by Meara Platt
“No,” she said between sniffles and great gulps of air. She was a little thing and the top of her head barely reached his shoulder, but there was a liveliness about her—a stubbornness, too—that gave her a presence beyond her slender size.
“Has someone been hurt?” His heart lodged in his throat at her nod, his first thoughts drifting to Laurel’s sisters and her parents. Despite their lack of conversation over the past few days, he knew that her family was important to her. He wanted to press her for details, but decided against it. She was distraught and wanted to be held. Indeed, she needed to be held so badly that even his odious touch was acceptable.
“He didn’t have to go,” she said in a strained whisper, burrowing her soft body against his hard frame as though clinging to him would somehow diminish her pain. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, and a warm breeze lightly blew across her golden curls. The beauty of this day was at odds with her anguish. There ought to have been dark clouds and a tempest raging outside, for the girl was in such torment it was clear something very bad had happened to someone dear to her heart.
Yet in her torment, she’d run to him.
Did it signify anything?
Would she ever admit to herself that it did?
He ran a caressing hand through her soft, silken tresses. “Lass, I’m so sorry.”
“He could have bought his way out, but refused.” She spoke into his chest so that he felt the movement of her lips against his heart. Damn. “Julia fainted when she heard the news. She’s Uncle Harrison’s wife. They have a young son. Little Harry. Why did he have to go? And now no one knows where he is, only that he was wounded in battle and possibly captured by the French!”
Laurel was talking about her uncle’s military service. The Farthingales were wealthy and could have paid to avoid sending any family member to fight in the war against Napoleon. Obviously, Harrison Farthingale was a man of honor who was determined to dutifully serve his country.
Indeed, he was now paying a dear price for that duty. Would the wife and young son he’d left behind ever see him again? Graelem had experienced enough battles during his service in the Peninsular war to know the odds were against Harrison’s safe return.
Laurel was still sobbing against his chest as she fitfully continued. “My mother and the female elders are tending to Julia. Daisy’s looking after little Harry. The poor thing, he’s so scared. He’s holding onto Daisy for dear life and refuses to go into anyone else’s arms. The men have gone off to the regimental headquarters to find out more information, and the twins were sent to Rose’s to spend the night.”
She let out a string of hiccups and sniffles. “I… I felt so lost and useless. I didn’t know what to do… or where I should be.”
“Right here, lass.” He gently tipped her chin up so that her gaze met his, although he doubted she could see much through her tears. “I’m glad you came to me. This is where you belong. In my arms.”
“No, I can’t belong with you,” she said in a whispered groan, but her hands slid up his chest and her delicate fingers grazed the nape of his neck as she clung tighter and tighter to him until their bodies were flat against each other.
“You do, lass.” He had one arm around her slight waist and the other buried in her wild, tumbling curls without a clue as to what might happen next. He’d take his guidance from her.
She gazed up at him, her eyes at first reflecting her confusion and then subtly shifting to reflect something quite different. Something quite surprising. Blessed Scottish saints! He understood what she wanted, what she yearned for in that moment. She was asking him to kiss her. Silently pleading for him to kiss her in the hope it would ease her torment.
“Laurel… lass,” he said with an ache to his voice as he lowered his mouth to hers, the touch of his lips purposely restrained and gentle although his need was so raw and hungry that he had to struggle mightily to maintain his control.
His desire for the girl had been building over these past few days to a volcanic tension that needed little encouragement to erupt, but he knew that he had to hold back. Laurel sought comfort, not a quick tumble, no matter how desperately he yearned for it, or how confused and desperate she was to unburden the pain in her heart.
If mere kisses could melt away her unhappiness, he’d kiss her into eternity. But he knew it would take more. It would take love and that was something he couldn’t give her.
Not yet.
Not until he’d secured his inheritance.
For now, he’d give her his protection. He’d give her his strength.
But he couldn’t risk giving her his heart.
He pressed his lips more firmly against hers and felt the urgency of her own sweet lips against his. This Laurel truly was a danger to his heart. This Laurel who needed him fiercely and passionately could unravel all his plans. This Laurel who chose him to heal her and ease her terrible pain could ruin all he needed to accomplish within the month.
He could deny her nothing if he allowed himself to love this Laurel.
He deepened the kiss, allowing the heat of his lips to comfort hers, for hers were cold and trembling. But she responded with eager desperation as he probed with his tongue, opening her sweet mouth and inviting him in as though he belonged. As though he were the only man who could ever belong, the only man who mattered to her. It wasn’t possible. He’d never, ever mattered to anyone before.
Lord, she threw him off balance! It wasn’t only because he was leaning on one leg and would topple with her slightest push.
No one had ever made him feel needed or important. Not like this.
Is this what love feels like? This fierce protectiveness now stirring within me?
No, this was merely a foolish, lustful yearning and nothing more.
He refused to believe it was more.
Any female touch would have stirred the fire now raging inside him. If he repeated the thought often enough, he might actually believe it.
Not Laurel.
Any woman will do.
