He ducked down and listened as she whispered in his ear.
With a laugh he straightened up. In one strong, smooth movement, he hoisted Rosabel on to his shoulders and carried her away, laughing with glee, ducking under the tree branches.
Maud watched them go, a smile tickling her lips. This was a Sir Dominic she sensed most people never encountered.
Her nails dug into her palms. She barely felt them, barely noticed her surroundings.
No! she told herself sternly, again. This is nothing but a passing fancy. Ignore it, ignore him!
Walking a little way further, she found a large stone. It was covered with moss and made a cushioned—if slightly damp—seat. She lifted her face to the sunshine that dappled through the leaves. She could still hear Rosabel laughing as Dominic carried her along the path. Then her voice died away and all was silent, except the rustle of the trees.
Maud felt a stillness come over her. Something magical and sacred. Something pure. The sense of healing she had experienced these past few days seemed even more intense here, in Pendragon Woods.
Sanctuary.
She tilted back her bonnet and closed her eyes. Her face was warmed by the sun’s rays. She didn’t know how long she sat there, soaking up the peace and silence. All she knew was that her woodland sanctuary was like a soothing balm to her soul, as Sir Dominic’s arms had been.
When she finally opened her eyes, she took from her pocket the letter from Martha. It was full of enquiries about Maud’s employment, descriptions of her own life as a newlywed and then one sentence that made her exclaim aloud in delight.
Dominic appeared on the path. She hadn’t jumped, Maud realised. Previously, if she was approached, even if not unawares, she leapt as if burned by a fire. But with him, now, there was an easiness in her body.
He glanced at the letter in her hand. ‘You have had news?’
Maud beamed. ‘I have indeed. From my sister. She is newly married and she writes to tell me she is expecting a baby.’
He smiled. ‘You love children.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Teaching children is my vocation, after all. It is more than a mere occupation, to me.’
‘You have never sought to have a family of your own? To have your own children?’
Maud stiffened. ‘I am an unmarried woman.’ She clipped out the words. She didn’t know what else to say. His query had brought it all back, for a moment.
The nightmares.
The fears.
She did not dare to dream about marriage and a family. She might have once upon a time, but not any more. Her dreams were over. Ruined. That was the truth of it. She never let herself think about it. The pain was too great; it would overwhelm her. What had been taken away from her included her hope for the future, for the ordinary dreams of marriage, of having a husband and a family. Such dreams would never come true for her.
No one would ever want her, as she was. Not any more. Not now.
She bit her lip. Hiding her face, she busied herself folding the letter from Martha back into the envelope.
When she looked up again, he was studying her with a slight frown.
‘I realise that you are unmarried,’ he said, quietly. ‘I am sorry if my question caused you any distress. I certainly meant to cause you no offence.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I have taken none.’
‘You must go and visit your sister, when the time comes,’ he said.
‘You would let me take time off?’ she exclaimed. ‘Ma—’
Once again, she had been about to say her sister’s name, but of course she could not.
‘I mean, my sister would like that,’ she amended hastily.
‘I give free or reduced fare tickets to all my staff,’ he said. ‘That extends to their families. When the baby is older, you can invite them down here, to Cornwall. For a holiday.’
‘Really?’
The half-smile played at his lips before he inclined his head. ‘If you wish it.’
‘You’re not what I expected,’ she said on impulse.
He raised an eyebrow.
‘You are so much kinder than you seem,’ she explained. ‘When I first met you, I found you…’
He raised his eyebrow further.
‘Intimidating.’
‘You had quite a severe air yourself, Miss Wilmot,’ he drawled. ‘I have sometimes been quite in awe of my new governess.’
She smoothed her skirt.
‘You’re teasing me,’ she said.
‘Not at all.’
He held out his hand to help her up.
She hesitated. She couldn’t risk the touch of his hand, even gloved. She’d vowed that she would not reveal her new-found romantic notions for him and she could not let her body betray her.
Instantly, in response to her movement, he drew his hand away.
‘Shall we go and look for the butterflies?’ he asked, lightly.
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied, rising from the stone and fumbling for her butterfly net.
She sensed him observing her, making deductions.
Maud gripped the handle of her net as if it were a weapon. But the only person she must defend against was herself.
Her romantic notions about the master of the house had to pass.
Dreaming was too dangerous, especially for a governess.
As they went deeper into the wood, they fell in step together, side by side. She felt, for a moment, as if they always walked together.
Such thoughts were romantic notions, she reprimanded herself. They must stop. Immediately.
‘It’s said these woods were used for wild pagan rites, long ago,’ Sir Dominic told her.
Maud shivered.
He chuckled. ‘Does that scare you?’
‘A little,’ she conceded.
‘You do not strike me as someone who lacks courage.’
‘More than once I climbed a tree in an attempt to catch a butterfly,’ she told him. ‘I wanted to travel the world, looking for rare specimens. My favourite tales were about explorers of far lands. But now my daring goes into my stories, instead.’
