Falling in Love Again

by Cathy Maxwell

  He’d all but forgotten Ruth, who chose that moment to plaster herself against his back. Her legs came around his waist, brushing against his erection. She drew in a deep gasp of appreciation and laughed. “Oh yes! You’re a randy one, aren’t you, John?”

  Her boldness embarrassed him, and for one of the few times in his life, he felt the heat of a blush. But before he could say anything, Mallory looked him directly in the eye and repeated, “John? She calls you John?”

  “I didn’t give her permission, Mallory!” He shrugged Ruth off his back. She fell back into the water with a small splash. “Mallory, please, this isn’t what you think.”

  Ruth surfaced and blew a stream of water out of her mouth at him before mimicking, “Mallory, this isn’t what you think.” Giggling, she turned to his wife. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dawson, but your husband can’t come out right now. He’s a bit too excited to expose himself. Perhaps you can join us? That is, if’n you don’t believe you are too la-di-da for us.”

  John couldn’t believe the maid’s impertinence. Mallory’s body tensed at Ruth’s taunt, and two spots of angry color appeared on her cheeks. Ruth laughed. Then, to his surprise, Mallory turned on one foot and charged back the way she’d come.

  John swore volubly. “You’ll have me sleeping out in the barn again!”

  “Do you need company?” Ruth asked, puckering up her lips and offering herself to him.

  Furious, John reached out to throttle the woman, then realized there was no safe place for him to put his hands on her without making the situation worse.

  He stomped out of the pond.

  Ruth playfully slapped the water. “You have a firm fanny, Johnny.”

  He didn’t answer. He’d deal with her later.

  He’d just reached for his breeches when there was a rustling behind him. He looked up and found himself staring at Mallory. She’d come back, her arms full of what appeared to be the wash. He froze, all too aware of his nakedness and the capricious male member that was again rising to the occasion. He covered himself with his pants. “You’re back,” he said inanely.

  Mallory’s mouth had dropped open at the sight of him. She closed it with a snap, her face blazing.

  “What are you doing with my clothes?” Ruth asked. She started to walk out of the pond, water sluicing off her bouncing bosom.

  “I thought you might be needing them,” Mallory said tightly. She dropped the pile of clothing to the ground and then began throwing it piece by piece into the pond.

  “What are you doing?” Ruth screamed, scrambling to save what she could from getting wet.

  “I’m giving you back your clothes,” Mallory replied reasonably. She turned to John. “I can’t believe you prefer her!”

  “Mallory, you’re jumping to the wrong conclusion—” His words were cut off when Mallory threw the last article of clothing, Ruth’s wool skirt, at him. Temporarily blinded, John wasn’t prepared for the shove that sent him back into the pond. He fell against Ruth, taking her with him.

  Ruth came up spitting mad. The skirt floated away. John saw that Mallory was gone.

  “Damn.”

  “I’ll say damn!” Ruth exclaimed. “She’s ruined the only thing I have to wear, and all because you and I were having a little fun—”

  John dunked her under the water, then strode from the pond, his wet breeches in one hand. If Mallory thought she’d seen the last of him this evening she was wrong.

  Mallory didn’t stop to think until she’d safely reached the cottage, shut the door, thrown the bar, and sat down in the mended chair now placed beside the table.

  Her face felt hot and flushed. Her pulse raced madly—and not from running.

  Dear Lord! Who would have thought that a naked man could appear so masculine, so powerful, so…virile.

  It wasn’t just his handsome face. Every inch of him—and bless her soul, she’d seen it all, including the scar on the inside of his right thigh—appeared to have been molded by the hand of God.

  Seeing John naked had appealed to something very deep and needy inside Mallory. Something she hadn’t realized existed until today. For the first time, she considered herself more akin to the lusty Mrs. Irongate and Mrs. Watkins than to her aristocratic mother.

