Enchanting the Earl (The Townsends)

by Lily Maxton

  He handed her the walking stick and felt suddenly barren without it. Too exposed. Too vulnerable. An object he’d nearly despised at first had become something he didn’t want to give up. He felt like snatching it away from her. But Annabel was watching him, and the stable boy was watching him, and he didn’t think he could back out with his dignity intact.

  “Give me your hand,” he said gruffly to the stable boy.

  Through some careful maneuvering, he managed to get on the mounting block, and then, with one hand braced in the stable boy’s hand and the other braced on the back of the horse, he swung himself into the saddle.

  It was clumsy and inelegant—his false leg was like a dead weight in this instance, marring his balance, and he very nearly toppled over—but he managed to stabilize himself at the last moment. For a second, he simply looked around. He’d forgotten how the world appeared from the high back of a horse. He’d forgotten the sensation of all this power to be guided by his hands.

  He waited to see if any memories would flood him—he remembered too many horses screaming unnatural human screams, killed, crumpled, lying in pools of their own blood. But the memories didn’t rush in. Instead, a trembling relief poured in to fill his chest. He was mentally able to ride, and that alone was something he hadn’t been sure of.

  “Are you ready?” Annabel said softly.

  Their gazes met, and Theo had to quickly look away from what he saw in her eyes. It was more dangerous than pity, far, far more dangerous. It was compassion—an openness, a wanting to understand, that made him, in turn, want to open himself to her, to make her understand.

  But how could she? He could barely understand himself, or cope with the horrors he’d seen. How could he think about forcing his ugly memories on this wild girl from the moors?

  He nodded—he was ready to try riding again. But it felt like she was asking a far different question, one that went deeper than this moment, one that encompassed past and future. And he was giving a false answer. He knew in his heart that he wasn’t ready, and he probably never would be.

  He followed her from the stables and into the gray, open expanse, into cool air that smelled like rain. He breathed deeply, thinking that, for a moment at least, he could enjoy himself. For a moment, he could forget.

  It didn’t take him long to realize it was difficult to press as firmly with his artificial leg, and he had to adjust his seat slightly so his cues weren’t unbalanced. For several minutes, he tested out his new seat, gradually increasing and decreasing speed until he felt comfortable again. Once he did, he nudged the gelding to a trot to catch up to Annabel on the trail ahead of him.

  Relief washed over him. He was physically able to ride, too. This was one thing war hadn’t taken from him. One thing it hadn’t stolen.

  “Do the horses have names?” she asked when he drew alongside her.

  “Robin and Marian.”

  She laughed. “I suppose you didn’t name them?”

  “Georgina did,” he said with a wry twist of amusement. “I was content with calling them the gray and the chestnut.”

  “Of course you would be,” she said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “There is nothing wrong with a little whimsy, Lord Arden. Speaking of which… I wonder if Marian is faster than Robin,” Annabel said idly, glancing between the two horses.

  “No,” he said, alarmed.

  “No?”

  “I agreed to go riding with you, not race at breakneck—”

  She kneed Marian into a gallop over the dirt trail, and he was left watching as the wind took her hair from its pins, unfurling the strands into streamers behind her. Wondering if she had too much of a head start for him to catch up.

  He was actually considering it. He must be an idiot.

  But Annabel’s graceful, straight back, her soft hair flying out behind her like a wild bird, the pounding of Marian’s hooves in a primitive rhythm…it called to him. It drew him, as surely as a moth to a flame.

  And when she took a moment to call, “Coward!” gleefully over her shoulder, he did what he’d been poised to do since she’d sprinted ahead.

  He chased after her.

  The wind whipped around him, billowing his coat and tumbling his hat from his head. He didn’t slow as the hat caught beneath Robin’s hooves. He leaned low over the horse, Robin’s mane flicking against his face. Adrenaline pounded through him, matching Robin’s gait, matching the thump, thump, thump of his heart.

