Mists of Midnight

by Pillow Michelle M.

  “Yes, I did. At first I would show them how well I could master their skills. But that only seemed to aggravate them until they found fault after endless fault with what I did. Once I was forced to practice lifting a fork for hours on end.” Imogen shivered in repulsion, drawing her arms over her waist as she spoke.

  “And after mastering did not work?” he prompted.

  Imogen smiled sheepishly. “I would pretend to be ignorant, like with you. It drove them to distraction. I would stomp about improperly and recited endless lines of nonsense until they could no longer stand to be in my presence. Ms. Martens, my last governess before you, only lasted a few months.”

  “And what, pray tell, did you do to the poor woman?”

  “I pretended not to speak French. I daresay her vocabulary was vulgar.” Imogen turned red thinking of it. Swallowing, she could not meet his eyes.

  “That isn’t all, is it?” he prompted.

  “No,” she said, flustered. Imogen was unsure whether she wanted to laugh or run away in shame. But something in the easy acceptance of Dougal’s tone urged her to continue. “I would purposefully say very improper things to her in French and pretend that I didn’t know what was said. Often she would curse at me in the foreign tongue, thinking I did not understand her. Once I told her that her backside must be… never mind it loses something in the translation, I think.”

  “And what is it you are planning for me? Should I be on my guard?”

  “I was sure I could have scared you away before now. You should have seen your face when I told you nothing existed outside English borders. I almost couldn’t contain my laughter.” Imogen giggled, thinking of it.

  “Yes, very amusing,” Dougal said wryly. He remembered that he had dreaded her opening her mouth. He watched her laughing face, as captivated by her beauty as he was by her wit.

  “Shall we call a truce then and start over?” she asked shyly. “I shall promise not to play too many tricks on you if you promise not to make me recite the duties of a housewife and other such dreadful nonsense.”

  “All right. But then, what shall we study?”

  “I was reading up on horse breeding,” she admitted. “However, the dreadful Ms. Martens burned my book.”

  “Breeding, eh?” Dougal murmured, shielding his expression. His gaze wandered over her form, sitting easily before him. The folds of her long blue skirts covered her legs now, but the material molded around her form, and his imagination filled in where reality left off.

  She was gazing up at the sky, and Dougal took the opportunity to study the long line of her neck, dipping beneath the fine lawn covering her chest. He could see the top curve of her cleavage, soft and inviting to his lips. His hands ached with a hunger born of years of torment. With an inward curse, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to look into the distance. She had no clue what she was doing to him.

  Imogen lowered her gaze before lowering her chin. She saw the strong outline of his masculine nose, the firm pull of his mouth. Shivering, she sighed as her gaze swept over his form before she looked away again.

  “I did say I would teach you of the plant life at Rothfield,” Dougal said to break the uncomfortable silence.

  “I would not want to make you a liar, Sir,” she said playfully. Standing, Imogen smoothed her skirts. Glad to have something to keep her mind busy, she strolled in the field. Leaning over, she plucked a couple flowers from the ground.

  Dougal watched her, not trusting himself to follow her. He did not know if he would be able to stop from touching her. When she looked at him, her eyes were bright with innocence. She trusted him. And she shouldn’t.

  Angling a white clustered flower towards him, she inquired, “What’s this?”

  “Conopodium majus,” he answered without hesitation. His eyes were distracted as he added, “Pignut.”

  “And this?” Imogen quickly asked, dropping the white cluster to replace it with a blue-petaled bloom.

  “A meadow cranesbill,” he answered dutifully. He waited until she held up another and again he answered. Testing him several more times, Imogen smiled. When she was finished, Dougal said, “You knew all that, didn’t you?”

  Imogen smiled sweetly as she nodded. Leaning over, she picked another flower. She twirled it in her fingers, keeping it from view. “I was testing your knowledge.”

  “Did I pass?” he asked, careful to keep his gaze shielded from her lest she be able to read his alarmingly wicked thoughts in them.

