by Mary Campisi
Keeping his eyes on hers, he trailed his free hand up her rib cage, his fingers nearly brushing her breast. She wanted to cry out, wanted him to put his hand on the swollen peak of her breast and soothe the ache he’d created with that one heated look. With great effort, she forced her body to be still, giving herself up to the unknown pleasure of his feather soft touch. The pads of his fingers circled the hollow of her neck in a slow, gentle rhythm. Her body grew light and heavy at the same time as she turned toward his touch.
He smiled again, this time a slow smile, revealing white teeth and wrinkle lines at the corner of his eyes. He was devastating when he smiled. He still held her hands above her head, but his hold gentled as he rubbed one of her wrists with the pad of his thumb. Small shivers tingled through her body. Was that from his touch or had it happened with a mere smile? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at the moment other than the sensations this man was creating in her.
His free hand stroked her hair. He pulled a pin out and tossed it on the counterpane. Then he reached for another and another, until her unbound hair spilled into his hand. He closed his fingers about a jumble of hair and lowered his head to breathe in her scent.
“Lilac,” he whispered.
“I prefer lilac over rose,” she blurted out, wondering at his fascination with her hair. She’d always thought it to be something of a nuisance, a big unruly mass that refused to stay in place.
“I definitely prefer lilac,” he murmured. “Especially on you.”
Her heart skipped two beats as his words washed over her, smooth, and seductive, like fine sherry on a winter night. He eased his grip on her hands, and she reached up to stroke his cheek.
He groaned as he lifted his head and moved closer to her, so close she could see golden flecks in his brown eyes. She hadn’t noticed them before. Or the small scar above his right eyebrow. Her gaze roamed his face, settling on his mouth.
Voices in the hallway startled them both. Noah reacted first, raising a finger to his lips.
The voice belonged to Ian. “I’ll just check with Noah and see if he’d care to take an afternoon ride with us,” he said.
“That’s a splendid idea,” Augusta said. “I just wish your sister could go along with us.”
“Absolutely not.”
“But, I think they would get along quite well.”
“No,” Ian said. “You don’t understand, Augusta. Noah’s not husband material and despite what my sister says, she will settle down one day.”
“Perhaps it could be with Noah. She might just tame him,” Augusta whispered. “Look what happened to you.” There was a very long pause, followed by a giggle. “Stop it, Ian. Stop it now. Not in the middle of the hall,” she whispered, giggling again.
“That’s not what you said last night,” he whispered back, laughter in his voice. There was another long pause, followed by a loud rap on the door.
“Noah?”
“Yes?”
Emily met Noah’s gaze and their eyes locked. Would he expose her?
“Augusta and I are going for a ride and thought you might like to accompany us.”
There was a brief pause and then, “Certainly. Give me a few moments to change and I’ll meet you at the stables.”
Emily kept her eyes trained on the door long after their voices faded away. Noah eased himself off her and leaned against the mahogany bedpost.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice low and quiet.
She refused to look at him, certain if she did he’d see the vulnerability there and take full advantage of her weakness. Noah Sandleton mustn’t learn her identity or America would be nothing but a broken dream, forever lost. Gathering her courage, she pushed herself from the wrinkled counterpane and began collecting the pins that lay scattered before her.
“My name is Emily Barry. I’m a servant at Greyling Manor.” She must not reveal too much.
“And before you were employed at Greyling Manor?” His tone was stiff and impersonal now, all trace of gentleness gone.
“Why, I was employed elsewhere.” Why must he be so persistent? And so cold? How could he pretend nothing had passed between them?
“As what?”
“What does that mean?” If she feigned ignorance, he might ease up on his questions. Then again, he seemed to be the persistent type.
“It means,” he bit out, “I intend to find out who the hell you are and what you’re really doing here.”
Her eyes widened.
“I find you at a seedy tavern dressed as a boy one day, and in the home of my best friend wearing maid’s clothes the next. How is it that a simple servant has the speech and grace of a well-bred lady?” He leaned over, his face mere inches from hers. “I don’t expect an answer from you because whatever comes from your lips will most likely be another lie.”