  In those moments, breath to breath, beat to beat, he felt gloriously, agonizingly alive in a way he hadn’t since the war. In a way that was purer than any battle, because it wasn’t tainted by the ever present specter of fear. Those spaces between breaths weren’t taut with the possibility of death; they were full of giddy joy and sharp focus. They were filled with the possibilities of life.

  He caught up to Annabel and surged in front of her, a rusty laugh escaping from his chest. He crested the hill, looking on as the loch emerged before him, deep and still and gray, a body of water that looked otherworldly enough for him to contemplate the existence of sea monsters in its depths.

  He slowed Robin and pulled at his reins to face Annabel, grinning broadly. When she saw him, her lips parted in surprise.

  “What?” he asked, battling a surge of self-consciousness, smile fading. “What is it?”

  “You…” She stopped. Something in her face shuttered. “Nothing. Let’s return.”

  They walked at a slow pace back, letting the horses rest.

  “How often do you ride?” Theo asked before he could stop himself.

  “As often as I can. I find it very calming. Very peaceful and relaxing.”

  He glanced at her sharply, his chest tightening. For a moment, he’d forgotten about the night before. He wished she’d forgotten, too. “You’re not even trying to be subtle.”

  “If you crave subtlety you should look elsewhere. I’m not a subtle woman.”

  He snorted. He tried to hold onto his anger but was unable to. She didn’t push him further, and there was something about her beside him and Robin’s easy gait under him and the oppressive gray of the sky that he liked.

  Until the sky split apart.

  When they were nearly to the stables, the clouds opened and a sheet of cold gray rain came down, so thick they could barely see a few feet in front of them.

  “Oh blast!” Annabel swore. Theo winced as the wind sent harsh gales against his face.

  By the time they entered the stables, they were both drenched, even though they’d been in the rain for less than a minute. Annabel pushed her dripping hair back with one hand and looked at Theo with a lopsided smile.

  “I think your stable boy left,” he said, for lack of anything better to say. His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

  “So he has,” she remarked. “He must not have expected us back so soon. Do you need me to help you dismount?” When he hesitated, she rolled her eyes. “There is nothing wrong with asking for help.”

  “An easy thing for you to say,” he pointed out. “You aren’t the one who needs it.”

  But there was nothing for it. Now that he knew he could do it, he could work on mounting and dismounting on his own, just as he’d relearned how to go up and down stairways, but it would take practice, and patience.

  For now, he reached out his hand for her, and she quickly swung down and came to Robin’s side. He gritted his teeth, then braced his weight on his left leg, swinging the fake leg back over the horse. Except he didn’t swing it high enough. The wooden leg glanced off the saddle, and he didn’t so much dismount as fall into Annabel, nearly knocking them both on their arses. But she was stronger than he’d given her credit for; she promptly wrapped an arm around his waist and braced him.

  That slight contact made his pulse quicken. His hands had found her shoulders, which, covered by wet muslin, were as good as bare, and he wanted nothing more than to push, to press, to exert enough pressure to draw her against him. Instea
d, shaken by the intensity of how much he craved the heat of her body, he let his hands fall.

  Embarrassment pooled in his stomach and heated his face. Annabel stepped away to dry off the horses with a blanket before stabling them, and it took him several seconds to work up the courage to look at her.

  She was trembling. For a confused moment, he thought it was because of their earlier proximity, but then he realized she was cold.

  It was at least a ten minute walk to the castle and that walk would be unnavigable in this kind of rain. If she didn’t get dry soon, she might catch ill. As much as the alternative felt like a jagged, treacherous ravine that should not be crossed under any circumstances, it really wasn’t much of a choice when her health was at risk.

  He paused, and then plunged ahead recklessly. “We need to remove our clothes.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Annabel glanced at Theo swiftly, certain she’d heard him incorrectly. She shut and latched the stables, trying to gather her thoughts.

