UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER'S SECRET
Page 25
He straightened and looked behind him.
“There,” she said, pointing. “On the curtain. They are both sitting up there.”
“Well, I’ll be,” he muttered.
Simultaneously, the birds flew to the dresser. Although she set the bowl feeder out each morning, not wanting the glass to freeze and break, she carried it in each evening and set it on the dresser.
“They’re hungry,” he whispered.
“Aren’t they beautiful?”
“Just like you.” He kissed her temple. “They remind me of you.”
“Who? The hummingbirds?”
“Yes.” Moving swiftly, he scooped her up, one hand holding her back, the other under her knees.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she asked, “How so?”
The teasing, adorable glint in his eyes sent a surge of heat through her. Becoming his wife wholly and completely last night had been the most wonderful event of her entire life.
He turned, carrying her toward the bed. “Or maybe they remind me of me.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“No matter how much they eat, they’re still hungry.”
She giggled. “You’re hungry?”
He laid her down on the bed and separated the front of her dressing gown, revealing that she wasn’t wearing anything else. Licking the tips of her breasts, he said, “Yes. For you, my beautiful, loving wife.”
Just like all of his kisses, the touch of his lips was bedazzling, and inspired her to want more. Last night, the first time they’d come together, he’d been gentle and slow, introducing her into womanhood with such pleasure she’d been completely boneless. Later, when they’d repeated their union, it had been faster, more demanding, and so consuming her heartbeat quickened at the memory. She wondered which way it would be this time.
He climbed onto the bed beside her. Feeling a bit let down, Sara shifted onto her side so they faced one another.
Crofton ran a single finger under one of her eyes. “Don’t be disappointed, my dear wife,” he whispered roughly.
Glancing down the length of his naked, glorious body, delight spiraled inside her at his aroused state.
“It’s your turn, Sara,” he said. “It’s time for you to show me what you want.”
If there had been any disappointment left inside her, it flew out as fast as her hummingbirds had flown in. Flipping left and right, she tugged her arms out of her dressing gown and then rolled all the way on top of him. Pressing her hands against his shoulders, she arched upward until the tips of her breasts caught and held his attention.
She’d already told him what she wanted, and had it. Him. It was different from what she’d once imagined. She didn’t want to just be his wife. She wanted to be his partner. Someone she could be herself around without worry. Someone she could get mad at, argue with and love with all her heart during the entire time, without fear he’d ever stop loving her. Considering she had all that, it took her a moment before she whispered, “I want a dog.”
He laughed. “A dog?”
She nodded. “With lots of black hair who will save a boy from drowning.”
It didn’t seem possible, but his grin filled her with even more happiness.
“We’ll get one tomorrow,” he said.
Biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing aloud, she whispered, “What about today?”
“Today,” he said while circling the tip of one breast with his fingertip, “we have other things to focus on.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she admitted.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE RUNAWAY GOVERNESS by Liz Tyner.
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The Runaway Governess
by Liz Tyner
Chapter One
Isabel watched from the window as the older couple’s driver stepped on to his carriage perch and called to the horses. She’d not believed her luck when she’d spotted the man and woman waiting for their carriage to be readied. It had taken her all of a minute to find out their destination and pour out her sad tale.
She didn’t want to think of what might happen when the other coach arrived in Sussex without her. But the family could find another governess. This was her one chance. Her chance to soar.
Isabel turned to the man whose eyelids almost concealed his vision and the woman who matched him in age, but her eyes danced with life. Isabel clasped her hands at her chest and promised herself she would never again lie, except in extreme circumstances such as this. Taking a deep breath, she let the words rise from deep within herself. ‘You have saved my life.’
A barmaid, hair frazzled from the August heat, stood behind the couple. She looked up long enough to roll her eyes heavenward.
‘Miss...’ the wife patted Isabel’s glove ‘...we just could not bear that your evil uncle was selling you into marriage to a man old enough to be your father—and your betrothed a murderer as well.’
‘Thank you so much.’ She sighed. ‘If my parents were alive today...’ they were, but they’d understand and forgive her once they discovered how famous she’d be ‘...they would fall upon their knees in gratitude for your saving my life.’
The barmaid snorted and Isabel sighed with emphasis, knowing she mustn’t let the couple notice the scepticism.
‘You’re sure if you go to London with us, your family will give you a home?’ the wife questioned.
