His and Hers
Page 19
Now it was gone. And she was on her own.
Be careful, oh so careful, what you wish for.
In the distance, a bird broke into song and then was joined by another. Jane fingered the remnants of the skirt she'd ripped up for cloths. Could be she'd start a new fashion trend. The thought made her chortle until she realized she was actually catching herself on a sob.
She stopped, stretching her neck to lean her head back. No tears. No regrets. No time for either. She had to deal with the situation the best she could. If that meant helping Mary get the man she'd always wanted but couldn't have, that's what had to happen.
An author who became so desperate, so frustrated, that she threw her own work, a part of herself, into the fire had bigger problems than Jane did.
And that was saying something.
Curran turned and watched Jane leave, scowling so the others would not know that he would have preferred to follow her. Though her skirt was ripped and partially dragging on the ground and her legs, hands and face dirtied and smudged, she managed to walk with a dignity and bearing he'd seen in few women.
She'd kept her head in a fierce situation, when the flames and smoke had nearly consumed them all. Shown herself to be a heroine worthy of Mary Bellingham's pen.
He must do the same with the responsibilities Mary had given him.
The desire to do otherwise had begun in earnest when Jane and Anne came to him with the real story of Lord Thunder's escape. He had known, without a doubt, what he should do, in what manner he should behave.
Yet he could not.
The trust Jane had so innocently placed in him, by presenting the story and her frightened sister, had gone to his head. Rendered him useless at the deviousness he should be capable of. It would have been simple to take bold action, having the stable boy whipped and young Anne relegated to her room. Or sent home. Curran could have gone to his father and claimed the praise he deserved for his hand in exacting punishment for the sin of endangering Lord Thunder.
Yet he could not.
Two innocent and contrite young faces and one alluring female had undone him to the point that his true nature, instead of the one he fought so hard to cultivate, had again claimed him. He wanted Jane Ellingson for his own with an ill-advised desire that strained at both his breeches and his heart. He wanted her in his bed, instead of just his dreams. In his arms, instead of only his head.
Yet he could not.
She'd disappeared from sight by the time he became conscious of a stirring behind him as the others began to mill about.
"Whatever are we to do now?" wailed Mrs. Hathaway.
"Hush," snapped Violet, most uncharacteristically.
Curran turned, surprised. But then he should not be. The Hathaway woman was enough to try the most patient person, let alone Violet.
James strode to him, rocking upward on the balls of his feet, as he often did when standing by his taller older brother. "We must act swiftly and resoundingly," James said.
Curran regarded him for a full minute or so before responding, "And what would you propose be done?"
"Our author cannot be treated with so little respect." A sharp bob of his chin punctuated the statement.
Curran longed to shake his younger brother, repeating, "And what would you propose be done?" But that would do nothing to help the situation. Instead, it was time he began taking his villain tasks straight to heart. "You are quite right James."
Surprise and then suspicion flashed in the other man's eyes. "Yes." He cleared his throat, announcing loudly, "Yes, I am. I will not have her treated such."
Curran nodded, as though agreeing, when in feet he wanted to bore into his brother's skull that the statement was in fact one he should be making about Jane. Perhaps then all would be sorted out.
He steeled himself for what he must do, while ensuring he showed no sign of the effort on his face. A practice he had become accustomed to over the years. "It is intolerable," he said, agreeing with James, "that Jane would be so uncooperative, would have so little regard for the author who labors on behalf of our tale."
"Indeed." James clasped his hands behind his back.
"Perhaps you—No." Curran shook his head, as if rethinking.
James gave a half laugh. "Surely you do not presume to offer advice."
"Not advice. And not even well thought out, if it were."
"To be expected." James seemed to be making an attempt at teasing his brother. It did not go well.
Curran shrugged and made a move as if to turn away.
"So tell me what this barely thought-out comment would be. So that I may join you in a laugh." His eyes grew wide. James did not know how to tease. "As brothers." Nor did he do well with attempting familial ties he did not believe in.
Still, Curran kept his true thoughts to himself. "It was just that Jane Ellingson appears to be someone who would like a firm hand. A man who would tell her in no uncertain terms what is to go on."
"Ha!" James pointed a finger at him. "That is how little you know her."
Again, he lifted a shoulder. "As I said…"
"Not well thought out Entirely true." James's finger still pointed at Curran as the younger brother began to walk away.
No doubt to find Jane, Curran reflected. And assert that firm hand.
This would be a treat. If he was a gambling man, which indeed he was, his money would be on Jane.
By the time Jane turned to walk back toward the house, determination was well on its way to replacing fear. She would do her part. Do what she had to. And she'd do her damnest to make sure the others did as well.
The group in the gardens had dispersed. Only Curran lingered still, standing with his back to her. He turned as she approached and her heart caught in her throat. His dark eyes burned into her very soul, wrapping her in a fierce heat without touching her body. "You know what it is we must do," he said.
"Yes." One word. An entire future.
"It is perhaps…"
Don't say for the best. It isn't and I don't want to hear those words leave your lips when we both know it isn't true.
