Charity let out a breath, not knowing what to think. Disappointment at his abrupt departure was not something she ought to feel, his company not something she ought to look forward to. He would leave soon enough, and she did not need or want a broken heart. It was better this way. She ought to thank her lucky stars he didn’t wish to toy with her affections or seduce her. Whether she would was another matter.
Chapter 9
“Wherein there’s sweetness enough to tempt a saint, never mind a devil.”
Dev sat beside his bedroom window, too tense to sleep. Below him, the farm was a hive of activity, the cockerel shouting his head off while the chickens showed off, cackling over who laid the first eggs. The cow was lowing, rubbing her head against the fence post, impatient for milking, while the rhythmic sound of Mr Baxter sweeping the yard was a constant shushing in the background.
The sun rose behind it all, fecund and golden, tinting the sky a hazy pastel tone as tiny puffs of white cloud drifted upon a lazy breeze.
He inhaled, willing the simmering in his blood to dissipate and leave him be. That flickering sense of anticipation to see her again disturbed his peace of mind and threatened to make him a villain in every sense of the word.
Waking to find Miss Kendall so close to him, her eyes on him with such open appreciation… it had fired his blood. Dev had felt the tumult of her pulse beneath her skin, seen the eager flush to her face. He could have kissed her then. She would have allowed it. He could have tumbled her into the straw and….
Dev gritting his teeth. No. There were limits. He was hiding away here when all the time he had set the wheels in motion to remove them from the property, from the only life they’d ever known. The shadows in the young woman’s eyes were easy to see, as was the tension in her shoulders when discussions moved to the future and what they were to do. Dev always made himself scarce during such conversations, as though he was giving them privacy, when he was in fact escaping the burden of guilt that was growing heavier the longer he stayed.
Mr Baxter was a miserable old buzzard, but he seemed genuinely fond of them all, in his own way, and no one could deny he earned his bread. All the jobs that the women could not manage fell to him and Dev could tell it was wearing him down, though he said nothing. It was clear he was not as young as he had once been. He ought to be filling the wood store, which was dwindling, but chopping wood was hard graft. The old fellow had also mentioned the fencing around the horses’ paddock needed repair. Yet now they lived in a quandary, not being able to spend time or money on a place they were leaving. So, Mr Baxter had agreed to cobble something together to last the weeks they had left. Dev had noticed the quality of the workmanship around the place and knew it would rankle with a man who took pride in his skills.
Mrs Baxter worked from dusk till dawn and everything she did Miss Kendall matched her and then some. The two women cleaned and cooked, made and mended clothes, and dealt with the laundry. Mrs Baxter milked the cow and Charity the goats. They tended the large kitchen garden and made preserves and pickles and jams, curing meat and making butter and cheese. Some produce they sold whilst they stored the rest for the harsh winters ahead. Winters here were cruel and could keep a body indoors while the snow lay thick at the door for weeks on end.
Kit hadn’t the stamina for physical work, which might have made Dev sneer if he couldn’t see how much it gnawed at him, and how honestly Kit wished he could have been of more use. He helped where he could but tired easily, his pale skin becoming flushed, that rather strange feverish glint in his eyes. He did however, bring the most income into the place, such as it was. The young man had been full of himself last night as he brought news that his work was to be published in a rather radical paper called The Examiner. The pride in his sister’s eyes at his success had shifted something in Dev’s chest, which still ached as though someone had pried back one of his ribs.
What would become of them when they left the farm? Would they move to a city? Their uncle lived in Bristol. Thoughts of Miss Kendall confined to the narrow streets of Bristol and far from the rugged wilderness of the hills she loved made him uncomfortable. She had too much energy and life to survive any lodgings Kit’s earnings could pay for. They’d not be able to afford one of the better areas. How far from the slums would she live? Unease stirred in his chest and he tried to push it away. Perhaps the sea air would do Kit good?
As the guilt lay a little heavier, he wondered what she would do if she discovered his identity, discovered that he was the cause of their distress? He pushed the idea away, uncomfortable with the sensation that pulsed through his him.
With a frown. he returned his gaze out of the window, and watched as Miss Kendall strode towards the kitchen garden with a fork and an empty basket. He saw her smother a yawn as she went, pushing a dark lock of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. She’d left her bed early so he could sleep. The thought stuck in his throat.
Decision made, he hauled on his clothes and hurried down the stairs.
***
Charity looked at the rows of potatoes and sighed. It was a job she rather enjoyed, seeing the smooth rounded shapes rising out of the dirt. At this time of the year when the skins were fragile they tasted as sweet as early summer. Buttered and cooked with mint there was nothing better. Today however, lethargy pulled at her bones.
She loved it here. She loved every hard-won inch of this land.
They’d tucked memories into every corner, every nook and cranny, and now and then Charity would unearth one, long forgotten.
There was the apple tree she’d got stuck in when she was five years old, and her father had climbed the gnarled roots to fetch her down again. Over there, down by the stream, was where Kit had pushed her into the icy water when she’d teased him for having a crush on a girl in the market. She’d been wearing her best Sunday dress and he’d been sent to bed with no supper. She’d snuck some up to him later, filled with remorse.
