Sam didn’t really want to hear Mother play the harp tonight anyway— she much preferred to steal away to her own room and journal all her sad thoughts about Mr. Kendall. “I’ll take her back to her chambers,” she said, stepping forward.
“I saw him!” Cassy insisted. “H-he touched my arm.”
Sam took her hand. There was no use trying to talk sense into her. Better to get her to her room and order a calming tonic.
“He did! He touched me!”
“Yes, yes,” Sam said, as they rounded the corner and started up the stairs to the guest rooms. “But he’s gone now, isn’t he? Let’s ring for a tonic, shall we?”
“You won’t leave me?” Cassy asked, and it was a fair question, for Sam wasn’t usually the care-taking type.
Sam took a deep breath. “Yes, I will stay,” she agreed. “And as long as I’m there, you will tell me about Lord St. Giles.”
Cassy tripped—it was a small trip, almost imperceptible—but seeing as they were still arm-in-arm, Sam felt it. “What about him?” Cassy ventured.
“Exactly,” Sam replied. “What about him?”
Of course, getting Cassy to say anything about Lord St. Giles was rather difficult. Her sister blushed whenever his name was mentioned, and kept redirecting the conversation back to Keyvnor’s haunted state, insisting that some swarthy-looking man all in black kept appearing to her throughout the castle. In a weaker moment, Sam asked if the man in black was prone to throwing acorns at Cassy. At that, her sister had simply blinked at her as though she was quite mad, and yet it was Cassy who had screamed in the corridor with a bevy of distant relatives to serve as witnesses, not Sam. Thoroughly, frustrated with her sister, Sam left Cassy to her own devises and started back towards her chambers.
Cassy might refuse to talk about St. Giles, but Sam wasn’t blind. Something was going on between them. But that thought only made her mind return to Chad.
She sighed heavily as she sauntered along the corridor back to her room, and someone else sighed right behind her. Sam whirled to see who was trailing her, but the corridor was empty. Silent. Completely still.
Convinced it was merely an echo or a figment of her imagination—for she was rather exhausted—she turned and continued on her way. But just as a test, she sighed again, and then waited. Nothing.
Goodness, she was letting all this ghost nonsense get to her. And then someone appeared out of the darkness…
Chapter 17
Chad didn’t mean to startle her, truly he didn’t. And yet, there she was, grasping her chest as she gasped for air, just inside the doorway.
“Oh, dear God,” he muttered as he closed the distance between them, wanting nothing more than to cradle her in his arms and assure her everything was all right. But first, he had to close the door. God help them if anyone found him in her room—surely Lord Widcombe would have his bullocks on a platter. “Please forgive me,” he said once the door was securely shut.
“What on earth are you doing here?” she panted, still trying to catch her breath.
He grabbed her by the shoulders, gently, of course, and stared down into those large, chocolaty eyes of hers. “I had to see you. I had to speak with you.”
“Couldn’t it have waited until morning?”
“No.” He licked his lips as he stared at her soft, pink mouth. “I would never be able to sleep without clearing the air between us. Tell me—what happened in the garden that made you run from me?”
Her forehead wrinkled adorably as her eyes clouded with…with what? Concern? Pain? Sadness? Then she pushed away and moved toward her bed, clearly trying to put distance between them, but damn if he didn’t want to throw her onto that bed and have his way with her just then. She held onto the mahogany poster and it was all Chad could do not to strip her bare in his mind. His fingers itched to tear that green velvet from her body and touch every glorious inch of her.
“I…” That single syllable wrenched him from his wayward thoughts and back to the reality of the situation. She was a young girl, an innocent, who clearly feared him. Or something. Fear wasn’t the right word, but until she gave him further explanation, he had no other word for it. “I’m sorry,” she finished.
Chad blinked at her. “Sorry?”
Her gaze shifted away, as if she were trying to come up with something to say on the spot. She didn’t intend to tell him the truth. “I had never been kissed before.”
“And for that you are sorry?”