He didn't Instead he said, "I shall leave you now."
She cleared her throat, making a small squeak of a sound that seemed to echo her sense of loss. Once he moved away from her, the feeling would be gone. The one that connected them in a way Mary wouldn't. "Yes," she said again, looking at his arm, at the house behind him, anywhere but into his eyes. "I need to find James. As soon as Mary begins to write again, we have to be ready."
"You may be assured that James will devote his full attention."
"I know." Jane sighed. "It's not his attention I'm worried about."
He didn't ask what she meant or say he didn't understand. Because he did, which made things that much worse. Then she felt his whiskers brush her cheek and his lips on her skin. A last kiss, lingering long after his hand left her elbow.
She watched as he walked away. With each step he took, her spirits tumbled further down a steep, twisting staircase and the ache in her heart spread. Wrapping both arms around her stomach, she held on tight, as though she could contain the longing she felt deep inside and keep it from making a suicide leap to run after him.
He had the same determined stride with an edge to it that was distinctly Curran. But she thought she might be able to detect a slight sag to his shoulders that hadn't been there before, as though a new weight had settled in.
The weight of being a villain who was, in his heart, a hero.
"James. I've been looking for you."
He turned around. "Jane."
She'd gone in search of him as soon as she returned to the house and found him in the drawing room with Mrs. Hathaway. They were talking in hushed tones when Jane entered the room. "You and I need to talk."
"Ohhh," simpered the older woman. "Please forgive me. I am most certainly wanted in the—" Gesturing vaguely, she didn't finish the sentence before she began swishing toward the door, darting looks back over her shoulder.
"Indeed we do." He regarded her coolly.
She tried to ignore the stab of disappointment that followed his words. What had she expected, after all? That he would passionately throw his arms around her and declare his undying love? That he had been wrong not to see how absolutely wonderful a catch she was? Not going to happen.
"So we agree on that. I've been thinking," she began.
"As have I."
Oh. She hadn't expected that. "Good," she said, nodding. "Because we're going to have to work together."
He took a few steps to the fireplace and stood, rocking forward on the balls of his feet. "Jane—"
"James," she broke in, knowing she had to get this out now or not at all. "We need to…" This was a little harder than she might have expected. She actually felt a blush began to warm her cheeks. "… Work more romance into our time together. Help Mary with that. Give her the right setting, the right atmosphere, and things will be, you know, easier for us. A midnight stroll. A walk along the pond, talking about our innermost thoughts and feelings. A leisurely horseback ride." She stopped. "No. Scratch that. The sidesaddle thing, that's not me. A candlelight dinner, sharing a bottle of wine, that would be good." Better clarify that one since all the dinners around here seemed to be by candlelight. "With only the two of us."
"And this is what you would propose to do."
Her smile disappeared as she heard the thud of her ideas landing on the ground at his feet He sounded so stern. A lot like a certain college professor whose class she had dreaded every day. The day that professor had tripped over her industrial-sized backpack, (though, she'd felt terrible.
"You speak quite without thought, do you not, Jane?"
Not the you're-so-right-and-I'm-all-for-it answer she'd hoped for. And he was giving off enough ice to serve as a freezer in his spare time.
Talk about things not doing. This certainly wasn't. Not at all. A whitish-hot anger began in the center of her stomach and worked its way through her body with the speed of traffic on a six-lane freeway. "You do things with too much thought, James."
That hadn't quite come out as the chastising she'd meant it to be. He looked confused.
"You can't figure out why this doesn't just happen," she went on. "Why I'm not falling down at your feet madly in love. Or at least madly willing to marry you whether I even like you, or not. I should be grateful for the chance, right? Willing to do anything to be Mrs. James Dempsey?" Her words ran all over themselves, cars barreling down the freeway, careening around corners, off each other and into light posts. "Sure you have money. Sure you're reasonably good-looking—"
"Reasonably?" he thundered.
She'd hit that nerve square on. "Very good-looking. Is that better?"
He narrowed his eyes.
"Not the kind of man 1 usually go for, but you must be Mary's type because she's made it clear you're the one she wants to be the hero, whether you deserve to be or not."
Lightning bolts flashed in his eyes. Don't question his looks or hero status, she stored in the back of her mind for future reference.
"As the hero of this tale," he said, his voice even and his jaw set, "I shall be the one to determine the setting of our encounters. I shall be the one to decide how our scenes together shall work. We can discuss each before Mary begins, if you like." He made a magnanimous gesture, apparently to show he was the very essence of a team player. As long as everything was done his way.
And he talked about their scenes together with all the enthusiasm of making a grocery list. Jane folded one arm over the other, across her stomach. Her foot began to tap. "Why should it be you?"
He sputtered, professing his disbelief. "And who else would it be?"
"You haven't shown me much so far."
"Shown you—? Jane, this is impossible." He shook his head, walking toward the window. "Quite impossible. I have shown far too much tolerance and now I must insist upon your cooperation."
