Wildwood Flower

by Dayna Quince

  He set two cups on the table in the center of the kitchen used to prep food. It was the same table Charlotte had grown up with, worn on the edges, and telltale cuts on the surface. There was still a burn from when spilled oil had caught fire.

  Emotion flooded her, hot and overwhelming. She’d never felt such anger, such hatred for a person as she did Lord Shelding and, in a way, her father. This house was hers, as it was her mother’s. It had passed from mother to daughter through dowry, and yet it was already being used without her knowledge, without her consent. The same way she was being used.

  Charlotte clenched her fists under the table, trying to get hold of her emotions. It was at that moment, Mr. Thorn turned around with the kettle.

  “I’m not much of a tea drinker, but I’m told it’s as necessary as the air here in England.”

  Charlotte tried to laugh. “Do they not drink tea in America?”

  “Not as devoutly—at least, not the men. The women still have their rituals.”

  “I’m not sure afternoon tea counts as a ritual.”

  He shrugged. “The same behavior repeated at the same time every day…”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” Charlotte felt some of her anger slipping away. “It almost sounds like witchcraft. Brewing and steeping, adding ingredients, and at the end you’ve created a magic potion that can heal just about anything.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll never look at milk and sugar the same again.”

  His laughter was warm and deep, and it erased almost all her agitation. Perhaps the tea wasn’t magic but he was. She poured for them both, and he offered her some milk and sugar.

  “Only sugar,” she said. She dropped in two cubes and stirred. “Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and tea kettle bubble.”

  He laughed, loud and free, leaning back against the sink. Charlotte couldn’t help herself and laughed too. She also couldn’t help the full body rush of embarrassment. She’d never made anyone laugh before, not like this. She didn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t witty like Lucy or Hazel. She rarely made jokes in earshot of anyone. What had come over her just then?

  She quickly took a sip of tea, which was far too hot. She choked, coughing into her sleeve as her eyes watered. His booming laughter slowed to a chuckle before he wiped his eyes and looked at her.

  “That was splendid,” he said as he picked up his own cup. He tossed the tea back in one swallow and set the cup down.

  “Shall we commence with our walk?”

  “Certainly.” Charlotte abandoned her tea. The leaves were stale, and all the sugar in the world would not make it palatable. She took his offered arm, and they headed out the kitchen door.

  Chapter 6

  June 30th, 1821

  Dear Rose,

  I hope this letter finds you well. This summer has been lacking in diversion, but I find I do not mind. The hops have reached full height, and it is enjoyable to take a blanket and read between the rows. My father has high hopes for this yield. They look to be thriving. If the harvest goes well, I may ask to return to London next season. Gentlemen come and go through Faversham, far too quickly to form any sort of attachment. It doesn’t help that Mr. Chadwick pays me more attention than he ought. He’s like a cat, and I’ve got bits of fish in my pockets. I give him no encouragement, this I promise you, but still he persists. What else can I do when a simple no won’t suffice?

  * * *

  Your friend,

  Charlotte

  Thorn led her out to the fields, pride snaking through his veins at the sight of the towering rows of hops, a sea of green stretching across the land as far as he could see. He inhaled the sweet grassy aroma, sighing with bliss. He looked down to the woman at his side, hoping to see the same wonder he felt upon looking at a thriving hop yard.

  She was frowning.

  Thorn hid his disappointment. He didn’t expect her to be as excited as he was. She probably knew very little about what she was looking at, but still. Hops at full height were a sight to behold. How could she not be impressed? He turned her down the first row, still shooting looks at her to see her reaction. She tilted her face up, squinting.

  “Have you been in a hop yard before?”

  “Yard?” She finally looked at him. “Is it not called a field?”

  “It is in a general sense, but myself and those in the business of growing hops and brewing beer call it a yard.”

  “Interesting.”

  He looked down at her. She looked anything but interested, which made him more interested in her. For an innocent country girl, she was proving to be quite mysterious.

  “You must be familiar with this sight, having lived here all your life.”

  “I am.”

  “Does your family grow hops?”

  “He tried.”

  “He?”

  “My father, I mean.”

  “To no success?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “You don’t sound enamored of the plant.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Not particularly.”

  “What does your father grow now?”

  “He doesn’t grow anything. He has a shop in the town proper.”

  Her face was unreadable as she said this. She looked stonily ahead of them. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman was so unimpressed in his company. Probably not since he was a boy and a lowly farmer’s son. Even then, he was the tallest boy in their small village, and he’d been blessed in appearance. He never wanted for the attention of the fairer sex, unless they saw themselves above his station.

  But a shopkeeper’s daughter? She was not above him. They were both of the merchant class, and he was thankful for that.

  Because he found he desperately wanted her attention.

  More than any other woman.

