By this time the bull was . . . sauntering . . . toward him.
Reverend Stanwyck is—in case I’ve neglected to mention—a rather sizeable man. He is not anywhere close to your size, of course, but then who is, dear Joss?
Never would I have imagined a man so large and muscular could move so quickly. Of course Odysseus is also large and muscular.
The reverend ran toward the nearest section of fencing rather than heading for the turn-style. Odysseus gained on him in horrifying time.
Just when the bull had lowered his head in a menacing fashion, Mr. Stanwyck hurled the boy’s shirt sideways. He must have tied it up around rocks or dirt because the shirt fluttered through the air, far enough to distract Odysseus, who—amazingly enough— veered off to follow it!
The reverend scrambled rather ingloriously over the fence and tore his holy blacks in the process. (Before you ask, nothing shocking was exposed. Unfortunately.)
Like the true hero he is, he merely smiled at the grateful, weeping mother and accepted the praise of his spectators with humble thanks.
Melissa paused, brushing the soft barb of her quill back and forth across her chin as she decided whether or not to share the next part. While it was true that Joss was her closest friend in the world, she wasn’t certain she wanted to share everything.
No, perhaps she would keep what happened after the Odysseus Affair to herself. It wasn’t anything shocking, but it had been an hour she’d enjoyed more than any other she could recall in recent history. Which was probably a sad reflection on the lack of enjoyment in her life this past year or so.
Once the reverend had returned Robbie to his mother and endured the gratitude of the dozen bystanders, Mel had managed to work up enough nerve to make her offer.
“You have a large tear in your waistcoat, Mr. Stanwyck.”
A charming notch appeared between his sky-blue eyes as he examined the front of his garment.
“It is up the back—where the seam runs up the garment—you cannot see it from your vantage point. You must have pulled it just the right way to tear.”
He met her gaze with a good-natured grimace. “That is unfortunate. I’m afraid I’m not very careful with my clothing and this is my last respectable waistcoat.” He picked up his coat, which he’d tossed carelessly on the ground along with his hat, both of which had been kicked and scuffed during the excitement.
She watched as he casually beat his hat with his hand to knock of the dust.
“Nor with your hats, either. You are going to ruin it if you continue on that way,” she added in a chiding tone.
He looked up from the battered head covering and grinned before dropping it on his startling fair hair—which was sticking up in all directions and somewhat sweaty from his valiant exertions. “Which way are you headed, Miss Griffin?”
“I was on my way back to the manor,” she lied.
“May I walk with you? I was headed back to the vicarage.”
“I would like that.”
So they’d made their farewells to the others and set off together.
“Do you make a habit of such dramatic rescues, Mr. Stanwyck?”
“No—only one per month, I’m afraid.”
“But that isn’t true.” He gave her a curious look. “You can’t have forgotten that you rescued me from Hector not long ago.”
He grinned. “If I recall correctly, you were rescuing yourself when I got in your way and you ran me down.”
“A true gentleman wouldn’t remind me of my cowardice.”
He pressed his hand over his heart. “You are correct, that was ill done of me.”
“I shall forgive you. This time.”
“Tell me, have you found the water yet? When I stopped by yesterday Mrs. Trent told me you were venturing that direction.”
“I didn’t know you’d called yesterday,” Mel blurted. “I’m afraid my aunt neglected to mention it. She’s been distracted lately.” The distraction was in the form of a groom she’d met from at the Sleeping Ferret, Mel could have added, but chose not to. Instead she said, “Were you looking for me for some specific purpose?”
When he didn’t answer immediately, she risked a glance at him. His cheeks had colored—now why would that be? What was he thinking? Or was it merely from his earlier exertions? After all, he’d been running and the day was exceptionally warm. Or was it because—
“I was on a mission from Mrs. Heeley. It seems there is a bit of competition for the largest two booths this coming Saturday. I was sent to ask how much space you would need for your wares?”