So long as she looks like Laurel and tastes of summer strawberries like Laurel and feels heavenly in his arms like Laurel.
Without breaking their kiss, he angled his body so that his weight rested against his bed’s footboard, and then he lifted Laurel by the waist and crushed her up against him. He wanted to swallow her up as badly as she’d wanted to be swallowed up inside him. Her body felt hot and alive against his, her ample breasts molding to his chest and her hands now restlessly roaming over his shoulders and back, then up again so that she wound her fingers in his hair.
“Kiss me again, Graelem,” she whispered when he forced himself to end the kiss before matters went too far. He didn’t wish to take advantage of her in this vulnerable state. He could have done anything to her and she would not have protested.
Even now, he felt the uneven heave of her breasts against his chest. He wanted to cup one of those lush mounds in his palm and run his thumb across its tip, teasing until it hardened beneath his touch. He ached to move lower and take the rosy tip in his mouth, coax breathless moans of pleasure out of her.
He couldn’t. Not now. Not like this.
She let out a whimper. “Graelem, I can’t bear the thought of losing him. I can’t bear the pain in my father’s eyes. I feel as though my heart is being savagely ripped apart and it hurts so much.”
“I know, lass.”
She’d never forgive him once her pain subsided. In another moment, the kiss they’d just shared would be a humiliating memory for her. He had to keep that in mind, for he’d already given her good reason to detest him.
He wasn’t certain what to do. Hold her? Kiss her again? Gently set her aside and step back? He simply didn’t know.
He had grown up in a very different family, one that hid all feelings. His mother’s family had been a cold, severe lot. Not exactly cruel, although he’d experienced more beatings than he thought justified. But life at Moray was harsh, so Jenny and Silas learned never to show t
heir feelings or concerns, as though to express joy or sadness was somehow a sin.
Laurel was completely the opposite. If she felt something, she let you know it.
In truth, he liked that about her.
He liked so many things about her.
He kissed her again gently and began to ease her out of his arms with great reluctance. “Sit down, sweetheart.” He motioned to the chair beside his window. One of the footmen had set it there earlier this morning at his request, for he had been too restless to lie in bed with his damn leg elevated and had wanted to feel the warming touch of the sun upon his face. “Tell me about your uncle.” Or not. He wasn’t certain whether offering to listen was the right thing to say.
She nodded and hesitantly released her grasp on his shoulders, as though fearing she’d drown if she ever did let go of him. There was little water about, only the stream of her tears. She hiccupped, sighed, and nodded once again before moving to the chair.
He grabbed his crutches and followed, but remained standing and leaned against the window’s frame for support. He placed his weight on his good leg, hoping it would be enough to stem his discomfort for as long as the girl needed him beside her.
She let out a soft gasp and scrambled off the chair when his lame leg accidentally hit the wall, causing him to wince. “You should be the one to sit, Graelem.”
“No, lass. I’m fine.” But you’re not.
“I’ll grab the stool. Then we can both be seated.” She cast him a hopeful smile. “And talk, if you truly don’t mind.”
He responded with an affectionate grin, pointing to his splinted leg and the sorry state of his attire. A nightshirt and dressing gown were not in the least fashionable or appropriate for a walk in the park. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m at your service. Go on, lass,” he prompted when she seemed uncertain where to begin. “Your uncle sounds like a fine man.”
“The best,” she said with a heartfelt ache to her voice. She took another moment to pick up the stool and set it by his chair, a task he would have done had he been able to get around without the use of his crutches. He offered to take the stool, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s too small for your large frame. You need a chair with a sturdy back to prop yourself up. You’re too big to catch if you should lose your balance and fall.”
He didn’t argue the matter, for she was right. He couldn’t bend his broken leg and was decidedly unsteady on or off his feet.
They sat a moment in silence until he prompted her again, careful to be gentle for she was still distraught. “Is he your favorite uncle?”
“In some ways,” she said with a nod, “but they’re all wonderful. Uncle Harrison is the most adventurous, always talking about someday exploring the pyramids and temples of ancient Egypt or traveling to the silk farms of China. The Chinese silks have long fascinated him, especially being in mercantile. His mind was always on whatever splendid new things the Farthingales could introduce to England.”
He listened while she spoke and subtly encouraged a shift in the topic to the rest of her family, especially curious about her parents and sisters. He smiled and made short comments as she told him stories about them, and then expanded the topic to include more Farthingale relations since there was so much more to her family than just her sisters and parents.
There were Oxfordshire Farthingales. Yorkshire and Devonshire Farthingales. These Farthingales were a boisterous and loving lot.
Laurel obviously adored every member of her large extended family despite their quirks and shortcomings. He was an only child and had spent most of his life working on the Moray estate. He had rarely left Moray except for that splendid summer at Trent Hall with his cousins, Alexander and Gabriel, when he was nine years old.
He’d also spent a few years fighting Napoleon’s army in Spain, returning to Moray when Silas fell ill and could no longer manage the estate and the vast Moray holdings. All of it was to be his, after all. Everything would be his, provided he married by Midsummer’s Day.
