by Baird Wells
Long hooked letters joined by lines and curls formed her name across its face. Breath catching, Alexandra claimed it with a finger, pulling it to her and unfolding the crease. Inside, the words were written smaller, but with no less artistry:
I accept.
-S
Two words filled with so much intent. Asking Spencer for an affair was an offer of her body, and so much more. She had told herself while still at Broadmoore that she could change her mind at any time before taking the first step. She could see plainly now, miles away, that getting into the coach was hardly the first step, no more than Spencer’s midnight visit to her room. They had made the first overtures months before. Whatever she had risked by coming here, Spencer had risked it too.
Her cheeks ached with a smile, and she rested his note in plain sight atop the mattress while she changed. Sliding into ivory duck breeches and working at the buttons with trembling fingers, Alix wondered where he had come by clothes that were obviously not his. Struggling a shirt over stays and a chemise she realized too late couldn't be removed alone, she shrugged and decided to let it be. Last came the boots. They were on the large side, like everything else, but she had no intention of riding side saddle. They would do just fine.
Grabbing her clothes and shoes in a wad and gently claiming the note, she headed back downstairs with a thank-you to the landlady and stepped outside.
Spencer was leaned against the wall, arms crossed, an absolute picture of repose. She watched him a moment, enjoying the sight of him so relaxed. That, along with the wonderful anticipation in her belly, reminded her of the first rushing breeze before a storm. Heart in her throat, she walked to him.
He straightened and greeted her with a lazy smile.
“So,” she began, self-conscious, “here I am.”
“Here you are,” he repeated, nodding and looking her over. “Now I see why women are proscribed from wearing men's clothes. It would be bedlam within the first hour.”
Her cheeks, already hot from the sun, burned. Alix held out her old clothes, ignoring his blatant compliment. When Spencer had stowed them away, he helped her up onto the dapple and claimed his own mount. They spurred along the building, past a few ramshackle houses, then veered left off of the road and onto a sandy, scrubby trail winding out to the horizon.
There were no half-measures to the land around them. Swirling water was not simply blue but vibrant cerulean; dancing grass glowed a verdant green in defiance of slate cliffs. Stark white clouds billowed across the horizon making her believe that their small bit of the world went on forever.
“I’ve traveled,” she murmured, looking left and right at the beauty around them, “but I have never seen a place so striking.”
“No one would ever point me out as a romantic,” he said. “In fact, Bennet will assure you that I am a statue.” He paused a breath for her laughter. “We’ve agreed to something which carries a responsibility. No fumbling in a musty bedchamber.” Her face burned under the heat of his gaze. “I want to make this good for you, Alexandra.”
Waves hushed against the rocks below their path while overhead gulls made lazy arcs, crying to one another. Her head spun, both at Spencer’s words and a struggle to believe that this was real.
They had reached the hill's base and could more easily ride side-by-side. “I found your note,” she volunteered when she could manage to speak.
Squinting out ahead, Spencer flashed a smiled. “Did you? I thought you would appreciate it.”
“I do, very much. Think if I'd come seven hours only to find 'Lord Reed regrets to inform you...'”
His laugh was deep, sonorous, different than when they had been on the estate or in company. “In that case, I would be a fool, and sending you away would be a kindness.”
Flustered again, Alix kept quiet as they fell into companionable silence. A sharp wind kissed her cheeks. Waves crested white and spilled onto the rocks again and again while they trotted along the path. At some point the wide lane had become intermittent patches of sand, and then wiry dune grass with no discernible trail at all. Spencer steered his horse without the slightest hesitation, obviously familiar with the wild terrain.
“How much farther?” she asked, glancing back and finding that the village and its hilltop had almost passed from sight.
Spencer nodded ahead with his chin. “That craggy cliff is Darrow Point. Just around the end and we'll be nearly there.”
On a fair day like today, the narrow skirt of sand they now trod allowed for travel around the point. In foul weather, a storm, it would be impassable. “What do you do in winter, or when the winds come up?”
