Heart's Delight

by Cheryl Holt

  “What should I do in the meantime?”

  “Tarry in the apartment. Don’t go for a walk. Don’t explore the neighborhood.”

  She pouted. “Why can’t I?”

  “Because it’s dangerous, you naïve ninny. This isn’t Cliffside, and you’re a green girl from the country. You’d likely get your throat slit.”

  “What if I’m bored?”

  “Then you’re bored. Don’t go out! If you’d like to see the sights, I’ll show you around town.”

  “Are you always so grouchy?”

  “It’s your fault I’m testy. I’m riled up and eager to sample your wares.”

  “You make everything sound so crass.”

  “If you wanted poetry and sweet-talk, you should have stayed in the country.”

  “I don’t want poetry, but some sweet-talk once in a while would be welcome.”

  “I’ll think on it.” He bent down and kissed a nipple, kissed the other one, then stood. “I’ll send over some supper.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I’ll have some underclothes delivered too.”

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “I like a woman in pretty things, and yours are too plain. A frilly corset makes me frisky.”

  “Then bring me the frilliest one you can find.”

  He went out to the door, and as he glanced over his shoulder, she was still seated on the bed. She looked lovely and lonely, and he had to force himself away before he lost the will to go.

  “Come over and lock the door,” he said, “and don’t let anyone in but me.”

  “What if I don’t hear you knocking later tonight?”

  “I’ll enter through the window.”

  “Oh.”

  She walked over, and as she neared, the air fairly sizzled with erotic promise, as if sparks might ignite, and he grinned.

  “We’ll get on swimmingly, Rebecca.”

  “I hope so, or I’ve wasted a lot of energy and effort. I’m pinning my hopes on you, Ramsey. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “Well, I usually disappoint everyone, but I’ll try not to this time.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  He took a final caress of her breasts, then he yanked away and stepped out. He waited and waited, listening for the key to grate in the lock. When it didn’t, he said, “Rebecca, don’t forget about the door.”

  “Oh, oh, yes.”

  The lock clicked into place, and he rolled his eyes and kept on down the hall.

  * * * *

  “Michael?”

  “No, no, don’t…”

  “Michael!”

  Maggie leaned over and shook him. They were in the midst of another picnic, which had become an afternoon habit for them.

  They spent long hours riding through the countryside. He’d espy a picturesque spot by a stream or on a hill, and they’d plop down a blanket and loaf the day away. They always brought an easel and canvas, and she painted the scenery while he lay next to her and made a pest of himself.

  For once, they’d remained home and were lounged under a large elm tree in the garden behind his house. He’d dozed off, and she’d been watching him sleep, thinking he appeared very young, much as he must have as a boy. She felt a stab of sorrow for his mother who had missed seeing him grow up.

  But suddenly his peaceful nap had morphed into an awful nightmare.

  “Michael!” she said more firmly, and she shook him again.

  He lurched up, his hands thrust out as if he was desperately reaching for someone, his motions so violently frantic that she had to jump out of the way. He stared off to the hills in the distance, then gradually his vision cleared, his senses returning.

  “Are you all right?” She rested a comforting palm on his back.

  “Yes…I’m fine.” He didn’t look fine.

  “You were having a bad dream.”

  He shuddered, the images rocking him. “Ah…I hate that one.”

  “You have it often?”

  “Not often. Just…occasionally.” He was sheepish and embarrassed.

  “What’s it about?”

  He made a waffling gesture. “It’s merely some ancient twaddle.”

  “No, tell me. I want to know.”

  “It must be something that occurred when I was little.”

  “Is it the fire you told me about?”

  “No, before that.”

  “It’s an old memory, then. You must have been very young.”

  “Or maybe it’s not me at all.” He scowled. “It seems to be me though, but there are always two of me.”

  “Two of you?”

  “Yes, I’m two boys.”

  “What could it indicate? Were you split in half? Have you a twin that you don’t recollect?”

  She mentioned a twin in jest, but the word shocked him, as if she’d poked him with a pin. He stared off into the distance again, holding very still, then he scoffed.

  “How could I have a twin and not remember? That’s the sort of detail a fellow would never forget.”

  “What’s happening in the dream?” He simply grinned his devil’s grin, and when it became obvious he wouldn’t answer, she ordered, “Spill all, you thick oaf.”

  He considered, then confessed, “I’m at the docks—with some people.”

  “Children or adults?”

  “Both, but I don’t understand what’s transpiring. It’s bad though, with crying and quarreling. There’s a man there, and he sends me away.”

  “My goodness.”

  “This time, there was a third boy too. He said to the man, how can I watch over them if they go away? The man said back, you’ll see them again very soon.”

  “What do you suppose it means?”

  “I told you I don’t know,” he testily replied. “I’ve never known.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “I’m staring at myself—eye to eye and nose to nose—and I can read the other boy’s mind. We’ll get even, we tell each other in our heads.”

  “Get even for what?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a dream, Maggie. It could signify anything—or nothing. A different man picks me up, but he picks up two of me, one under each arm and…” He stopped and thought and thought. “And then you woke me up.”

