With his gaze drinking in her profile, he agreed, “Very beautiful.”
“How long have you lived in St. Ives?”
“Four years.”
“And before that?”
“Lots of places, looking for somewhere to call home. I finally found it here.”
“You never married?”
“No.”
He hoped his brusque tone would discourage her from asking him why not, as he wasn’t about to admit the truth. Thankfully she fell silent, and for several minutes the only sound was that of the leaves rustling overhead and the twigs snapping beneath their feet. Then she said, “You say you were looking for somewhere to call home…but Gateshead Manor was your home.”
“For a time. But then it was time for me to go.”
“You left very abruptly.” She paused, then added, “Without saying good-bye.”
And it was the hardest damn thing I’ve ever done. “I left you a note.”
“Revealing only that you’d received a lucrative offer to work on another estate and that they wanted you to begin immediately.”
“There wasn’t anything else to say.”
From the corner of his eye he saw her turn to look at him, but he kept his gaze steadfastly straight ahead. “After all these years I suppose there’s no reason not to tell you that you leaving like that hurt me. Deeply.”
What hurt you all but gutted me. “I don’t see why. You were leaving Cornwall in less than a fortnight to marry Westmore.”
“Because you were my friend. My only friend. I suppose I expected more of you than to simply abandon me without any explanation or good-bye other than a hastily scribbled note. I never would have done that to you.” There was no mistaking the hurt and anger and confusion in her voice.
Shame filled him. He’d hated himself for leaving that way, but at the time he hadn’t had any choice. “I’m sorry, Cassie,” he said, and God knew he meant it. “It wasn’t my intention to hurt you.”
“I kept expecting to hear from you, but I never did.”
“I wasn’t much good at sending letters.” Guilt slapped him, although he hadn’t actually lied. He was bad at sending letters. But he’d certainly written them. Dozens of them. Pouring out his heart to her on pages he knew he’d never mail. “Actually, I thought it best not to write. Stable boys don’t correspond with countesses.”
Her silence indicated she knew he was right. Just as he knew it. Unfortunately, that didn’t make the harsh facts of life hurt any less.
Finally she said, “I asked my father which estate you’d gone to work on, but he didn’t know.”
“I didn’t tell him.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t ask.”
“Why not?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
His shoulders tensed, sensing she was about to ask him another question, but he was saved when they rounded a corner. She halted, drawing in a quick breath at the sudden unexpected and spectacular view. As many times as he’d rounded that corner and beheld the vista, it always stopped him as well.
The ocean was spread before them, an indigo blanket of white-capped waves that rushed onto golden sand. Soaring cliffs protruded into the water at one end of the expanse of beach, jutting rocks that broke the ocean’s inexorable flow, shooting fountains of seawater toward the sky, to fall in a sheet of droplets that caught the sunlight in glittering bursts of rainbow brilliance. Gulls screeched, some swooping low, others soaring high, still others floating on the brisk breeze as if suspended in midair.
“Oh, Ethan,” she whispered. “It’s magnificent.” Her eyes slid closed and she tipped her head back, the sun’s rays reflecting off her beautiful face. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen the ocean, breathed in the salt air, felt its soothing coolness upon my skin. I’d forgotten the sense of peace it could bring. I’ve missed it so. I’ve missed so many things…”
She lifted her head and opened her eyes, and her face bloomed into a full smile that coaxed the dimples flanking her lips to appear. As it always had, her smile dazzled him, skewering him in place, making his heart pound.
“Isn’t it just the most wonderful thing you’ve ever seen?” she asked with a laugh, spreading her arms to encompass the panorama.
“The most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen,” he agreed, unable to pull his gaze from her.
“I must feel the sand,” she said. “And the water. And collect some shells and stones to skip.” Then she grabbed his hand and dashed forward, tugging him along.
At Gateshead Manor she’d frequently touched him like that—clasping his hand, giving him a playful shove, or brushing bits of hay from his hair and clothing. Casual gestures he’d simultaneously loved and hated for the contrast of pure pleasure and jaw-gritting torture they provided.
Now the unexpected sensation of her palm nestled warmly against his shot a bolt of heat up his arm, and he nearly stumbled. But he quickly recovered and, unable to resist, ran beside her, the air whipping at their hair and clothes, the sun warm against their skin. T.C. ran ahead, kicking up sand in his mad scramble across the beach. The sound of Cassie’s laughter enveloped him like a soft blanket. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so carefree, but he did know that whenever it was, it had been with her. With Cassie.
They halted near the shore and she released his hand, and he instantly missed her touch. Flinging her arms wide, she turned in a circle, breathless and laughing, her dark blue skirt swirling around her legs. When she stopped, her eyes glittered like sapphires from her exertions, and several tendrils of tawny hair clung to her flushed cheeks.
Facing her, he wished he knew how to paint so as to capture her in this moment, with the sea and cloud-studded azure sky behind her, the gilded sand beneath her, and all of her bathed in golden sunlight and tousled by the breeze.