“No.” She shook her head, the tendrils around her face trembling with the motion. “ That is to say, I was surprised.”
“Surprised that you didn’t like it?”
There was a short pause, and then she lifted her head so her eyes met his. “Surprised that I did.”
Chad needed no more encouragement to cross the distance between them and gather her into his arms. “I am so very glad you said that,” he whispered before lowering his mouth and kissing her, good and proper, and this time there were no acorns flying at them, no loud noises interrupting—it was just the two of them, holding onto one another, reveling in the warmth and the pure rightness of the moment.
His brain was yelling at him that this was absolutely absurd. That he’d known the girl less than two days, that people couldn’t possibly fall in love in such a short amount of time, and yet…
He pulled away and stared into her fathomless brown eyes. “Lady Samantha,” he murmured, “would you think me mad if I—” Good God, was he really doing this? “If I were to ask your father for your hand?”
And there it was again. That pained, strained look in her eyes, as if she suddenly remembered something. Something that would more than likely result in a “no” to his question. He tried not to think that way—perhaps he was mistaken—and even if it was a no, it was only a no for now. They hardly knew each other; of course it was ridiculous to ask her such a thing.
He wanted to take it back, not because he didn’t want to marry her. Not because he didn’t think he was falling in love with her. But because he suddenly felt like the biggest sort of fool. Especially when she pushed him away from her.
“No one can know,” she whispered. “I will be ruined.”
Ruined? But wasn’t he offering to marry her? “I don’t understand.”
“And why should you?” There was a bite to her tone all of a sudden, and it sent a child down Chad’s spine. “You’re not an eighteen-year-old girl with everything to lose.”
“Everything to—” Chad ran his hand through his hair, frustration building inside his chest. “I want to offer for you.”
“But you can’t.”
“Why not?”
She blinked as if she were trying to keep tears from spilling over. Damn it. What the devil was wrong with her?
“The reasons are too many. You don’t understand my position. You don’t understand my parents.”
“Then help me to understand. Perhaps I can—”
“What? Make my parents see reason? That’s one bet I wouldn’t take, Mr. Kendall.”
“Chad,” he insisted.
“I’ve been flirtatious and far too familiar already. Please, just go.”
He stood there, unwilling to believe she’d simply turn him out like this. He at least wanted a proper explanation, but it was clear he’d not get it tonight.
Fine. He had several more days until the reading of the will. Several more days to spend trying to get to know her and convincing her that they would suit. He knew they would. She knew it too. But what was holding her back?
He nodded. “As you wish, my lady.” And then, he turned his back on her, checked the corridor to make certain it was empty, and left her room.
Chapter 18
Sleep was elusive that night. Sam tossed and turned in the moonlight, praying for dawn to come, praying she’d feel better in the light of day.
But when the sun rose, she still felt absolutely dreadful. And now tired to boot. Her stomach was twisted into a thousand knots, and she wanted nothi
ng more than to put Mr. Kendall from her mind, for she’d spent the entire night thinking about him. Thinking about how they could never be. She wished she could explain it to him—surely he’d understand—and yet, to explain it would end it. And she didn’t want it to end.
But she’d been careless and reckless with both their hearts. She’d let herself fall for him—she’d let him go so far as to offer marriage! Goodness, what had she done?
Betsy scratched at the door and pushed through a moment later. Betsy, being the type to wear her emotions on her sleeve, gasped and stood in the doorway with a look of horror on her face.
“Do I look that bad?” Sam asked, and Betsy quickly tried to amend her facial expression.
“No, no, my lady, it’s just…” She closed the door behind her, trying to buy time while she tried to save face. “Did you not sleep well?” she finally ventured, her voice turning up at the end.
Sam gave a little laugh. “It’s all right, Betsy. I know how I look, and believe me, it’s not nearly as bad as I feel.”
“Oh, you poor dear. Was it the ghosts?”
No. Mr. Kendall was most decidedly flesh and blood. “Perhaps.”
