Falling in Love Again

by Cathy Maxwell

  In fact, he had it on great authority—from the other officers in the army—that virtuous women didn’t like sex. Only those of bad moral character, of whom John had known plenty, enjoyed carnal passions.

  Mallory was probably suffering from an attack of nerves. He should be pleased his wife was so innocent…although virginal shyness was a damned nuisance when he wanted to make mindless love to her all night.

  He leaned his shoulder against the door. He kept his voice gently even. “Mallory, open the door and let’s talk about it. I know you may be shy and a little frightened, but your fears are misplaced. You can trust me.”

  At first, John didn’t think she’d answer. Maybe she hadn’t heard him. And then, he thought he heard something that sounded like…he had to strain to hear, putting his ear against the good solid door…laughter!

  She was laughing at him!

  John pushed away from the door, his body tight with surprised humiliation. “Mallory, let me in,” he said, with all the authority at his command.

  “No!”

  “Mallory!”

  She didn’t answer.

  In frustrated anger, he threw the wooden bucket at the door. It shattered. “Now, look!” he shouted. “I broke the bucket!”

  “Then you’ll have to replace it.”

  Had the woman no sensibility? No soul? John pounded the door with his fist hard enough to make the wood bounce. “Open up this door, Mallory.”

  “Go sleep in the barn, John. You’ll not be sleeping in my bed this night—or any other night.”

  John took a step back from the door. “Is that a challenge?”

  “No, that’s not a challenge,” she said, and he could tell by the sound of her voice that she was standing directly opposite him. “It’s a promise.”

  “You’re my wife—”

  “Wife? You didn’t want me, remember? You left me. And I waited for you, John. Fool that I was, I waited. Waited for a very long time, but I’m not waiting anymore.”

  John let her words sink in, hearing the truth of them. He also heard something he didn’t think she wanted him to hear. He heard loneliness and pain, the kind of pain that only another person who has been deserted could understand.

  A pain he understood all too well because he’d been raised with it. He’d felt that pain almost every day of his childhood, knowing his mother had been sent away because of him. Knowing that no matter how hard he worked to excel, he would always be considered by his tutors and classmates as an impostor, the Barron bastard.

  The lust throbbing through his loins died a sudden death, and John knew they couldn’t avoid discussing his desertion any longer. “I never meant to hurt you, Mallory. Never.”

  No answer came from the other side.

  John pressed both hands against the door, wishing he could see her face. “Mallory?”

  She still didn’t answer, but she was there, listening. Every instinct told him so.

  He spoke slowly at first, cautiously feeling his way. “I didn’t leave to hurt you. I left—” He paused. “I was young…confused.” That much was very true. “And angry.”

  John pressed his cheek against the cool, smooth wood of the door. “Yes, I left, but I didn’t run away from you. I ran away to find myself.” He paused, wishing she would say something, anything.

  But the woman on the other side of the door was silent.

  “Mallory, I admit it was wrong of me not to stop and think about how my departure would hurt you. I thought you’d be taken care of, and that was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To be taken care of and to keep your castle? Never, not even in my wildest dreams, did I expect our marriage to come to this pass.”

  He thought back to their wedding and those fateful moments between them. “Do you remember our wedding night? You were frightened, Mallory, even though you pretended to be bold.”

  No response.

  He straightened, determined to see the air cleared between them. Until he did so, he knew she wouldn’t give up this nonsense talk of a divorce.

  “I have a confession, Mallory, one I don’t think you’ll like hearing—but I never felt as if I were married.” He paused, frowning. The words didn’t sound good when spoken out loud. For a second, he was tempted to confess that he hadn’t consummated the marriage so she would understand his feelings, but he quickly erased that idea from his mind. Mallory was angry enough without him giving her more ammunition. Later, perhaps when she trusted him more, he could tell her the full truth. Right now, he had to convince her to open the door.

