“In the Capitol. Court’s still in session.”
Rachel moved downstairs restlessly, arriving in the small courtyard out back. Jennie’s flowers bloomed there—she’d pointed them all out to Rachel: larkspur and cornflower, Sweet William and primrose, rhododendron and gillyflower, something Rachel had always known as a carnation. The garden held a delicate womanly fragrance. It was Jennie’s pride and joy.
She thought of Grey. He loved her, and it gave her a joy she’d never imagined. And yet, how could they find lasting happiness? She’d arrived at a sobering conclusion; for as long as she was in his time, she would love him—no matter what became of his marriage.
Can there be happiness indeed, without honor?
Grey’s question returned to haunt her.
Thomas came home for dinner at two, and Rachel marveled at the love he held for his dainty young wife. He laughed over her feeblest joke, he guarded her every step, he watched her with a quiet, discreet yearning. An unfillable hollow settled in the midst of Rachel’s chest as she thought of Grey, the man she loved more than life itself.
A peculiar guilt stung her. If he was married, at least she knew it. He had pledged his love to her and demanded as much of her; how, then, could she continue to deceive him about her past? Didn’t he deserve to know the truth—that her time here was short? But what if …
Oh, it was tempting and intoxicating, that hope. What if she were allowed to live out her life here, with Grey? Camisha’s last letter had held the subtle message that she meant to spend the rest of her life with Ashanti Adams. Could either Camisha or she herself abide in this time, where men and women were treated as chattel?
They moved into the drawing room after dinner, and Emily left to fetch her sewing. Thomas watched her, smiling. “Rachel, I’ve never thanked you for bringing Emily into my life. And Grey.”
“I’m sorry about Grey, sir. He’s still very cautious.”
“If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll restore what I can of what I foolishly took from him. And me.” He sighed, then went on, hesitantly. “I was quite literally a boy when I married Grey’s mother. Lucy was little more than a child, and we eloped to Gretna Green. I truly didn’t believe the marriage was a legal one, but Lord Windmere disowned her nevertheless. I thought that if I deserted her, Windmere would take her back in, but … it escaped me what a prideful young girl Lucy was. She said she would rather die than beg her father’s forgiveness. Or forgive him.” He frowned into his tea. “Grey is quite like her in many ways.”
Several moments of silence passed before he went on. “Since Grey appeared on my doorstep seven years ago, it’s baffled me why he chose Williamsburg to settle in, or how he even had the means to arrange such an expensive passage.”
“Don’t you know?” she asked, amazed. “He worked on merchant ships. He was forced into service with the Navy, and spent years at sea without ever approaching Virginia.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone do such a foolish—?”
“He was only a boy,” Rachel put in. “And he had made a promise to his mother on her deathbed.”
Fierce protectiveness for Grey melded with understanding. Despite the bitter lessons he should’ve learned, Thomas was annoyingly sure of himself.
“Grey started trying to get to Williamsburg when his mother died. When he was sixteen years old. By the time he made it here, he’d worked on merchant ships, on ships of the Royal Navy, and on slavers, where he learned his gruesome trade. He did all that—for eight years—with one goal in mind, Mr. Trelawney.” Rachel met his eyes with grim seriousness. “To find you.”
His face was ashen as he abruptly rose and left the room. A stilted silence passed as the women exchanged a glance, before Jennie followed her husband. As she heard their muffled exchange in the next room, the terrible sounds of his grief, she realized she’d wounded him with a truth he’d never suspected.
Emily started to rise, and she stopped her. “What’s wrong with grandfather?” she asked, woebegone.
She patted the child’s hand. “He’s all right, darling. He’s just missing your father.”
“I miss him, too!”
Tears pooled in Emily’s eyes with the emotion of it all, and Rachel quickly gathered her up in her arms. “Papa will be home very soon, and in the meantime let’s cheer up Grandfather, shall we?”
