Bizarrely, she was smiling by the time they reached the bank, something which surprised her so soon after her ordeal. Racing Jamie and Satan had been a pointless exercise because they had easily passed her as she had known they would. Jamie’s horse was all muscle and power, much like his owner, so he practically flew. Her pony did her best, but they ended up trailing in the wake of the lightning-quick black stallion and his impressive, able rider. Seeing Jamie race across the fields, his big body crouched low over his horse with effortless grace, was quite something. If she needed further proof she was her mother’s daughter, even though she knew she shouldn’t, Cassie’s eyes feasted on the sight of his rear, his broad shoulders and the flash of bare skin visible between the collar of his shirt and the soft, black hair curling gently at the nape of his neck. Not that she had ever been particularly competitive, but losing this race had turned out to be such a pleasure it felt like winning.
‘What kept you?’
He had already dismounted and was stood nonchalantly, leaning against his panting mount, examining his fingernails as if he had been stood there for hours. Smug, male satisfaction at his victory was written all over his handsome face. All of that thick, dark hair was delightfully windswept, making him appear boyish and young and far less burdened than she had ever seen him. Playfully, she ignored the jibe and spoke to her pony instead. ‘We had to let them win, didn’t we, darling, otherwise the boys would have sulked all afternoon.’
‘You didn’t let me win. I won fair and square and we both know it.’
‘A gentleman would have let Orange Blossom win.’
‘That is not in my nature, I’m afraid. I grew up with three very competitive brothers and I like to win.’
‘Did you win often?’
‘All the time.’ When Cassie turned he had moved to stand beside her, waiting to help her down from her saddle. Instantly, her pulse jumped at the prospect of feeling his hands on her waist again and the power in those strong, capable arms as he lowered her to the ground. No sooner had she let go of the reins, than she enjoyed the sensation of those warm palms searing through the fabric of her gown just under her ribs. Because she needed to touch him, too, Cassie placed her hands on his shoulders, ostensibly to steady herself although she did not need steadying. They were as firm and as hard as she had imagined. Jamie was a solid, impressive specimen of raw, powerful maleness.
Who smelled divine.
As he helped her down, Cassie had wanted to bury her nose in the exposed skin of his neck and simply inhale him. Errant, wanton thoughts like that would only serve to get her into more trouble, so she quickly stepped out of his reach as soon as her feet touched the grass to rummage in her saddle bag.
‘I brought us some cake and some lemonade.’ She pushed them into his hands and tried to ignore the odd expression she saw flit across his face. Confusion? Bemusement? Discomfort? A picnic, even like the tiny one she had prepared, was something courting couples did. Under the watchful supervision of a chaperon. Immediately, she recognised it as what it was and realised she was being far too forward and slightly pathetic. Worldly-wise and eligible men like James Warriner would hardly find anything appealing in a freckle-faced, odd sort of a vicar’s daughter who largely lived inside her own head. He was here on sufferance or out of a sense of duty, because he was kind beneath all the surliness and she was being overpowering again.
To avoid making him uncomfortable she would need to clarify. ‘I did not have time to have luncheon,’ she lied, avoiding his eyes. ‘And it seemed rude to pack food for only myself to eat. I hope you don’t mind.’
Embarrassed and horrified at her own lack of forethought, Cassie pulled out the pork pie, wrapped cheese, rosy-red apples, fresh bread and butter she had also lovingly packed—because the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach and because she was a fool who had wanted to do something nice for him without fully thinking through how it might be perceived. In truth, Cassie had so been looking forward to spending time with Jamie again, the notion of a cosy picnic had seemed perfect. She really should have considered the obvious message it sent.
Jamie remained silent while he helped her arrange it on the stupid embroidered tablecloth she had also brought with her, then watched warily as she handed him a delicate china plate festooned in brightly painted flowers. Her secret plates, procured one day on impulse and hidden in her bedchamber. This was their inaugural outing, yet another thing which marked this encounter as special.
‘You really did think of everything, didn’t you? It might have been quicker if you had simply eaten lunch rather than prepare all of this.’