  He thought of Liana and Victor Peterson, of what he’d learned from watching them defy all odds in their marriage. He spoke from his heart. “I believe marriage should mean something more than fulfilling the wishes of parents or adding gold to a family’s coffers. Marriage can’t be good unless both people are committed, and neither one of us was committed to each other when we married, no matter what vows we took before God. Mallory, we still don’t know each other very well, but we’re older and wiser now. We can give our marriage a chance. We can make it work—but not if you lock me out.”

  He pushed away from the door, straightened his shoulders, and faced it. “I’m asking you to forgive me, Mallory. Please.”

  No words had ever been harder to say.

  And no man had ever felt the need for forgiveness more. The irony was, he hadn’t realized it until this moment, when he’d found himself standing in the dark outside a cottage door, waiting….

  For an absolution that never came.

  She wasn’t going to forgive him. Minutes passed while he put his astonished thoughts in order.

  He’d spoken from his soul, and the woman wasn’t going to forgive him! The realization made him irrationally angry.

  He stomped away from the door and then charged back to confront her again, only this time his words were far from conciliatory. “I feel like a bloody idiot. You have a heart of stone, Mallory Barron, to listen to me talk on and on and say not one word yourself. I’m a fool! A fool to think you’d ever forgive me, and a fool to want to lie with you. Well, keep the cottage and the bed. I’m a man. I don’t need to beg.”

  No answer.

  He doubled his fist and punched the air in anger. “You are an obstinate woman. I’ll sleep in the barn, but I wish you no joy in your cold bed.”

  He waited, willing her to answer, demanding her to answer. Needing her to answer.

  John waited until the crickets felt it was safe to begin their chorus and the air was full of their melody. But Mallory remained silent.

  Finally, he turned on his heel and walked up the narrow path heading toward the barn.

  Inside the cottage, Mallory sat on the floor, her head pressed back against the door, tears streaming down her face.

  No, John, she wanted to say, I’m the fool.

  Out of a misplaced sense of duty, or pride, she’d waited for him, postponing her own dreams and desires. His words brutally confirmed what she’d always known in her heart about her wedding—he hadn’t wanted her.

  What was worse, over the past twenty-four hours she’d found much to admire in him. John Barron would be a very easy man to love, and the honest truth in his words about marriage, a real marriage, had touched her deeply.

  She would have to be very careful and guard her heart…or she would quickly lose it to John Barron.

  “Wake up, Mr. Man. Wake up,” cooed a woman’s soft voice. Something brushed against his ear.

  Years of military conditioning had honed John’s reflexes, even when he was dead asleep. He reached up and grabbed the hand holding a piece of straw over his head.

  The woman on the other end of the hand gave a squeal of surprise. John rolled on top of her and pinned her with his body before he’d fully awakened.

  He found himself looking into a stranger’s face. “Who are you?” he asked gruffly.

  The woman in his arms was at least twenty. She had curly red hair and an inviting smile. “Who are you?” she echoed, and then boldly wig
gled her body beneath his in a suggestive manner. “And do you always wake up this way?”

  John rolled off her immediately, coming to his feet in one easy motion. “Who are you?” he repeated.

  “I’m Evie Linton,” a soft voice said behind him. “And she’s my cousin, Ruth Tarlin.”

  John whirled to face the new person, another young woman with red hair, only this one was very obviously pregnant. “What are you doing here, Mrs. Linton?” he said formally.

  “Oh, isn’t he fine, Evie?” Ruth cooed. “Manners and all.” She rose to her feet.

  Evie ignored her cousin. “We’re the dairy maids—and you must be Mr. Dawson, Lord Woodruff’s new steward.”

  “That’s right, I am. How did you know?”

  Ruth rubbed against his shoulder like a cat. “Tunleah Mews is a small place. We heard last night, straight from Lucy.” She drew a deep breath of appreciation. “For once, Lucy wasn’t telling tales when she said you were a fine man, Mr. Dawson. A fine man.”

  John took a step back from the very forward maid and bumped into her cousin. He turned to face Evie, pointedly ignoring Ruth, who practically leered at him.