  “In your dream, you were reaching out to someone.”

  “Was I? I don’t recall.”

  A cloud drifted over the sun so the light dimmed and the temperature cooled. It was an eerie moment, almost as if the heavens were peering down and mourning his story. He felt it too. He shivered and pushed himself to his feet.

  Off on the horizon, thunderheads were building, an afternoon storm approaching.

  “I’ve had enough picnicking for today,” he said.

  “The weather wouldn’t dare spoil our fun.”

  “I’m expecting it might.” He nodded to the house. “Let’s hurry inside. I don’t want you to get soaked. You might catch a chill.”

  “Or you might. I’m much too hardy to be sickened by some paltry raindrops.”

  Though she hated to admit it, their sojourn in the country had become a splendid idyll, and she frequently found herself wishing they never had to return to the city.

  They’d already frittered away a whole week, and while he constantly claimed they had to leave, that he had to get back to his many business enterprises, he’d quickly change his mind.

  He was folding up the blanket, and she was inordinately pleased to see him involved in such a domestic chore. It seemed as if they were sweethearts or perhaps newlyweds.

  Throughout her entire visit, except for that first night when he’d been a beast, he’d been thoroughly charming. He doted on her, spoiled her, listened to her, entertained her, and generally made her more welcome than she’d ever been anywhere.

  Though it was ludicrous to assume so, he appeared to have developed fond feelings for her, and she wasn’t too sure about her own sentiments.

  He kept surprising her. In
the evenings, he’d light a fire in the grate, and she’d read to him or they’d talk. On a few occasions, he’d actually sung songs and played the pianoforte to accompany himself. They were bawdy songs with indecent lyrics, such as you’d hear in a saloon, but still, when he finished she’d smile and wildly applaud.

  He insisted he’d never had a single lesson, so how could he be so musically inclined? The short, private concerts had her thinking he’d shown her a side of himself he’d never shown to anyone else, and the notion thrilled her.

  There was only one detail that bothered her, and it was the fact that he hadn’t seduced her again. He was unceasingly polite, and he always gazed warmly, as if there were affectionate words he’d like to speak aloud, but he couldn’t voice them.

  There were quiet moments too—when he’d escort her into the dining room for supper or when he’d walk her to her room at bedtime—where she thought he might kiss her. But he hadn’t tried, and she couldn’t decide how she felt about his clear lack of interest.

  While she should have been relieved that he’d left her alone, she suspected she’d failed to satisfy him in a carnal fashion she didn’t understand. Women had many feminine wiles, and they used them with striking effect, but Maggie had never had the chance to discover what they were. She knew how to kiss a man and that was it.

  She often caught herself reflecting on the trollops who filled his world, and she wished she’d learned some of their wicked habits, because she was increasingly overcome by memories of him without his shirt. As a spinster, she hadn’t fathomed that a man’s body could be so stirring and beautiful, and she was vexed by the recollection.

  He’d touched her in exciting ways that had provoked and aggravated her, as if her veins had been scraped raw. She was chafing, anxious for some sort of respite, but she had no idea how to attain it for herself. He knew all kinds of devious behaviors that could allay her suffering, but she was too shy to beg him to show them to her.

  And she didn’t actually want him to. Did she? She was happy with their relaxing holiday. Or maybe she wasn’t.

  Oh, wasn’t she a mess! What was it she truly desired? She couldn’t figure it out and was certain that—whatever she chose—she’d regret it later on.

  He handed her the blanket, then gathered up her art supplies and their picnic basket, and they headed in. At the rear door, as she reached for the knob, he stole a quick kiss.

  “I’m having a wonderful time,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

  “So am I.”

  “It’s pleasant to be out of the city. Usually I don’t like it, but you’ve made it worth my while to linger.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask when they’d leave, when he’d determine he’d had enough frivolity, but the prospect of departure caused a wave of anguish to sweep through her. If he declared himself ready to go, their friendship would end, and she might never see him again.

  A footman saved them by opening the door from the inside, and he relieved them of their burdens then slipped away so they were alone again.

  They stared at each other, and his affection was plainly visible. Would he announce heightened sentiment? If he mentioned burgeoning emotion, how would she reply? Would she admit to growing smitten too? Would she dare? Probably not. There was no benefit to be gained by pursuing a relationship.

  Yet no rousing comment was uttered. He stepped away, his evident fondness neatly tucked away as if it had never been there at all.

  “Will you be upset if I vanish for a few hours?” he asked.

  Since that first morning, he hadn’t been off the property without her, and the news that he would abandon her—even if it was just for a bit—was incredibly distressing.

  But she forced a wide smile. “I’m sure I can manage.”

  “I’ll tell Cook to fix you a delicious supper.”

  “I can tell her myself. I could have a tray of bread and cheese sent up to my room. There’s no need for anyone to fuss.”

  “I want them to fuss.”

  “If you insist,” she teased. “I enjoy how everyone spoils me.”

  “Good.”