  This girl—this woman, she was different. He wanted to know her, wanted to solve the mystery. He shouldn’t, he should stay far away from her. That’s precisely what Pruitt’s dour expression had said before he left them to their own devices. But Thorn was never good at following orders. The question was, what was he going to do about Charlotte? Here she was. Alone with him. He was no saint, but he also wasn’t stupid. She was a risk with almost no chance of reward. He didn’t come to England to find a wife. He came to make money. He came to ensure his brewery would succeed far above the expectations of every person who thought him nothing more than a poor farm boy.

  He came to prove it to himself.

  So why was he walking her through his hops yard, hoping she’d be impressed?

  Why was he risking anything for her?

  “You don’t have to pretend to be interested in the hops, Charlotte. I’ll take you home or anywhere you want to go.” They stopped at the end of the row, and he turned her to face him.

  “Losing a pet can feel like losing a person. I’ve befriended many animals in my time and lost many of them, as well.”

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were clouded, and not just because the skies were dreary and rain misted over them. She was hiding something inside, something painful.

  “I don’t want to go,” she said.

  Her voice was so small and quiet, he wanted to pull her close, protect her from whatever hurt her, but he didn’t. He needed to distance himself from this woman before she took up any more space in his mind. He couldn’t afford the distraction.

  But nor could he deny the burning desire he had to be near her.

  “You can tell me whatever it is that has upset you. Unburden yourself to me. I’m strong. I can take it.”

  Her eyes shuttered closed. “That’s precisely the problem.” She opened her eyes; they were bright with unshed tears. “I’m weak. I need to be strong, stronger than I’ve ever been, but I don’t know how. I can’t speak for myself, protect myself, or demand the things I need. And I’m afraid. I’m so afraid of what will happen to me if I can’t do those things.”

  He was stunned. He’d bet his fortune this went far beyond l
osing a beloved pet. “You’re doing a remarkable job of it right now.”

  “That is because I’m with you. You make me feel…stronger. Different.”

  Thorn felt her words like a blow. They wrapped around his heart and squeezed, robbing him of speech. He stepped closer. “What do you mean?” His heart pounded. This small woman had quickly unraveled him.

  “I don’t know what I mean. It’s madness.”

  “Charlotte.” His voice scraped his throat. He took hold of her elbows. He couldn’t let her say more, or he didn’t know what he would do. Emotions tumbled through him.

  “I’ve known you for one day, but somehow, when I’m with you, I feel better, stronger, and less afraid.”

  He hugged her close, his hand cradling her small head. Her words terrified him. He wasn’t deserving of them, but at the same time, they made him feel like a hero, a king.

  He turned her head until she was forced to look up at him, and then he kissed her.

  She may not be afraid, but he was terrified.

  He kept the kiss light and gentle, because he knew without a doubt, this was most likely her first. He was not a scoundrel. He knew he was probably the last person able to rescue her from whatever nightmare she was living, but he could give her this, a decent first kiss. Something worth remembering.

  He lightly swept his tongue across her bottom lip, and she quivered in his arms. Her hands fluttered over his shoulders until they rested there. Thorn adjusted his hold, deepening the kiss, adding just enough pressure to invite a response from her. Kissing was best when both partners participated. If he was going to give her a proper kiss, he may as well make it thorough.

  She surprised him by opening her mouth just a tad. Was it a gasp? Either way, he quickly darted his tongue inside, swiftly, lightly, just to give her a taste.

  He was rocked back on his heels when her tongue came chasing after his.

  Charlotte boldly repeated his touch. The first touch of his lips had been unexpected, and her mind had flown the coop. But slowly she gathered herself together and rapidly discovered how wonderful kissing was. Her body pressed against his, warm and sturdy, tucked into his like a puzzle piece. His lips were lean and soft.

  And then he’d used his tongue. Her nerves had come alive at this hot, velvety touch. Exquisite. Delicious. She copied him and now they dueled, languidly, reverently. He tasted like the whisky smelled, sweet and warm, with a smoky hint.

  She shivered, excited and enthralled. She couldn’t get enough of him. His touches made her feel as if she were swimming in silk sheets, and her clothes were bothersome. He angled their heads in opposite directions, thrusting his tongue deeper. Charlotte could feel the caress all the way to her toes.

  She moaned softly, unable to stop it.

  He gathered her close, his hands pressing into her back through her thick cloak. Her arms snaked around his neck, and her breasts pressed against his chest. The sensation was delightful. It felt as right as breathing.

  How had she lived most of her life, not knowing such delicious sensations awaited her? How did couples stand to be separated from this? Then she understood. This was why chaperonage was so important. Because kissing, touching, these things were amazing and addictive. She didn’t want to stop; she never wanted to stop.

  But then he stopped.

  He pulled his head away and looked down at her, his breathing ragged.

  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes. “Please don’t apologize.” It would taint the memory if he retreated with words of regret. She would never regret this moment. She may have to relive it in her mind daily just to survive the coming years.

  He was silent and curious, so Charlotte peeked at him. He was smiling.