The more he listened to Laurel talk about her family, the more he felt he’d made the right decision in choosing her as his wife. But how would he convince her that his decision was also right for her?
He considered Gabriel and Alexander among the closest of his few friends. Unfortunately, neither cousin was in London at the moment to advise him in matters of courtship. He was on his own, but he’d been on his own most of his life and had managed well enough.
He returned his attention to Laurel as she spoke about her eldest sister and how she’d met and married her husband last year. “Rose wasn’t supposed to be abducted with Julian,” Laurel explained, as though danger and intrigue were a normal part of the courtship process. Perhaps it was with these Farthingale girls. They never meant to get into trouble, if Laurel was to be believed, but trouble always had a way of seeking them out.
He could tell by Laurel’s smile as she spoke of her family that she truly loved them. She was particularly close with her sisters, and he envied that bond. Would she ever feel that same affection toward him?
Bah. Why should he care? Their marriage was to be an amicable arrangement, one of convenience and nothing more. Upon his granduncle’s death, he had inherited the title of baron and an entailed manor house that was woefully rundown. Marrying Laurel by the Midsummer’s Day deadline would secure him the remaining Moray assets, those that were not entailed and that accounted for the bulk of the baronial wealth.
He had built up the estate and its holdings through toil and sweat, and was not about to allow his profligate, incompetent distant cousin, Jordan Drummond, to destroy all he’d achieved. For that reason, he needed Laurel.
He’d be generous with the girl once they married, giving her independence and financial security for the rest of her life without further obligation to him.
Indeed, he’d do all in his power to make her comfortable.
“And it all started when Rose’s kiln exploded,” Laurel continued as though such occurrences happened every day. “But fortunately, Lily’s cache of explosives was still safely hidden under her bed, so we knew she wasn’t the culprit. Father confiscated them immediately, of course. Although I doubt there was any danger of the townhouse blowing up.”
“What?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Go on.” Her parents obviously had their hands full with five well-meaning but headstrong daughters. Abductions? Explosives? Did they never speak of fashions or dances or summer balls?
Rose had made her debut last year, and Laurel’s come out was this year. A few weeks in, and she was already in trouble. Perhaps that was why John Farthingale had been a bit harsh with her concerning Brutus.
Who was he to judge the father? He seemed a decent sort and clearly loved his daughters. Were they all like Laurel? She was like a fireworks display, beautiful and fascinating, but if mishandled, one would get singed by that fiery temper of hers. Her parents’ goal, no doubt, was to guide her safely through the London season without further mishap.
Laurel paused after they’d been talking for about an hour, judging by the angle of the sun against the blue sky. “I’ve been quite the chatterbox,” she exclaimed. Still shaken by the news about her uncle, she was clasping her hands on her lap to keep them from trembling. “You shouldn’t have let me go on for so long. Your ears must be numb.”
“My leg is numb,” he said, giving her a tender smile. “My ears are fine. More important, how do you feel?” He reached over and took her hands in his, but held them loosely so that she could draw away if his touch displeased her. To his relief, she didn’t.
“I keep hoping that Uncle Harrison’s carriage will draw up to our front gate and he’ll hop out with a jovial smile on his face and a box of silkworms he purchased to create a new line of Farthingale silks,” she said, taking a deep, ragged breath. “I keep thinking that it’s all been a terrible mistake and the regimental commander will hurry over here issuing his apologies and informing us that my uncle has been found and will be fit to travel home
soon.”
Her hands were still resting in his as she took another ragged breath. “I know it won’t happen. I dread hearing the worst.” She gazed at him in expectation, as though he had it in his power to make things right. He didn’t. He couldn’t fix anything. Not her marriage plans and not her uncle’s safe return. However, he had a few connections in the highest echelons and would seek them out. “Graelem, you’ve suffered loss and seem to have handled it.”
“My leg—”
“No, I mean the loss of a loved one.” A light blush stained her cheeks. “Are you an orphan?”
He didn’t wish to speak about himself, but Laurel would never trust him if he held back now. “I’m in my mid-twenties, too old to be considered an orphan. I don’t know how much my grandmother has told you about me.”
“She speaks often of all her grandsons, but mostly in a general way.”
He nodded. “Yes, my parents are both deceased, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She shook her head and sighed. “When did they die?”
He squirmed in his chair, not liking the path of their current conversation, but he reminded himself that it was important for Laurel to understand him. He wasn’t certain why, only that he had no chance of getting her to the altar unless she knew him and trusted him. He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “My mother died giving birth to me.”
She inhaled lightly and gave the hand she was still holding an affectionate squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”
“So am I, lass. I’ve often wondered what she was like.” He quirked an eyebrow and studied her. “Her family spoke little about her, but the villagers often told me stories of her. She was friendly and caring, but had a willful streak, so I’m told. I think she must have been a little like you.”
Laurel slipped her hand out of his grasp and tipped her chin upward. She grinned as she voiced her mock indignation so that he knew she’d taken no offense. “Nothing wrong with standing up for what one believes in.”