  “You work in the dairy? Isn’t that difficult in your, ah, delicate condition?”

  Evie rested a hand on the small of her back, her eyes brimming with laughter. “Delicate condition? My ma had nine children, and I’ve never thought of her as delicate.”

  Since Liana’s death, John hadn’t take pregnancy and childbirth for granted. “Working in the dairy is too hard for an expectant woman.”

  Evie’s eyes opened wide with alarm. “You are saying you would cut me off, are you, sir? I need my job. You’ll be taking bread from the mouths of my family if you send me home.”

  John frowned. He didn’t like his choices, but all he could hear in his mind were Liana and her cries during labor.

  “It’s not right, Mr. Dawson,” Evie said, her blue eyes brimming with tears. “I have three months until this babe is due. I can work. I’ve worked through my last two pregnancies.”

  “You can stay,” he finally conceded against his better judgment, “but the moment you start to feel the strain, I want you to tell me. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  Evie heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m having a child, Mr. Dawson, not dying of the plague. Now come, Ruth, those cows won’t milk themselves.”

  Ruth puffed out her lower lip in a pout. “I’d much rather stay here and help Mr. Dawson.”

  “Ruth,” Evie said in warning, and Ruth moved toward her cousin. The two of them disappeared through a doorway. A second later he heard the clatter of wooden pails.

  Now John was glad he’d let Evie stay. He’d never been in charge of women before. He didn’t think he could treat them like soldiers, and he’d need Evie to keep Ruth in line.

  He reached down for his jacket, picked it up and groaned. The jacket was covered with manure. He’d made a sleeping place for himself out of grain sacks thrown over straw. Now, he realized the straw was foul with clumps of muck, and his boots and leather breeches had patches of crud on them.

  He even smelled of manure—which made him question Ruth’s intelligence in getting close to him.

  Disgusted, John picked up one of the grain bags and had started to clean his boots with it when he glanced up and found a wizened man, some thirty years his senior and as filthy as the barn, staring at him from the stall’s entrance. Four dogs in all shapes and sizes sat at his feet, scratching fleas.

  “Who are you?” John asked.

  “Terrell.” The man scratched behind his ear.

  “The hired man?”

  “Aye.” Terrell was missing his two front teeth. He used the hole in his mouth to spit through.

  John came out of the stall. “Well, Terrell,” he said with good humored authority, “I’m John Dawson, Lord Woodruff’s new steward.”

  “Steward? Lord Woodruff hired a steward? Why’d he do that when he has me?”

  John looked down at the straw and muck on his boots and answered dryly, “I have no idea.” He threw the grain sack down and hung his jacket over the side of the stall. “But I do know that our first order of the day is for you to muck out every stall in this barn.”

  Terrell’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. “This is a big barn.”

  “Yes, and a filthy one.” John took in the scope and magnitude of the task. The barn was much larger on the inside than it appeared from the outside. The exterior walls were of good, solid English brick with oak pillars spaced evenly to hold up a shingle-and-thatch roof. Stalls lined the wall where John stood, although only three held horses. He walked down and peered in each stall. Lord Woodruff would never garner a reputation for knowing good horseflesh. Two of the animals were swaybacked carriage horses; the third was a mottled gray pony in need of exercise, but with more spirit than the other two combined.

  Against a far wall were a farm wagon, a green-and-yellow pony cart, and a black lacquered coach, the one Lord Woodruff obviously took out once a week for church.

  A rooster crowed outside. John hadn’t been up before dawn since he’d left the army. He frowned, wondering when he’d turned so indolent. Of course, many nights when he’d been out carousing with Prinny, Applegate, and the others he hadn’t returned home until after dawn.

  “Where are the cows?” John looked around, expecting cows to materialize from someplace.

  “The cows are out in the field,” Terrell said, the wind whistling through his missing teeth, “where they should be. We milk them out there.”

  “Of course,” John answered, irritated by his show of ignorance. He’d never stopped to think before about where cows were milked or why. He didn’t even like milk.

