Chasing the Heiress

by Rachael Miles

  “Oh, no, if I am giving you my words, you must give me yours.” He increased the pressure slightly on her flesh, pushing his finger farther into the heat of her body. “Is that a yes? Or a no?”

  “Yes” she breathed between strokes. “Please, yes.”

  “Let’s see: we’ve done before, behind, between. Ah, yes next is above.” He removed his hand and fingers, and she cried out in frustration. He moved from his position between her knees and stretched out over her body, giving her the satisfaction of his weight settling against her breasts, belly, and thighs. “For below, there is just one possibility, my sweet. He pressed his erect sex against her entrance. “Do you wish me to complete the poem?”

  She opened her eyes and gazed directly into his. “Yes, now.”

  And he obliged her, first slowly, then more insistently, until they both found the poem’s completion together.

  “I’ve never liked poetry as much as I have this morning,” she said afterward.

  “I will have to recite it again for you, if you wish.

  “I wish.”

  Sometime later, she turned toward him, her face intent.

  “What? So serious. I would have thought I’d loved every serious thought from your head.”

  “How long do you think we will remain here?”

  He grew suddenly alert. “Why, my angel?”

  “Because I was wondering how many more poems you could recite to me before we have to move on.”

  He smiled, once more reminding himself that she was not a threat. “As many as you wish.... I could recite poetry to you ten times a day if you wish.”

  “Really? You know that many poems?”

  “If I don’t already know them, we can discover new ones. Or we can repeat your favorites as you wish.”

  “I would like that.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Porter says that the market is an easy hour, and the road well marked once you get off these lands.” Fletcher checked the leads from the porter’s horse to his seat. “A big market—for hereabouts anyway—should be easy to lose ourselves in the crowds. How much should we buy?”

  “At least enough to get us to another market day. Having no news from Aidan, we should settle in.”

  Fletcher lifted his chin toward the house, where Jennie stood with William in her arms, in close conversation with Bobby. “Become right friends, those two. Like sister and brother. But at least ’e’s the one sleeping on that hard cot in the priest hole, and not me. Last night I overheard her telling him how to tell if a girl has a tendre for you.”

  “What did Bobby say?” Colin lifted an empty basket into the wagon bed behind Fletcher’s seat.

  “He told her how to catch frogs in running water.”

  Colin laughed. “I thought he was yet a bit young for girls.”

  Fletcher shrugged. “He’s still horse mad, but that will change. A year, two, and he’ll be grateful for her advice. She’s a smart one. If Prinny lets her stay with William, it will change her prospects.”

  “William will need a nurse for some time yet, so it should not be difficult finding Jennie a place in the royal household.” Colin thought of the document given to him by Prinny. “I will ensure that it happens.”

  “Do you want anything from the market? I have requests from both Miss Lucy and Jennie.”

  Bobby ran to Aidan’s side. “Jennie would like to come with us, sir. She needs more yarn, and Lucy has agreed to look after William.”

  “You can’t choose the yarn for her?”

  “I suppose I could, sir.” Bobby sent a downcast look toward Jennie.

  “It might be best if the gel were to come. She and Bobby could fill our baskets at the market, and I could listen at the tavern for any news. With the gap in their ages and the bossing way she treats him, they will appear to be brother and sister.”

  Bobby, not waiting for Aidan’s agreement, waved to Jennie, and she rushed to the wagon, William in her arms.

  “Oh, thank you, sir. I couldn’t stand the thought of being in the priest hole all day without Bobby to entertain me. William should sleep for most the time we’re gone. He’s just been fed and changed.” She watched as Fletcher and Bobby took their seats in the wagon, then, without warning, thrust William in Colin’s hands. “You’ll find him an easy baby.”

  Colin saw the amused glances pass between Fletcher and Bobby as he held the babe out from his body and stared at Jennie’s retreating form. As soon as Jennie had hopped into the back, Fletcher pulled out of the yard, leaving Colin holding a baby, feet dangling, before him.