They’d all been born in the large, master bedroom here, which, even now, lay empty. Though Mr and Mrs Baxter had encouraged Kit to take it, now he was master, he couldn’t bear to do it. It had the best views and the most space, but he said it didn’t feel right. When he in turn had given it to Charity, she’d also refused. Some ghosts still lingered even if their presence was a warm one. She wondered if they were clinging to the past, hanging on to something which was long gone and could never return. Perhaps Kit was right. Perhaps, at last, it would force her to face the real world, and to live in it. The thought was frightening, unsettling, and her spirits tumbled a little further.
Everything would change. It had already begun. Even her own thoughts differed from before. She’d been perfectly content hating their nameless houseguest, but then he’d not only found a name, he’d rescued helpless kittens and made her little sister happy. It was so unfair. How could she fight that? He’d taught John to swear and cuss and gamble, which she was still unsure about but… he had to become a man one day. He needed a father figure and Kit always had his head in the clouds.
Yet her growing fascination with the dangerous, blue-eyed devil had already led her feelings onto unmarked paths, into forbidden places where snares and brambles awaited. Her instincts told her to keep clear of him, that he would only cast her further down a road she ought not to follow. Except she had never even been kissed before, never known what it was to feel a strong pair of arms around her. She had thought she had enough in her life, that she was content, but then the wicked viscount had moved to evict them, and David had arrived and stirred up her heart with as much ease as Mrs Baxter stirring a pot of soup.
Here she was, almost an old maid at twenty-five years old, with a ready-made family and without the faintest idea of what it was to be in love.
With a sigh she squared her shoulders and lifted the fork. Daydreaming and maudlin thoughts would not get her anywhere. The potatoes would not dig themselves.
“May I help with that?”
Charity gasped, too lost in
her own head to have noticed anyone walking through the garden.
“My, you startled me,” she said, wishing that alone accounted for the way her heart was pounding as David walked towards her. “I thought you were having a lie in?”
He shook his head and held out his hand to take the fork from her. “How could I lie abed when you are working your fingers to the bone?”
“You managed it well enough up till now,” she said, flushing as she heard the tart note to her voice. For once she hadn’t meant to be so confrontational.
She saw a flicker of guilt in his eyes but to her relief he came about, squaring his shoulders. “I was regaining my strength,” he said, his tone dignified.
Charity snorted, deliberately provoking. Thank God he hadn’t apologised. The kitten incident was bad enough. She looked him over. “You look strong enough to me,” she said, and then cursed as the blasted man smirked at her.
“I’m so glad you noticed,” he murmured.
She glowered at him, folding her arms. “Well, on you get, then,” she snapped, huffing. “But do mind your delicate hands. I wouldn’t want you to get blisters.”
David opened his mouth to retort and then apparently thought better of it, narrowing his eyes as he lifted the fork. “You’re digging these up?” he asked, pointing at the thick green leaves of the potato plants.
“You don’t know what they are, do you?” Charity said, grinning at his ignorance.
David thrust the fork into the soft soil after sending her a look of disgust. “I pay people to do this sort of thing,” he said, his tone scathing. “And if you don’t want my help you only need say.”
“No, no,” Charity said, giving him a condescending smile. “I should be pleased to educate you. These are potatoes. Repeat after me now. Po–ta–to.”
“Funny,” he said, shaking his head as he shook the earth from the tines of the fork. “Hilarious, you are.”
Charity nodded, smug. “I know.” She was enjoying herself enormously.
“Oh, look,” he exclaimed, grinning and sounding surprised as the purple skinned potatoes showed themselves like jewels in the soft earth. “Is that what they look like? I’ve never seen them uncooked.”
“Really?” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “They’re called Fortyfold. They’re tasty. We’ll have some for dinner.”
“Excellent.” He bent down and picked them from the dirt.
Charity stamped on some strange, soft sensation that rolled through her chest. He looked ridiculously pleased with himself as he bent to collect the tubers, placing them in the basket for her. Good Lord, but what disparate worlds they inhabited. He’d never dirtied his hands before, never seen the source of where his dinner came from, and yet the pleasure he took in the discovery warmed something inside her. There was an honest sense of delight shining in his eyes as he reached for the fork and started on the next plant.
“How many do you want?” he asked as he began to dig again. He paused, his expression quizzical. “Miss Kendall?”
“Oh.” She started, realising she’d been staring at him and not answering the question. “Well, fill the basket for now and we’ll take those to the kitchen. There are peas and beans to pick after,” she added, brisk as she dragged her gaze from the too small shirt that grew taut over his broad chest as he dug.
Swallowing and turning her back on him so she couldn’t see his self-satisfied expression, Charity hurried off to fetch another basket, and left him to his work.
***
It was strangely therapeutic, snapping the beans off and throwing them down into the basket. The vines rose into the sky, scaling the supports given them, scarlet flowers bobbing bright against the blue sky as a warm breeze teased them into motion. Miss Kendall couldn’t reach the highest ones, so they worked together. Unable to resist the temptation, he often stood behind her, reaching up while she worked lower, so close they almost touched. Now and then he allowed his arm to brush against hers, wondering if she felt the simmering heat between them as he did.
