Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02]

by My False Heart

  Elliot cleared his throat softly, and Evangeline recalled his question. “Many years,” she answered abruptly. “Since we came from Flanders.”

  “Why did you leave, Miss Stone, if I might ask? Did your father’s English background make it prudent to evade Napoleon’s boot heel?”

  Evangeline gave a brittle laugh. “In some small part, I suppose. But mostly we were just fleeing memories.”

  “Why did your parents decide—”

  “I decided, Mr. Roberts,” she interrupted. “My mother was dead, and God help us if I chose wrongly …”

  Elliot paused for a long moment. “I see,” he responded at last, his voice but a whisper in the dark.

  In the silence, Evangeline hesitated as the old pain and fear washed over her. “I did what I thought was best,” she added quietly, “but coming to England seemed a far wiser thing to do when my father was still alive.” Evangeline could sense the muscles of Elliot’s arm go taut as he pitched the cigar onto the path beneath their feet, then ground it hard beneath the heel of his boot.

  “You seem eminently wise to me, Miss Stone,” he replied. Evangeline shifted on the bench uncomfortably. Almost absently, it seemed, Elliot leaned into her, tenderly pulling her cloak more securely about her neck. “Evangeline?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you tell me what it is that troubles you?” He asked the question softly, his mouth so close that Evangeline could feel the warmth of his breath caress her cheek. She did not miss the significance of his use of her given name. Evangeline squeezed her eyes shut and froze. His was more than an offer of comfort; it was a subtle invitation as well. If she turned to face him now, her lips would almost certainly brush against his. A man’s strength and compassion would be so welcome, yet she dared not accept it. The wait was agonizing, but at last she sensed that Elliot had drawn back. Only then did she trust herself to turn on the bench to face him.

  In the shadows, she held his gaze, still yearning to lean into his powerful arms, into the warm male strength of him, but she could not. “Perhaps you would care to tell me the same,” she countered softly. “For example, what still-tender scar lies just beneath that most agreeable veneer of yours, Mr. Roberts? Was it the ending of your betrothal? Did you love her so very much?”

  Beside her, she felt Elliot go perfectly still. Mortified at her own words, Evangeline opened her mouth to apologize, but, to her surprise, he answered her question. “Yes,” he answered in a soft, distant voice. “I did. I suppose I loved her almost beyond reason. And if you do not mind, I should rather we did not discuss it.”

  “Forgive me,” she responded, disappointment knifing through her heart. “My question was inexcusable, but, despite the warmth of your smile, I sometimes see an abiding sadness in your eyes.” She sighed deeply. “I suspect that neither of us wants to reveal our inner demons tonight, so perhaps we should simply enjoy the evening.”

  “But of course,” he responded smoothly, leaning away almost imperceptibly.

  Evangeline drew a nervous breath and tried valiantly to lighten her tone. “Tell me of yourself, Mr. Roberts. What are your interests? What of your family?”

  She watched as unease and uncertainty flitted across his handsome face. In that moment, she was exceedingly glad that she had not surrendered to her desire to kiss him. There was an undeniable physical attraction between them, but his wounds were as raw as her fears were real. To set her lips to his would be the height of recklessness. Her feelings for Elliot Roberts were potent and disturbing, yet Evangeline knew herself so well. Were she ever foolish enough to touch this man, a consuming fire might well be lit inside her heart, and she would want far more from him than the mere friendship he had offered outside her bedchamber. She could so very easily love him, and yet it would have been an emotion destined for disappointment. An aching, unrequited love for a man who had loved and lost another. Such sentiments could only hurt her and interfere with her demanding responsibilities.

  In the darkness, Elliot slowly turned to face her. She had almost forgotten her question, but he apparently had not. “There is little to tell, Miss Stone. I lead an exceedingly dull life.”

  “That is a tale I cannot countenance,” she stated flatly. “And I have already noticed your faint Scottish burr.”

  Elliot’s brows went up in apparent surprise. “Such a great many questions, Miss Stone.”

  “Am I to have answers to accompany them, Mr. Roberts? After all, it was you who suggested we might be friends.”