Mel swallowed her disappointment at his prosaic question. What had she been expecting him to say? Why was she acting like a besotted fool rather than a whore of almost thirty?
They’d discussed the logistics of booths and tables until they reached the turnoff to the manor.
“Well,” he said, removing his hat. “I guess this is where we part ways.”
“If you come inside I can get Jenny to mend your waistcoat.” She didn’t even know if Jenny was home. She’d been just as bad as Daisy lately when it came to gallivanting about town.
He hesitated. “Are you certain that wouldn’t be an imposition?”
“Not at all. Jenny is a wizard with a needle.” That was true enough. She’d been a seamstress for a tailor before he’d cornered her one day and taken more than her job from her.
“Well, then, I’d be grateful.” He held up his hands, which were long, well-shaped, but also bore cuts, scrapes, and burns, signs of his daily labors. “I’m afraid I’m all thumbs when it comes to such things.”
They walked up the path toward her house. “You have nobody to mend for you at the vicarage?”
“Mrs. Dennis, the vicarage charwoman, is always glad to do so, but I’m afraid she has been stretched rather thin lately with all the preparations for the fête.”
He opened the door.
“Jenny?” Mel called out as they removed their hats in the small foyer. When nobody answered she tossed her hat and gloves on the console table. “Make yourself at home in the sitting room, Mr. Stanwyck. I’ll go find Jenny and arrange for some tea.”
She left him and made her way to the kitchen, which was at the very back of the house. Mrs. Bunch looked up from the bread she was kneading.
“Are you alone?” Mel asked, glancing around.
Mrs. Bunch frowned, shaking her head. “No, the village girl is here—she’s out beating a carpet right now—but that blasted Jenny disappeared the moment I turned my back.”
“Drat.”
“Why, what is it?” The older woman slapped the loaves into shape, giving a low groan as she straightened her back and wiped her hands on a cloth.
“I’ve got Mister Stanwyck in the sitting room.”
Mrs. Bunch was suddenly awake and aware. “I’ll have a tea tray ready in a trice.”
Mel cocked her head and smiled, amused by all her employees attempts to throw her together with Mr. Stanwyck. It was true there was nobody so hopeful as a whore.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bunch.” She didn’t mention about the mending—she could do such a small thing herself.
She found him in the sitting room examining the large landscape above the dormant fireplace.
“I say, this is rather hideous, isn’t it?”
Melissa laughed and he immediately looked horrified. “Lord, please tell me it isn’t something you brought with you?”
She gave him a look of mock severity. “I’m going to ignore that not so subtle insult to my taste, Mr. Stanwyck. No, it was here when I arrived, along with a library full of books and even clothing in some of the cupboards. Speaking of clothing, Jenny is on an errand.” She glanced around and spied a mending basket. “But I can attend to it.”
“Oh, are you sure?”
“Do you doubt my ability to do mending?”
He laughed. “It cannot be worse than mine.”
“Now, take off your coat, which I will give to Mrs. Bunch when she arrives
with our tea. She can brush away all the dust and sponge it clean.”
He complied and then hesitated, his hands hovering above the buttons on his waistcoat, as if suddenly sensible to the fact he was about to strip down to his shirtsleeves and cravat. His beautiful face once again flushed. Lord, what an adorable man.
“I cannot stitch it while it is on your person, Reverend,” she teased. “Or at least I could, but it would be far more shocking to anyone who might walk in on us.”
He looked relieved at her levity and nodded.
Mel busied herself with digging through the mending basket for what she needed rather than staring at him like some hungry child outside a sweet shop window.
He handed her the garment and she looked up at him as she took it. Her breath froze in her chest. His eyes—his friendly, amiable, kind, sunny blue eyes—were a dark blue, the pupils huge as he looked down at her. She recognized the expression in them—it was an expression that was her stock-in-trade: desire. Or lust, to put it in raw terms. And oh, how very raw he looked in that instant.