  And the stab of jealousy she’d felt at his obvious attraction to Ruth had sent her world spinning like a top. She hadn’t known she was capable of such a strong emotion—or such outrageous behavior.

  She came to her feet and paced slowly around the room, trying to put her jumbled thoughts in order. She’d left Hal’s house for London confident that she could deal with her husband alone, that she had absolutely no feeling for him. Instead, to her shock, the opposite appeared to be true. She’d never felt this heady rush of desire for Hal. Or such insane jealousy…

  She sat back down in the chair. She had to think, to decide what to do next.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Mallory jumped to her feet, one hand over her heart, the other on the back of the chair. She stared at the door.

  “Mallory?” John’s raspy, deep voice called from the other side.

  Wiping her palms against her dress, she approached the door but stopped without reaching for the handle. She had to erase from her mind how he’d been last night: caring and considerate. Instead, she struggled to remember her opinion of him before she’d left for London: uncaring, irresponsible, philandering—now, there was an image she could grasp!

  But amazingly, the old hurts didn’t seem as sharp as before. Furthermore, she knew Ruth had attempted to seduce him. She’d listened to him tell her to go away.

  She heard his booted steps move over to the half-shuttered window and she pulled back even though she doubted he could see her from there. “I didn’t invite Ruth to join me in the pond, Mallory. She took it on herself.” He waited for an answer.

  She had to let him in.

  He walked back to the door and knocked again. “Mallory, please let me in. Let’s talk about it.”

  She stood paralyzed, too unsure of herself to take action.

  He muttered something under his breath, his words too indistinct for her to understand.

  Are you going to let him walk away?

  The question motivated her to action. She pinched color into her cheeks, threw back the bar, and opened the door.

  John had started to walk up the path, but turned at the sound of the opening door. For the space of several heartbeats, the two of them stood stock still.

  He’d brushed his hair straight back, the style emphasizing the masculine hardness of his features. His damp shirt molded to his shoulders. And in his hand, he held a bunch of wilting flowers.

  Mallory said the first words that popped into her mind, “Did you get your pants dry?” Immediately, she wanted to call the words back. What an inane thing to say!

  John shifted uncomfortably. “No, I put them on damp. Otherwise, I was afraid they’d shrink.”

  Mallory dropped her gaze. His breeches appeared indecently tight. She averted her eyes quickly.

  “They’ll stretch,” he assured her.

  She felt the heat of a blush. At the same time, she had to smile.

  He smiled back at her. “May I come in?”

  Not trusting herself to speak, she opened the door wider, silently inviting him in.

  John ducked his head under the low doorway. Mallory stepped back. His presence seemed to fill the small room…and immediately her mind conjured the image of him naked, an image she ruthlessly squashed.

  There was an uneasy pause.

  “You did more work around the cottage,” he said. “That cabinet by the hearth is new, isn’t it?”

  She was surprised he’d noticed. “Yes—well, actually, all I really did was dust out the cobwebs.”

  “It looks nice.”

  Another lull in the conversation. “Thank you,” she said to fill it.

  He pushed the bouquet toward her. “I brought these for you.”

  She took the wil
dflowers—Queen Anne’s lace, black-eyed Susans, daisies, with grapevines for greenery. Several of the stems appeared mashed, as if he’d had trouble separating them from the plants.

  She’d never received flowers before. To her surprise, hot tears welled in her eyes. She fought them back. “They’re lovely.” She looked up at him. “Thank you.”

  He seemed to relax slightly. “I wasn’t certain of my reception.”

  “Is that why you brought flowers?”

  “My mother always liked flowers.”

  “Your mother? I didn’t think you…” Her voice trailed off, and she could have cut out her tongue for her blundering words.

  John finished her sentence. “You’ve heard that my parents had nothing to do with each other.”

  “I should put these flowers in water.” She didn’t want to discuss anything so fraught with emotion. Not now, when her own emotions were so confused. She would have brushed past him, but John held up his hand to stop her.