"My cooperation? As if I haven't been giving it?" Her voice sounded childish to her ears and there was that nagging worry that he might be talking about her and Curran. Last night And the way she couldn't stop thinking about him, no matter what she did.
"Your cooperation and sincere effort. I find I must demand it."
Jane's foot tapped faster and she hugged herself tighter. This was going nowhere. And she swore she could still smell smoke, lingering in the air. She drew a breath in and out. And again. Slowly.
Then she walked toward the window. "You won't get any-where by making demands on me," she said to the view of the wide dirt path leading to the estate's front entrance.
He crossed the room and, with a hand at her elbow, turned her toward him. "The setting, as you put it, matters little," he said. There was a conviction in his voice that alarmed her. What if he was right?
As fast as that thought made its way into her brain, Jane shoved it out He couldn't be right or they were all doomed to go up in one big blaze. And nothing right would happen if they both dug in their heels and refused to budge.
She laid a hand on his arm. "It matters to a woman, James," she told him earnestly. "And it matters even more if you really listen to me, am interested in what I say, ask questions about the things that are important and compliment me once in a while to show that you notice things about me." She held her breath, waiting for him to answer. The silence grew heavier with each second that passed.
At last, he said, "It is much that you ask of me."
"I'll do the same for you."
He looked away and then back at her. "I am not convinced."
"You may not be convinced, but at least you're not positive that it won't work to put a few words in Mary's mouth. A few ideas in her head. What do we have to lose by trying it?" Don't answer that.
"And that would repair this romance."
"Would definitely give it a fighting chance. The alternative, I would remind you, singed your eyebrow just a little bit on that one side." She pointed, but at the expression he turned on her, she dropped her hand, letting it fall awkwardly to her side.
"I have never previously encountered such demands. Other females of my acquaintance have been only too happy to comply—"
"That's because you've never met anyone like me." She didn't want to hear about his other women. Not when she was going to have to marry the guy. Just to save his life. Attempting to strike a casual but confident pose, she put one hand on a nearby table, the other hand on her hip. Sass. That's what was called for here. "I'm not demanding, but I am single-minded. When I need to be." There was a difference, right?
Unfortunately, her casual but confident hand knocked a vase to the carpet, where it crashed and rolled around in a very expensive-sounding way. Miraculously, it didn't break. Jane's eyes flew back to James.
He met her gaze. "That is true. I have not made the acquaintance of any other quite like you." Then he sighed.
Finally. They'd agreed on something. Of course, it would have been better if he'd made meeting her sound like a good thing.
Sitting on the grass, Jane pulled at her hair until it tumbled from its structured, absolutely proper style and fell down around her shoulders. She massaged her scalp with relief and then fell back on the ground, arms above her head. It felt good just to lie there, no one judging her, no one putting words in her mouth. Literally.
A few minutes of hope before Mary began writing again. Hope that it would all work out. Hope that everyone would be all right, would get their happy endings. Even that Mary would find hers, the one she couldn't have in real life. So Jane wasn't going to question… too much that James was the object of Mary's unrequited desire. Maybe the author had forgotten a few redeeming personality traits of the original when she created the book's hero. That would explain some things.
As she stared up at white, puffy clouds,
the fresh smell of grass wafted to her nostrils, mixed with the scent of flowers and horses. No exhaust fumes or pollution hazes or other signs of twenty-first-century living. If Mary would just let her lie here for a while, eyes closed, she could get things figured out. And hey, she could come up with a plan for world peace while she was at it. The thought made her chuckle. Different time, different country. Always the same dilemma.
"Jane."
Her eyes flew open. Above her, Anne stared down, her face a question mark. "Are you ill?" the girl asked.
Jane shook her head.
"Ah." Anne nodded, pondering that for a moment. Then she said, "I shall join you." With that she also flopped on the grass and they lay side by side, one Victorian semi-lady and one almost lady, staring up at the slow-moving clouds. Very shortly, the setting lent itself to confession mode. "I was not entirely truthful," Anne volunteered, "about Matthew."
Jane nodded. "I figured that out."
"But a stable boy. It is foolish to even suppose—"
"It does appear that way." She didn't make the rules of this society, didn't even know what they all were, but she'd have to say that someone in Anne's position and someone in Matthew's position didn't often get together for any kind of a relationship.
Still, it wasn't fair. If she had turned down prospective relationships because of what the guy did for a living… Her mother would have been happier, but she would have been the only one. Jane had a quick flashback to the day her mother had dropped in at her college dorm and met Todd, Jane's crush, a redheaded varsity gymnast who, upon introduction, had dropped to the floor to do splits.
Jane had thought it was cute. And in those shorts, the guy's muscled legs were amazing. Her mother had been appalled but gamely reached down to shake his hand. Last Jane had heard, Todd was making his living doing a gymnastics show on a cruise-ship line. Well, if anyone could hang upside down on a moving ship, and make it work, it would be Todd.
"But don't worry." She reached over to give her sister's hand a pat "You're not the only one. This book seems to be all about people wanting relationships they can't have."