“Thank you, Miss Griffin.” There was a harshness in his voice she recognized, as well, and he cleared his throat, his color deepening.
“My name is Melissa, Mr. Stanwyck.”
He nodded slowly, as if in sudden understanding. “And I am Magnus.”
“Magnus,” she repeated. “How. . . unusual.” Her voice was breathy, tentative—in other words, completely unlike her voice.
And then he smiled and, in a flash, the pleasant, sunny Reverend Stanwyck was back again; gone was the intense, dangerous man she’d caught only a glimpse of.
“It is both unusual and unfortunate. I would tell you all the horrible names I was called in school if I wasn’t still suffering from all the scars.”
Mel scrambled to gather her wits as he turned and went to the chair across from her.
The garment in her hands was still warm from his body and she almost raised it to her face and inhaled but caught herself in time.
As Melissa recalled her reaction, she stared unseeingly down at the letter she’d been writing to Joss, her mind stuck back in that moment, which remained as clear as crystal in her mind.
Oh, God, she’d thought. Oh, God. I am lost.
She shuddered at the memory. What a disaster for a woman like her to fall in love with a man like him. She absolutely could not share either the incident or her true feelings with Joss, no matter how close they were.
Melissa scrawled her name across the bottom of the letter before setting aside her quill.
No, she thought, her heart aching hard enough to break, some things were better kept to oneself.
Chapter Eight
Magnus took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.
“You could call Jem Brown to do this, Mr. Stanwyck.”
He smiled at the vicar and tossed his handkerchief onto the pile of clothing he’d taken off, piece by piece, while he’d struggled with the blasted lychgate. “I’ve almost got it, Mr. Heeley. You see here.” He pointed to the massive hinge, which had somehow become bent and now made a rude snapping sound whenever the gate was opened.
The vicar peered at the gate and nodded. “It’s Mrs. Dennis’s twins. They like to stand on it and swing back and forth.”
Magnus knew that but hadn’t wanted to tittle-tattle on the charwoman’s sons.
“Well,” he said, picking up the metal bar he’d brought to bend it back. “I think just a bit more of this.” He inserted the bar and carefully pulled. The hinges were old and he suspected the metal had become brittle with age so he didn’t want to handle them too roughly.
He stepped back and moved the gate. There was still a bit of a grinding sound, but nothing to what it had been.
“There. I think that will hold it until we can get Mr. Brown to look at it. I think it may need to be taken off and pounded into shape properly.”
The vicar gave the gate an experimental push while Magnus returned the tools to the large wooden box he’d taken from the generously sized stable that served both the vicarage and the curate’s cottage. Right now there were only three horses in the twelve-stall building: the vicar’s old carriage horses and Magnus’s chestnut gelding, Friar.
“Hello, old man,” he murmured when the horse came trotting over. “I’m a bad master, aren’t I?” he asked, stroking the velvet-soft muzzle. “You need a good hard ride and I’ve been neglecting you.”
“Why don’t you take him out?”
Magnus jumped at the sound of the vicar’s voice. He’d not realized he was behind him.
The older man leaned against the rail and scratched the big chestnut under his jaw. “He’s a fine beast,” he murmured, an almost acquisitive tone to his voice. He must have heard it because he cast Magnus a flushed, slightly embarrassed look. “I used to be accounted something of a goer when I was younger.”
Magnus hoped he hid his surprise. “Perhaps you would like to take him out for a jaunt, sir?”
The vicar laughed. “No, I’m afraid those days are long behind me.”
“They say riding a horse is something you never forget.”
“That might be true, but my old bones wouldn’t care to remember it. Neither would Mrs. Heeley.”
They laughed.
“But you go ahead.” Mr. Heeley stroked Friar wistfully. “I’ll wager there’s a cool breeze down by the water.”
Magnus was nodding his agreement when he remembered. “Mrs. Pilkington is expecting me. I, er, spend half an hour with her son every Thursday about this time.”
“Ah yes, the one who wants to take orders?”