  She shouldn’t need to remind herself that this was the man who was basically keeping her under house arrest until he threw her out.

  But she was reminding herself of it every thirty seconds. Riding together had been a bad idea. She had no use for the flash of desire that had sparked when he’d turned on Robin, his face lit with a glorious smile, his youth clear and vibrant and beautiful, such a stark juxtaposition from the way he’d looked the night before at dinner.

  And she certainly had no use for the ache she’d felt deep between her legs when her body had been so close to his.

  Anyway, she preferred easy men. She was attracted to easy men, lively men, the ones who didn’t brood, or think constantly, the ones whose smiles didn’t look like they were drawn from some secret depth of their soul. The man in front of her was anything but easy.

  “Annabel,” he said, more impatient now. “We need to remove our clothes.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I…I…th…thought I’d misheard you.” Her teeth chattered as she spoke.

  He frowned. “You’re cold. You need to get warm.”

  She wondered how much of her body was revealed to him in the damp garments. A Spencer jacket covered her torso, but below was just plain yellow fabric. She forced herself not to look down and give away her sudden embarrassment.

  She’d never been this easily embarrassed before. Had always been able to manage a veneer of confidence, at the very least. Now, even the veneer was slipping. Why did Theo have such a strong effect on her?

  “Are these blankets clean?” he asked, indicating a pile of dark wool blankets in the corner. She could tell he was completely oblivious to her tumultuous thoughts, which was probably a good thing.

  “They should be,” she said.

  When he discarded his gloves, shrugged off his coat, and proceeded to unbutton his waistcoat, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed, casting a furtive glance, even though there was no one around except the horses.

  “I don’t know about you, but I recently spent weeks in a sick bed. I don’t feel like falling ill just for the sake of modesty.”

  He pushed aside his trouser braces and peeled off his thin lawn shirt, which clung to his skin wetly, only releasing its grip when he pulled, like a lover who didn’t want to let go. Oh dear. She stood in the middle of the stable, blinking like an idiot.

  Theo Townsend’s body was a thing of beauty.

  Broad shoulders gave way to wiry biceps and sinewy forearms. His chest was finely contoured, tapering down to a thinner waist. Black hair dusted a trail down, down his flat stomach like an arrow, teasing, hinting at what lay beneath his trousers. He wasn’t bulky in build, but lithe and strong and graceful.

  Her face was hot, her throat thick. She was about to turn away when a pale mark on his shoulder caught her attention. She gasped, her eyes narrowing.

  “Is that a bullet wound?”

  He hesitated, his eyes flicking to the scar. Then he shrugged. “Bayonet. It didn’t get infected. I was back in the field a fortnight later.”

  “And I suppose you never told your siblings, did you?” She was suddenly angry with him. Why did this obstinate man have so much trouble opening himself up, letting himself be vulnerable, leaning on anyone else, for even a moment? Didn’t he realize his family loved him? She could see it as clear as day, and she hadn’t even known them very long.

  “They would just worry and it would have been unnecessary. I was fine.”

  “The wound was fine. That’s not the same thing.”

  His eyelashes flickered, and he looked away. She felt a surge of bitter satisfaction. Which was immediately wiped away by fascinated horror when he said, “Face the other way. I have to take my trousers off.”

  “Surely you don’t have to,” she said, her voice a little too reedy.

  “I don’t…” He stopped, and when he continued his voice was tight. “I don’t want the leg to get too wet.”

  Oh. She turned aside, focusing on Marian, running her hand through the horse’s rough mane. But some devil in her was too curious to let this opportunity pass. She turned her head slightly and looked at Theo out of the corner of her eye.

  She gulped, nearly choking. He’d turned away from her and taken off everything. She cast a passing glance at the wood, metal, and leather of his artificial leg, but was far more interested in the curve of his buttocks, the strong muscles of his thighs. Something in her abdomen quickened and she jerked her gaze away.