  She nodded before admitting, “I only picked ones I knew.”

  Dougal chuckled inwardly at her honesty. He watched her lean over to pluck another from the ground, liking the proud tilt to her face as she glanced at him.

  “But I don’t know these,” she whispered shyly. She hid the two flowers in her hand.

  “Let me see,” Dougal answered, his tone coming out sharply in his efforts to hide his mounting desires, as he sat up. She shook her head mischievously. Sunlight bathed over her flushed porcelain skin, kissing her golden with its rays.

  Imogen swung around in merriment, holding her flowers cupped to her chest. Wistfully, she cried out, “I love to dance. I would do nothing else if it were possible. Tell me, Mr. Weston, do you ever go to balls?”

  “Not for awhile,” he admitted. Grabbing a blade of grass, he twisted it in his fingers, absently following the movements of her young, lithe body. Spinning, she twirled her way back to the blanket. She stopped at the edge to look down at him. Her flushed cheeks glowed a healthy rose.

  “Then I will insist that father allow you to come with us the next time we are invited to one,” Imogen stated. Dougal hid his frown. Dropping next to him, she asked with wide-eyed innocence, “Would you ask me to dance if we were at a ball?”

  “Mayhap,” he murmured quietly.

  Imogen smiled. Trying to adjust herself on the blanket, she pulled on her skirts, arranging them properly about her legs. Then, with a dreamy sigh, she fell back. Dougal watched her with a curious smile. But instead of righting herself, she gazed up at him and giggled quietly.

  His head was outlined by the sun, the shadow of it falling over her features to shade them. Without thought, Dougal moved to lean next to her. His body came to lie beside hers, not touching. Lifting his knee, his arm rested over the bend absently twisting the weed as he forced himself to study it instead of her. At his closeness, Imogen’s laughter subsided. The smile faded from her features to be replaced by uncertainty.

  Her whole being pulled at her to go to him and she could not resist the magnetic call of his nearness. It was as if his heat jumped from his skin, luring her to him like a fish on a hook.

  Coyly, she lifted one of her flowers to stroke the petals down his cheek. He stiffened but did not move. Brushing it over his cheek to touch the edge of his lips, she let it trail over his neck. A husky film fell over her words as she whispered, “And what flower would this be, Mr. Weston?”

  “Call me Dougal,” he returned with a tortured breath for air. Unable to stop himself, he turned to look at her. His gaze caught hers. She dropped her hand to her waist and glanced away. He could see the pulse beating rapidly in her throat. His lips parted as he studied the thin thread of skin blocking the beat from his kiss.

  “But such a thing is not done,” Imogen whispered nervously. Her body shook, too apprehensive to move.

  “It will be our secret then,” he whispered. Unconsciously, he gravitated towards her. “We will just have to break a few rules of society to keep us sane.”

  “All right, Mr. Dougal.” Imogen felt him come closer. With a gasp, she looked up at him. When she met his piercing gaze, she was unable to look away.

  “No, just Dougal,” he whispered in a soft, inducing trance. No one but his mother had ever addressed him as such. And she only had when he was a babe. Since his birth he had been ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Rothfield’ or ‘Marquis Rothfield’. Somehow hearing his given name formed so easily on her lips sent a thrill through him. It made him feel clo
ser to her than he ever had to anyone.

  “All right,” Imogen swallowed in trembling excitement. In a thick murmur, she sighed, “Dougal.”

  She smiled tentatively at the look of pleasure that flitted through his eyes. His gaze found her lips. Feeling unsure, she licked her mouth. Dougal wanted to moan with the agonizing torture of watching her pink, darting tongue. He could feel the heat of her body, could see the texture of her lips as they moved.

  “What kind of flower is this?” she inquired, never looking away.

  Dougal drew his attention down to the pinkish petals swirled in a perfect circle. The individual petals formed in the shapes of hearts. Taking it from her fingers, he said lightly, “This would be the silene dioica, a red campion.”

  “And this one?” she asked. When she moved to touch him with it, he jerked his head back.