  Elliot rose abruptly from the bench and drew her up beside him. Almost possessively, he curled her hand just above his elbow, then laid his long, slender fingers across hers. Slowly, they stepped back onto the path that circled the house. As they set off, Elliot gave an almost resigned sigh, then he began to speak softly. “I was raised in Scotland, Miss Stone, on an estate not far from Ayr. My mother, however, was very much English. When she was quite young, she wed my father, a dour Presbyterian who was much older than she, in an arranged marriage. I am an only child. That is all there is to tell.”

  Evangeline gave a gentle tug on his arm and glanced up into his shadowed eyes. “Oh, no. You shan’t get off with so little as that! Are your parents still living? What other family do you have?”

  “Family is exceedingly important to you, isn’t it, Miss Stone?” His tone was grave.

  “Yes. Will you answer my questions?”

  Elliot drew a slow, deep breath, as if debating what he should say. “My mother remains in Scotland. My father died when I was a young man.”

  “Oh,” she responded in a solemn whisper. “I am so sorry, Mr. Roberts. It must have been very sad.”

  “Yes, I suppose that it was, although we … we were not close.” He shrugged abruptly, then altered the subject. “Tell me, Miss Stone, how did your father die? You must miss him terribly.”

  Evangeline looked up at him, still very much aware of his long, strong fingers lying across hers. “My father died slowly, Mr. Roberts, from his heart outward,” she answered softly. “Oh, it was just a mild fever that finally carried him off, and the doctor said he could easily have recovered, had he but possessed the will to live … . How maudlin I must seem! Pray tell me of your father, Mr. Roberts. May I hope he lived to a ripe old age?”

  Elliot looked down at her sharply. “Aye, tough as an old boot, he was. Consumption had him in its grip, yet he fought it for over a year.”

  Evangeline sighed. “Were … were you much affected by his passing, Mr. Roberts?”

  Elliot’s voice was an uncharacteristic whisper in the darkness. “More than you can ever know, Miss Stone. It was, you see, the beginning of the end of my innocence.” Then, abruptly, he seemed to stiffen, and Evangeline felt his grip tighten incrementally. Yet when he spoke, his voice was stronger, as if he were willing away the past. “But he left sisters, so I have two rather eccentric spinster aunts who dote on me. And I have a maternal uncle who resides in town. As for the rest of my family, well, that is a long story, and I should prefer to speak of it another time and in greater detail, if that is acceptable?”

  His words, though gently spoken, left her with no alternative. She could hardly be rude enough to insist. Especially when he had not pressed his questions to her. “But of course,” she answered softly, returning the response he had given earlier.

  Elliot must have sensed her disquiet, for he tightened his grip on her hand and then tilted his head to look down at her. “I live the life of an English gentleman, Miss Stone. I belong to very fine clubs, which I rarely visit, and receive a great many invitations, which I summarily ignore. I have an ancient Scottish butler, a fine French chef, and a tempestuous, epicene valet to whom I am greatly attached—not in any unnatural way, I can assure you. But I am exceedingly fond of him nonetheless. My mischievous uncle resides in Richmond with me but is rarely home due to his extreme, er, popularity. I, on the other hand, no longer go about in what is inexplicably called polite society.”

  “Are you a recluse,
then, Mr. Roberts?” Her question sounded sharper than she had intended.

  “No.” The single word hung heavily in the air, yet he made no attempt to explain further. Instead, he pulled her to a stop on the path and turned to face her. “It was never my intent to sound reticent. Does my explanation ease your mind?” Even in the dark, she could see that the expression on his face was intense, almost anxious.

  “Yes.” Evangeline nodded, looking up at him from the shadows of the terrace. She took comfort in the fact that Elliot could sense her mood and had taken pains to soothe her curiosity. Slowly, his hand slid from hers, rising up to almost brush her cheek. This time, Evangeline was certain that he intended to lace his long fingers around the nape of her neck and kiss her, but at the last moment his hand stilled. Then, gracefully, he leaned close and gently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

  It was another sweet gesture. Evangeline felt awash in conflicting emotions; overwhelmed with relief and crushed by disappointment. Deliberately, she straightened her shoulders and pulled open the rear door. “We should go in now, Mr. Roberts. We must both be in the studio early in order to catch the best light.”