“Already plotting your escape?” His boot tapped hers. “There’s a road, south from the cottage and then inland for a ways. Eventually it rambles through the forest and back to Haywood.”
“A bit in the wild,” she mused aloud, taking in the geography.
“It is,” he agreed, then looked her over with a meaning she could never mistake, “but it has its charm.”
Alix studied her reins and bit her lip under his continued gaze.
“Do you regret coming, Alexandra?” he asked softly, voice nearly swallowed by the sea.
She snapped to meet his eyes. “No! No. Why would you say that?”
Uncharacteristic worry painted his face, and his shoulders held a tension she hadn’t seen all day. “It's not like you to be so quiet. And I admit I cannot read you at all today.”
Emotions battled against her thoughts, not one pairing into anything reassuring. At a loss, Alix brought her horse in closer and nudged his thigh with an elbow. “I'm here, Spencer. You can read that well enough.”
He reached out and thumbed her chin. “So I can.”
They rounded Darrow Point at last, and Alexandra saw that he had not been jesting. The stone cottage stood on a hill which was set back from a low, sandy embankment being slowly reclaimed by the waves. Its high, narrow face looked out over the sea with a row of wide windows, like gentle eyes softening an otherwise austere facade. Two thick chimneys staked it to the ground and dared the fiercest ocean gales to do their worst. Lush emerald grass waved in fans on hillsides all around, offsetting dusty pink heather that clung tenaciously to the house's foundation and spun out on both sides of the door.
And that was all. As Spencer had promised, not another man or building was in sight. A gentle thrill tremored through her at the privacy, and she bit her lip, looking to Spencer, who nodded. He led her around a slope, skirting a loose embankment and circling the cottage.
As it happened, there was another building hidden behind the house. It was a small stable, its planks weathered by sun and tide. Spencer dismounted at its low stone fence and helped her down, then gathered her bag.
“We can leave them for now,” he explained, nodding to the horses and gathering the valise. “They know the land, and they'll stay close.”
He took her hand and twined their fingers. Alix gave a squeeze, and Spencer responded with equal pressure. Her heart slammed, thrumming in its cage as they reached the door.
The front room doubled as a parlor, the wide, rough oak planks of its floor softened by a thick blue wool rug.
At the far wall, a spindle-backed rocking chair held court before a smooth river-stone fire box. Split wood half-filled a high alcove made for the purpose. Its mantle sailed a hand-carved ship, its proud lines painted white and dusty blue. That was the extent of the room’s decoration. Its tables and chairs were sturdy and natural, polished by time rather than fussy craftsmen. The room was clean and cozy, with not a speck of dirt to be found.
Spencer rubbed his hands together, watching her carefully. “What do you think?”
Alix turned slowly, taking it in, catching swelling waves through a window beside the door. “It's perfect. Beautiful.”
His shoulders relaxed, and Alix sensed her words had lifted some weight. “See your way around. Go up and change if you'd like. I'll bring in more wood and tend the horses.”
S
he stared at him filling the room from floor to ceiling, not entirely recognizing him. He was easy and unbuttoned with an absence of frustrated lines, making him look young.
He stared back, and for a moment Alix felt a palpable cord of tension drawing their bodies together. Then he swallowed hard, nodded at something only he understood, and went out.
She exhaled in time with the door’s closing, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Everything felt awkward, her nerves throwing her off, and she hated it. When he came back in, she vowed it would be different.
First things first, she would learn the house, get comfortable in it. Resolute, she moved from the front room into a narrow hall. A doorway on her left revealed a kitchen which was nearly medieval in construction. A cavernous fireplace dominating one wall was hung with an iron kettle, small embers already winking from the grate below. It also boasted barrels and tubs, a high nicked-up counter for cutting and bread making, and another smaller one beside it, stone-topped for butchering. A pantry and larder filled a wall opposite the fireplace.
