Entangled (A Private Collection)

by Fresina, Jayne

  Lifting the counter flap, he walked quickly to the door marked “Private” and thrust it open almost bowling her over in the process. She jumped, spinning around in surprise. The graying fellow standing before her, a finger raised to shake in her face, was equally startled.

  “What the Devil?”

  “Unless my ears deceived me,” Luke muttered, one hand on the doorknob, “the lady asked you to leave.”

  The other man drew himself up to full height, hat in hand. “How dare you—”

  “Get out or I’ll escort you out with my boot up your backside.”

  There was silence while the two men faced one another. They were both tall, but Luke had such a forbidding air that people seldom disagreed with him. If they did it was only once, a mistake never repeated.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Carbury,” the young woman said firmly, proud chin up, hands behind her back.

  Face red, mouth spitting ugly curses, the man swept out, his shoulder nudging Luke’s chest as he passed. The young woman followed, as did Luke, watching to be sure he left the hotel. They walked under the counter flap together.

  “A charming fellow,” he observed.

  “He’s persistent. I’ll say that for him. And as much charm as a grass snake. Thank you, by the way, although I was quite capable of managing Mr. Carbury myself. I’m not afraid and I’m no china doll. Just because I wear petticoats doesn’t mean I can’t fight just as dirty as the rest of them.”

  “No. Quite.”

  “I’m used to sticking up for myself. But anyway, thanks all the same. I don’t suppose it’s your fault that you didn’t know I was very independent. You’re entitled to make the same mistake as most men when they see me. I’ll forgive you this once. Don’t make a habit of it.”

  He bowed his head in reply to this rushed announcement.

  “And who are you anyway?”

  Before he could answer, the mouthy boy leapt forward and tugged on her skirt, eager to declare at the top of his lungs, “He’s here on a very important business matter with you, Miss Wellfleet. It’s a secret.”

  The young woman now stared at Luke, steadily taking it all in. Under her boldly challenging regard, he began to wish he’d spared the time to shave that morning before he left his father’s house. His hair, he knew, must be a rumpled mess after falling asleep in the carriage, and his clothes were wrinkled. It was rare for Luke Blackwood to acknowledge the possibility of anything lacking in his appearance. Other folk’s opinions were of little consequence to him. Usually.

  But there was nothing usual about the small woman currently treating him to a quick, thorough inspection. One might think she was six foot tall and looking him straight in the eye. She didn’t even blink. There was no cowering, no simpering, no insincerity.

  He felt oddly adrift. He wasn’t sure he liked this new sensation.

  “Miss Daisy Wellfleet?” Of course, he already knew who she was, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He would have recognized her at once from his father’s painting. Even with her clothes on. But she was still young, hadn’t changed much since she posed for the old devil. Luke had no idea when the painting was done, but it couldn’t have been as long ago as he’d previously assumed. He’d expected a much older woman, perhaps even a dead one, and instead found this disturbingly lively creature. And that changed quite a lot of things, tumbled his thoughts in a disorderly muddle.

  Why would a young, seemingly respectable, strong-willed, single woman like this take all her clothes off for his father?

  He’d spent many hours staring at the painting since it first came into his possession. He knew every curve, every angle, every freckle. Intimately. In fact, he was more familiar with her naked body than he was with that of any woman he’d ever slept with, because he didn’t usually hang around long enough to study them. And now, as she stood before him, in the flesh and fully clothed, he was choked into stupid silence, like a mute beast humbled in the presence of a goddess.

  His earlier foul mood melted away to a puddle of foolishness he hadn’t felt since he was twelve and forced, during some abysmal dance lesson, to hold a girl’s hand for the first time. Luke was never much of a conversationalist and avoided talking to women if it all possible. He preferred his own company to anyone else’s and valued his peace and tranquility to cultivating friendships. Many called him unsociable, even a recluse. He called himself wise and incredibly sane.

