife, Fell gently squeezed her waist, sending a thrill on a rapid course from his fingers to her sensitive nape.
‘What do you think of her? Will she do for you?’
Bullying her brain into considering something other than Fell’s hand against the thin material of her dress, Sophia nodded. The grey mare’s gait was smooth and she responded to the slightest direction, quite content to carry her riders out into the fields that ran alongside Savernake Forest. Her head bobbed up and down with the rhythm of her hoofbeats as she cantered over sun-bleached straw and stubble left over from harvesting, ears twitching with the fragrant breeze that moved around them. The same air lifted Sophia’s hair to drift about her shoulders, sunlit copper flying up for Fell to bat out of his face. He released the reins for a moment to gather the tresses in his fi
st and lay them to one side of Sophia’s neck, exposing the fragile skin between her shoulder blades that immediately prickled at the sensation of Fell’s laugh.
‘I ought to insist you tie it up if we’re going to ride like this. I’d rather not have a mouthful of hair for my supper.’
Unseen by the man at her back Sophia tightened her grip on the pommel, his laugh stirring what felt like feathers in her stomach in a tickle of pleasure. Out in the wide open fields, leaning back against the firm chest of her beloved with sunlight dappling her hands and a delicious scent in the air, a steady beat of happiness grew inside her like a flower coming into full bloom. There was nothing more she wanted in that moment than for it to last for ever, for Fell to be free of the sadness she so often heard in his voice and their heartbeats falling into step with each other without even trying. She could have stayed the rest of her life in that saddle with Fell’s hand on her waist and her skin rejoicing at his nearness—and the decision to tell him just that made itself abruptly, Sophia’s lips parting of their own volition to form the words she’d longed to speak.
Perhaps the moment is now. There might never be a better one.
It would take all her courage, but she should finally tell him her truth: that she loved him and had for longer than she could say, a steady beat deep within her as insistent and essential as her pulse. Whatever he might reply would be worth the wait; they were bound together now for the rest of their lives and how could it be wrong to tell him how happy the prospect made her, for the first time revelling in an existence that for so long had held only pain?
‘Fell. There’s something I wanted to tell you.’ She could hardly summon up the words, so stilted they were almost lost on the breeze. ‘It’s been on my mind for some time…’