‘Oh. Yes.’ The word lengthened to twice its usual length. ‘Aunt Anna, my mother’s sister, who has no idea of the tragedy that has befallen me as my great-uncle would not allow me paper or ink, would give me refuge in a heartbeat. I have always been her favourite niece, of course. It is just that my uncle told her I was...tragically killed in a fall from a horse, trampled by hooves and had to be immediately buried because the sight was too exceptionally hideous for anyone to see as I would not have wanted to be remembered as such.’
The woman’s eyes could not have been more kind. ‘Tragic.’
‘Yes. Frightfully so.’
The man arched one brow, enough that Isabel could see the scepticism. ‘We will certainly deliver you to your aunt in London,’ he said. ‘To her doorstep.’
She’d been so lucky Mr Thomas Wren had heard of her when he attended one of the school presentations. Now he was her patron—albeit a secret patron. She would be the lead of his new musicale. She would sing her heart out. Even though her voice was not perfection itself, something about the way she sang stirred people. When she was performing, others would listen and eyes would water. Nothing made her happier than when someone gave her that rapt attention and they were brought to tears. She loved making people cry in such a way.
She gathered her satchel and linked her arm around the older woman’s. ‘My Aunt Anna will be so grateful.’
‘We must meet her and make sure she will not return you to that dreadful man.’ The woman’s voice oozed concern.
Isabel leaned forward and batted her lashes. ‘Of course. You simply must meet my aunt.’ Easily said, albeit completely impossible.
The couple’s meal was left behind, crumbs still clinging to the man’s waistcoat, and they spirited her to their carriage.
When she stepped into the vehicle, she slumped a bit, keeping the man’s frame between her and the windows of the coaching inn. It would not do for anyone from the other carriage to note her leaving before the end of the brief stop. She grasped her satchel and settled into the seat, ever so pleased to be leaving the governess part of her life behind. True, she had enjoyed the friendships of the school. But as she became closer and closer to graduation, she’d felt trapped. Mr Thomas Wren’s notice of her was indeed fortunate. Apparently another student’s father had informed him of Isabel’s voice. Mr Wren had known the rules of the school and had known to be secretive in their correspondence. He’d offered her the lead in a new production he’d planned.
She could barely concentrate on the task at hand for thinking of the good fortune of her life. This change of carriage would even make a grand tale. She could imagine recounting the tale of how she stowed away, risking all to travel with a couple she could but hope was reputable, and who transported her at great personal risk to help her achieve her life’s dream.
Isabel spoke as quickly as the wheels turned on the carriage, not wanting to give the couple a chance to think too much of the events of the day. She recounted honest tales of her youth at the governess school, leaving out the parts about the visits to her parents—and keeping as close to the facts as possible. She had already used her share of untruths for the year and it would not be good to blunder at this point.
* * *
When the carriage neared Drury Lane, Isabel kept one eye to the road, knowing she must make a quick decision.
A woman wearing a tattered shawl and with one strand of grey hanging from her knot of hair walked near an opening between two structures. Isabel saw the chance she had to take.
‘My aunt,’ she gasped, pointing. ‘It’s my aunt.’ She turned to the man across. ‘Stop the carriage.’
He raised his hand to the vehicle top, thumping.
She bolted up and tumbled out the door before the conveyance fully stopped, scurrying to the woman. ‘Aunt. Aunt,’ she called out. The woman must have had a niece somewhere because she paused, turning to look at Isabel.
Isabel scurried, then darted sideways behind a looming structure, running with all her might, turning right, then left. When she knew she was not being chased, she stopped, leaning against the side of a building. She gulped, and when her breathing righted she reflected.
She would become the best songstress in all London. She knew it. Mr Thomas Wren knew it. The future was hers. Now she just had to find it. She was lost beyond hope in the biggest city of the world.
Isabel tried to scrape the street refuse from her shoe without it being noticed what she was doing. She didn’t know how she was going to get the muck off her dress. A stranger who wore a drooping cravat was eyeing her bosom quite openly. Only the fact that she was certain she could outrun him, even in her soiled slippers, kept her from screaming.
He tipped his hat to her and ambled into a doorway across the street.
Her dress, the only one with the entire bodice made from silk, would have to be altered now. The rip in the skirt—thank you, dog who didn’t appreciate my trespassing in his gardens—was not something she could mend. She didn’t think it could be fixed. The skirt would have to be ripped from the bodice and replaced. That would not be simple.