  “That is bittersweet, a cousin to nightshade. It is poisonous,” he whispered. Dougal plucked it from her fingers to hold it before her. “It is also considered a flower of secrets.”

  “Poison and secrets,” she muttered with a slight smile. Her gaze flitted to his lips. Languidly, her lids fell over her gaze as she offered her mouth to him. Dougal hesitated. He could smell the fresh scent of rose on her skin, mixing with the breeze. Every fiber in his being begged him to take her, taste her. He told himself that no one would see. What could happen to him if he gave her what she asked for? He was dead. No harm could come of it.

  When he didn’t take her offering, Imogen swallowed. With a look of embarrassment, she pushed past him to sit up. She fought the tears that threatened her eyes. He didn’t want her. He just thought of her as a student.

  “I’m sorry,” she began feebly. Her lips trembled in violent suffering. She couldn’t breathe.

  “What about your Edward?” he asked, unable to forget her words of anger the night she had kissed him. He would not want her to repeat them, not if he held her in his arms. He would not have her comparing him or claiming she did not want to be with him after they finished. If they came together, it would be because they both wanted it. It would be because they both knew what they were doing.

  “Who?” Imogen asked in confusion as he sat up next to her. “Mr. Tanner? What about him?”

  “I will not be mistaken for him.” He tilted his face to better study her expression. He forced her to look at him with a strong palm to her cheek. Imogen shivered at the seriousness of his gaze. Remembering her words, she wished she could take them back.

  “I could never mistake you for Mr. Tanner. You are nothing like he is.” Imogen tried to smile but couldn’t. He was too close, his scent too overwhelming to her senses. Her mind fought to concentrate, wanting nothing more than to pull his firm mouth to hers. “Mr. Tanner is lighthearted and merry, you are so stoic and… and different than he. The way you talk, the way you…”

  “The way I kissed?” he questioned harshly when she faltered. He hadn’t kissed her back. His lips had not moved.

  “No,” she said in surprise. “I have never kissed him. I have never kissed anyone before you.”

  “You don’t have to say that,” he said. “I don’t expect you to.”

  “I’m not just saying it. It’s true.” At his doubtful look, she rushed on. “I’ve read about kisses. Mayhap that is why I could, why I knew what to do. And once I saw a kiss between a maid and a man from town. They were behind the stables.”

  Dougal didn’t answer. He could feel the truth in her words. Shyly, she pulled back. He regretfully let his fingers fall from her face.

  “You didn’t like it. Is there something wrong with me? With the way I… I’m sorry.” Imogen began to pull farther away with a small groan of embarrassment forming in her throat. Dougal couldn’t let her. He grabbed her arm.

  “Imogen,” he began. Then, with a growl, he pulled her to his chest. He could deny himself no longer. The press of her mouth haunted him.

  Her lips parted with a rush of air as he held her roughly in his embrace. His hands instantly found the windblown strands of her hair. Delving his fingers into the silken depths of the dark locks, he met her parted lips with his own. His hands refused to release her as she moaned weakly in reply to the brutal force of passion.

  Dougal tasted her offering to him. His body lurched with desire. He wanted her. He wanted to take her, to claim her. Her innocent mouth moved against his in hesitation. He pressed his tongue between her lips, opening them gently, but as he felt the barrier of her teeth blocking his entrance, he suddenly pulled back.

  Rising abruptly, he turned away from her. Her lips were swollen from his touch, her eyes hazy. She was beautiful. She was not his. Dougal cursed. He was losing his mind.

  Imogen watched him. Her gaze took in the stiff line of his back, the proud lift to his head. Her fingers itched to pull him back, to press into the soft waves of his dark hair. She had been about to venture a touch when he pulled away. Now she wished she hadn’t hesitated. Before he turned around, she could already see the damning calm of his features as they took her in.

