Lord Woodruff looked up, his eyes bulging in surprise. He fired out questions in rapid succession. “What are you doing here? Why are you bothering me?” His arm came down protectively over his writing. “What is it you want?”
John gently pushed Mallory behind him. “I’m your new steward, John Dawson, and this woman is my wife.”
Mallory bobbed a quick curtsey. Lord Woodruff frowned, as if seeing them for the first time. “Steward? I don’t remember hiring a steward.”
“You didn’t. Major Peterson, the Duke of Tyndale’s son, hired me,” John told him.
Lord Woodruff’s great bushy brows came together. “Why do I need more hired help? I have Terrell. I have the dairy maids. What do I need with more interruptions?”
“I’m here to ensure you are not interrupted,” John explained, his voice reasonable even as he began backing toward the door, taking Mallory with him. “Tyndale wants me to run the farm. He thought you would appreciate my help.”
Lord Woodruff pressed his lips together until his face looked like a dried apple with black eyes. “I can’t think about the farm now. I have a book to write. I have work to do. I can’t take time for anything else!”
John pushed Mallory out the door into the foyer as he said, “I understand that, Lord Woodruff. Please, continue with your work. I’ll see to everything else.” He shut the door and rolled his eyes heavenward.
“Do you really think he’s working on a book?” she asked, picking up several of the balls of paper they’d kicked on their way out of the room. Tiny, cramped writing covered both sides of the sheets. She smoothed the papers out and laid them on the foyer table. “Or is he just mad as a hatter?”
“Who knows?” John answered. “Since I’ve been back to London, I’ve met a score of people who claim to be writers and, I have to admit, they are a very odd lot. The question is, is he like this all the time, or only when he’s preparing a book for his publisher? Because if this is his usual state, I understand why Tyndale is so worried—and why he’d like to keep Woodruff as far away from him as possible.”
At that moment, Mrs. Irongate entered the foyer from the opposite direction. “Is everything settled with Lord Woodruff?”
John straightened. “Yes, he’s very pleased to have us on the staff.”
“Excellent,” Mrs. Irongate said, and again batted her wispy eyelashes at John. “Did he tell you where you would sleep?”
Mallory stepped forward. “Isn’t there a house for the steward?”
“Yes, there is,” Mrs. Irongate said. “But it was let to one of the tenants by his grace’s land manager.”
“Where else can we sleep?” Mallory asked.
“You could stay here in the house with us,” Mrs. Irongate offered, her gaze sliding toward John.
John and Mallory both said, “No,” at the same time. Their eyes met, and she couldn’t help smiling at him. For once, they were in perfect accord.
“I didn’t think so,” Mrs. Irongate said with a sad sigh. “There is a small cottage beyond the barn. I don’t know what shape it is in, but I imagine we could make it homey quick enough.”
“I’d love to see it,” Mallory said, anxious to get settled.
“Then follow me,” Mrs. Irongate said. She led them through the back of the house, stopping to introduce them to Mrs. Watkins, the cook, and Lucy, the serving girl. Both the servants preened with girlish delight upon meeting John, especially when he gallantly bowed over their hands.
Mrs. Irongate led them out of the house. “That’s all the help we have in the house and all we need,” she said proudly. They crossed the back lawn to a carriage path. Flowers bloomed in glorious display from several beds. “Lord Woodruff loves his flowers. Takes care of them himself, he does. Says they help him think. Did he tell you about Terrell?”
“He didn’t have an opportunity to say much beyond mentioning the name,” John said dryly.
“Terrell comes from the village and helps around the barn. He’s a wee bit slow, but a nice lad. We don’t actually do much farming here. Two village lasses help him out with the dairy, but I think you’ll see there is a good deal of work that isn’t getting done.” She led them down a stone path that turned to dirt. “This path takes us to the barn. Lord Woodruff won’t bother you much,” she assured them. “He rarely goes out. He’s working on a book, you know.”
“He told us,” Mallory said.