How? How had she got herself into this? Oh, well, she decided, she would buy all new clothing when Mr Thomas Wren gave her the funds he’d promised.
Yet, she didn’t quite know where to begin in her search for him and she’d have to find him before nightfall. She would certainly ask someone as soon as she left this disreputable part of London. The dead fish head at her feet didn’t give her the encouragement she needed.
But then she looked up. Straight into a ray of sunshine illuminating a placard hanging from a building. A bird on it. She didn’t have to search. Providence had put out its golden torch and led her right to the very place she was searching for. This sign—well, the sign was a sign of her future. This was Mr Thomas Wren’s establishment. The man with the ill-mannered eyes had gone inside but still, one did sometimes have to sing for unpleasant people and one could only hope they gleaned some lesson from the song. She had quite the repertoire of songs with lessons hidden in the words and knew when to use them.
She opened the satchel, pulled out the plume, and examined it. She straightened the unfortunate new crimp in it as best she could and put the splash of blue into the little slot she’d added to her bonnet. She picked up her satchel, realising she had got a bit of the street muck on it—and began again her new life.
Begin her new life, she repeated to herself, unmoving. She looked at the paint peeling from the exterior and watched as another man came from the doorway, waistcoat buttoned at an angle. Gripping the satchel with both hands, she locked her eyes on the wayward man.
Her stomach began a song of its own and very off-key. She couldn’t turn back. She had no funds to hire a carriage. She knew no one in London but Mr Wren. And he had been so complimentary and kind to everyone at Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies. Not just her. She could manage. She would have to. His compliments had not been idle, surely.
She held her head the way she planned to look over the audience when she first walked on stage and put one foot in front of the other, ignoring everything but the entrance in front of her.
As she walked through the doorway, head high, the first thing Isabel noticed was the stage. A woman was singing. Isabel concealed her shudder and hoped her ears would forgive her. She supposed she would be replacing the woman. The songstress’s bosom was obviously well padded because it would be hard for nature to be so overzealous, but perhaps it had been to make up for the error of her voice.
A man with silver hair and a gold-tipped cane sat gaping at the stage. The woman put her arms tighter to the side of her body and bent forward to emphasise her words.
Isabel turned her head. She could not believe it. She would have to have a word with Mr Wren about this, although—
Then her eyes skipped from person to person to person. It would take more than a word. Men sat around a table play
ing Five Card Loo, but it seemed only pence were on the table.
The men at the game could not decide whether to watch the stage or their hand. Two women obviously championed their favourites, alternately cheering and gasping at the cards. Then the game ended. Whoops erupted. A man stood, bowed to the table, and waited. The other players reached into their purses, took out coins and handed them to the women. The winner put his arm around the women’s waists and led them through a curtained hallway.
She let out a breath and all her dreams fluttered away with it.
* * *
William strode under the faded placard and stepped into Wren House, giving himself a moment to let his eyes adjust from the bright August sun to the dim light of a world only illuminated because men needed to see the cards in their hand. He’d have to go to a stable to get the scent of Wren’s out of his nostrils.
If his father knew this was where Cousin Sylvester spent every Wednesday night, things might have been different. But now Sylvester had Marvel and Ivory, the two best horses in England and the only ones whose eyes flickered regard when William neared them. The beasts would always stick out their necks for a treat when William appeared. ‘Spoiled,’ the stable master muttered each time.
William always replied, ‘And worth it.’
William surveyed the table, and spotted his cousin immediately. Sylvester mumbled a greeting and two others looked over, recognising William and giving him a grunt of their own before they returned to the cards. William jerked his head sideways, motioning for Sylvester to join him. The answer, a quick shake of Sylvester’s head, and a brief upturn of the lips, didn’t surprise William. He took a seat near the corner where he could watch the room. He didn’t want anyone at his back. A woman on stage finished singing, thankfully.
He ordered an ale and when the barmaid brought the drink, her brows lifted in question and she looked to the curtain at the back. He shook his head, smiling to soften the refusal. His fingers clasped the mug, but as he lifted it, he paused. Sticky residue lay under his touch. Jam? He gazed into the liquid, half-expecting to see something floating, but nothing looked alive in it. Then he sat the mug back on the table.