  “Yes,” he agreed quietly, still holding her gaze. He made no move to enter.

  “Very well, then,” she said with artificial brightness. “I shall see you early tomorrow.” Then, before she could do something foolish, Evangeline entered the rear hallway and started toward the back stairs. When she turned to mount the staircase, however, she saw Elliot in the corridor, bent low across the lamp, lighting another cheroot. The flame flared then danced inside the glass chamber, casting the harsh angles of his face into grim relief. Slowly, he rose, exhaled sharply, and spun on his heel to return to the terrace.

  It was well over an hour before Evangeline heard the echo of his soft tread ascending the main staircase and striding down the hall toward the narrow tower stairs. Only then did Morpheus take her, dragging her deep beneath the shadows and into fitful, troubled slumber.

  Pushing aside her disconcerting thoughts of Elliot Roberts, Evangeline drifted through the next two days with a serene ease. When she worked, her painting was inspired. When she spent time with her family, and consequently with Elliot, her laughter was lighthearted, her disposition cheerful. It was unavoidable. His presence made her happy.

  She saw a great deal of her handsome guest, who was forever smiling in that gentle, tolerant way that had so quickly become his—eyes glinting silver, the corners crinkling softly. Such days of bliss, Evangeline often thought, must soon end, but they would leave her with wonderful memories.

  She and Elliot spent the second morning as they had the first, sequestered in the studio. In truth, another few days could easily see the completion of Elliot’s portrait. Yet he seemed in no rush and asked no questions; therefore, Evangeline found it easy to dawdle. Just as she dropped the last brush into its jar, Michael and Theo dashed in unannounced, in hopes of persuading Elliot to ride with them. Gus, eager to put a newly purchased gelding through its paces, had proposed a ramble through the Epping Forest and back across the southern edge of Chatham’s modest estate.

  Elliot laughed at their unbridled enthusiasm. “Do you mind, Miss Stone?” he asked, turning his gaze upon her as she carried her materials back to the big worktable.

  “Not at all.” Evangeline smiled. “I rather wish I might join you.”

  “Nothing would better please me,” he responded quietly.

  Evangeline sighed and tossed a glance at the messy table. “I cannot. The four of you must go, and have enough fun for five. The day is so warm, almost hot, in fact. You shall enjoy it.”

  An hour later, the mess tidied, Evangeline regretted her diligence. Elliot’s departure left a dark, silent void in house. She missed his presence far more than she wished to admit. Winnie and Frederica had gone for a walk. Nicolette was engaged with Stokely in a history lesson. Impulsively, Evangeline grabbed her bonnet and exchanged her kid slippers for sturdy half-boots.

  The day was brilliant, and in no time at all she could catch up with Winnie along the river path. Evangeline set off in fine spirits, but halfway to the Lea she was drawn to the bridle path which cut south toward the tenant farms. Perhaps if she walked in that direction, she would meet Elliot returning with the boys. Impetuously, Evangeline turned from the walking path and onto the rougher trail which cut through the wood and into the vast, rolling meadows of the estate.

  After half a mile, the wood ended near the point at which a cool brook snaked out of the forest from the east. Though she rarely came this way, Evangeline remembered that a few yards farther on, the stream fed into Chatham’s great farm pond before continuing its journey to the River Lea. Grateful for her boots, Evangeline stuck to the path, looking for the tall willows that marked the far edge of the water. Slowly, the trees of the forest thinned, the last stand of beech not a stone’s throw from the farm pond. Beyond them lay a low tangle of hawthorn.

  Unexpectedly, laughter and shouting rent the hot summer air. Peering through the thicket, Evangeline could see that four horses had been tethered beside the willows across the water. In the soft grass that edged the pond lay a telltale heap of clothing and a jumbled pile of boots. The juvenile whooping and cheering grew louder still, and, leaning forward hesitantly to part the branches, Evangeline saw the four bare-chested males cavorting like schoolboys. Amid the turbulent splashing and dunking, it was impossible to identify anyone, until at last she saw Elliot leap up to plunge deep beneath the surface in an obvious attempt to escape the skirmish.

