by Anne Stuart
And he loved Miss Jane Durham.
He paused at the entrance to the stable, knowing he should turn and head back to the kitchen before she saw him. She was standing by Penelope’s stall, her tall body leaning slightly against the wood as she talked in a low, sweet voice to her beloved mare.
He was a tall, strong man, but he liked a woman who could look him in the eyes. He liked her deep, rich voice, her strong hands, and her merry eyes. He loved her way with the horses, her patience with her horrible family. He loved everything about her except the fact that she was born of the manor house and he was a servant.
She never treated him like a servant. But then, she never treated anyone badly—she was fair and friendly to everyone. She had no idea that he longed for her in every part of his body, no idea that he dreamt of her at night, long, slow, tempting dreams, where she lay in his bed and stared up at him with trust and desire. No idea that he ever had a thought above his station in life. And she never would.
He must have thrown a shadow across the doorway, for she looked up, squinting toward him, and shoved her hand through her unruly hair. “Good morning, Peter,” she said. “I don’t suppose you brought me a mug of Cook’s tea as well, did you?”
Too late to retreat, he moved into the darkness, perfumed by horse and hay and Jane. “’Morning, Miss Jane. And you know as well as I do that Cook would have my head if I gave you your tea in a mug like the servants. You need to drink from bone china with little flowers on it.”
She smiled wryly. “Those cups don’t hold enough. I need lots of strong, sweet tea in the morning, or I can’t wake up.”
So did he. He could see her in the farmhouse kitchen, sitting at the table with him, a mug of tea in her hand. He banished the memory sternly. “How’s Penelope this morning?”
She turned back to her horse, a worried expression crossing her brow. “I don’t know. I think I was a fool to have her bred. She’s not doing well at all. Maybe she just wasn’t made to foal.”
“Of course she was. There’s no reason to think she won’t get through it just fine, Miss Jane. I admit she’s been a bit restive during the last few months, but they say most women get that way during their time.”
“I suppose so,” Jane said, clearly unconvinced. “If it weren’t for you, Peter, I wouldn’t have had her bred. You’re the best man with horses in the county, maybe in the whole of England. If you say she’s going to be all right, then I trust you.”
Trusted him, she did. He needed to remind himself of that when she accidentally got too close, accidentally brushed against him. “I do my best, Miss Jane,” he muttered.
She ducked her head. “I love her, Peter,” she said in a hushed, strained voice.
“I know you do, Miss.”
“She’s the only creature that’s ever let me love her unconditionally. Who’s loved me back without wanting anything from me.”
“She wants something from you, all right,” Peter said. “She wants food and a warm, clean stall and a good gallop every now and then. And you know your brother loves you.”
Jane’s smile was a bit wobbly. “Gabriel loves me on his own terms. He doesn’t have much time for sisters.” There was nothing he could say to that. She turned away from Penelope, leaning against the stall to look at him out of her cool, shy eyes. “Lizzie’s sick,” she said abruptly. “I doubt it’s anything serious, but you might want to tell him.”
“Why would I want to do that, Miss Jane?”
An odd expression crossed his face. “Why do you call him Gabriel and me ‘Miss Jane?’” she asked.
“Because you probably wouldn’t answer me if I called you ‘Gabriel.’”
She managed a faint smile at his weak attempt at humor, but she wasn’t deterred. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Why don’t you just call me Jane? You’ve known me since I was a little girl—you used to keep an eye on me when I played with your younger sister.”
“It wouldn’t be seemly.”
“To whom? You don’t have to do it around other people, but when we’re alone, why can’t you just call me Jane?”
Because it wouldn’t stop there, he thought. Because I need to call you Miss Jane so that I don’t forget that you’re not for the likes of me. “I’ll try, Miss Jane,” he said in his most formal voice.
She shook her head, obviously knowing a stubborn Yorkshireman when she saw one. “And how is Sally? I haven’t seen her since she married her young man.”
“Expecting her third, Miss, come Whitsuntide,” Peter said.
“Her third?” she echoed in a hollow voice. “And she’s a year younger than I am.”
He knew women well enough to understand what she was thinking, and ignoring his own pain, said, “You’ll have a fine husband and babies of your own in no time, Miss Jane. We’ll just be sorry to have you leave us.”
“I won’t leave you.” The words were quiet, intense, but he knew there was no hidden meaning to them. She smiled then, a little too brightly. “So why haven’t you married, Peter? Why don’t you have a hopeful family and a pretty little wife waiting for you at home?”
“You’re full of strange questions today, aren’t you, Miss?” he said, turning away from her to set his empty mug on a nearby shelf. “All things in due time, I suppose.”
“Is there anyone you’re thinking of marrying?”
He wasn’t a coward, but he wished to God he could find a way to escape her, escape her questions, escape her tempting presence. If he had any sense at all, he’d leave the Durhams’ employ and spend his time with Gabriel. God knew how much work there was to be done at the tumbledown estate his friend had practically abandoned. Gabriel was supposed to be staying in the tower while they made the old estate habitable, but he’d done absolutely nothing to ensure progress. He lived in his tower at the ruined abbey, haunted the woods, and drove his poor parents mad.