‘That seems a shame. Surely life is an adventure.’
‘Princess Swallowtail’s adventures are enough for me,’ she said lightly.
She moved ahead on the path.
In a single stride he was beside her. They made their way deeper among the trees, to the sound of birdsong underscored by the occasional ‘cuckoo…’
‘I don’t believe I have ever chased butterflies,’ he admitted, after they had strolled for a while. ‘I must admit, I’m intrigued.’
‘They are intriguing creatures.’
‘Indeed.’
They continued in silence. Maud felt herself unfurling, like a fern frond.
As they ventured further into the woods, it seemed to become more magical. The gnarled oak trees were like living giants and the hazel coppices were dappled with light. The morning was so bright, it was as light as if it was midday and already the sun was streaming through the leaf canopies.
For a moment she experienced again that strange sense that Sir Dominic’s company was an everyday occurrence, just as she had that morning, when he had smiled at her on the stairs.
Beside her, he strode with the assured air of a man who knew his place in the world and took it.
Of course he did. They were his own woods, she supposed. She tried to imagine how it must feel to be the owner of such a vast amount of land. She could barely fathom it. Yet if she were to own anything—if nature could be owned—it would be a wood, an oak wood, just like this one.
Again, she felt a pang of pleasure that was almost painful in its intensity. Never had she felt so at home as she did at Pendragon Hall. It hadn’t only been the sight of him at the foot of the stairs, leafing through the
morning post and greeting her with a smile that gave her the strange sense of belonging, as if it had all happened before, or was meant to be. Here in the woods she felt the same sensation, the rightness of being beside him, as he strode, a full head taller than her, his black, polished boots keeping pace with hers.
The beauty of the woods only added to the intensity. The bluebells, wild garlic and primroses were out, and she noticed that he took them in, too, breathing in their fragrant scents.
‘Watch out.’ He lifted an overhanging tree bough, so that she could go underneath it, unharmed.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He inclined his head in reply, but they spoke no more as they continued on the path.
Two wings flashed by her.
‘Oh!’ she cried out softly. ‘Quickly!’
Lifting her petticoats, she ran across the forest floor, darting between tree trunks and dodging bushes in pursuit of the butterfly. It flitted across the path and led her deeper into the woods.
She slid to a halt.
Slowly, slowly, she lifted the butterfly net.
Dominic had followed her. ‘Where is it?’
‘Over there. Try not to move,’ Maud instructed in a whisper. ‘If you do, it will flee. Can you see it? Up there.’
Maud tilted her head towards where the butterfly hovered about the lower limbs of an oak tree. ‘See? It’s mostly black with a white bar on each wing, but underneath it’s all russet and white.’
Dominic shifted behind her.
She fought back an urge to lean into his arms. She instinctively sought the comfort of them now, after he had held her that night.
She bit her lip. What was happening to her? She had to control herself. Such sensations were entirely unseemly.
‘What is it?’ he murmured, his breath on her neck as he leaned in to minimise sound.
‘It’s a White Admiral,’ she whispered in reply. ‘It isn’t the rarest of butterflies, but its pupation was in May, which means it has only just come out. Rosabel hasn’t seen one yet.’
‘I see it.’ Dominic moved even nearer to her as he followed her line of sight. When her hands tightened around the wooden handle of the net, it had nothing to do with the butterfly.
She’d always been able to focus on an insect when she saw it and to stay still and stalk it patiently, but now it was impossible to concentrate. Every part of her body normally attuned to the flutter of wings, or for flash of colour, now seemed attuned to him.
The connection they’d made the night before was almost tangible here in the woods, as soundless as the movement of a butterfly wing, yet pulsating as effortlessly between them.
Did he feel it? If so, he made no indication. He stood motionless, like the experienced hunter he was.
A bead of perspiration trickled down the back of her corset as behind her he shifted his body weight to his opposite foot, to get a better vantage point for the butterfly. For a tall, strong man he was surprisingly quiet on the crunching leaves and twigs of the woodland path. Now he’d moved even closer to her, encircling her with his scent, clean, musky and undeniably male. It reminded her of being held in his arms, his sure strength banishing her nightmare.
Her corset felt tight. Spring in Cornwall was hotter than she had anticipated. This morning she felt as if she were burning up.
She crept closer to the butterfly. Sir Dominic moved with her, their bodies in tune.
Her damp fingers nearly slipped on the net handle. It was more than the heat. She knew that. She forced herself to focus on the fairy creature before her, her eyes on the fluttering wings.
She angled the net. As she did so, the butterfly moved even higher.
‘Do you want to catch it?’ Dominic murmured in her ear.
‘I do,’ she whispered over her shoulder. ‘Not to keep it. Just to see it close up. But it’s too high.’
‘Here.’ He closed his hand around hers on the handle of the butterfly net.
She slid her fingers out from underneath his.