  Today he made an effort, purely because he wanted to keep her in his company for as long as possible while he examined this strange effect she caused.

  “Bellis Perennis,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Daisy, in Latin.”

  She looked skeptical. “Oh.”

  “The name Daisy is actually a modification of day’s eye. Did you know that?”

  “I can’t say I did.”

  He scratched his head, trying to remember why he was there. Meanwhile, her gaze lost interest with him and turned to his battered trunk, reading the initials painted on the lid. Her eyes widened. “Oh! It’s you.”

  You?

  “I began to think you’d changed your mind,” she added, cheeks flushed under the light pattern of freckles. “You’re three days late. Your cousin’s letter said you’d be here Tuesday. I’d almost given up on you. Oh well, I suppose Friday is better than never. Even if it is Friday the thirteenth. Seems ominous, don’t you think?”

  Tuesday? He suddenly had no idea what a Tuesday was. He didn’t even know his own name anymore as he stared down into her eyes and felt his body leaning forward.

  “I thought you’d be walking with a cane,” she said, “or even pushed in a bath-chair. Your leg must have healed quickly. That’s good because I was wondering how you’d manage the stairs, and I thought I’d have to make you a bed in the office somehow until you could get about. So that’s sorted. Shall I show you up? I’ve had a room ready for you since Tuesday, in case you could manage the stairs. Lucky wasn’t it?”

  She was short but beautifully made. He might even go so far as to call her exquisite. She had a heart-shaped, deceptively innocent face. Deceptive, he already knew, because she had at least one scandalous secret in her past. Hesitant, he glanced over at the package now resting by the counter. He’d come here to give her the painting inside the calico wrapper. It was one of his father’s last bequests, but Luke was already forgetting all that, forgetting his purpose there entirely.

  He wanted to swim awhile longer in her eyes. They were large, summery pools of green gilded with a tint of copper. Her nose had a charming upward tilt and was speckled with a dusting of girlish freckles. How old was she? And what fool left this little bit of a thing in charge of a hotel?

  “Are you all right?” she whispered. “Is it your head? Your cousin explained, of course.” She raised her small hand and touched his brow where he’d hit his head a few minutes earlier. “I’m so sorry about what happened to you. It’s dreadful. They should have far better safety precautions in those mines. I’ve read about it. Only a little, but I try to find things in the newspaper to enlarge my knowledge. I think that’s important, don’t you? To learn about what’s going on in the world? Some people believe they’re all that matters, but the world is a much bigger place, isn’t it?”

  Confused, more than a little distracted by her incredible eyes and those curling bronze lashes, not to mention the gentle touch of her cool fingers against his hot brow, Luke wasn’t sure what to say. The fact that she couldn’t possibly have expected him, evidently mistook him for someone else, was quickly dismissed in his mind as inconsequential.

  Treasure. He had found a new treasure trove. And he was a great believer in finders keepers.

  Her lips were full, pale pink, and rarely still. There was a lively aura emanating from the titian curls of her hair gathered up in a ponytail and tied with green ribbon. Every flick of her head, every busy gesture, made the ponytail dance and bob in perennial motion.

  “Oh, you don’t have to tal
k about the accident. I shouldn’t pry. Forgive me. My brothers tell me I’m nosy. Don’t mind me. Did you have a pleasant journey? I hope it wasn’t too uncomfortable. I know how crowded the mail coach can be. Is this all your luggage? I’ll have the porter take it up. The room I had prepared is in my private wing. Well, it’s not really a wing, it’s just a few rooms down a corridor, but I call it a wing because it sounds very grand. I—” She faltered, pausing for a slight breath. “We’ll have separate bedrooms. I assume that’s agreeable to you? After the marriage?”

  He stared at her busy mouth, her curls, her freckles, and then her eyes, before his gaze wandered lower down over her curvaceous figure. His pulse was unusually fast.

  Marriage? Separate bedrooms? He blinked, tried to regroup his thoughts and make sense out of her ramblings.