  Lud, not one of them was wearing a stitch!

  She should leave. She knew she should, but the temptation was overpowering. Had she not helped to bathe and diaper Theo and Michael when they were babes? And she had seen Gus half-naked on a dozen different occasions. Indeed, Evangeline further rationalized, she was an artist, trained to see artistic beauty in the human form. There could be no harm in looking, and no one would be the wiser.

  Suddenly, Elliot surfaced in an erupting splash at the near edge of the pond. He stood, laughing goodnaturedly, in water that was not quite waist-deep. Evangeline’s gaze was riveted. Never in her life had she seen such a stunning man, and certainly not in such a state of undress. The power and beauty of his lean, muscled form would have made Donatello seize his chisel and pray for divine guidance.

  It made Evangeline simply stop breathing.

  The surface of the water lapped teasingly just below the taut muscles of Elliot’s lower back. He was so close now, Evangeline could see the rivulets of water glisten as they ran down to hint at the slight curve of his buttocks. Awestruck, she watched as Elliot turned to almost face the copse of beech and hawthorn. He paused and, with an almost agonizing indolence, lifted his hands to wipe the water from his face, then raked his long fingers back through the unruly mass of too-long hair. The water skimmed low across his pelvis, accentuating the flat plane of his stomach and the dark line of damp, curling hair that ran from his chest and down his belly to disappear beneath the surface. To watch him was slow torture of the sweetest kind.

  Then, just when she thought she might be able to breathe again, Elliot closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and lifted his elbows to wring the dampness from his hair. Hard chest muscles flexed as water ran down the taut cords of his neck, some of it trickling through the nest of dark chest hair, and lower still. Under the warm June sun, Elliot’s well-muscled arms glistened and rippled, sending something hot, urgent, and long dormant surging through her belly.

  Fingertips pressed hard against her lips, Evangeline sank to her knees in the tender spring grass beneath the beeches. It was then, in that endless moment of heat and sun and water, that she fully acknowledged the magnitude of her desire for Elliot.

  From the corner of one eye, Elliot caught a glimpse of dark blue fabric in the copse of trees beside the pond. He almost turned to stare, then froze in shock as he realized who it must be. Evangeline. Was it? Surely not. She was hardly the type of woman to spy on a group
of naked men. Was she?

  He saw the color again, a hint of dark blue fabric all but hidden in the lush foliage. It was Evangeline; he could feel her heated stare. Suddenly, Elliot felt possessed by the very demons he had thus far managed to keep leashed. Miss Stone wants to watch, whispered a dark, seductive voice. Slowly, he lifted his arms to run his fingers through his hair. With deliberate, leisurely motions, Elliot wrung the water from his hair, intentionally flexing the muscles of his chest and shoulders.

  If it was her curiosity the lady sought to ease, Elliot was more than willing to oblige. Indeed, he would gladly show her anything she found to her liking; he only hoped he sent her scurrying away with a problem far more frustrating than simple curiosity. Perhaps she would then need him to oblige an urge of a different sort …

  Suddenly, Elliot was horrified to realize that he had become a victim of his own seduction. At the mere thought of enticing Evangeline, of awakening her virginal ardor, an insidious, melting warmth had begun to uncoil low in his abdomen. In mortification, Elliot felt his shaft thicken and begin to rise up in the water. Good God, how humiliating! Flushing with embarrassment, he turned his back to the beech trees and waded deeper into the chilly pond, fervently hoping that Gus and the boys would keep their distance for a time.

  For many days after returning to Richmond, the thought of how Evangeline had watched him haunted Elliot, making him feel confused and restless. When he slept, and it was difficult, she haunted his tempestuous dreams—wild imaginings of butter-yellow hair and eyes that burned him like a hot blue flame. Evangeline clung to him in these nocturnal fantasies, eager and yielding, her bare thighs slender and silken. Between the sheets of his imagination, they tumbled, wild and insatiable, hands and mouths pressed heatedly against each other until he awoke, often gasping for breath, in a tangle of linen.