He moved in front of her to get a better position. She tried not to start as he brushed past, but his proximity took immediate effect on her body, sending her heart into a rapid tattoo.
With a stealthy grace that told of his hunting skill, he prowled silently over to the oak tree.
Then he leapt, the net flying through the air.
‘Oh, you have it!’ Maud could see the butterfly, unharmed, but inside the net.
He gave a slight bow. ‘At your service.’
A few eager steps and she was beside him. Both bent to look at the specimen through the netting, so close, their heads almost touched.
‘Is it a male or a female?’ he asked. ‘Can you tell?’
She nodded. ‘It’s a male. It’s a bit bigger and a fine specimen, too.’
Her awareness of him vanished as she examined the butterfly, gently spreading the netting so it had plenty of room. ‘I’ve never managed to catch a White Admiral.’
‘Well, you didn’t this time.’ He chuckled. ‘Not that it matters. But tell me, why is it called an Admiral?’
‘I would have caught him if you hadn’t been lurking in the undergrowth, scaring him off. He probably thought you were going to accuse him of trespassing, as you did me, once upon a time.’ She laughed. He did not feel like her employer, here in the woods, catching butterflies. ‘No one knows why they’re named Admirals. It may have something to do with the navy and the flags on their ships. But you can see how fine he is, a real nobleman. Large, with a broad wingspan.’
‘Indeed.’
‘There are some collectors, I have read, who believe that the name was originally “admirable”, not “admiral”.’
‘Is that so?’
She looked up to find him gazing at her, a strange expression on his face.
‘I’m talking too much,’ she said, flustered. ‘You must excuse me. I tend to make everything a lesson. It is a schoolroom habit.’
‘Not at all, Miss Wilmot. Thus far, I have enjoyed your lessons.’
As he passed her back the butterfly net, their fingers touched. For a moment, everything stilled. She forgot the butterfly in the net, forgot everything, except Sir Dominic Jago and the way he was looking at her.
She raised her face to his. His eyes had turned dark, filled with a strange intensity as he studied her face, as if she were the butterfly and not the creature in the net. His gaze slipped over her—her hair, her forehead, her cheeks, her nose—to settle on her lips.
She had parted them—to speak—but no sound came.
There was only the hush of their breathing, as long moments passed.
A blackbird in the oak tree above them broke into song, as loud as any chaperon.
Maud jumped. With a start, she dropped the butterfly net.
He caught it neatly.
‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘I’ve never dropped my net before.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve got it.’
He held out the net, with the butterfly undamaged inside it.
‘It needs plenty of air,’ she said.
‘Of course.’ He gave it more room as she observed it, her head bowed.
‘Have you seen enough?’ he said after a moment, in a voice that sounded more husky than before.
‘Thank you. Now we must—’
‘Set it free.’ He finished her sentence.
With a gentle flick of Dominic’s wrist, he sent the White Admiral flying away.
‘You’ve caught your first butterfly,’ she said.
‘Have I?’
Silence fell between them, strong as a cord.
‘A White Admiral was a fine choice,’ she said at last.
He gave her his half-smile.
‘I believe it is the coppers that have taken my fancy,’ he murmured. ‘Are there vari
ations on the copper we saw this morning?’
‘I believe so,’ she said. She hardly knew what she was saying with him looking at her so intently. ‘There are fritillaries. They are multicoloured. Striped. They are cousins of the coppers, I suppose, not the same family, exactly. And there are large coppers. They are bigger. Of course.’
She knew she rambled.
‘Ah,’ he drawled. ‘I would like to see one again up close. Are they hard to catch?’
‘They can be.’
He still didn’t move.
Nor did she.
Yet there was movement between them, flourishing into life. She could not see it or hear it, but she could feel it.
Stop, she warned herself. Stop.
She had to ignore the swirling sensation, so strong, sparking between them. She had to fight all the sensations that were growing in her mind, in her body.
In her heart.
It began to pound as he continued to study her as if she were the rarest butterfly in the world.
‘I believe it might be worth the effort to investigate.’ He glanced again at her hair, then back to her eyes, down to her mouth. ‘Copper has always been highly valued here in Cornwall.’
It was as if he touched her.
As if he kissed her.
She wanted him to.
The realisation flamed in her body before it reached her mind, heating her skin, tilting her head up to his. She could not look away from him. The sound of the woods, the birds, the wind in the trees—all vanished as he summoned her.
She took another step forward before she fell back. Came to her senses, an unsteady hand clutched against her bodice as she tried to recall what they had been talking of, before her heart had begun to thump that dangerous beat, still resonating through her entire being.
Butterflies.
Butterflies.
‘The small coppers are not particularly rare, nor sought after,’ she said at last.
His gaze remained on her mouth. Like fingers. Like his own lips.
Would they be gentle? Hard against hers?
More unruly thoughts swirled up into her head.
‘I’ve told you already, Miss Wilmot,’ he said. ‘I am a man who trusts my own judgement.’
Still he held her, with his eyes.
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