To her right off the hall was a small dining room. A comfortable looking gray, wing-back chair sat beside the fire, a small plank table and two chairs not far away. A pale oak sideboard and cupboard hugged either side of the wide window, offering up sturdy white crockery for inspection.
A narrow door led from the end of the hall outside, facing kitty-corner from the stables. Peeking out, she spied a knee-high stone wall which enclosed a surprisingly well-tended kitchen garden. Alix immediately recognized spikes of chive and velvety sage. Mint had claimed an entire corner for itself.
Satisfied with the lay of the land, Alix returned to the great room, gathered her valise and went upstairs. First, she came upon a study of sorts. Front and center was a finely made, cherrywood desk, easily the most expensive bit of furniture in the whole house. Another book shelf sat along one wall, twin to one at the foot of the stairs. A telescope stood sentry at the window, ready for a night sky. A few things littered the desk: a medal, coins certainly not British in origin, a small medallion enclosing a lock of dark hair, a pen knife, and wood shavings. Alix guessed that Spencer spent a lot of his time here.
The next room, the bedroom, was her favorite the moment she stepped inside. Larger than the study by half, two of its walls held little more than windows. They would be impractical in winter, but a rough stone fireplace nearly as big as the kitchen's occupied a third wall, ready to chase away the deepest chill. Beside it stood a square, dependable looking wardrobe.
The bed was a sort of sleigh shape, with a tall, cherry headboard and no canopy. Wide and high, it was stacked with plush quilts beneath a blue and crimson block coverlet. Alix ran her hand over its soft, well-worn fabric, then slipped a hand under the blankets into the cool space beneath and traced a silky cotton sheet. Moving upward, she pressed into a plush down pillow and imagined it below her head, warmed by Spencer's body. It took two steadying breaths to pull away, to put the bed and Spencer from her mind. Hefting her valise, she managed it onto the bed and began to undress, finding it impossible not to imagine it was Spencer doing the work.
* * *
Spencer planted his axe blade-first into the stump and claimed his shirt from the grass. He paused and panted, the sweat beading in his hairline a reminder of just how long he’d been without drill and the army’s exertion. Riding and shooting on the rare occasion Bennet nagged him into it was not getting the job done, physically.
He moved his freshly split pile an armload at a time to the front door, peering in the front windows on each pass for a glimpse of Alexandra. Bryn and Rory stood in the hillside’s deep grass, heads hung beneath their blowing manes. The pair shuffled and snorted at his approach, hinting at displeasure that he’d left them waiting to be put away. “I’m here now, you cantankerous nags. Come on, then.” He cooed and snapped their reins, cajoling both animals up to the barn.
Finished with horses and firewood, he turned attention to his final chore. He worked the creaking iron pump handle, splashing frigid water into a wooden pail at his feet while he considered Alexandra. Why had it been so much easier in town? Conversation had flowed. Quips and glib remarks were handy, and they had been easy in each other’s company. It had all felt so natural.
He shook his head and tried to clear it. He was over-thinking matters, suffering from the nerves of a man two decades younger and a military need to run every damned thing. Spencer grinned at himself and snatched the bucket's fraying rope bail.
It had been simpler with other women. They had followed the steps, minded the rules. Encounters were comfortable, but lacking passion.
He didn't want to follow those steps with Alexandra, and she certainly could give a damn for rules. That put him in unfamiliar territory, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy himself. Exhaling, relaxing, Spencer grabbed the door handle and went in.
The great room was empty, and there were no creaking floorboards overhead. It wasn't until he reached the hall that sounds caught his ears from the kitchen. Staying silent, he passed into the kitchen.
When his eyes found her, he had set down the bucket to take her in. Her dress was a few layers of white lawn and little more than a heavy chemise swirling at her ankles. Sleeves just reached her elbows with no trim or lace to obscure creamy skin. A wide sash caught her waist, drifting behind her as she moved. The gown had a soft effect on her, showing no fuss or formality. Its gauzy white fabric lit Alix's face, making her look much younger. Then she smiled, and his breath caught.