“He’s been working on it ever since I arrived here five years ago. He calls it his ‘epic.’ ‘Course, I don’t know what an ‘epic’ is. I don’t read myself. Seems a waste of time to me for a man to spend all his time writing something most people can’t read, but it keeps Lord Woodruff busy. One thing I should tell you—he will insist on using the coach every Sunday to take him to church. Ten thirty sharp. And he expects us to go with him too. We sit in the pew behind his. Whatever you do, don’t be late. He hates to be late. Our Lord Woodruff is a creature of habit, that he is. Do you know the seams on your sleeves are torn, Mr. Dawson?”
Mallory had grown lost in Mrs. Irongate’s whirlwind monologue, but John answered easily, “Yes, I do.” He then told the story of their being robbed. He wove such an animated tale, even Mallory started to believe it.
She watched as John easily charmed Mrs. Irongate. In short order, the woman promised to provide them with necessities such as a needle and thread, and pots and pans. For a moment, Mallory thought Mrs. Irongate would offer to sew up the seams of his jacket, too, but she took one look at Mallory’s face and pressed her lips together.
Mallory wondered if her irritation at the fawning woman showed that clearly.
Around a clump of trees stood the barn. It was a pleasing old Norman structure of stone and timber with a tile roof. Nearby was a pond with ducks swimming across it. Several chickens scratched in the yard.
“What do you think?” John asked her.
Mallory sniffed the air experimentally. “I think the bedding for the animals hasn’t been changed for ages.” She flashed a teasing look at him. “You may have plenty of fertilizer to use on the fields.”
He sent her a dark look before laughing. “You’d like to see me mucking out stalls, wouldn’t you?
“It could be entertaining.”
Mrs. Irongate led them down a hill and through a small wooded area before they came upon a clearing. There, beside a small gurgling stream and sheltered by the branches of two spreading oaks, stood a small thatched cottage.
“It’s lovely,” Mallory said. “The setting is charming.”
“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Irongate agreed. “The stream flows to another pond about a quarter mile that way. You might wish to use it for your washing and such.”
But when Mallory entered the cottage, she immediately wanted to turn on her heel and leave. The room was little better than a pig sty. The hard dirt floor hadn’t seen a broom in decades, and spiderwebs hung from the wooden ceiling beams.
A bed large enough for two people had been pushed against one wall close to a hearth full of cold ashes. No mattress or bed ropes were laced on the frame. Several pieces of broken pottery lay on the floor. A table and one chair looked to be in good condition, although another chair lay on its side, a leg broken.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Irongate said. “I haven’t been down here for quite some time.”
Mallory turned to John, who was frowning. He took a deep breath before saying, “We’ll just have to make it better.”
“Make it better?” Mallory repeated skeptically.
“Mrs. Irongate, you have bedding up at the house?”
“Oh, yes. We do.”
“Then why don’t we give my wife a moment to relax while you and I fetch some things down.”
“Yes, we can do that,” the housekeeper said, and they left Mallory alone.
Mallory wondered how he’d known she needed these few moments alone. She sank down onto the only good chair, an almost overwhelming sadness threatening to engulf her. She had gone from being the proud lady of Craige
Castle to the hunted mistress of this little hovel. She clasped her hands together, feeling her wedding ring bite into her finger. She wouldn’t give in to her emotions. She wouldn’t. But the struggle to maintain her composure was hard.
By the time John returned with rope and a rolled-up mattress, she had herself firmly in control again and was picking broken pottery up off the floor.
He stopped in the doorway. “Are you going to be all right?”
She looked up at him. “I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. One thing I know how to do is survive.”
He reached a hand out to her, his gaze dark and full of concern. “I’ll make it up to you, Mallory. I promise I will.”
“It’s not all your fault, John. I know that now.” Impetuously, she lifted her hand and brushed it against the hard line of his jaw. His day’s growth of whiskers scraped her skin. “We need to get you a razor. You’re starting to look like a felon.” Her teasing eased the concern in his eyes. He set to work on weaving bed ropes for the mattress. A few moments later, Mrs. Irongate, Lucy, and Mrs. Watkins arrived, their arms loaded with dishes, bedding, a broom, and other household items—including a razor.