  “Mallory, please, as my wife you have the right to ask me any question you wish.”

  As my wife. A dizzy humming seemed to start inside her at his words. This was exactly the sort of issue she wanted to avoid. “I shouldn’t have broached the subject,” she said stiffly.

  The lines of his mouth flattened. “We aren’t in some London drawing room where we must follow a list of unwritten rules, Mallory.”

  She didn’t answer him, almost wanting that list of rules to help keep a distance between them.

  He reached out with one long finger and lightly touched a black-eyed Susan. “At least once a year, my father sent me to visit Mother. He always gave me a bouquet of flowers to take to her.” His gaze met hers. “She’d cry when I gave it to her because she knew they weren’t really from me, but from him.”

  “Did they never see each other?”

  “No, not after he sent her away. The year before she died—I must have been twelve—I asked her why he could accept me and reject her. She told me it was because he had rules that he lived by. Rejecting her was one of the rules he believed he had to follow. But when she died, he mourned deeply.”

  Mallory looked down at the flowers in her hands. “It’s a sad story. He never remarried, did he?”

  John shook his head. “My father was a difficult man to understand. I don’t think I started to see him fully as another human being until I’d been in the army for several years. He set very high standards—for himself and for me. Of course, now I understand why my parents never talked. This type of conversation isn’t easy, is it?”

  Suddenly feeling on dangerous ground, especially with him standing so close, Mallory backed away. “I should put these in water,” she said again, and withdrew to find a container. She took her time arranging the flowers in a pottery pitcher.

  John stood waiting.

  Her hands shook as she set the pitcher in the center of the table. Did he notice?

  “We need to talk, Mallory.”

  Oh no, we don’t. Not if he’s going to slip past my defenses so easily.

  She kept her face deliberately blank. “About what?” Desperate to be busy, she tied an apron around her waist, preparing to serve the evening meal.

  John sat at the table in the rickety chair she’d mended. A lock of his heavy hair fell over one eye, and he pushed it back before saying, “We need to talk about us.”

  She transferred the stewed chicken from the pot to a round platter and set it on the table. “I’m not certain I want to talk right now.”

  His hand came out and captured her wrist. He held her in place with a direct, unwavering gaze. “We must talk. I’ve made enough mistakes with you without making the same one my father did. We must clear the air.”

  Mallory slowly sat down across from him, knowing she could not avoid this confrontation.

  He released her hand. She folded her arms protectively across her chest.

  “Mallory, I didn’t have an assignation with Ruth at the pond. She completely surprised me.”

  Mallory almost breathed a sigh of relief. They were only going to talk about Ruth. “I know that, John.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You do?”

  “Yes.” She smiled, pleased they weren’t going to have a deeper conversation. She would have gotten up and gone to the hearth, but John reached across the table and held her in place.

  “There have been other women, but no one serious.”

  Even though she knew such a reaction was silly, the pain of his admission staggered her. She’d always known there were other women. She’d met Lady Ramsgate. There had to have been more besides her. “What is serious, John? What does the word mean to you?”

  He sat back in the chair, his hand still on the table, but no longer touching her. He thought for a moment before saying, “It means my affections were not attached.”

  “Affections?” She heard the chill in her voice but couldn’t help it.

  He looked resentful. “You aren’t going to make this easy, are you?”

  “Should I?”

  He drummed his fingers on the table, the sound loud in the silence. “I’ve never given my heart to a woman.”

  Mallory lowered her head and stared at her hands. Why did she feel disappointed? What had she expected him to say? That he’d fallen in love with her? “What a ridiculous notion.”

  She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until John said, “I beg your pardon?”

  Mallory felt like a fool. She also feared she was going to cry. She never cried. Leastwise, not for John….

  She rose from the table, wiping her hands on the apron around her waist, and would have returned to the hearth except that John again captured her hand.