Except there was nothing poor about the Durhams, and their love for anyone but themselves and the twins was nonexistent as far as Peter could see.
If he had any sense at all, he’d leave this place, travel down to the south, where everyone smiled and lied and a man could forget about things he could never have.
But he wasn’t going anywhere. “I’m in no hurry, Miss Jane,” he said. “Like as not I’ll find someone to marry eventually.”
“Will you love her, Peter?”
Jesus Christ, the woman is out to drive me mad! He looked at her, driven almost past endurance. “Servants don’t think much about love, Miss. We find someone who’ll suit, who’ll make a good partner in life, a good partner in bed,” he added deliberately, “and we marry. It’s that simple.”
“That simple,” she echoed. “And how do you know someone will be a good partner in bed?”
He could think of only one way to stop her damnable questions, and he moved up on her, suddenly, expecting her to back away from him in nervous confusion. She held her ground, and he stopped, so close that he could see the faint gold streaks in her warm brown eyes, so close that he could feel the body heat, see the pulse beating at the base of her throat. Beating fast.
“You try them out, Miss Jane,” he said. “We don’t have to marry for money or position or property, because men of my class don’t have any to begin with. We marry to have a good life.”
“Then you do marry for love.”
He wondered what she’d do if he pushed her up against the stall and kissed her as thoroughly as she needed to be kissed. He’d often wondered that very thing, and he had no intention of finding out, despite Gabriel’s gibes. “Call it what you like, Miss Jane,” he said roughly. “Were you wanting to ride this morning, Miss?” He couldn’t very well back away, but he needed some sort of distance between them.
She turned back to her mare, and he told himself he was imagining the troubled expressio
n in her eyes. “Maybe later. I’m worried about my cousin. She didn’t look at all well last night.” She turned back to look at her mare. “You will call me when it comes time for Penelope to foal, won’t you? You’ll come get me?”
“I’ll have someone inform you,” he said.
“I want to be there, Peter. I need to be with her. I was there when she was born, I’ve raised her from a weanling. Promise me? No matter what time it is?”
She was looking up at him with pleading eyes, still shorter than his lanky six-foot-two. And there was no way he could deny her. “I’ll come get you,” he said. “I promise.”
Her smile was warm, enchanting, and he wondered how any sane man could resist it. “You’re a good man, Peter Brownington.”
“Get on with you now,” he said with mock gruffness. “I’ve got work to get done.”
With a small laugh she scampered off, pausing only to take his abandoned tea mug with her. “I’ll give this to Cook,” she said airily.
“There’s no need . . .” But she was already gone. Leaving him alone with the memory, the breath imprinted on his flesh.
SHE WENT IN through the kitchen, knowing her mother would lecture her if she caught her. Not that she was likely to—Lady Elinor never went anywhere near the huge kitchens of the house. It was Jane’s favorite place—the only spot in the entire house that felt alive.
“There you are, Miss Jane,” Cook greeted her. “There’s breakfast set up in the dining room, and no one’s there to bother you.”
“I’d like some tea,” she said.
Cook looked surprised. “I thought you already had some. You’ve been clutching that mug as if it’s a love token.”
Jane could feel the color leave her face, and it was an odd sensation. “Love token?” she said with a hollow laugh. “An odd sort of love it would be, to have a kitchen mug as a symbol.”
She practically ran from the kitchen. The hallway was deserted—the rest of her family were still asleep, and Lizzie was sick in bed. The servants were busy with their various duties—no one would come across her unexpectedly.
Jane leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath as she stared down at the ordinary mug she’d brought with her from the stable.
And without thinking she put her lips to the rim where Peter’s had touched it and closed her eyes with a long, blissful sigh.
Chapter Eight
IT WAS CLOSE TO midday, and Gabriel Durham had the very devil of a headache. It was no wonder—he’d spent the night before drunk as a lord. Peter dumped a load of firewood by the hearth with a singular lack of regard for Gabriel’s tender nerves.
“Curse you, Peter,” Gabriel said weakly. “Do you have to be so damned noisy?”
“And just why were you drowning your sorrows, Your Lordship?” Peter responded. “It’s no wonder you’re suffering the aftereffects.”
Gabriel glared at him. “Bugger His Lordship.”
“No, thank you, Gabriel. You’re not to my taste.”
Gabriel emitted a bark of laughter. “You’re too literal, Peter, and always have been. It’s my sister who’s to your taste, and we both know it. Did you take my advice last night and kiss her?”
“I did not. I wouldn’t have had the chance with Miss Penshurst still reeling from having to deal with the likes of you.” Peter took a seat by the fire. “I’m not about to put a hand on Jane, and you know it. She trusts me. Sees me as a loyal servant and nothing more, and I’m not about to be the one to disillusion her.”