The blush which had been threatening to bloom for a good five minutes suddenly exploded like a crimson firework on her face and neck. She tried to cover it by sawing off a slice of bread. ‘Yes, I suppose so. However, in my defence, it is such a lovely day I wanted to enjoy the sunshine.’ If she kept her bonnet on he might not notice. Her hot, irritating bonnet. Which if she kept it on much longer would have to remain on for the duration as her hair would become plastered to her heated head. But if she kept it on, then her face would glow in that unsightly, deep pink way and, horror of horrors, perspiration would trickle down her cheeks. There was nothing for it, the bonnet had to come off.
Hastily, her fingers went to the ribbons at her neck and wrestled with them. Nerves made her clumsy and she knotted them hopelessly.
‘Here. Let me help.’ Which, of course, was the very last thing she needed, but because she had worked herself up into a state she had no choice. Cassie lifted up her chin and tried to stare up at the solitary wispy cloud, the empty sky, a random fly buzzing in the air, anything to avoid looking at him. So close she could see the shadow of stubble on his chin. Could count every eyelash. Sniff him like a dog in season.
‘I have altered the story so that Orange Blossom and Stanley fall hopelessly in love whilst you try to save the intrepid and silly Miss Freckles from the apple tree.’ Oops. It was meant to be a fairy tale—most definitely not about him, although it was. ‘I mean Captain Galahad saves Miss Freckles, but then as you are Captain Galahad...what I mean is Captain Galahad is largely based on you. Not that you are a pirate, of course. I mean I know you were in the army and not on a pirate ship. I suppose those two careers are vastly different.’ Her voice was getting higher pitched with panic and the disconcerting sensation of feeling his fingers accidentally brushing the sensitive skin at her throat as he worked the knots in her ribbons.
He was touching her skin.
Good gracious, it felt good!
‘Did you enjoy being a soldier? What made you join the army in the first place? Because you are an artist, so one would assume you would have become an artist rather than a soldier? Did your father insist you join the military? I know second sons have a tendency to either take a commission or join the clergy. Although I can’t really see you as a vicar. Even though you do know your Bible. Would you have liked to be a vicar, do you think?’
‘Which of those multiple questions would you like me to answer first?’ Those glorious blue eyes locked on hers for a moment and he was almost smiling, which was devastating, until Cassie realised he was smiling because he probably thought she was an idiot. A babbling, blushing, ridiculous idiot.
‘I know you think I am silly, Captain Warriner, I am well aware of the fact I tend to babble.’
‘I thought we had agreed that you would call me Jamie.’ The stubborn ribbons finally came free and his hands finally left her skin. ‘And I sympathise with the babbling. When I am nervous I tend to grunt, which makes me appear rude when I do not mean to be.’
‘You get nervous?’
‘Have you heard me grunt?’
Yes, she had. Quite a bit. And he was smiling again as he broke off a sizeable chunk of pork pie, then popped it into his mouth. After a moment he stopped chewing and appeared stunned. ‘This is delicious! Surely it
did not come from the local bakery? If it did, they have certainly improved their standards since the last time I went in there.’
‘I made it.’ His obvious admiration for her efforts made her feel proud. ‘We don’t have any servants at the vicarage so I do all the cooking.’
As well as the cleaning, washing, listening to endless sermons, visiting parishioners. Being a dutiful daughter. Wishing she was somewhere, anywhere, else and having to resort to making imaginary worlds to pass the endless hours of drudgery.
‘Until Letty married my brother, neither did we. When I came home from the war I became the cook for a short while. I can’t say I was very good at it. I can roast a chicken and boil a carrot. At best, my food was edible. My brothers were hugely grateful when I was relieved of the duty.’
Would it be considered rude to ask why Markham Manor did not have servants? Surely the Earl was not a skinflint like her father? Cassie nibbled on her food and tried to think of a polite way of asking. After half a minute he burst out laughing. It was a wholly masculine sound which she felt inwardly all the way down to her tingling toes. ‘I quite admire your restraint, Cassie. I can see you are burning up with curiosity and ruthlessly suppressing the question. Shall I put you out of your misery?’