“I’m not a thief, nor a liar. My goal hasn’t changed. I plan to find passage to America. I’m working here to earn that right.”
Noah’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be watching every move you make, Emily Barry.” He spat out her name as though he’d tasted sour milk. As though he thought it wasn’t her real name at all. “When you think you’re alone, turn around, and I’ll be there. Watching you. I intend to expose you. If I find you’re involved in a scheme to harm Ian St. Simon, as I suspect you may well be, I will personally cart you off to Newgate.”
“I would never hurt Ian!”
“Ian? My, how familiar you are. Even a wayward American like me knows a servant doesn’t address nobility in such a manner.” Noah rose from the bed and headed for the door. When he reached it, he turned to face her with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just remember, I’ll be watching you.” Then he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him.
****
“Now Emily, I’ll tell you my secret to making a meat pie.” Mrs. Florence leaned over, her round body crowding out the work area, and whispered, “It’s all in the crust.”
“The crust,” Emily repeated, knowing there was much more to making a meat pie than those simple words. In the last few days, she’d gained a whole new perspective on food that had nothing to do with eating it. She hadn’t known it could be chopped, shredded, sautéed, broiled, fried, and steamed. Never again would she look at a plate of food as a simple means to fill an empty stomach.
“Now, you add the water to the flour, like this,” Mrs. Florence said, pouring a healthy amount into a big bowl. “Then you add butter and start to mix, using two forks. Don’t be afraid to get the dough on your hands, it washes right off.” She worked the two forks into the big lump, cutting and slashing with her pudgy fingers until the pastry resembled hundreds of small peas.
“And that’s our crust?” Emily had eaten Mrs. Florence’s meat pies for years, but she had serious doubts about the mass of tiny, shredded lumps in front of her. It didn’t resemble anything she’d eaten before, nor did it look like it had any chance of turning into a flaky, mouth-watering crust.
“Of course it’s our crust, child. But it won’t be unless it’s properly cut up,” Mrs. Florence said, turning the pastry over with her forks.
“Cut up,” Emily repeated, adding that word to her list of food activities. One could also cut up something.
“Now you give it a try. Go ahead.” Mrs. Florence pushed the bowl toward Emily, handing over the long forks. “That’s a girl.” She chuckled as Emily struggled with the utensils. After several more attempts and a few kind words from her mentor, Emily got the knack of using the forks and cutting the pastry. “You’ve cut it up but good.” She chuckled again, slicing a hunk of pastry and placing it on the floured counter. “I like to make pastries when I’m troubled about something.” She winked. “I can cut to my heart’s desire and nobody gets hurt.”
“Like Mr. Florence?” Emily teased, thinking of the wizened stableman who was several inches shorter and many pounds lighter than his wife.
Mrs. Florence let out a hoot of laughter, shaking her rolling pin at Emily. “Wh
en I’m mad at Mr. Florence, child, I make bread.”
****
Emily balled her fists and struck at the big lump. She left an imprint where her knuckles collided with the dough. Laughing, she punched again. Soon her fists were moving in earnest, attacking the dough with vengeance.
Punching the dough one last time, she poked a finger in the middle to test for softness. It bounced back slowly, not unlike Mrs. Florence’s upper arms had done a little while ago when Emily accidentally bumped into her.
Mrs. Florence had pointed to the huge sack of flour that morning and announced that today was bread-making day, which meant she must have had a tiff with her husband. Emily’s suspicions were confirmed when the cook growled at the flour mixture and pummeled it with such force that a fine spattering of white landed everywhere—the counter, floor, her apron, Emily’s nose. When she’d exhausted her frustrations, she pushed the bowl to Emily and encouraged her to have a go at it.