When Thomas and Jennie rejoined them, his face bore the evidence of weeping. “Were I deserted by my father at birth, I’d never have crossed the street to see him. My son crossed many oceans to do so. And I dismissed him with no more courtesy than I would a stranger. No wonder he despises me.”
“He doesn’t, sir. He’s simply made such a habit of bitterness that it’s hard to break.”
“I’ll change that. Somehow.” Then he tilted his head in realization. “But what a fine man that young lady Lucy Harrington raised! How grave to him, the matter of honoring his vow to his mother.”
The thought gave her pause, and she remembered him on the last morning she’d seen him. Does my word mean nothing?
That question would return to trouble Rachel in the days to come.
The next afternoon, she and Emily knelt in the front yard, planting a rose bush beside the steps. Emily sat back and lifted her hand theatrically, gazing toward the setting sun. Suddenly, she squealed with delight and without explanation sprang to her feet, hurrying down the stone walk.
Rachel saw Grey, striding along the lane to meet his daughter. He caught her in his arms, swinging her around and hugging her close. Something twisted within her; she’d never thought to love a man or a child as she loved them.
His eyes locked with hers as he perched Emily on one hip and entered the gate. She rose, rubbing her hands against her apron.
“Hello.” He looked weary, and his clothes held the dust of a long journey. His eyes roved over her with leisured appreciation, but when he met her eyes, her heart lurched. She couldn’t quite define what she saw, but it was disturbing and strange. It was gone as quickly as she noticed it, as if she’d imagined it. But her instinct told her that deception had flashed through his eyes.
“Papa, Jennie took me to the dressmaker’s yesterday and ordered a gown for me. And it’s in your favorite color!”
“Oh?” he remarked, setting Emily on the ground. “How is Jennie?” His uncharacteristic concern startled her.
“Fine,” Emily said. “And where have you been?”
He chuckled at her scolding. “Ah—Richmond, dear.”
“Richmond? Whatever for?”
“Nothing that would interest you, dear. No frocks, nor ponies, nor flowers. But I do have a surprise for you.”
“Oh!”
He smiled, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a small velvet pouch. He knelt beside Emily and held in his palm two small heart-shaped objects, and she gasped.
“They’re for your locket.”
“But who is it, Papa? I didn’t get to choose the two people I love best! I don’t know this one.”
“They’re the two people I love best,” he explained.
Emily chortled with delight, patting his face coquettishly. “Oh, Papa.”
“Yes, poppet, of course this one is you,” he began, sliding one portrait into place in the locket. Then he secured the second. “And this is the young lady who, I decided in Richmond, I’m going to ask to be your mother.”
Rachel’s contented joy vanished. What fresh hell was this?
“Look, Rachel!” Emily held out her hand, where the open locket lay. “I’m getting a new mommy—and she’s little, like me!”
Cautiously, she inspected the open locket in Emily’s small palm. One of Emily, and one of—
The artist had offered a colonial rendering, but the face there was unmistakable, complete with a faint crescent scar.
He gave her a hesitant smile. “I—er, borrowed your newspaper. And read the entire thing. Face to back, advertisements and all. ’Tis a curious place, where you were born.”
&
nbsp; Emily crowed with joy. “Why it’s you, it’s you! Do you mean it, Papa? Is Rachel going to be my new mother?”
“If she’ll have me,” he said quietly. “And if the fates smile on us.”
Her eyes met his in sudden realization. He’d read the newspaper; he’d seen the dates there. He knew.
Chapter Thirty
Rachel watched from the bedroom door as Grey knelt beside his daughter.
“Why do I have to go to bed?” Emily asked. “It isn’t even candlelight.”
“Candlelight?” He smiled, raking his fingers through her blonde curls. “Where did you learn that from, as if I didn’t know?”
“Sukey,” she said. “Camisha says she’s my girlfriend.”
Rachel laughed.
“I’m having a wonderful time with Grandfather,” Emily went on. She suddenly grew somber. “He says he loves you, Papa. He cried when he knew he hurt you.”