She nodded sheepishly, supremely aware of other tingles in the most outrageous places, and watched him lean back slightly as he made himself comfortable, turning his face to soak up the sun and stretching his bad leg out. The sudden urge to scramble on his lap made her breath hitch.
‘We were broke, Cassie. Poor as church mice and everyone hereabouts knew it. Nobody would extend credit to the Warriner family because we were a bad risk. I am not sure my father ever paid a debt in his life, but he certainly racked up a great many of them. All of them had to be settled after his death, which took more years than one would imagine. We couldn’t even afford labourers to tend the fields. Jack, Joe and Jacob worked them from dawn till dusk and I sent back my wages to supplement them while I was away. When I came back I became the cook and housekeeper all rolled into one. Obviously, I could not draw a salary when I couldn’t fight for His Majesty, so the purse strings were even tighter. They were grim days indeed.’
‘But they are over now? Your fortunes have been restored?’ Cassie swept her eyes over the well-tended fields. Markham Manor appeared to be thriving.
‘I forget you are new to this area and therefore do not know all of the scandalous gossip. It is technically Letty’s fortune. She was an heiress. A very wealthy heiress. And one everyone believes had to marry my brother because he had either kidnapped her or compromised her.’
‘How unfair. It is obvious they are in love.’ The emotion had positively shone out of both of their eyes when they had proudly left the church after her father had grievously slandered them. His cruel words had not mattered because they had each other, a state which made Cassie long for her own happily ever after. However, mentioning love in any shape or form made her self-conscious in front of this man. To keep sane whilst locked in her bedroom, Captain James Warriner had featured in a great many happily-ever-afters. In all of them he had rescued her, declared his secret, undying love for her, then ridden off with her into the sunset.
‘In love—like Orange Blossom and Stanley? Tell me the ending of the story, Cassie. I should like to hear how two horses fall hopelessly in love beneath an apple tree.’
So she did. Reading her story from the very beginning to the end. He smiled in all the right places and occasionally chuckled. The deep, throaty rumble continued to do odd things to her insides and made her breathing a tad erratic, forcing her to inhale slowly and purposefully to avoid appearing vexed.
‘“...and Stanley nuzzled my mane as we walked off into the sunset, ready for our next adventure with the heroic Captain Galahad and the intrepid but silly Miss Freckles...” The End.’
‘I would have thought Stanley would have kissed his bride, seeing as that is the tradition.’
Jamie would have kissed his bride. Quite thoroughly and at the first available opportunity. Then he would have taken her somewhere quiet and kissed each and every one of her freckles.
‘You cannot have kissing in a children’s book. It’s not proper. Besides, horses can’t kiss—they nuzzle, which I always think would be a nicer way to show affection than kissing at any rate.’ Her button of a nose wrinkled in disgust, which amused him greatly. But then she was a vicar’s daughter after all, so all talk of passion in any form was something she was obviously unfamiliar with. Unless it was between horses, of course.
‘Clearly you have never been kissed.’ And he would give his back teeth to be the first one to kiss her.
‘This may well shock you, Jamie, but, yes, I have.’ She giggled conspiratorially while a knife wedged through his heart at her surprise admission. ‘It was wholly uninspiring and quite messy. I fail to see what all of the fuss is about.’
‘Then the gentleman who kissed you clearly didn’t do it properly.’ Thank goodness! The relief was palpable. The idea of his Freckles feeling passion in another man’s arms was abhorrent.
She snorted prettily and swatted his arm, something she did quite a lot and which he enjoyed immensely. Usually. ‘Gentlemen, Jamie. There has been more than one. Although in truth, they couldn’t really be classed as gentlemen. Scoundrels would be more appropriate a term, with the benefit of hindsight, of course, although I must confess I suspected as much at the time. Which is odd, because from the books I have read, the kiss of a scoundrel is supposed to be the best sort—yet I found them quite dull, really.’