  “Your cousin,” she whispered, lowering her head in an earnest bow, “explained to me about your problem.”

  He caught her glancing dubiously at his trousers.

  “So you needn’t worry on that score. I won’t trouble you for any of that.” She smiled sympathetically, nodding her head as if he’d answered her rather than just stood staring with his mouth agape. “Don’t be embarrassed. Those matters don’t bother me at all. We’ll get along splendidly. You’ll see.” Tucking her arm under his as if they were old friends, she smiled brightly, dazzling him once again. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

  “Anything I need?” Funny she should ask. Her merest touch had set his body alight with a thousand little flames, each one an idea of what he needed from her and how to get it.

  She was definitely entangled in some sort of mistake, but it was entirely of her own making. He hadn’t said a word, so how could any of it be his fault? Besides, she was clearly in some sort of trouble and needed a knight in shining armor. His frame of mind was unusually valiant. If she knew how rare that was, the luscious Miss Wellfleet would make the most of it while it lasted. Shooting a sideways glance, he studied the tiny buttons down the back of her high collar under the restless tail of hair.

  “Yes, whatever you need, don’t hesitate to ask. You look tired. Goodness me! Here I am chattering away and not giving you a moment to catch your breath. You must need a nap after your long journey. Let’s get you up to bed.”

  Bed? She must be reading his mind.

  Chapter Three

  Lawrence Bailey was not at all what she’d imagined. When Lizzie Jenkins, the housemaid at Lady Westerfield’s, had told Daisy about her unfortunate cousin Lawrence, wounded in a mine explosion, he’d seemed the perfect solution to all her problems. She would give the infirm young man a roof over his head and some careful nursing until he healed, found new work, and got back on his feet again.

  In exchange, he’d agreed to put his signature beside hers on a marriage certificate. It annoyed her that she needed a husband to be taken seriously as the owner of the Wellfleet Hotel, but she was sensible enough to know there were many more battles in the world to fight and many different ways to fight them. Lawrence Bailey was a convenient solution to her problem. As long as he caused her no trouble and stuck to the agreed upon terms.

  But Daisy expected a worn, weary figure of a man in need of nursing and recuperation. What arrived on her doorstep was a large, surprisingly vital, rather too handsome gentleman who looked at her as if he could see through her clothes. He didn’t need help walking. There was no sign of the limp his cousin Lizzie had warned her about, although there was an evident head injury.

  “Here we are.” She opened the door to his room and stood aside for the porter to struggle by with his trunk. “It’s not a large room, but it has a pretty view of the garden and its quiet, away from the general noise of the hotel guests. We just spring-cleaned, so you’re lucky.”

  The new arrival was still perusing her in that odd way. It occurred to her that she wasn’t what he expected either. Perhaps she’d been chattering too much already. That was one thing about her that he wouldn’t have known from her letters, her propensity to let her tongue run on.

  “I’m sure you’ll soon settle in,” she added, watching him pass a few coins to the porter. “That really isn’t necessary, you know. You’re not a guest, but family.”

  “Family?” His searching eyes stroked her again, and Daisy thought she detected a slight flame of amusement alive in their dark depths. He was shockingly handsome, in a rough-hewn, unapologetic, very masculine way. Daisy Wellfleet preferred men of slighter, less threatening build. She’d always avoided those who looked as if they would challenge her. Daisy liked to be in control, but this man standing before her looked as if he never complied with a command in his life and could probably lift her over his head without breaking a sweat.

  “After tomorrow,” she explained, backing up a step and bruising her hip against a corner of the dresser. “After the marriage ceremony.”

  “The marriage ceremony.” He echoed her words slowly and deliberately.

  She frowned, worrying about the state of his mind. Perhaps his wounds, although not as visible as she’d been led to believe, had caused some brain injury. He did look a little dazed. “Lizzie told you it was tomorrow, didn’t she?”

  “Ah. Yes. Tomorrow. Of course.” A slow smile lifted his lips.