  When he next spoke, he was wrapped comfortably in a wool blanket, unfortunately looking like some kind of mythical winter king—all dark hair and dark eyes and skin pale from the cold and stern glances—instead of what he was, a frustrating, bedraggled man. She shivered so hard her teeth clacked together.

  The rain continued to pound merrily at the roof, preventing any escape attempts.

  “You’re going to catch ill,” he said flatly.

  He was right. She might be uneasy about the idea, but she also wasn’t about to sacrifice her health for modesty. She was a little too pragmatic for that. A long sigh of defeat escaped her. “Turn around then.”

  But when she tried to reach behind her and unlace her dress, her numb fingers wouldn’t cooperate. She couldn’t even grasp the ties because she couldn’t feel them.

  “I…I can’t,” she muttered, feeling vulnerable enough that the emotion morphed into the sharp edge of annoyance. “You’ll have to do it for me.”

  Without speaking, he approached her. His warm breath gusted against the back of her neck and she shivered—and this time it had nothing to do with the chill. His fingers grazed her as he unlaced the dress, slowly, carefully, so painstakingly, in fact, that she wondered if the occasional brush of his bare knuckles through the soaked fabric of her petticoat and chemise was purely accidental.

  She found herself living for those moments, found her world dwindling to that one point of contact, found her breath pausing in her lungs as she waited for the next sudden, gentle touch. She couldn’t remember ever being affected so strongly by a caress that was by no means completely innocent, but certainly wasn’t lascivious, either.

  “How did you get that scar?” she asked, both because she was curious and because she needed a distraction.

  “It’s not a very pleasant story,” he murmured, his breath agonizing and hot on her neck.

  She huffed. “I’m not interested in a pleasant story. I’d prefer the truth.”

  “I’d rather not expose you to that sort of ugliness. I’d rather not expose anyone.”

  She turned her head, meeting his gaze over her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of something like longing for just an instant before his face grew shuttered and dark. She wanted to soothe him. She wanted to help him. She wanted to break down this impenetrable wall that kept the pain away but kept everything else away, too. But at the same time, if he needed the wall to survive, who was she to tear it down?

  How wounded was Theo Townsend, and wh
at would he do if she tried to help him? She’d tried to rescue a raven with a broken wing once, as a young girl—she’d only ended up with a bloody hand for her pains. The raven had pecked at her viciously, too frightened to accept her aid.

  And why did she even care about helping a man who didn’t care about her?

  With a helpless sigh, she stepped out of her dress and pulled off her sodden petticoat. Behind her, Theo’s breath caught. She imagined not much of her backside was left to the imagination through the thin, wet fabric of her chemise. She wondered if he liked what he saw. Some aching part of her hoped he did.

  “My stays,” she whispered, lust rushing through her veins like fire. She’d felt attraction to men before, but not like this bright, unfurling need. Never like this.

  There was a pause, as though Theo braced himself, and then his hands were back, unlacing her stays until they opened and her chest expanded on a deep inhale.

  He retreated from her and she withdrew the last of her clothing before wrapping a blanket around herself. In the corner by the pile of blankets was a stack of straw bales that hadn’t been used yet. Theo lowered himself onto the stack to wait out the rain.

  Annabel watched to see if the blanket might fall open, but it didn’t. An irrational disappointment swept over her. A foolish disappointment that she immediately pushed aside.

  She went to sit beside Theo, her blanket trailing behind her like a train. He was, very carefully, not looking at her. She wanted to know what bothered him more—that he’d almost forgotten to protect himself, or the fact that he desired her. Because she suspected he did—it had all been there in that startled breath when she’d taken off her petticoat. And the most troubling thing was she didn’t know how she felt about this new knowledge.

  She didn’t know where that would place them—would he still want her gone? Maybe he would want her gone even sooner. He didn’t seem like a man who would enjoy being at the whim of something as fickle as lust.

  And what about her? She could tamp down her own desires more easily if she didn’t think they were returned.