More than one! And by her own admission the hideously unworthy men who had dared to steal those kisses were scoundrels to boot! The dagger of jealousy had him furious instantly. ‘You allowed scoundrels to kiss you? Willingly?’ If any of them had dishonoured her he would hunt them down and take pleasure in tearing them limb from limb. ‘Did the wretches do more than kiss you?’
This she found immensely funny. ‘Of course not. I am a vicar’s daughter. But I confess I was curious to know what the process entailed, so when the opportunities presented themselves I allowed a few kisses.’ She shrugged as if it was of no matter, when it most definitely did matter. It mattered to him. ‘I suspect I am one of those women who does not melt into a puddle at the merest touch of a man. Odd, really, when I had always thought I would be prone to swooning...’
‘Then all I can say is not one of those scoundrels knew the first thing about kissing!’ Jamie sounded belligerent and didn’t care. He still could not quite believe his ears. Of all the conversations to have with a vicar’s daughter...
‘Of course they knew about kissing.’ She spoke to him slowly, as if he were a silly child who needed the simplest of concepts explained to him. ‘All scoundrels know what they are doing when it comes to romancing a woman. Seduction is their stock in trade.’
Romancing a woman! Flowery words, heated, stolen glances. Trysts! Seduction! Jamie’s world turned red, then white as anger turned to incandescent, irrational, unquenchable rage. How dared they? If anybody should have been the one to induct her into the art of kissing, it should have been him. Unlike those charming scoundrels he appreciated her. Respected her. He definitely wanted her. Infinitely more than any of those faceless seducers could ever imagine. But then, if he were to hazard a guess, none of those vermin were broken and lame and scared stiff if their candle blew out in the night. He’d bet his horse on the fact that they were very nimble on their despicable, conniving feet and thoroughly embraced the promise brought by the dark. Not a single ugly scar would mar their good-for-nothing bodies, so it stood to reason her lovely freckled head would be turned at the splendid blasted sight of them!
And she had kissed them.
Them!
Knowing full well they were scoundrels from the outset, because she had wanted to be kissed. Not him, of course. He was vastly inferior to those two
-legged charmers in her gold-flecked eyes, more was the pity. His kiss would not be dull or messy. It would be spectacular and she would swoon. Jamie would make damn sure she swooned.
Before he could think better of it, he hauled her against him and pressed his mouth to hers. She gave a tiny squeak of surprise, while he shamelessly poured all of those boiling, jealous feelings into a kiss that positively burned. Jamie didn’t care.
It needed to burn.
He had to sear his mark on her and banish the memory those faceless, unworthy scoundrels from her lips. Brand her as his, enlighten her to how spectacular a kiss could be if done correctly, by someone who was just as much of a man as those charming rogues who made seducing beautiful women their stock in trade. Despite his crippled leg, damaged mind and ruined prospects, he was still very much a man... Except somewhere along the way he got lost in it all.
He forgot that this was a kiss borne out of fury and frustration at what might have been, if he had not gone off to war and come back a shadow of his former self, and rejoiced when it turned into something important. Passionate, affectionate and filled with the promise of more.
The white-hot rage which had consumed his mind only a few scant moments ago evaporated like the early morning mist, replaced instead by something indescribable, almost like an exquisite rainbow bursting behind his eyes. But one unlike any he had ever witnessed before. One which assaulted all of his senses, not only his sight. She smelled of violets and cut grass and sunshine. Tasted of ripe strawberries on a hot summer’s day. Felt perfect in his arms. Warm, soft, womanly. Desire ripped through him and Jamie welcomed it, feeling vibrantly alive and whole again for the first time in over a year. A proper man again and one who was quite capable of pleasuring a woman.
This woman.
He desperately wanted her bare skin against his, from the tip of her button nose to the ends of her pretty pink toes, to slowly unwrap her like a treasured gift and worship her with his eyes, mouth and fingertips. He wanted to peel her out of her proper vicar’s-daughter dress and lay her bare to the sunshine and find out once and for all if there were other freckles on her body. Secret freckles that only he would know about. Freckles he would brand with his kisses, too, before he made her his in every way possible. Here on this riverbank, in broad daylight, before he took her home with him for ever.
A Warriner to Rescue Her Page 12