  “We’ve got pigs out there, too,” Terrell said helpfully. “Don’t like to bring them inside. They dirty up the barn.”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” John answered, trying not to let his lip curl in disgust.

  “Keep them penned out there, we do,” Terrell said with a nod toward the back of the barn. “Do you want to go out and look at them?”

  “I’ll wait.” John rubbed a hand over his chin. The stubble on his face felt thick. He should have shaved last night. He turned, ready to get started with the day, and then stopped.

  Mallory stood in the barn entrance. She appeared clean and fresh in comparison to his grubbiness. Her braid lay over one shoulder. Her brown dress didn’t look as if she’d slept in it. In her hands she carried the food hamper.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He crossed his arms and was surprised by the anger and resentment welling up inside him, while another part of him seemed almost overjoyed to see her. “Good morning,” he replied civilly. He wondered if she’d had a good night’s sleep.

  Had probably slept like a lamb.

  She stepped inside the barn. “It’s a beautiful morning.”

  He grunted. He had a different opinion of the day so far.

  “This barn is huge,” she said, her eyes bright with curiosity.

  “Oh, you mean the one at Craige Castle wasn’t this large?” He couldn’t stop the jibe and immediately regretted it.

  A wall seemed to come down between them. Her manner turned cool. “I brought your breakfast,” she said, setting the hamper down. “I’ll have your dinner for you this evening.” She turned to go.

  He watched her walk almost out the door before he said, “Wait.”

  She stopped. “What do you wish?”

  I wish we could start over—from the very beginning, he thought. Instead, he grabbed the first excuse that entered his mind. “You haven’t met Terrell and the others.”

  “Terrell?” she repeated blankly. She suddenly seemed to realize they were not alone. “Oh, yes, the hired man.” She came back into the barn.

  John nodded. “This is Terrell. Terrell, my wife, Mrs. Dawson.”

  Terrell pulled a forelock and gave Mallory a big grin, showing the gap in his teeth. “Is she the one wot made you sleep in the
barn last night?”

  “Yes, Terrell, she is,” John replied ruthlessly. Terrell cackled at his admission.

  John motioned Mallory toward the scullery.

  “You didn’t have to be so honest,” she said, under her breath.

  “I’m not going to shirk the truth.”

  “Well, I guess that will be a first.”

  “I see you’re in good form today,” he replied.

  “Just on my guard,” she answered sweetly, as they walked through a stone archway into a brick room that served as a scullery. It smelled of milk and cheese. Evie and Ruth, empty pails hanging from yokes across their shoulders, were preparing to go out a side door.

  “Evie, Ruth, I want you to meet my wife, Mrs. Dawson.”

  Evie bobbed a respectful curtsey, but Ruth looked Mallory up and down with an interest that bordered on insolence.

  Mallory returned her stare with a quelling look of her own. John had enough good sense not to chuckle, but he could imagine Mallory running Craige Castle. She seemed born to the role.

  Evie broke the silence. “Ruth, we have to get to the cows. It was good to meet you, Mrs. Dawson.”

  “And you,” Mallory replied pleasantly. “When is your baby due?”

  Evie’s face immediately lit with pleasure. “Not for another three months. If you’ll excuse us?” Ruth boldly gave a little wave and a wink over her shoulder at John. Evie grabbed her cousin’s arm and pulled her out the door. As they walked off, they could hear Evie lecturing Ruth on how they needed these jobs and to stop flirting.

  Mallory turned to John. “You shouldn’t let her get away with being so cheeky.”

  “I can handle her.”

  “Yes, well, it seems everytime I come upon you, some woman is flirting with you.”

  “Now wait, Mallory. You can’t blame that forward little dairy maid’s behavior on me.”

  She glared at him, and he saw she certainly could. “Women do not deliberately throw themselves at a man without encouragement,” she said, with smug superiority. “We are not like men.”

  John practically snorted his disagreement. “Is this something carved in the Mallory Barron Book of Stone? You may not believe this, Mallory, but you have a thing or two to learn about life.”