  He surprised her with another quick kiss. Two kisses in a matter of minutes? What did it portend? Perhaps it was an odd sort of farewell.

  Since she’d awakened him from his nightmare, he’d been disoriented.

  “You seem a tad…lost.” She couldn’t think of a better word to describe how he looked. “You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I’m coming back.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. I need some fresh air. I’ll take a long ride and clear my head.”

  “It might rain, remember?”

  “I won’t melt. I’m tougher than you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  They were grinning, gaping like halfwits. He slipped his hand into hers and gave her fingers a tight squeeze.

  “If it storms, you hurry home.” She’d scolded him as if she was his wife, as if it was perfectly appropriate for her to chastise.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll worry if you don’t.”

  “I’ll be fine, Magdalena.”

  He stole another kiss then sauntered down the hall. She hovered by the rear door, fighting the urge to chase after him, to beseech him not to go. But she refused to embarrass herself with such a blatant display of emotion. She wasn’t an adolescent girl in the throes of her first amour, and she wouldn’t act like it.

  She dawdled, listening as he murmured instructions to a servant in the foyer. Then the front door opened and closed.

  Slowly, she walked to the main parlor and she huddled behind the drapes, watching the lane that led out to the road, standing in the shadows until he rode off. She kept watching until he exited through the gate, until he was swallowed up by the trees, then she went over to the sofa and eased herself down.

  The house was so quiet with him gone—as if he’d taken all the vitality with him when he left. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantle, and it dawned on her that—without him sitting beside her—she was the loneliest person in the world.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Michael tiptoed into Maggie’s bedchamber and stood next to the bed.

  She was sleeping, looking young and pretty, and the oddest wave of protectiveness surged through him.

  She inspired a host of peculiar emotions he’d never supposed he could experience with a woman. She made him laugh, made him relish the hours they’d wasted together.

  He shouldn’t have tarried with her for a single minute, should have returned her to her brother-in-law, untouched, unsullied, and told Farrow he didn’t like her and wasn’t interested. But the sorry fact was that he liked her very much and was afraid maybe he more than liked her, and now he wasn’t sure what to do with her.

  He was too disconcerted to decide such an important matter, and he was about to marry someone else—a pertinent detail he kept conveniently forgetting.

  The bad dream he’d suffered at their picnic had rattled him. Usually he marched through the world without being sidetracked by peripheral issues. He was dispassionate and unsentimental, but old recollections had reared up to plague him, and he often felt as if he was racing toward some kind of violent collision.

  The wounds from his past had wreaked significant damage that he hated to acknowledge, and he’d never understood why they’d been inflicted or why they continued to haunt him. Yet when he was around Maggie, the painful memories weren’t nearly so excruciating.

  As he’d ridden in the rain, as he’d galloped down deserted country roads and let himself be pummeled by the deluge, he’d begun to question whether he shouldn’t accept Gaylord Farrow’s terms.

  If Michael ruined her, he’d have the right to keep her for six months, would be able to fill his days and nights with her. And if he pressed ahead, he refused to think of it as a ruination. A bond had developed between them, and he was certain she’d agree to his proposition—if he
posed it correctly.

  During their affair he’d shower her with gifts and affection, and when he was finished with her, he’d set her up with a trust fund so she’d always have an allowance, so she’d never have to work again. It was much more than most women could ever hope to receive.

  He wondered if she owned the building where the rescue mission was located. If so, he’d buy it from her and give her that money too. If she didn’t, he’d find out the identity of the owner, purchase the property and shut it down so she couldn’t work, so she had to take the allowance.

  No, there would be no ruination. There would be joy and companionship and financial reward when it was over.

  He eased a hip onto the mattress, and she frowned but didn’t awaken.

  “Magdalena,” he murmured.

  Her eyelids fluttered open, and on seeing him, she smiled. “You’re back.”

  “Of course I’m back. I told you I’d be fine.”

  “I was so worried. I sat by the window for hours, watching for you.”

  It was the sweetest remark she could have uttered, and the comment had his heart lurching in his chest. He couldn’t remember a single time when anyone had waited up for him. Ramsey did occasionally, but he didn’t count.

  Her fondness had him soaring with elation, and he yearned to cradle her to his chest and offer boons he would never actually deliver. She stirred his manly instincts, but he never made promises because he never kept them. So he bit down on every tantalizing, declarative word that was begging to spill out.

  He’d been drenched in the rain, so he’d changed clothes, but his hair was still damp. She ran her fingers through it and scolded, “I warned you not to get wet. I hope you don’t catch a chill.”

  “I’m too tough to catch a chill.”

  “If you do, I’ll feed you chicken soup and stroke your fevered brow until you’re better.”

  “You’ve convinced me to fall ill merely so you’ll have to take care of me.”

  “I’ll be the best nurse you ever had.”

  She’d be the only nurse he’d ever had. In his chaotic orphan’s existence there hadn’t been any doting females, and as an adult, the women who crossed his path were a rougher sort who weren’t known for their nurturing tendencies.