Emily spent several minutes punching the dough. She understood why Mrs. Florence did this when she was angry. The technique proved quite effective to relieve stress and required only minor instruction before a person was ready to attempt the process alone. Emily didn’t even need an imaginary villain to pound on. A face appeared each time she punched. Dark and brooding with brown eyes flecked in gold. Bam! She struck his already crooked nose. Pow! Her knuckles connected with his square jaw. Whack! Wiped that crooked grin off his mouth. Bam! Pow! Whack!
A fleshy hand stilled her arm. “That’s enough, child.” Mrs. Florence’s soft voice dragged her away from the taunting image of Noah Sandleton.
Emily grasped the edges of the large bowl, stilling her shaking hands. She’d actually imagined she was doing all of those nasty things to his face. The worst part of it all was, she’d been thoroughly enjoying herself.
The kitchen door swung open, interrupting Emily’s self-chastisement. Two rosy cheeked young girls faced each other, giggling behind their hands.
“All right, you two,” Mrs. Florence said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Out with it. What are you both up to this early in the morning?”
“Oh, Mum, ’e certainly is a beauty.” Bridgett, the shorter of the two maids twirled about and ended on a sigh. “With ’is deep accent an’ ’is slow smile, I was all tied up in knots.”
“And those eyes,” Heather, the other maid piped in. “I thought ’e could see right through me. They was the same color as the shavings we put on Lady Emily’s hot chocolate.”
Emily looked down at her dough-crusted hands and began rubbing at the sticky stuff. She would not get into a discussion about him. She would not do it.
“Strange though,” Bridgett said, her lips turning down. “’E complimented us on the meal and the like, but then ’e asked where you was this morning, Lady, I mean Emily.”
Why would he say something like that? She shrugged and tried to make light of the inquiry. “Wouldn’t you want to know where the she-devil was that spilled asparagus soup on your shirt, cream in your lap and tea on your shoulder?” she asked.
The two girls clamped their hands to their mouths, trying to suppress another round of giggles. Mrs. Florence hid a smile. “Out with the two of you now. There’s plenty to be done. Shoo.”
Bridgett and Heather scurried out of the kitchen, giggling as they left. Emily bent to the task of removing the rest of the drying dough from her fingers. It had begun to itch and would soon be unbearable if she didn’t get it all off.
“Come, child. There’s an easier way to get your hands clean,” Mrs. Florence said. “If you keep up with what you’re doing, your hands will be raw.” She guided Emily to a large basin of warm water, where she handed her a bar of soap and a towel.
“Mr. Sandleton is quite a looker, don’t you think?”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Emily lathered her hands and concentrated on the tiny bubbles the soap made.
“That’s odd. I thought you’d be particularly interested in him, seeing as he’s an American and all. And we all know how much you want to join up with Master Christopher.”
Mrs. Florence was no fool. “I don’t need him. I’ve got my own plan.” She pulled at the globs of dough, watching them float in the water a moment and then sink. Too bad she couldn’t get rid of Noah Sandleton that easily.
When Mrs. Florence clucked her tongue, Emily knew a lecture was about to follow. “Everybody needs somebody at one time or another, usually when we fight it the hardest.” Emily hazarded a glance at her and knew she was thinking of Mr. Florence.
“Well, I certainly don’t need Noah Sandleton for business or otherwise,” Emily said, inspecting her clean hands. She grabbed the towel and began drying her chapped hands.
“Do you mean to tell me you haven’t felt those blue eyes following you around the room?”
A vision of deep, rich chocolate swirled before her. Without thinking, Emily burst out, “His eyes aren’t blue. They’re dark brown with tiny golden flecks.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Emily realized her error.
“You haven’t noticed him, eh?” The older woman threw back her head and laughed, jiggling the extra flesh on her ample chin.
Emily rubbed her hands on the towel in swift, jerky movements, trying to gather her thoughts. “Well, perhaps I have noticed those eagle eyes on me,” she admitted. “But only because I know he’s just waiting for me to mess up again. He unsettles me, and the harder I try to concentrate on the task, the more I seem to make an absolute muddle of things.”
“He was a tad upset when you spilled that cream on him.”
“I tried to wipe it up right away.”