“You’re too damned loyal a servant, if you ask me,” Gabriel said, thoroughly disgruntled. “I don’t know where you got such a conservative streak.”
“From my mother.”
Gabriel snorted with laughter. “Not that I’d say a word against Alice, but she’s hardly the one to preach.”
“Considering where I came from, you mean? Everyone’s entitled to one mistake. I’m hers.”
“I doubt she’d consider you one,” Gabriel said, suddenly repentant. “I’m a right bastard to tease you about it.”
“True enough,” Peter said without rancor. “That makes the two of us.”
“Two right bastards. Actually three, if truth be known.”
“Truth doesn’t need to be known, Gabriel,” Peter said, his voice carrying a trace of warning.
Gabriel leaned back and stretched his legs out in front of him. “A lovesick man is a pitiful sight, Peter,” he said mildly.
“One I don’t intend to inflict on your sister. Did you enjoy kissing Miss Penshurst?”
“What has that got to do with anything?” Gabriel demanded.
“I don’t know. I just haven’t seen you turn to the bottle for months now, and even Lady Chilton’s special charms haven’t tempted you. Yet Miss Penshurst is here for a handful of days, and you take to roaming the woods, drinking too much, and doing all sorts of unexpected things.”
“I wasn’t roaming the woods looking for Miss Penshurst. I was afraid the Chiltons and their little coven might be out and about.”
“And you were right about that. I buried the animals, by the way. No sign of anything new, but there’s no telling what they’ll do next. Lady Chilton doesn’t seem ready to take no for an answer.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Gabriel said, staring into the fire. “If I were noble and self-sacrificing, I’d let them have their way. I could lead their filthy little group, and I have little doubt I could distract them from their bloodthirsty practices. Or at least convince them to devote their rituals to farm animals awaiting slaughter. But for some reason I can’t bring myself to join them. Must be getting squeamish in my old age. Something about the pair of them gives me the cold grue.”
“You never were particularly noble,” Peter observed.
“And you, my boy, have far too much nobility, and my poor sister will suffer for it.”
“She won’t suffer for any act of mine,” he said gruffly.
“Even acts of omission?” Gabriel said gently.
“Sod off, Gabriel.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that in the last twenty-four hours. Are we losing our close bond, dear Peter?”
Peter rose, heading for the door. “You do your best to drive everyone away from you, Gabriel,” he said.
“It usually doesn’t require much effort. You’re particularly stubborn.”
“I’m a fool.”
“A loyal one. I don’t deserve a friend like you,” Gabriel murmured, keeping his gaze fixed on the stone floor.
“True enough. Contemplate that when you’re brooding on your sins.”
Gabriel didn’t say a word as Peter left him, though he was half-tempted to call out and stop him a moment before the door slammed shut. The problem was that Peter knew him too well. A liability, of course. He preferred to keep his secrets to himself. He rather fancied the person he presented to the world—brilliant, reclusive, cynical, and occasionally charming. A man who cared for absolutely nothing at all but his studies and his own well-being.
Peter had known him too long and too well to be fooled, however. During the bitter, lonely years of his childhood Peter had been more a brother than a friend, one of the few spots of human warmth in those long, bleak years.
At least Gabriel could be grateful for one thing. The Durhams had never shown him a moment of human warmth, kindness, or affection. They had treated him as a wealthy but unwanted guest in their house, and it wasn’t until he was thirteen and Jane had arrived in the household that he understood why.
He’d endured it all in stoic silence, but Jane’s appearance changed all that. She was four years old when she arrived, plain and shy and frightened, and the Durhams’ straight-faced insistence that she was both their daughter and his sister brought the absurdity of his own situation home to him. Despite their con
tention, Jane was no child of theirs. And neither, thank God, was he.
Between the two of them, he and Peter looked after her. Peter taught her about horses, Gabriel taught her about the woods and the trees. He schooled her in Latin and Greek and French, much to her dismay. Lady Elinor gave up all effort at mothering her two changelings upon the arrival of the twins, and no one ever thought to school Jane in the various arts she would need to attract a reasonable husband. She knew nothing about ordering a household, about fashion or music or art beyond a passionate appreciation. Peter’s mother, Alice, took Jane under her wing and taught her the rudiments of housekeeping, though her knowledge of cooking and mending were better suited to a farmer’s wife than a lady. And Jane learned to love all by herself.
Gabriel leaned back and sighed. Peter was a blockheaded fool not to realize how desperately Jane loved him. He was intent on being noble, but his nobility would do nothing but cause everyone pain. The best Jane’s future would hold was a polite marriage to some boring widower. There was no passion in her future, only emptiness and duty unless Peter took a hand.
Or Gabriel gave them a little push.
All his hints had met with stony resistance. All his overt suggestions had been met with hostility. If it weren’t for the problem of the Chiltons and their bloodthirsty band of false Druids, he would have dealt with his sister’s happiness months ago. But now Elizabeth Penshurst had arrived to make matters even more complicated.