  William began to squirm restively. And by the time Colin arrived in the kitchen to give Lucy his charge, William was fully awake. And angry.

  Lucy, however, had her hands in flour, rolling out dough for a pie. “I can’t take him now. You will have to hold him until I have this in the oven.”

  The baby wailed. His cries were ear piercing.

  “Can I finish the pie for you, instead?”

  “If you take too long, we’ll miss the proper temperature for a pie, and then we won’t have anything but bitter apples to eat until the others return from market. So, no. Have you never held a babe before?”

  “I had younger brothers.”

  “Did you make them cry as well?”

  “No more than they made me.” Colin shifted the baby in his hands. “And I’m not making him cry.”

  “Was he crying when Jennie gave him to you?” Lucy rolled her eyes. “I meant when they were infants. How old were you when your youngest brother was born?”

  Colin grew quiet, trying to remember. “Six or seven. But I had almost nothing to do with either Clive or Charles. Their mother died in childbirth, and from then on, we had nannies and governesses. My father was unwilling to lose another wife when, I suspect, he didn’t like the trouble of wives much anyway.” William’s cries grew more insistent.

  “So you have never had occasion to soothe an infant?” she asked. “Stop holding him like he’s a dirty puppy you are trying to give a servant. Pull him back into your chest. Let him hear your heart. And give him a little bounce. You’ve seen Jennie do it. Mimic.” She pushed back a wayward curl with her lower arm, brushing flour across her forehead in the process.

  He followed her instructions, and the babe quieted—but only for a moment. “How do you have experience with babes if you grew up in the camps?”

  “I am beginning to wonder what war you fought in. Pace evenly while you bounce him.” Her gaze grew distant, as she rolled out the dough. “I was eighteen when Wellington retreated behind the Lines at Torres Vedras, bringing with us the Portuguese who did not retreat into the hills. Two hundred thousand Portuguese. My mother died that year, offering aid to the sick among the refugees. It was so cold. My father had intended to leave us in Lisbon, but after her death, we two did not wish to be apart.”

  “Not even the British government knew Wellington had built the Lines. One of the men I served under said it was the most efficient use of funds in the whole war.” It took a little practice: bouncing, walking, holding the baby to his heart. The babe’s cries were less frequent, though no less angry.

  “Well, that’s somewhat better. But he knows you don’t like holding him,” Lucy assessed, as she transferred the dough to a pie plate.

  “How can he know that?”

  “Oh, he knows. Think of something else, of something that isn’t a screaming infant.” Lucy patted the dough into place. “So if you were not with the army at Lisbon, where were you?”

  “Everywhere and nowhere . . . until shortly before Waterloo, when I returned to my troops.”

  “Ah, I understand. Like now, your obligations were not always on the field.”

  “Correct.” Since the boy seemed to like bouncing, he bounced William a little higher, but that had the opposite effect of what he’d intended. The baby renewed his screams.

  Lucy shook her head. “And you had to respond flexibly to whatever circumstances you encountered?”
<
br />   “Yes.”

  “And were you good at your job?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “What skills did it require?”

  “Creativity, resourcefulness, persistence.”

  “Ah, good. Then find a way to keep him from crying.”

  “How?

  “Be creative, resourceful, and persistent. I’m sure you will think of something. But if you can’t soothe him, you’ll need to take him to scream somewhere else until I’m finished here. His cries echo too loudly off the stone floor and walls. At least take him over to the garden door. Perhaps the air will please him.”

  He opened the door to the kitchen garden and let the baby feel the fresh air on his face. But the baby only renewed his screams. “He doesn’t like fresh air.”

  “Try shifting your weight from side to side.” Lucy quickly and efficiently pared the skins from a pile of late apples.

