Wildwood Flower (Desperate And Daring Book 8)

by Dayna Quince

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Thorn said and closed the door. He went back to the inn and ordered himself some dinner and ale. If he was going to compete in this market, he may as well see what his competitors were brewing. And maybe, if he were lucky, he’d find a woman more tempting than Charlotte Woodhouse.

  * * *

  Charlotte woke the next morning and it was raining. Steady, glorious, rain. She shouldn’t enjoy it because it meant she couldn’t have her morning walk, but she did. She looked at the clock, and at half past eight, she didn’t have time for a stroll anyhow. She lay back in her bed and picked up her book. What she did have time for was some reading before seeing to Lady Shelding’s daily schedule.

  The night before had been tense. Lord Shelding had not liked Pastor Franklin’s opinion about holding the wedding off until October, but he didn’t argue the point.

  After a couple hours, she looked at the clock and frowned. It was after ten, but Charlotte hadn’t been summoned yet. She set her book down and quickly washed and dressed, left her room and took the back stairs to the family floor, slowing as she encroached on their territory. Oddly, the house was quiet, making each of Charlotte’s steps sound louder than they ought to be. Where was the maid? At this hour, the house usually hummed with life, stirring with the sounds of maids sweeping rugs and footman running to and fro. But instead, all was silent. Charlotte slowed her step, touching one hand to the papered wall. She stretched her neck forward, straining to hear something that might alleviate the tension she was feeling.

  Lady Shelding’s door was just down the hall. Charlotte crept forward, her eyes returning to the double doors at the end of the hall that was Lord Shelding’s lair. Just across from Lady Shelding’s room was Edward’s, and that was one place Charlotte did not want to be near. She paused before the door and lightly rapped her knuckles on the smooth wood. At last a sound, something normal like the swish of a skirt.

  Annette opened the door and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “Is everything all right? I haven’t been summoned for our daily rounds about the house.”

  Annette looked back over her shoulder. Charlotte saw past her to the prone figure on the bed. Lady Shelding lay with her back to the door, a folded cloth resting on the side of her face.

  Charlotte heard a strained, yet soft moan. Her stomach clenched.

  Annette looked back at Charlotte.

  “She won’t be leaving her room today. You’ll have to find something to do with yourself.”

  Charlotte’s gazed snapped to Annette. “I beg your pardon?”

  Annette stepped out of the room, forcing Charlotte to back up into the hall.

  “She’s suffering because of you. If you’d do what you’re told and marry Edward when his lordship wants you to, things like this wouldn’t happen. We all suffer because of you.”

  Charlotte bit her tongue. She was not going to stir the pot with Annette, no matter how far the ladies’ maid stepped out of place. If she wanted to blame Charlotte for Lord Shelding’s violent behavior, nothing Charlotte did or said would dissuade her.

  Charlotte didn’t understand how the woman could feel so loyal to this family.

  Without another word, Charlotte turned away and retreated to the back stairs. Her stomach was tied in knots. Lord Shelding had taken his impatience out on his wife, which wasn’t unusual. It wasn’t illegal for a man to hit his wife, but to Charlotte, it was the disgusting behavior of a brute. A man with no civil sensibilities in his head.

  She shivered as she reached her room, feeling a chill all the way to her bones. She paced the room, the walls pressing close as her chest ached with the urge to sob, to scream her frustration, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything in this house. Couldn’t speak out, couldn’t disagree, not without suffering the wrath of Lord Shelding, and at some point, Charlotte knew deep down, suffering the strike of his hand. She’d pictured it in her mind so often, it felt like a memory.

  She had to get away.

  Her feet carried her to the window, and she looked out at the soggy landscape. It was not a friendly sight. Not encouraging in the least, but from where she stood, neither was the house. She had to get out. She had to get away from this madhouse.

  She threw on her cloak and changed into her walking boots. She headed to the kitchens first to steal a roll for breakfast and, with a parasol in hand, left through the kitchen door. No one stopped her. No one cared. She’d lived in Shelding Manor for two months, but beyond Sarah and Annette, the other staff treated her like a ghost.

  Charlotte hadn’t consciously chosen a destination, but as her feet carried her across the gardens and out to the heath, her journey’s end became clear.

  She was going home. Even if it was no longer technically her home, she was going to go there and try to remember what it felt like to not be afraid. As she marched across the heath, her boots sinking into the muddy ground, she felt a choking sadness come over her. She hadn’t returned to Wildwood since the day her father died. Lord Shelding had swooped her away, like a hawk snatching a cowering mouse from the ground. She wondered why she’d never tried to return before, to see the familiar arch of the front hall, the pretty floral wallpaper in the drawing room that her mother had loved. There were so many comforts to be found at Wildwood, and yet she hadn’t returned. She hadn’t had the courage until now. If running away was courage. She didn’t look back at Shelding Manor, even though she knew that at some point she would have to return to her cage. For now, she was going home, and all she would think about was that. Home, her bed, the clinging ivy that climbed the wall below her window. Some of these things might still be there and some not.

  She trudged on anyway.

  Reaching the forest that separated Shelding Land from Wildwood, Charlotte felt the ache in her chest ease. These woods were the namesake of her childhood home. She’d spent hours exploring them as a girl, finding the magic and joy that was so easy to identify as a child. She slowed her pace, looking around, inhaling the deep grounding smell of damp earth, decaying leaves, and moss.

  She felt as if she were in another world. Far from violence and pain. Invisible to the eyes of her enemies. She stopped and rested her hand on a tree. She took a deep breath. It was peaceful here, quiet but alive. Birds flitted through the branches of the trees, limbs and leaves thick enough to slow the rain. Charlotte closed her parasol and continued walking.