“Your sister is having quite the time of it with this man in black she keeps talking about.”
“It will be a relief to all of us when we finally get to go home.”
“Indeed.” Betsy started to work on Sam’s hair. “But if you’d like to get away from the castle for a bit, I did hear some of the other ladies talking about a trip to Bocka Morrow later this morning.”
“Really?” Samantha considered it for a moment. She would like to get away—it would ensure she wouldn’t encounter Mr. Kendall, at least for a few hours. And perhaps she could find a little something to cheer her up. She had quite a bit of pin money saved that was nearly burning a hole in her reticule. “I think that sounds quite nice, actually. A bit of fresh air and a little camaraderie with my relations seems like just the thing.”
“I can tell Lady Marjorie’s maid to let her know you will be joining the party.”
“Oh, Lady Marjorie?” Blast. After last night, would she want her to come along? Would Mother even let her go now she thought Lady Marjorie and Miss Hawkins the gambling sort? Perhaps she needn’t tell her mother at all.
“Is there a problem with Lady Marjorie?”
Sam shook her head, earning a look of disapproval from Betsy, who was still trying to wrangle her hair. “No, I just…can you please not tell Mother?”
“Ah. Her ladyship disapproves?”
“She caught us playing Whist for pennies last night. She caused quite the scene. I only pray Lady Marjorie doesn’t hold it against me.”
“Certainly not.” She slipped one last pin into Sam’s curls. “There. Let’s get you dressed for your morning out, shall we?”
The shopping party wasn’t leaving until later in the morning, so Samantha took her breakfast and then bid her time with a book. She might have written in her journal, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to write about Mr. Kendall.
When it was finally time, Betsy came and found her in the library, and then Sam set off with the few ladies and a footman—presumably invited along to ensure their safety—for the village. It wasn’t a terribly far walk, and Sam welcomed the fresh air and exercise. The weather was turning colder by the day, so she was glad Betsy had advised the heavier day dress and wool spencer that buttoned right up to her chin. She walked alongside Lady Claire, who seemed to enjoy being quiet as much as Sam did, so they spent most of the walk in companionable silence while Lady Marjorie and Miss Hawkins chatted ahead of them, leading the way.
The little fishing village sat at the bottom of a long, steep hill. The streets were paved in cobblestones, the roofs thatched, seagulls flew overhead and the smells of fish and saltwater wafted up to them as they all paused to take in the scene. It was quite lovely—quaint and romantic—and Sam had a sudden urge to write about it. Of course, she’d left her journal at the castle, so she would have to commit the tableau to memory and hope to do it justice later.
After a fairly treacherous descent into the village, thanks to the recent rain, they wandered the main street, looking in windows and taking in the sights. She’d never been to the South Bank of London, but she imagined it was similar to this, with its narrow streets and sailboats lined up in the distance. There was a great deal of chaos, but Sam welcomed it, feeling alive and quite adventurous all of a sudden. Yes, it was a good thing she’d come on this outing today. Why, she’d hardly thought of Mr. Kendall at all.
Well, until now. And now she couldn’t stop thinking about him, blast it all.
“Oh, look!”
All three girls and the footman turned to see what Lady Marjorie was pointing at.
APOTHECARY
The word was carved into a little wooden sign that hung above the shop, and a smile formed on Sam’s lips. She did love an apothecary with their soaps and sachets, perfumes and other concoctions promising to improve one’s health or appearance. She’d never had a mind for science, but she appreciated it just the same.
“Let’s go inside!” Lady Marjorie insisted, but she didn’t have to do much convincing. The ladies all followed her into the shop, while their footman remained outside near the door.
One step into the shop, and Sam knew this wasn’t like any other apothecary she’d ever been in. And she’d been in quite a few all over London and Somerset. But this was…different, to say the least. There was a wall of shelves holding hundreds of bottles, each filled with a different oil or concoction. Another wall that held hundreds of tiny drawers, starting waist high and going all the way to the ceiling, where dried herbs dangled, filling the space with a cacophony of scents that altogether smelled delightfully warm and welcoming. A single bell heralded their entrance, and several women glanced up to greet them with gentle smiles. That was the most surprising of all, since apothecaries were usually run by men.