She watched the scene in silent hope. Perhaps, where she had failed, his daughter could succeed.
“Oh?” he asked.
“Why can’t we all just live here? I’ll have a new little aunt or uncle soon, and I could play with them all the time.”
He smiled, shaking his head at her absurdly logical reasoning. “Emily, I don’t know how I ever got by without you these past few days.”
She giggled suddenly, placing her small hand against his face. “Why, Papa, you’re flattering me.”
His laughter was soft and deep, and he brushed his lips against her forehead. “That’s what papas are for.”
They left the room, and he closed the door behind him. “Will you walk with me?”
She heard the earnestness in his tone, and she nodded. “What’s wrong?”
After a long moment, he shook his head. “Nothing. I need to be with you.”
They left the house, walking away from Williamsburg, a path unfamiliar to her. A pair of mourning doves cooed in the dusk. She watched him as they walked down the lane. He frowned, staring at the dust beneath their feet.
“What’s the matter? You seem different.”
He turned to her, and she felt the discouragement in him. He held out his hand, and she placed hers there. He drew her against him, and he hugged her close. “I missed you.”
His hand closed around hers as he led her into the woods. She followed, ducking her head and growing increasingly charmed by the mystical woodland noises that encompassed her. The vespers of songbirds, the rustle of water nearby. At last they emerged into a clearing, and she smiled.
A rushing creek cut a swath through the woods. To their right, a small waterfall, perhaps twenty feet high, fed into a pool so clear she could see the smooth stones at the bottom.
“It’s lovely.” She was once more struck by the difference nearly three centuries could make to the land. The stream’s clarity was unspoiled, the air so sweet and crisp it was almost painful to breathe it.
“It’s fed by the James.”
She remembered Camisha’s joking words that very first day, about the smells of the eighteenth century. Peculiar, how little she’d noticed those smells. They were undeniable, when she stood near someone who bathed once a week rather than once or twice a day, but in the end they were no more distracting than the hideous aromas unique to her time. Bus exhaust, polluting industrial plants, all the array of chemical cleaners available in the twenty-first century? She couldn’t imagine explaining those smells to Grey—or Byrd, the man she so enjoyed debating. Perhaps those of this time might view her time as unfavorably as she had once viewed theirs. And it occurred to her, at last, that perhaps each time should be judged on its own merit, without millions of second-guessers condemning people who, at worst, were simply trying to live their lives.
Removing his coat, he spread it on the bank. He loosened his pocket watch and lay it alongside his coat. The waistcoat followed, then the boots. He watched her as he unloosened his tie and removed it, then began releasing buttons.
She stared silently, her face growing warm with awareness of their intimacy, his comfort in watching her view his undressing.
“What are you, uh, doing there?” she asked, folding her hands behind her back.
“I told you. I’m having a bath.” He pulled his shirt over his head, kicked off his breeches, then almost smiled at her discomfiture. “Will you join me?”
The undeniable intimacy of his invitation surged through her. With a flick of his wrist, he removed the ribbon from his hair then entered the water and gave a soft groan of utter exhaustion. Floating lazily, he opened one eye and peered at her. She sank onto his coat, bending her legs and bracing one elbow on her knee. She rested her chin in her palm, wishing there were a full moon out tonight. Wishing she could watch him so, in the light of day.
“A twilight swim would do you a world of good.”
Cheered by the lifting of his weary gloom, she toyed with his pocket watch. He swam a stroke or two, then he stood, and water sluiced over his shoulders and down. She saw the glistening strength of him in the dusky shadows; the water rose as high as the dark hair that arrowed down from his navel. He walked to the bank, holding out his hand. “Will you join me? ’Tis shallow.”
She hesitated, glancing at the waterfall’s powerful beauty. The steady, unobtrusive tick of the watch in her hands sounded faintly above the waterfall, sobering her. She set it aside and rose silently in the twilight.