  “Was this a test?” she asked delicately. Her shoulders shook with the effort it took not to cry out in dismay. She felt so alone. His rejection was a cold reminder of how ostracized she was from her family, how no one came to call on her, how even her own mother ignored her very presence. The pain of rejection choked her words, but she managed to stutter, “Were you testing me? Is this what my father wanted? He wanted to see if I was of loose morals? Is that why he sent you to tutor me? What are you, some kind of doctor for the mind? Are you to see if I am unfit?”

  The biting sound of her pain ravaged him. Dougal released an agonizing breath. His body racked at the unfairness. But, before he could answer, she ran past him towards the horses.

  “Imogen,” he said hoarsely.

  At the sound of his uncontrolled voice, she stopped. Whipping around to look at him, her hands on her mare’s reins, she waited. His lips pressed into a severe line.

  “This cannot be.”

  Imogen nodded, thinking she understood. “Because I am the daughter of a nobleman and you are a poor tutor.”

  If that were but it, he mused bitterly. He closed his eyes as he regained his control. Control was all he had. With a nod, he began his lie, but could not finish it, “Yes, you are a…”

  “I am a what?” she demanded. He did not answer her. When he didn’t finish, only continued to stare in his hard way, she spat, “I’m a spoiled girl? No, that’s not what you were going to say, was it? You think me something else entirely. I’m just a job you have to do. I’m just an unruly child you must test and tease into ladylike submission.”

  His jaw worked violently in anger at her words.

  “That is it, isn’t it?” she demanded.

  “No, you are not a child,” he said. “But you are beginning to act like one.”

  “Oh!” she gasped.

  Dougal did not give her time to say aught else. “I should not have kissed you. You yourself said I have nothing to offer you. I am just a poor man.” He swallowed, flinging his lies at her with greater ease once he began them. “Would you wish for me to continue? Should I deflower you? Would you marry me? Come away with me to live in some poor cottage on the outskirts of London? Or worse? Would you be happy to live with me above some dingy tavern listening to the calling of whores whilst we slept in our one room next to our numerous, dirty children?”

  “No,” she stuttered, shaking her head to relieve it of the picture he painted for her.

  Dougal nodded. She was attracted to him, that was all—purely physical attraction. The kind of feelings that she must have to choose the life he described would not have been enough to bring two beings, such as they really were, together. Naught, but the divine intervention of some higher power, could make anything but the briefest of passions between them. There was no hope in their future. Even she, who denied herself the truth of what happened, could see that.

  Imogen fought her tears. She hated his cruel words, but knew he
was right. Her father would never allow such a match. And was she really ready to risk everything for a man who didn’t even pretend to love her? Weakly, she asked, “Will you tell my father?”

  “No,” he sighed. Seeing her torment, he felt his anger slip. He wasn’t being fair to her. She was confused, more so than he.

  Running his fingers through his hair in frustration, Dougal took a step toward her. He wanted to draw her back to him. But how could he explain himself? How could he live with himself for an eternity knowing what he had done to her? How could he let himself get distracted from finding his daughter? He should be concentrating on finding Margaret, not rolling about on the grass at picnic. Who knew what kind of agony his little Margaret’s soul was suffering in the hands of the deadly knight?

  Imogen watched the anguish crossing over his features. She felt that there was more to it than her undesirable behavior. The pain in his eyes drew her forward, releasing her briefly from her anger and hurt.

  “Can we forget this happened?” she asked at last, knowing she could never forget. She was branded. “I should like for us to be friends.”

  Dougal nodded, relieved, though part of him cried out at the unjustness of it. He needed her friendship more than her passion right now. With her friendship he could find his daughter. But, as he thought it, his body protested its abhorrence at being neglected. It screamed at him the number of years that he had been alone and untouched by anyone—not even a handshake was he allowed. And here before him was softness and warmth, begging him to feel.

  “Do you want to ride?” Imogen asked with a forced smile. Her lips could not forget his brand, but she could pretend.

  “How about we take the horses for a walk to the stream?” he asked, avoiding eye contact with her. He looked over the distance, ashamed that he must deceive her. “I think we should let them drink before taking them back.”