Mrs. Florence chuckled. “Lesson number one child: never wipe anything that’s fallen on a man’s lap.”
Emily recalled Noah’s stunned face and the sudden vice-like grip of his hand, stilling her actions. He hadn’t spoken for several moments and when he finally did, his voice was low and gruff, commanding her to get out. Immediately. Thank the heavens, there were no other witnesses to the disastrous event save Mrs. Florence who stood by in shocked horror.
“Your wager will be over soon enough and then you may present yourself to Mr. Sandleton as Emily St. Simon.”
“Never!” If he found out she was Ian’s sister, Noah would waste little time exposing her escapades, and all chance of travelling to America would sink as quickly as the dough had a few moments ago. Ian would see her little jaunt to The Fox’s Tail as a major betrayal and would marry her off posthaste. She must protect her identity at all costs until Noah Sandleton was safely away from them, sailing off to his next adventure.
Chapter 3
The next six days passed with relative ease. Of course, there were a few minor mishaps where Noah Sandleton was concerned, but nothing so severe that a careful laundering wouldn’t remove—though Emily did wonder if the cranberry juice stain on his shirt cuff would be permanent. Well, she wouldn’t feel guilty about that or the claret spill on his trousers either. He shouldn’t have tried to grab the silver pitcher or glass carafe from her as though she were an incapable goose. She knew how to serve refreshments, had even acted as Christopher’s hostess on occasion.
It wasn’t her fault that Noah Sandleton unnerved her to the point she lost her wits around him. His steady stare, following her every movement, was enough to make her spill, drop, bobble, or overturn most everything she got her hands on. Things would progress quite smoothly if he would just leave her alone and not watch her every move like a cat about to pounce.
One more week and she could bid good riddance to Emily Barry, wearer of scratchy dyed muslin and cotton hose. One more week and she’d win her wager with Ian and could begin making plans for America. It might even be possible to commence her journey the next week, if she were fortunate enough. Belle had told her about a ship setting sail in three week’s time. Certainly, she needn’t wait any longer than that. Emily hummed a light tune as she placed the warm biscuits in a serving dish.
One more week. Seven more
days of falling under Noah Sandleton’s dark gaze following her around the room, taunting her. Her hand closed around a biscuit, squashing it with her fingers. He’d be leaving soon for his ship. Was it seven or eight days? Not that she cared. The sooner he was gone, the better. Another biscuit crumbled between her fingers.
How dare he accuse her of scheming to harm Ian? The man was a beast. Very soon, she’d never have to see him again. A third biscuit suffered the fate of the others, bits and pieces falling through her fingers onto the floor. Then another and another.
“Good heavens, child,” Mrs. Florence grabbed Emily’s arm, “what are you doing?”
Emily looked down at the half-crumbled biscuit in her hand. Tiny crumbs clung to her fingers, larger ones were strewn everywhere—on her apron, the table, the floor. “Oh my goodness!” There were only four biscuits remaining in the serving dish. She’d destroyed twelve without even knowing it! Emily scooped up crumbs and large chunks of biscuit into her apron, then she went to the rubbish pail and shook out its contents. When she finished, a small mountain of white heaped from the pail, threatening to spill onto the floor.
“It’s all right, child.” Mrs. Florence’s voice was soft and soothing. “I’ll serve for you tonight.”
“No!” The word flew out of Emily’s mouth with more force than she intended. “No, Mrs. Florence,” she repeated on a quieter note. “I’m fine. Really.” Patting the cook’s fleshy forearm, Emily offered a weak smile. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Well, I do, and I say it’s about enough of the two of you going at each other.” Mrs. Florence nodded her gray head. “Why a body’s got to be blind to not see it. Plain and simple blind, if you ask me.” She crossed her arms over her ample breasts and snorted.
“See what?”
The look Mrs. Florence gave Emily said she was no fool even if Emily thought she was. “Hmpph. Why do you think you’ve been so clumsy lately? Have you thought about it? And you’ve only blundered about around one certain person. Don’t you find that odd?”