An older woman with black and silver hair greeted them first, and Lady Marjorie and Miss Hawkins approached her rather eagerly. Claire wandered off, and so Samantha did the same, glancing over the bottles, and attempting to read their labels. It wasn’t always easy, for some were written in a script Sam didn’t recognize.
“What brought ye this way, my dear?” came a gentle voice from behind her.
Sam turned carefully to find one of the shopkeepers standing near to her, a serene smile on her peachy lips. “My relations, actually,” she admitted. “Though I do love your shop. I’ve never seen one quite like it.”
“And ye never will again,” the woman quipped. She, too, was a redhead, and she spoke in a lilting Scottish brogue. But her hair was less demonstrative than Sam’s. Lighter, and verging on the edge of blonde. Sam knew she ought not complain about her hair, but if only it could be just a little less red. A little less bold. Perhaps then she’d catch the earl her mother so desperately wished for her to catch. “Ye seem troubled, my child. What is it?”
Sam couldn’t find the words to respond. How did this woman know anything about her? “Am I that obvious?”
The woman smiled. Goodness, she was pretty and rather bewitching. Sam couldn’t seem to break the spell of her emerald green eyes. “A gentleman, I presume?”
As shocked as Sam was that the woman had guessed the source of her woes, she wasn’t eager to admit it, so she took another path. “My hair, actually.”
The woman’s gently-angled brows shot up. “Your hair?”
“The color.”
“Is absolutely stunning.”
“But not at all de rigeur.”
“Ye would smite the gods that gave ye such loveliness?”
“Not smite, per se,” Sam said carefully. “But if only it could be closer to your color. Lighter, blonder.”
“And ye think that will make a man fall in love with ye?”
Goodness, she asked a great deal of difficult questions, didn’t she? Besides, someone had already fallen for her with this color hair. U
nfortunately, he was the wrong man, not that she was going to offer that bit of information. “I am hopeful, yes.”
The woman gave a little laugh and shook her head as she began pulling bottles from the shelves. Four in total. Then she carefully poured a bit from each bottle into measuring spoons and then into a smaller bottle using a type of funnel. Finally, she wrote something in lovely, swirly script onto a tiny tag that she then tied around the cork.
“At your next bath, you will comb a small amount of this potion through your hair,” the woman said, holding the bottle in her hands. “A few minutes is all it will take. And then you must use this to wash it out.” She pulled another small bottle from beneath the counter. It looked like some kind of oil, but Sam couldn’t be sure.
“You’re certain it will work?”
“Add in a little faith and trust, and ye shall have your heart’s desire.”
The woman’s green eyes pierced Sam with their knowing. It was as if she could see right down into her soul. “Thank you,” she muttered, and then reached for her reticule.
“Put that away,” the woman said.
“But—”
“You will find a way to repay me if it works. Beannachd Dia dhuit.”
Sam had no clue what that last part meant, but it didn’t much matter. The woman moved on to another customer, leaving Sam standing there with her tiny bottles of…well, she wasn’t sure what they were. Maybe she’d simply call them her bottles of hope.
Chapter 19
Much to his disappointment, Chad didn’t catch even a glimpse of Lady Samantha that next day or the day after. He’d heard she had gone to the village with some of the other ladies, and he almost considered following them there. But after she’d dismissed him from her chambers, he worried she might turn him away, and he didn’t relish that happening with an audience.
So he’d puttered about the castle for two days, reading, playing billiards with Michael, who seemed to have a bloody knack for the game, and trying to keep from going out of his mind. The correspondence from home had been the one bright spot— his father was, surprisingly, still alive. Hope had fluttered in Chad’s breast at that news. The reading of the will was less than two days away—perhaps he would indeed make it home in time to see his father again. Maybe even to introduce him to the next Baroness Dinedor.
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