Unable to stop himself, he reached out and brushed back one of the windblown curls from her cheek. A simple, casual gesture that felt neither simple nor casual to him. Nor to her, he’d wager, given the way she went perfectly still. Never had he touched such velvety smooth skin, and he lingered for several seconds, allowing the breeze to entwine the silky strands around his fingers before lowering his hand.
“If you’ve been looking for Cassie, she’s right here,” he said softly, “laughing in the sunshine.”
Closing her eyes briefly, she drew a deep breath, then slowly nodded. “I feel her. Deep inside. She desperately wants to come out.”
“As far as I can see, she already has.” Something flickered in her eyes, something he couldn’t decipher. Something that prompted him to ask, “What are the other things you’ve missed, Cassie?”
The light faded from her eyes and she turned toward the water, leaving him to study her profile. She was silent for so long, he wondered if she intended to answer him. Finally she looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I’ve missed walking along the shore. Skipping stones and splashing in the water. Collecting shells and capturing crabs. Having someone to talk to, someone to listen to me, someone to listen to. I’ve missed laughter and gazing at the stars and building castles made of sand. Riding a horse just as dawn breaks. Sharing silly dreams and making up stories and impromptu picnics.”
He stared. Those were all things they’d done together, memories they’d shared, steeped in the unlikely friendship they’d forged out of loneliness and a surprising number of common interests. Before he could say a word, she reached out and pressed one of his hands between both of her own. “You, Ethan,” she said softly. “I’ve missed you.”
Her words, the warmth of her soft hands surrounding his callused ones rendered him speechless. Before he could recover, she asked, “Have you missed me?”
Bloody hell, if he’d been capable of it, he would have laughed. Missed her? Only with every breath. Every heartbeat. Every day.
He had to swallow to locate his voice. “Sometimes.”
Her bottom lip trembled, threatening to smite him where he stood. And dam
n it, if he allowed himself to continue looking into her eyes, he’d fall on his knees before her and confess his ridiculous, impossible love. Probably beg her to love him in return.
That scenario all but made his blood run cold. And this damn conversation suddenly felt too personal and intense. Forcing himself to heave a put-upon sigh, he teased, “Even though you were horribly girly.”
“Girly?” She sounded outraged, as he’d known she would. She released his hand and planted her fists on her hips. “I was no such thing. Was I afraid to bait a fish hook?”
“Well, no. But then you rarely caught a fish.”
“Only because you splashed about so. Was I afraid to climb a tree?”
“No. But I recall you required rescuing on more than one occasion when your girly gown became caught in the branches.”
“Humph. I wouldn’t have required rescuing if you’d lent me a pair of your breeches as I requested.”
Most likely not. But he would have required rescuing. The mere thought of her wearing his clothing had all but stopped his heart.
“Very well,” he conceded. “You weren’t the least bit girly. Indeed, you were practically a man. Why, I’m surprised you didn’t grow a beard and take up smoking cigars.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t care for either, thank you very much.” Then she raised her chin. “Of course there’s nothing wrong with being girly.”
“Especially if one is a girl.”
“You should have loaned me your breeches.”
“Your mother would have fainted.”
Eyes twinkling with amusement, she gave an elegant sniff. “Mother always had her hartshorn at the ready, and even if Father were to grab a weapon, he had dreadful aim.”
Not always. With a jolt he realized his fingers were brushing over his scarred cheek, and he lowered his hand. Shaking off the memories hurtling toward him, he crossed his arms over his chest and adopted his sternest expression. “Young ladies do not wear breeches. Ever.”
She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “If I’d known you were such an authority on deportment, I’d have simply pinched them from your room.”
“Young ladies do not steal. Ever.”
“Stick-in-the-mud.”
“Impudent hoyden.”
Her lips twitched. “Guilty as charged.”
“Then it’s off to the gallows for you.”
“You’d have to catch me first.”
“Hardly a problem given your”—he gave her garment a pointed look—“girly attire.”
A quick laugh escaped her. “Hoist on my own petard.”
Her beautiful eyes glittered with amusement and his heart thudded, pleasure suffusing him just because she was near him. Ten years faded away, and he was once again twenty years old and simply enjoying the company of the girl he loved.
He inhaled and caught a subtle whiff of roses. And barely suppressed a groan. No matter what messy adventure they’d undertaken, whether it involved mud or sand or sea or lake water, she’d always smelled as if she’d just wandered through the flower garden.
Bloody hell, how many late night summer hours had he spent in Gateshead Manor’s rose garden, sitting with his eyes closed, breathing in the scent that to this day instantly called her to mind? Spinning useless dreams, imagining a make-believe place where a stable boy magically turned into a prince so as to court a viscount’s daughter.
The laughter slowly faded from her eyes and her gaze lowered, settling on his scar, a forcible reminder of what he’d momentarily managed to forget—that he looked very different now. And not for the better.
She reached out and brushed her fingertips over his ruined skin, and his every muscle tensed, bracing himself for the pity he knew he’d see in her eyes.
“Does it hurt?” she asked softly.
Not trusting his voice, he shook his head.
“You must have suffered a great deal.” Her gaze met his. “I’m so sorry, Ethan.”