Mrs. Watkins also brought a hamper of food. She was a chubby lady with rosy cheeks. “Come to the kitchen on the morrow and I’ll supply you from the food stores,” she promised Mallory. “You’re also welcome to help yourself from our nice vegetable garden. Lord Woodruff doesn’t eat much.”
The first fireflies of the evening lit the path up to the barn by the time the three women had left. In an amazingly short time, they’d helped make the cottage habitable.
John finished tying the bed ropes and tucked sheets around the mattress. Mallory laid out food from the hamper—a cold chicken, cheese, buns, and a jug of cider. “I’m surprised you know how to make a bed,” she told him, and her cheeks flushed as she realized the unintentional double meaning of her words.
He shot her a lopsided grin, acknowledging that he had also heard the double entendre. “I can cook, too.”
Mallory stepped back, feeling awkward. She searched for a safe topic. “Shall we eat?”
The simple meal was delicious, but Mallory could barely finish what was on her plate. She was exhausted and the bed looked far too inviting. She slipped outside for a private moment.
Night had fallen. Croaking bullfrogs called from the stream, joined by a chorus of other night sounds. Some of the tension left her shoulders. She took her time washing her face and hands. Tomorrow matters would look better. Problems always appeared easier to handle in the morning. What she needed right now was a good night’s sleep.
One thing was certain, John had turned out to be the complete opposite of what she’d expected. He no longer seemed the irresponsible scoundrel she’d first thought him. In fact, he was as much a victim of Louis Barron’s treachery as she was—maybe more so since Louis was his uncle. Considering some of the harsh things she’d said to John earlier, she owed him an apology. It would help her sleep better.
Her mind made up, Mallory returned to the cottage. As she crossed the threshold, the first thing she noticed was that John had cleared the table.
The second was that John stood in the middle of the room, getting undressed. He tugged his shirt from his breeches and lifted the hem.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He paused in his actions, one eye peeking out at her through the neck of his shirt. “Getting undressed.”
He tugged the shirt off over his head. His broad-shouldered presence filled the room. Except for her wedding night, she’d never been with a half-naked man before—and in those days, John hadn’t had as many muscles as he did now.
Memories flooded through her, vague, half-focused memories of a night she’d thought she’d all but forgotten. “I can see that. Where do you plan to sleep?” she said.
He tossed the shirt on the bed and unfastened the top button of his breeches, completely at ease as he replied, “Right there on the bed with you.”
Chapter 8
As he was ariding, and ariding one day,
He met with sweet Kitty all on the highway;
I gave her a wink and she roll’d her black eye;
Thinks I to myself I’ll be there by and by.
“Sweet Kitty”
Mallory slammed the door shut behind her. “I knew it!” Fire flashed in her eyes. Angry color rose in her cheeks.
John didn’t think she’d ever looked more stunning—and suddenly sleep was the last thing on his mind. Challenged, he sat down on the bed, willing to play the game with her. “Knew what?” he asked innocently.
“Stay back, John.” She took a step away from him, holding up her hand to ward him off.
He grinned. “Mallory, I haven’t come near you.”
The golden light from the single candle shut out the world beyond its small glow. An insect flew too close to the flame, causing it to sputter, and shadows danced upon the whitewashed walls.
“No, but you want to.”
He laughed. He wouldn’t deny it. Right now his wife held him completely captivated. Her braid lay over one shoulder, her hands fisted at her hips as if she dared him to doubt her.
John leaned one elbow on the bed. “Mallory, we’re married.”
“We’re going to be divorced.”
He wagged a chiding finger at her. “But we want everyone to think we are married. We should sleep together, to keep up appearances.”
Her defensive posture relaxed ever so slightly.