She loosened the hooks of her dress easily and let the simple frock fall, aware of his gaze on her. When she stood naked on the creek bank, he once more held out his hand, and she moved into the water and into his arms. She felt the steady rhythm of his heart along with the rushing waters nearby, and she turned her face into his embrace, memorizing the feel of him, the gentleness of him.
“I’ve missed the aroma of you. Lavender tonight, is it?” His palm skimmed over her hair, removing the pins and tossing them vaguely toward their clothes. Her hair fell around her shoulders, sliding against his chest, and he rubbed his cheek against her hair. “I can’t abide another night apart from you.”
She stroked the supple hardness of his shoulders, the lithe strength of his waist. “Your father would welcome you.”
Humor glimmered in his eyes. “So you would have me live there as well, with my new little brother or sister?”
She chuckled softly. Major progress! He was at least laughing at his own grudge.
Sobering, he led her across the rippling water. The energy of the waterfall pervaded her as they reached the other side of the clear, surging creek. An assortment of boulders lay beneath the water. The patient, relentless currents of many ages had smoothed the largest boulder to a surface as glassy as marble.
He lowered himself there and leaned back, resting against another flat rock as he pulled her closer. “Sit here.”
She hesitated, enjoying his pose. Long, powerful thighs were parted, with one leg bent, leaving an intimate hollow where she would just fit. Her eyes clashed with his, but she saw only steadfast patience there.
“It’s a peaceful way to pass a lovely evening, darling. We can watch the stars together.”
She gripped his hand, gliding into his arms, facing away from him. She heard his soft sound of contentment as his arms encircled her—one over her waist, one just under her throat at her collarbone. Rachel lay her head within the space beneath his chin, and he moved his palm against her shoulder. “There now. This isn’t so bad, is it?”
His warm breath stirred the hair at her temple, and a cool, lazy current of water swirled around their feet. The aroma of him mixed with the bracing scent of the woods, the wild song of a nightbird rose over the water, and the moonless night enfolded them in a uniquely intimate solitude.
“No.” Smiling, she rubbed her cheek against the reassuring warmth of him. “It isn’t at all what I’d call bad.”
He held her with quiet gentleness, stroking her, his hand gliding in a leisurely path. As his palm rested above the swell of her breast, he paused. “I enjoy the sight of yo
u, Rachel. I can’t wait to make love to you on a sunny afternoon.”
A tremor went over her at his low murmur against her neck; his voice held a low huskiness as if he were confessing unspeakably carnal thoughts. She noticed the anxious tightening of her nipples, anticipating his touch. “And the sight of me touching you.”
Her hand rested over his, boldly drawing it down. The darkness of his hands lent an erotic contrast as they cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples as his mouth opened over her shoulder. A soft whisper escaped him, and she laughed breathlessly.
“You laugh?”
“You never speak French unless you’re making love to me. And I do so love the sound of you speaking French.”
He laughed.
“What did you say—just then?”
He inhaled thoughtfully, his fingertips fondling the rose crests, and his breath was warm against her ear, “Something that doesn’t translate, I’m afraid.”
“At all?”
“Well,” he said, his voice low and soft. His words were teasingly light as he nipped her ear, as his hands closed over her breasts, “dubiously translated from a language of lovers into a language of conquerors, it would mean that this poor mortal wretch holds dreams too bold to find the light of day.”
Turning her head slightly, she leaned back, feeling his breath soft and hot against her mouth. “Such as?”
She saw yearning glitter in the fathomless gray, and she lifted her mouth, imploring him for his own mouth on hers.
His gaze dropped to her parted lips, and he ignored her plea, as if savoring the sight of her. “Dreams of awakening within you,” he murmured. “Dreams of plucking these luscious fruits from your gown at our supper table, and giving you pleasure there. That is an especially frequent dream in this wicked heart, since we do share a dining table. But most of all, dreams of growing old with you ever at my side, my true and only friend.”
His poignant confession moved her, and his lips brushed her forehead. He gently turned her so that she sat across one strong, hard thigh, and he tilted her face up.
Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1) Page 25