The scent of her lifted as the breeze toyed with her hair, loose curls falling down her neck. It was far from the exotic, sophisticated perfumes he was used to. She was far from the experienced, jaded creatures he’d desired before now. Yet desire surged beneath his skin all the same, no matter how he tried to keep it at bay. She smelled wholesome, if such a thing were even possible. Her innocent perfume filled his senses: the bread she had baked that morning, clean linen, and soap, and the faintest trace of roses. How could such simple things combine to create something so intoxicating?
There was a peace that came with this work, too, and he understood the pleasure he saw in her eyes when she looked around at the garden bursting with produce. Yet now and then there was sorrow in her expression, when he thought perhaps she remembered she must soon leave it all behind.
That strange, unwelcome ache behind his ribs was still there, insidious and crafty, getting under his skin. Once or twice he caught himself rubbing his chest with the heel of his hand, as though he could ease the guilt away.
He watched as she bent down to move the basket along, and the movement pushed her breasts forward. They strained at the neckline of her gown, plump and mouth-watering. Dev swallowed hard as the desire to reach around her and cup them in his hands slammed into him. Heat prickled over his skin, making him sweat harder than the summer sun that beat down on the back of his neck. He tore his gaze away, only to notice how her skirts clung to her behind, showing the curve of her bottom.
Oh, God.
Dev closed his eyes, willing the image to leave his mind, but then he heard her curse and opened his eyes in time to see her stumble. She fell, her back to his chest, and he caught her, sucking in a breath as those lovely curves he’d just admired touching the growing discomfort beneath the placket of his trousers. Without conscious thought his arms went around her, one hand splaying across her stomach, the other at her hip.
“Easy there,” he said, his voice sounding low and unsteady
She stilled, and he had the distinct impression she was holding her breath.
He looked down over her shoulder and discovered his mistake as he noted the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Her bottom pressed against him, so close that he wondered if she could feel his growing desire. Would she understand what she did to him? His fingers tightened a little upon her hip as he fought the urge to pull her closer still and illustrate it further. He waited for her to curse, to turn and slap him and give him some stinging set down. But she didn’t, and he didn’t know if he was glad or not. He wanted to kiss her, to hold her, but instinctively felt there was danger here, for his own heart as much as hers.
God he was a bastard. A fact he’d always relished. Until now. Damn his awakening conscience. He should let her go and apologise, yet she wasn’t moving away from him, hadn’t protested his touch. The hand at her stomach moved, tentative at first, and he watched it as though it had a mind of its own. It moved to her waist and then slid higher, so slowly. He felt her breathing hitch as his thumb grazed the underside of her breast.
The scream that rent the air was high and bloodcurdling and they both jolted as the moment shattered.
“Jane!” Charity cried, moving before Dev had even registered the fact it was the little girl who had screamed.
She hitched up her skirts, running through the gardens as Dev shook himself out of his daze and followed her.
They thundered into the yard and the sheer relief in his heart as he saw the child was whole and unharmed was alarming to him. Her brother, however, was another matter. His clothes were torn and filthy clothes, he’d skinned both knees, his nose was dripping blood down his shirt, and he had the beginnings of a remarkable black eye.
He held two fat rabbits in one tight fist, the knuckles bruised and raw.
“John! Oh, John!” Charity fell to her knees in the dirt, running her hands over the boy, checking for broken bones. “Where does it hurt, love? Who did this to you?”
Joh
n turned scarlet at his sister’s fussing, his lips trembling as her concern battered down his obvious desire for bravery, to be a man.
“Stop mollycoddling the boy,” Dev snapped, exasperated as John sent him a pleading look. “He’s fine. Nothing more than a few cuts and bruises.”
Charity turned on him, astonished and angry. “This is none of your concern,” she said, her tone furious as she reached for John’s hand. “Come along, love,” she said, her voice soft now. “Come into the kitchen and I’ll clean you up, good as new. Batty baked shortbread this morning and you can have as much as you can eat.” She smiled at him, ruffling his hair, and Dev saw the shock in her eyes as the boy snatched his hand away.
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice trembling a little but his chin jutting with determination. “I can clean myself up.”
With something that might have been remorse in his chest Dev watched the incomprehension in her eyes.
“But what happened?” she asked, annoyance flickering in her expression now as she saw the rabbits in his hand. “I thought I told you not to walk the moors on your own. It’s far too dangerous. We discussed this!”
“No,” John replied, growing obstinate now. “You told me I couldn’t. There was no discussion, and I was only checking my snares.” His voice grew strident, his cheeks flushing deeper as his emotions rose, a dangerous glitter to his eyes. “I caught two, look,” he said, holding them up to show Dev and bursting with pride.
“And did they put up a fight?” Charity demanded, her hands on her hips as her own temper rose.
John returned a look of disgust and the similarity between the two siblings in that instant was startling. Good Lord, they were all stubborn as mules. “No. But three gypsy boys did. They tried to steal them from me, but I stopped them.” He stood taller, squaring his shoulders. “I fought them and made them run away.”
Charity and The Devil (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 11) Page 9