He patted the bed next to him. “Come, Mallory, let us be friends.” Let us be lovers.
He saw her hesitate and knew she’d heard his unspoken invitation. He wasn’t a fool. Whether she admitted it or not, there was a part of her that was deeply attracted to him. It’s what made her so prickly.
And he wanted her.
His feelings went beyond the merely physical. He admired her. He liked her intelligence, dry wit, and courage. In the twenty-four hours they’d been together, he’d begun to think of them as a couple.
It seemed only natural that they sleep together.
Of course, he reminded himself, his wife was still a virgin. But he suspected that what she lacked in experience she’d make up for in creativity. And he was just the man to initiate her. Every muscle in his body vibrated with a heavy, pulsing desire.
Her wary golden brown eyes watched him.
John rose from the bed. He would erase all thoughts of divorce from her mind forever. All thoughts of this Hal person. He had no doubt he could do it.
He walked across to her and reached for her hand, his movements slow, unhurried. Almost reverently, he lifted her hand to his lips and lightly kissed the tips of her fingers. She gave a start as his lips touched her skin. A shiver of excitement flowed through her to him. He went still, giving her time to adjust, and then kissed the top of each and every finger, first one, then another…the third, he tasted with the tip of his tongue.
Her lips parted in surprise, but she didn’t pull away. John took another sample, letting her feel his teeth against the delicate skin at her wrist, and discovered he was the one being seduced. Dear Lord, she tasted sweet, like honey. Warm, sweet, wild honey. It shot straight to his soul with the power of an aphrodisiac.
A new sparkle appeared in her eyes. If that wasn’t an open invitation to kiss her, then John had never received one.
He leaned toward her, closing his eyes, ready to savor the moment—
She covered his mouth with the tips of her fingers.
He opened his eyes. Their faces were mere inches apart.
“What is the matter?” he asked, his lips brushing against her.
“We can’t…” she whispered.
“Yes, we can,” he answered, his voice hoarse with lust. He pulled her hand from his lips.
She turned her head away. Her eyelashes fluttered. “I can’t. I feel so travel stained. Let me bathe. And then we can.”
John let his lips curl in a smile of delicious anticipation
. “Let me bathe you.”
His suggestion shocked her. A bright spot of color appeared on each cheek. He laughed, his low voice full of pride, full of lust. “Sweet little innocent.” He brushed his lips against her hair, her neck, and finally the lobe of her ear, reveling in the warm, heady scent of her. He couldn’t wait to have her naked. “I’ll get water.”
John scooped up the bucket from its place by the table, lifted the bar on the door, and opened it. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he promised.
She nodded, her eyes demurely downcast, her color high.
The heady drum of lust pounded in his ears. Having a wife was a wonderful thing, especially one this modestly enchanting. Eager to return, he slipped out the door, leaving it open.
The night air felt like velvet. The light of a full moon lit his way to the stream. He’d taken only a few steps when the door slammed shut.
Surprised, he turned. The wind must have blown it closed. Funny, but he hadn’t thought there was much wind this evening.
He tried the latch. It lifted but when he pushed the door, it was barred fast.
“Mallory? Mallory, the bar’s down on the door.”
“That’s right,” came her muffled voice from inside. “And it’s going to stay barred.”
“But what about me?” John leaned against the door, dropping his voice in case someone should happen by. “You’ve shut me out.”
“Yes, I have, haven’t I?”
“You can’t leave me out here. Where will I sleep?”
“You can sleep in the barn,” came her incisive reply. “And you can kiss your own fingers!”
John stepped back, refusing to believe his ears. “Mallory, what happened? What caused you to change your mind? You were warm and willing only moments ago.”
“No, you were warm and willing. I stood my ground and bided my time.”
She’d tricked him?
John stared at the door. No, that couldn’t be true.
No woman had ever rejected him before. Not one. She must be suffering from maidenly modesty. Every text he’d ever read in his life, from Homer to Milton, had assured him that virtuous women were shy. They had to coaxed.
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