  She exhaled with relief.

  “Have you ever been kissed, Charlotte?”

  She shook her head and licked her lips. She could still taste him.

  “Good.”

  He sounded satisfied.

  It made her feel warm and tingly throughout her body. “Good as in, I wasn’t terrible?”

  “You have a lot to learn, but you are a natural.”

  Naturally wanton, it would seem. She was still pressed tightly against him and had no desire to move away.

  He must have better sense than she, or more experience and self-control, because he eased her away and looked around.

  Charlotte smothered her disappointment and smoothed her skirts. “I suppose now I should be going.”

  He squinted at the sky. “I should get you home. This storm will get worse before it gets better.”

  Charlotte looked down at her gloves. The seam of one finger was about to unravel. She rubbed her finger over it. “I suppose next you will say we shouldn’t see each other again.”

  “I should,” he said.

  But he didn’t say more, so she looked up at him. She needed to understand him. Either he wanted this or he didn’t. If he didn’t, well… Charlotte wasn’t sure what she would do. Falling to pieces was an option. He was quickly becoming the only good thing in her life, and she was putting so much of her hope into him. If only… She didn’t let that thought finish.

  “I’ve never been good at following orders, or knowing when I should do the responsible thing. I think we both know that there is something between us and exploring it is inherently dangerous.”

  Her heart stuttered. Please don’t, she wanted to beg. Another word and he’d annihilate her.

  She braced herself.

  “But I can’t stop myself. You’ve bewitched me.” He dipped his head and kissed her lightly, a quick kiss. Charlotte wanted to cling to him but she didn’t. She found the strength to pull away.

  “When will I see you again?”

  “I will be here every day for the next three months.”

  “I know these woods. No one goes there but me—er, now that the father and daughter are gone. We could...” She gathered her courage. She’d never wanted anything as much as she wanted him. “We could meet in the mornings.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Mornings are a bit early for assignations.”

  She blushed. “I’ve never done this before.”

  He chuckled and cupped her shoulders. “I know, sweetheart. You’re an innocent. I’d be happy to see you anytime you wish it.”

  She wished she never had to leave his side again. “Some afternoons I can manage to slip away.”

  “But how will I know when to come to you?”

  Charlotte looked back toward the woods. He didn’t know this land as she did. For the first time in her life, she would have to be brave. If she wanted to see him, she would have to lead the way down this uncharted path.

  “There’s a woodman’s cottage. It’s abandoned now. When the hearth is lit, one can see the smoke through those trees.” She pointed.

  He nodded.

  Charlotte grew nervous. She had no idea what she was doing now. She bit her lip.

  “Where will you go now?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

  “I don’t know. Home, I suppose.”

  He nodded and took her hand. “I have a cart.”

  She pulled her hand back and he stopped. “We cannot…”

  “Be seen together. Right. I’d forgotten.” He set his hands on his hips and stared at her.

  Would he back out now?

  “I don’t like the thought of you walking about alone in a storm.”

  “The storm is not the danger.”

  “That is exactly my point.”

  “Everyone knows me, and they know who my family is. I assure you I’m safe to walk freely outside my home.”

  “As long as your family doesn’t know about it?”

  “Right.”

  His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and then he straightened. “May I at least walk you to the wood?”

  “That would be fine.”

  They walked in silence. He took her hand as they climbed the slope but didn’t let it go when they reached the top. They faced
each other.

  “Until tomorrow,” she said.

  “At first light,” he added.

  Charlotte nodded. “Good day, Mr. Thorn.”

  “I think just Thorn is acceptable now, at least out of earshot of Pruitt. Only my mother calls me Christopher.”

  “Thorn.” Charlotte blushed. She hoped she didn’t accidentally call him Thor.

  “Charlotte.” He smiled.

  Charlotte smiled back and turned away. The longer she stood there, basking in his warm gaze, the harder it was to leave. She pulled her hood over her head and slipped into the soothing shadows of the forest.

  Thorn stood there until he could no longer see her, and then turned back to the house. He had a lot to think about and a lot to answer for. It would be a miracle if no one had witnessed that kiss. He’d been everything but discreet. Pruitt was probably waiting to whip his hide.

  He was playing with fire, and he knew that. But he couldn’t resist it, not when the fire—Charlotte—made him feel like he was so much more than the simple man he was. The way she looked at him made him feel capable of anything, of conquering the world.

  But that didn’t mean he could conquer himself. He was a man, and everything about her called to all his instincts. His fascination wouldn’t ebb unless he indulged it. It was risky, more than a little foolhardy, but the choice was made the moment their lips touched.

  He was going to dally with an unmarried, young Englishwoman. He could not court her openly, and he sure as hell couldn’t marry her, but he was going forward anyway.

  She seemed to be aware of the risks. She always reminded him that they couldn’t be seen together by the townspeople.

  At least he knew where he stood with her.

  Chapter 7

  September 3rd, 1821