  He stood. She stared at their joined hands. He had what her father would have described as a swordsman’s hand, his fingers callused by a hard day’s work.

  She looked up to find him studying her, the intensity in his bright, blue eyes disconcerting. If she wasn’t careful, they would see too much…emotions too new and awkward for her to understand herself.

  And then John slipped beneath her guard by saying, “I’d like us to have a real marriage.”

  For one wild, heady moment, Mallory’s heart stopped.

  “You can’t mean that,” she whispered.

  “Yes, I do.” He rubbed his thumb, the one with the small scar on it, over the wedding ring on her finger. “I was thinking about us today while I was working, and I believe it would be reasonable of us to honor our union.”

  “Reasonable?”

  “Desirable, even.”

  “Desirable in what way, John?” she asked carefully.

  He inched closer. “I feel a certain attraction for you.” His hand slipped around her waist.

  Mallory heard the pounding of her heart in her ears. She raised her eyes and found him so close she could see the shadow of his whiskers along his lean jaw and her image reflected in his eyes. Their lips were only inches apart.

  Her common sense warred with her fantasies. Common sense won. “Are you attempting to seduce me?” she asked bluntly.

  He blinked as if her words had caught him off guard, then smiled. “Yes.”

  Mallory pushed away from him. “Of all the cheap, underhanded things for a man to do—”

  “Mallory, you’re my wife. I’m supposed to seduce you.”

  She pointed a righteous finger in his direction, warning him back. “We had an agreement! I help you; I get a divorce.”

  John shrugged. “Agreements can be changed.”

  Mallory wanted to scream with vexation. She paced the length of the cottage before facing him. “I am going to marry Hal Thomas—”

  “Oh, yes, your potbellied, balding little squire.” John sat down and crossed his legs, his expression disgruntled.

  Mallory was momentarily diverted. “What makes you say he’s potbellied?”

  “Because all squires are,” John said reasonably. He pulled a piece off the chicken and popped it in his mouth. “He’ll probably s
uffer gout, too, when he’s older—if he doesn’t already.”

  There was truth in his words. Hal did complain of various ailments—but she wasn’t going to admit that to John! She raised her chin proudly. “Hal Thomas is a good man.”

  “Good men are bores.”

  “Good men honor their wedding vows.”

  John stood, brushing off his hands. “I’m willing to honor mine.” He bowed.

  Mallory raised a hand to her forehead. “Something is not quite right here. I seem to recall that you’ve had seven years to honor your vows, which you haven’t. Is that not correct?”

  “But I’m ready now.”

  She rolled her eyes heavenward and would have turned away, but John stepped in her path. “Mallory, haven’t you heard that rakes make the best husbands?”

  “I never believed it,” she snapped. She walked to the hearth. John followed.

  “Give me a chance. That’s all I’m asking. Let me into your life—”

  “And my bed?” she added sarcastically.

  “Well, if you insist,” he said, and gave her a smile so charming it made her feel light-headed. As if sensing her vulnerability, John pressed on. “Mallory, I need you in my life. I know my past behavior was thoughtless—”

  “Thoughtless!” The word burst out of her.

  “Unforgivable,” he corrected. “But I’m asking for your forgiveness.”

  He sounded so sincere, every alarm inside Mallory cried out a warning. She crossed to the other side of the cottage, away from him. “Hal is solid and dependable,” she said, more to remind herself than to answer John. “I’ve known him all my life. It will not be difficult to be his wife.” The back of her legs bumped the bed. She jumped forward in surprise. John smiled—even as she quickly moved away.

  “Mallory, it won’t be difficult to be my wife, either. I hope that in the last two days you’ve discovered I’m not an ogre. I’m a man, a man who makes mistakes. I know I can be a better man if I have a wife. But not just any wife. I need one who can set me to rights, keep me in line—”

  “Are you looking for a wife or a conscience?”

  “A wife,” he said firmly without missing a beat. “Besides, solid and dependable can be boring.”