As am I. For so many things…
Unable to speak, he simply stood still while her fingers continued to lightly stroke his cheek. It required a Herculean effort not to turn his face and press a kiss into her palm. Snatch her into his arms and kiss her until he couldn’t think any longer. Couldn’t remember all the reasons that he shouldn’t.
“How did this happen?”
“I was cut,” he said, his tone curt. He stepped away from her and started walking along the shore. She fell into step beside him, with T.C. trotting at her heels. In an effort to forestall further questions about his face he said, “I have others.”
“Other what?”
“Scars.”
“And how did you come by those?”
While he didn’t particularly want to have this conversation, she’d said she wanted to know about his life, so he might as well just get it over with. “After I left Gateshead Manor, I joined the army. I was injured at Waterloo. In a fire.”
Memories he’d firmly locked away bombarded him. The screams of men and horses. Weapons discharging. The roaring blaze, men trapped. Rescuing one…but then the flames too hot, the smoke too thick. His coat catching fire. Shocking, scalding heat.
He glanced toward her and found her looking at him with a combination of horror and sympathy. “Dear God, how awful.” She paused, then said, “You never spoke of a desire to join the army.”
Because he’d never had one. Since he hadn’t much cared if he lived or died after he left Gateshead Manor, he figured he might as well die doing something useful, and the army seemed the quickest way to accomplish that. And by God, he’d done every reckless thing he could think of to get himself killed, volunteered for every dangerous assignment, but instead of dying, he’d survived and received damn medals and commendations.
“I decided someone had to put that bastard Napoleon in his place.”
“You succeeded.”
“Finally. But the cost was…” He shook his head and shoved back the encroaching memories. “Many good men died. Too many.”
“I’m grateful you weren’t one of them.”
“I wasn’t.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. And just as he always had, he ended up confiding things to her that he’d never shared with anyone else. “Between the bone-deep exhaustion and the pain from my injuries, I prayed more than once to go to sleep and not awaken.”
A lengthy silence followed his words. Finally she broke it by asking, “How did you manage to go on?”
He debated how honest to be with her, then shrugged. No point in not telling her—she’d be gone tomorrow. Yes—taking another slice of your soul with her, his inner voice sneered.
“I thought of you. Of all the times you’d convinced me I could do things I was sure I couldn’t. Like when you taught me sums. And how to waltz. And sew a button on my coat. And learn all the flowers in the garden.”
He paused to pick up a small rock, toss it into the waves, then continued, “I remembered what you said, what you did, when my father died. How you held my hand and told me, ‘You’re not alone, Ethan. Your father will always live in your heart. And I will always be your friend. And both he and I know that you are the very best of men.’” He looked at her. Saw her staring at him through huge eyes. “Those words helped me through some very difficult times over the years.”
“I…I’m glad. And surprised. And touched that you remembered.”
“I remember everything, Cassie.” Every touch. Every smile. Every tear. Every heartbreak.
Her gaze didn’t waver. “As do I.”
He forced himself to look away, to concentrate on the sand in front of them, and they walked in silence for several minutes, not pausing until she found a shell she liked. After brushing the sand off the pale pink treasure, she asked, “How did you come to own the Blue Seas Inn?”
“When I was in the army, I helped out a friend, another solider. He left me some money, and I used it to buy the inn. The building needed some renovations, and when they were done, I opened for business. Thing
s have gone well, so I added the livery two years ago.”
“How did you help your friend?”
Another image, of an earlier battle, flashed through his mind. “Billy, Billy Styles was his name. He was trapped beneath his fallen horse. I dragged him free.” And then had used his last lead ball to put down the suffering animal. And hadn’t even realized tears streamed down his face until Billy had told him they were there.
“You saved his life.”
“He was a good man. His leg was broken bad enough that he was finished with the army. Went home to London, but he died two years later from a fever—right around the time I was injured. A solicitor located me and told me about the money. After I healed, I started looking for a place I could call home.”
“And found the Blue Seas Inn.”
“Yes. And now it’s your turn.” Doing his damnedest to keep all traces of bitterness from his voice he said, “Tell me all about your wonderful life as Countess Westmore.”
Several long seconds passed. Then she said quietly, “If it’s something wonderful you wish to hear, then I’m afraid I have nothing to say.”
Chapter Five
Cassandra glanced toward Ethan and saw the bewilderment clouding his dark eyes, the frown bunching his brows.
“Are you telling me you haven’t been happy?” he asked slowly, his voice laced with both confusion and disbelief.
She jerked her gaze from him to stare straight ahead. “Yes, Ethan. I haven’t been happy.”
She felt his gaze boring into her, but didn’t turn to look at him. “Because your husband died?”
Until this moment she hadn’t quite known how much she would tell him. But his question seemed to burst a dam inside her, releasing a flood of suppressed anger and bitterness. “No. Because my husband lived. And for ten years made my life a living hell. Those feelings you described, about wanting to go to sleep and never wake up? I know those feelings. All too well.” The words were tight. Clipped. And somehow cathartic to say out loud.
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