  It wasn’t, by any means, the harmless smile of a broken young man grateful for a bed and a roof over his head.

  “Do you have a—” About to say ‘sore-head’, but then remembering that such a term was common, she finished quickly, “headache, Mr. Bailey?”

  He continued watching her in that bemused manner, as if she was an exhibit under glass in the museum. “No. I don’t think so. Yet.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve talked your ears off, haven’t I?”

  He felt for them with both hands. “No. They’re still attached. So far.” And his eyes grew another degree warmer.

  The porter slipped out, closing the door behind him. Daisy wished fervently that she’d had the presence of mind to grab the handle and hold it open. Too late. Her fiancé removed his overcoat and flung it across the end of the bed, further revealing a sturdy, solid, well-made figure. He looked as if he might burst out of his clothes at any moment.

  Daisy reached behind her for the dresser drawer handles. “Would you like me to help you unpack?” Her gaze swept down to the large, scuffed trunk and then the calico wrapped package he’d carried under one arm.

  “That won’t be necessary.” The smile again. Slow. Definitely trouble. He slipped off his tweed jacket. “Thank you, Miss Wellfleet.” He paused. “May I call you Daisy?”

  She thought about it. Since they were to marry, and he was doing her a favor, it would be churlish to refuse. So she nodded. “What’s in the parcel?” She hadn’t meant to ask, but her restless tongue, combined with her curiosity, got the better of her. Not for the first time.

  Lawrence glanced down at the item he’d leaned against the foot of the bed. “A gift.” He hesitated again. “For you, actually.”

  “Oh.” A twinge of guilt twisted in her belly, for she hadn’t gotten him a wedding gift. “You shouldn’t have.”

  He didn’t hand it to her. Instead, he lifted it to the top of the tall wardrobe, out of the way. “Later,” he muttered. While his back was turned to her, she slyly admired his broad, flexing shoulders, the long reach of his arms, and the astonishingly taut buttocks, apparent even through the cord material of his trousers. She shouldn’t be looking. Irritated, she spun away, only to find his reflection taunting her in the dresser mirror. She simply couldn’t tear her eyes away from so much raw masculinity. It horrified her. But it did something more than that.

  She swallowed hard, fighting the surge of white hot curiosity.

  If only Lizzie Jenkins had warned her.

  What would her brothers have to say about this? Of course, they all knew how stubborn she was and the lengths she would go to win an argument. When they tried to dissuade her from keeping the hotel, they should have known that telling her some
thing couldn’t be done only made her more determined to do it. Daisy Wellfleet didn’t like to be lectured and she took very poorly to the idea that a woman couldn’t put one foot before the other without a man leading the way. Where she got her ideas from, no one knew, not even her. But she would argue until the cows came home that a woman was just as capable as a man. However, even after twenty-five years of what they called her “Daisyisms”, the six Wellfleet brothers still labored under a misapprehension that their sister might one day admit her inferiority to them.

  The day after their grandfather’s funeral, each of her brothers had something to say against her plan.

  “You can’t run this hotel alone, Daisy. You just can’t.”

  “It ought to be sold. Jonas Carbury made a good offer.”

  “Better sell up now before the place falls down around your ears.”

  “Grandpapa should have sold it years ago.”

  “You ought to listen to us and stop being a stubborn mule.”

  “Besides, you’re a housemaid. What do you know about—”

  This was when she’d finally had her fill. “Lady’s maid! I’m a lady’s maid, thank you very much!” Daisy was very proud of her last position with Lady Westerfield. Having worked her way up from a lowly under-housemaid who wasn’t even supposed to be seen by the family to the trusted confidant of Her Ladyship, she wasn’t about to sit by and let anyone get the facts wrong.

  “Grandpapa loved this place, and it’s belonged to a Wellfleet for one hundred and fifty years. If you sell this hotel to that bugger Jonas Carbury, you’re betraying the Wellfleet name and our grandfather’s memory.”