  “Bounce, heart, pace, air, shift weight,” he mocked. “I can lead troops into battle, negotiate for supplies with local farmers, carry messages that, if intercepted, could get me killed, but I can’t escort a single pregnant woman safely to London or soothe a screaming baby.” By the end, his words were solemn. “Perhaps he hates me because his mother is dead.”

  “Perhaps you are holding him against a pin,” Lucy suggested practically. “And from his birth, the only mother he has known is Jennie.”

  Shifting his weight from side to side made the wound in his side ache, but he wouldn’t tell her, wouldn’t admit that he couldn’t solve the problem of one small screaming baby. To ease the pressure on his side, he shifted his hand to cradle the baby’s head and turn the baby on his belly. In response, William splayed his tiny limbs out across Colin’s lower arm. In the new position—his body fitting between the bend of Colin’s elbow and his palm—William stopped screaming.

  Colin moved just his lower arm from the elbow, in and out, giving the movement a little bounce. The boy cooed and wriggled.

  “That’s good.” Lucy turned toward him, surprised. “How did you figure that out?

  “It’s how I would actually hold a dirty puppy.”

  The laughter from the opposite side of the kitchen, at their backs, caught them both off guard. Lucy grabbed the paring knife beside her bowl of peeled fruit. Colin angled his back to the wall, a defensive posture, but one undercut by the presence of William, who was now sleeping in his arms.

  “I called your name several times, but the baby has strong lungs. At the same time, I wouldn’t have missed the sight of you so . . . domesticated. Need some help with that little one, brother?”

  The man in the doorway was strikingly beautiful, resembling the duke more than Colin, but somehow too pretty, too perfect in his features. Lucy looked to Colin, who crossed the room and hugged his brother with one arm. Somehow only Colin made her ache with longing.

  “No, I think I’ve sorted it out now. He merely wants to see where my feet are going.” Colin turned to make introductions. “Lucy, my younger brother Edmund. He’s a rake and a gambler, so beware his charms. Edmund, my fiancée, Lucy.”

  Lucy shook her head. “I assume if you are here, then you know about the pretense of our engagement . . . Edmund, if I may?”

  “Of course, sweet lady, you may.” He offered a deep bow, then walked to the harvest table and began picking out choice pieces of fruit to eat. “And if you are not in truth engaged to my brother, we might wish to know one another better.”

  Lucy shook her head, amused, and batted his hand away from the apples, but Colin scowled.

  “Why are you here, Edmund?”

  Edmund raked the hand not holding a piece of fruit through his thick black hair. “His Grace sent me. Apparently Seth has been trying to find this place for two days, but has been thwarted by its seclusion. Since I already knew how to get here, I was an obvious courier.”

  Lucy pinched the edges of the upper crust to seal its edges, and Edmund rounded the table to open the heavy oven door built into the stone fireplace.

  Colin tilted his head. “We will discuss later how you already knew about this place. For now, should I assume it is safe to move?”

  “The roads to your next stop have been well-guarded with Aidan’s band of former soldiers for more than three days. You should have no troubles. In fact, if you leave in the hour, you could arrive before evening. Your letter announcing your arrival is already in the appropriate hands.”

  “We cannot leave today: Fletcher, Bobby, and the baby’s nurse have all gone to market.”

  “I encountered them on the road here. Fletcher needs only a wide space in the road to turn around. They should be here shortly.” Edmund turned to Lucy. “If the pie is not yet baked by the time you depart, I will stay and take it out of the oven for you.”

  “I’m sure that will be a great condescension on your part.”

  “Ah, yes, and if the pie needs to be eaten, I will bear that burden as well.”

  “I will gather my things.” Lucy washed and dried her hands. “I’m sure you have plans to discuss.”

  “Don’t you wish to take William with you?”

  “No, he seems to be quite happy with you.” She looked directly into Colin’s eyes “If you have need of me, I will be in my room.”

  * * *

  Lucy packed her few belongings in her bag. The last few days had been sweet, an idyll in which she had grown to trust Colin, grown to enjoy his humor, his seriousness, and his caresses.