“I don't know about you, but I would like to eat at some point.” She scooped a handful of potatoes and threw them into a kettle he didn't recall owning. “Soon,” she added, tossing in an onion and some oats. “And I hope nothing in here is off limits, because it's all been touched.”
Not sure what to say, Spencer moved behind her, close enough to catch the heat of her body without touching it. Alix reached a hand behind her back and slipped her fingers inside his.
She stopped cutting and relaxed, laying her head back against his shoulder. Smooth skin along her neck teased him and her hand pressed his hip for balance. His body’s response was total and immediate.
Not now, not yet. He pecked her temple and tore himself away. “There's ham in the burrow and some aged beef.”
“Ham,” she answered, watching him now over her shoulder with a stormy gaze that made it hard to look away.
Shaking himself loose, he bent to raise the small stone door. He took the ham from its cool earthen cave and rested it on the block. “Shall I?”
Alix shook her head, her back to him and bent fetchingly over the fire. “No, I can manage.”
“How long will you be?”
She glanced back. “Just the ham and then I'm done. Why?”
“Come outside when you've finished.”
Her smile was wary and sly. “What for?”
“Come outside,” he whispered again, backing away one step at a time, returning her smile, not willing to turn away until she disappeared from sight.
* * *
She missed him at first, seated in high grass beside the house. His hand waved, giving her a hint, and Alix made her way down from the porch with eager curiosity.
Spencer was wrapped in a quilt, and he held it open at her approach. “This is my favorite spot,” he said, snuggling her into the warm crook of his arm. He pointed out over the water. “On a crisp day you can just spy the headlands over there, usually only in fall, but today the view has been obliging. Any other time, it’s just the tide, cresting and swelling.”
She squinted, barely spying the proud slopes of land through an ocean haze but grasping why he loved the spot. If they had settled more to the right, a near cliff would steal their view; more to their left would subtract part of the panorama.
The sun was dropping to the horizon on their left, spilling in at a warm golden angle that obliged her to shade her eyes. Spencer turned his body, pressing her and moving their backs into its heat without dimi
nishing the view. Alix inhaled his scent drifting up from beneath the blanket. It was salty and citrus, crisp like lemons and something oily, bergamot and a hint of wood smoke. She laid her head against his chest and inhaled, dizzied. “I have missed you.”
“Aye.” His shoulders rocked with a nod. “It was hard, coming up alone. Harder to spend the days waiting.”
Exactly the way she had felt. Inside the blanket, she found his hand and wrapped their fingers together.
Spencer leaned away, fiddling with something beside her and then held out a little glass in front of her face. She took it in her free hand and smelled it. “Woo! Scotch.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Traditionally a spot of trouble for me. I can't take much. Well,” she brought it close to her lips, then away, “I shouldn't take much.”
“Good,” Spencer chuckled, holding up his own dram. “I won't have to spend all my best malt on you, then.”
She snorted, pulling out from underneath his arm in order to better manage her drink. “That sounds like a challenge.”
Spencer gave her a once over, warming her head to toe. “Perhaps it is.”
Alix groaned, bringing her thimble-glass close again. “This cannot end well.” She tipped it back with a flick of her wrist. Smoke filled her nose; it burned her throat and warmed her chest. Exhaling, she shook her head and glanced to Spencer, staring back wide-eyed beside her. “What?”
“God, woman. I meant for you to sip it! We're not at Barnaby's tavern,” he cried, pinching her hip under the quilt.
Rather than admit her embarrassment, she held out her glass and smiled. “Stop crowing at being unmanned and fill me up.”
“Lord and saints, Alexandra. Pace yourself.” His chastising fell flat; he was smiling and already refilling her glass.
She was giddy, and the scotch made quick work of an empty stomach. She raised a mock toast. “Pace your self, sir.”