Well, his mother wanted him to. “Yes, sir.”
“You run along; I’ll talk to young James.” He turned from Friar. “It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to the younger members of the flock.” Magnus hesitated and the vicar made a shooing gesture. “You’ve not had a day to yourself in a while. Go on.”
“Thank you, sir.” Magnus collected his discarded clothing and changed into his riding togs. It felt odd to be wearing his buckskins and top boots and out of what his brothers teased him as his “God suit.” The vicar was right—it had been over a month since he’d taken a half-day to himself. Mr. Heeley was getting on in years and Magnus tended to pick up the duties that involved traveling to the various parishioner households. That kept him busy and this recent trouble with Mrs. Tisdale had just added to his schedule. Still, he enjoyed being with parishioners more than he did studying theology or attending to the managerial aspects of the parish. That was where he and Reverend Heeley diverged—which made them a good team.
Thoughts of Mrs. Tisdale just led to thoughts of Miss Griffin.
He’d not seen her since walking her home after what the villagers were calling the Odysseus Affair two days earlier.
No, he’d not seen her, but he’d certainly thought of her enough. And the things he’d thought. Magnus tried to hold back the vivid images, but he couldn’t. You would think he’d watched her dance the Seven Veils rather than mend his wretched waistcoat. But the prosaic action had somehow been both domestic and wildly exotic.
“You idiot,” he chided.
Perhaps a good hard ride would tire both body and mind and he could get some sleep tonight.
∞∞∞
Melissa groaned with pleasure as she lowered her hot, sore feet into the freezing water. Joss had been right—yet again: There was nothing like taking off your shoes and stockings on a scorching day and dipping your toes in the water.
She lay back on the sun-warmed boulder and closed her eyes. She had the fair-skin of a redhead—although mercifully without the freckles—and would burn terribly if she remained uncovered for too long. But just for a moment she wanted to enjoy the sun.
Her morning walk from the manor to Mrs. Tisdale’s had been more tiring than she’d expected. The day was heavy and humid and it felt like the white puffy clouds that floated overhead wanted to rain.
She’d wanted to rest for an hour before resum
ing her journey home but—after enduring five minutes of abuse from Mrs. Tisdale, who’d been in a mood, as Sarah called it—Mel had slapped her hat on her head and left a grinning Sarah to deal with the discontented old woman.
She’d felt remarkably like poor Dori must have felt that day; she was too irritable to go home, where she would most likely snap at Daisy—provided Daisy wasn’t off in a hayloft with her new beau.
So, instead, she’d marched toward the path Mr. Stanwyck had told her about several days earlier. She recalled, too late, that he’d warned her it was not the nearest beach, but it was the most private.
It had been even farther than she’d thought and she’d been about to turn back when the scraggly trees gave way to seagrass.
And suddenly there it was—an endless, breathtaking expanse of water.
She’d chosen her spot not far from the sheer cliff face, a collection of big round boulders that were partially shaded by the steep rock wall behind them.
Even five minutes of blazing sun was too much and Mel felt her face beginning to redden. She propped herself up on her elbows before tying on her hat and then backing toward the shaded part of the rock.
Before her, the beach stretched out in a long, gentle curve, the water lapping a shoreline that was made of tiny pebbles rather than the sand she’d been expecting. Not that she’d ever been to a beach, but everyone knew there should be sand.
Stunted trees grew on bluffs that mirrored the curve of the shoreline and her only other company was noisy shorebirds that appeared to live in the cliffs and run back and forth with the action of the waves.
Mel had never believed she’d enjoy solitude as much as she did. Growing up in London—especially the cramped, filthy warren in St. Giles where her mother had settled and eventually died—didn’t give a person much opportunity to be alone.
As she gazed toward the endless horizon, she knew coming to New Bickford had been the right thing to do. When the expensive Harley Street doctor had come to see her last year and told her she would die if she didn’t take care of herself, she’d needed to consider his words seriously. Did she want to die?
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 9