  It would be harder to leave him now. It was already hard enough not to tell him her troubles. But he had troubles of his own. Perhaps when his obligation to William was done, perhaps then she might see what was possible between them. For now, however, she had her promise to her aunt, he had his to the child. To this point, being together benefited them both, but soon, they would have no reason to remain together. And then she would have to decide.

  She wished she could confide fully in Colin, but every time she had thought to raise the question, some obstacle had interfered: the arrival of his brothers at the tavern, the presence of Jennie in the carriage, the threat of the poachers, and now the arrival of his brother Edmund.

  And she’d come to believe that the interruptions might have been for good reason. Colin was a man of complications. He was gentle and kind with her, but he was also clearly a good officer and ruthless in dealing with threats, given the way that he managed protecting William and the fact that he had thought nothing of engaging the poachers alone.

  The hardness in him didn’t surprise her. He’d told her that he’d killed. What man who was still alive after the battle of Waterloo hadn’t?

  But there was something more to his face when he confided in her. Something that made her wish she could bring back the laughing man she’d nursed.

  * * *

  In the carriage, Colin had ample time to consider his next steps. They would not arrive at Hartshorn Hall until sometime after nine, but in the summer months, the sun would not have yet set. Much later than that and it would be dark and too dangerous to travel, at least with his cargo.

  Aidan had sent his note ahead to Em. Even if Sam were unaware of his message’s meaning, Em would understand. Em always understood.

  His heart clutched. He’d refused to consider Em a complication to his plan, even when Aidan had brought it up. But how long had it been since he’d seen her last? Two? Three months? But she would be there. She was always there. She’d been his best friend from almost their first meeting.

  And then there was Lucy. He looked across the carriage at her, her face calm in sleep. She had found a way past almost all his defenses with her gentle eyes and kind heart. That made her dangerous. Until the end of this mission, at least, he would have to be more cautious. Then he would confess all and hope that, when she knew what he had done, she wouldn’t walk away.

  But could he really confess all when the truth was something he couldn’t admit even to himself, except in those hours before dawn when he woke sweating to the phan
tom smell of Octavia’s perfume? It didn’t matter that his orders had been clear. He had loved Octavia and he had killed her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lady Emmeline Hartley held Colin’s letter before her, decoding it onto a sheet of scrap paper to her left. She’d known from the cover that she should read it slant: Colin had written her address in his second hand.

  In childhood, both she and Colin had developed multiple writing hands, a neat copperplate for general correspondence, and two others, one a household italic, and the other, a completely different copperplate hand. They used the second copperplate only with each other, and only in conjunction with a code they had developed long ago.

  She’d known for years of his work for the war office and later for the home department. When he’d returned from the wars, she’d demanded all of his stories, and he’d spared her none of them. He’d told the stories so readily that at first she’d thought him to have come through the wars unscathed. Until Brussels. After that, his demeanor had changed: her loyal, kind, old friend had become reclusive and diffident. He’d shown up unannounced, not merely sad, but haunted, and she knew he’d done something terrible. But each time she’d asked, he’d turned away, his face a grim mask.

  She’d intended on his next visit to offer her own secrets in exchange for his, secrets he might very well find unacceptable in other women, but which he would forgive in her. Yet even as certain as she was of his forgiveness, she’d held back: she hated to sacrifice even a small portion of his good regard. Colin had been her only true friend for her whole life.

  Decoded, Colin’s message spoke of refuge, secrets, and something more significant: a woman named Lucy he asked her to welcome.

  His arrival and stay needed to remain a closely guarded secret. There would be little trouble there. She kept a small staff at Hartshorn Hall even when her stepbrother Sam was in residence as now. And the servants were used to the house being used for private political meetings.

  The only problem could be Stella, who came and went as she pleased. Luckily, Stella had left disgruntled only that morning.

  Rooms for three, one in the nursery, and two sturdy footmen to guard a child.