  She ambled along, stepping over exposed roots and stopping occasionally to pluck a flower. Patches of bluebells and other flowers common to the woods bordered her path. The further she was from Shelding, the lighter she felt. She started to hum. She could see the edge of the wood, and soon she would see her home again. She felt giddy as she closed the distance and broke through a thicket of brush. Stopping on the edge, she looked over the land. A gentle slope would carry her right to the house, but beyond it, she could see the fields of hops. Lush and vibrant green.

  She frowned as she stared at the fields. They looked well-tended, unusual given that they haven’t been cared for in more than two months. She saw a man come out from between a row of hops, pulling a cart full of dirt.

  Charlotte started down the hill. She didn’t know why anyone would be working her father’s crops, not when said crops had been their downfall, and more so now that her father was dead and by all rights…

  She skidded to a halt at the bottom of the hill. Her eyes adored the outer façade of her home. It hadn’t changed at all. She walked around the side, coming to the back of the house that had a small terrace leading to the garden and lawn, and the fields beyond. She walked across the terrace, trying to see where the man had gone.

  She stepped down the two stairs to the lawn and came around the east wing of the house. She stopped in her tracks, taking in the sight of fresh timber and a handful of workers milling about.

  “Excuse me,” she called out. A couple of men lifted their heads and looked in her direction. Upon seeing her, they quickly walked away.

  Charl
otte wanted to chase after them. They did not look familiar. Who were these men on her land? What were they doing?

  She approached the pile of timber. It was obvious something would soon be built.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said a familiar voice behind her.

  Charlotte stiffened and slowly turned. “Mr. Thorn?”

  His face changed from stern to puzzled. “Miss Woodhouse. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Charlotte frowned in confusion, trying to recall their previous conversations. She couldn’t pull her muddled thoughts together. “What are you doing here at Wildwood?”

  “No doubt being a resident, you are familiar with the family that used to live here.” He looked about.

  “I am.” Charlotte swallowed. “The father died. I thought the lands would be unused.”

  “It seems Lord Shelding acquired the lands and the house. This is where we are building my brewery, and these are my hops,” he said proudly as he waved toward the rows of towering plants.

  “Your hops…” Her mind was racing. Lord Shelding was using her land and home to further his business? Without Charlotte’s consent or at the very least, knowledge of what he had planned.

  Abruptly she felt ill. She looked from the fields to the house, where another gentleman stepped out through the doors that opened from the drawing room to the terrace.

  Strangers were using her house and farming on her land, and she was powerless to stop it.

  “Charlotte?” He reached out and touched her arm. He leaned close. “You look very pale.”

  “I…I don’t understand.” She stepped back out of his hold.

  He looked very concerned as he stared back at her.

  “This land and house belong to the daughter, not Shelding. He has no right.”

  “Why don’t you come inside? You look like you could use a drink.”

  The other man approached. He looked between them cautiously. “Is something amiss?”

  Charlotte felt her knees go weak, or perhaps it was just her boots sinking into the mud. Whatever the case, both men lurched toward her as the sky darkened.

  The next moment, Charlotte was looking at a ceiling that was very familiar. The paint was peeling, but the scrollwork was still lovely.

  “There now. Have a whiff of this.”

  A glass of amber liquid was held before her by the man she didn’t know. She pushed it away, her back pressing into the sofa and halting her escape.

  “Stay calm.” Mr. Thorn entered her vision. He came near and took the glass. “You fainted. This will help revive you.”

  Charlotte took the glass and sniffed it. It smelled smoky and sweet. “What is this?”

  “Whiskey,” Thorn answered. He watched her warily. “And this is Captain Pruitt. He captains my ship. I promise you could not be safer than you are right now.”

  Charlotte looked to Captain Pruitt. He seemed nice, if a little baffled as he pushed his fingers through dark brown hair. His brown eyes were kind.

  “How do you do, Captain?”

  “A mite better than you, Miss Woodhouse.”

  “Which begs the next question, how did you get here?” Thorn asked.

  “I walked.” Charlotte sniffed the whiskey again. It smelled wonderful, and she wondered how it would taste.

  Both men shared an inscrutable look. Captain Pruitt stepped away, and Mr. Thorn bent to one knee in front of her. “However delighted I am at seeing you, I’m also worried. You’ve a penchant for wandering about alone, and today specifically, something had you rather upset.”

  Charlotte swallowed. He looked so earnest, and something inside her wanted to break apart and tell him everything, every secret, every fear. But that was ludicrous. They’d met yesterday. Scarcely over twenty-four hours ago.

  “Why would you think that?” Charlotte managed to ask.

  He raised a single brow. “I may not be as perceptive as the good captain here, but when a woman swoons at my feet, I like to think it’s because of my exceptional charm and good looks. Given the rain and our short acquaintance, I don’t think that is the case.”

  Charlotte smiled. She couldn’t help it. He was charming her, despite the awful feelings circling inside her, and the looming darkness that was her future bearing down on her.

  “You are quite charming.” She blushed.

  He leaned closer and brushed her cheek. Charlotte couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped her. His eyes held hers, steadying her, even though moments ago, she felt like falling apart. She focused on him, her anchor, and let him soothe her, let herself be soothed.

  “Charlotte.”

  He said it quietly, so only the two of them would hear.

  “Please tell me what is wrong. Perhaps I can help you?”

  Dangerous words. There was nothing to be done, was there? Short of a miracle? She took a deep breath, her heart skipping pleasantly from his closeness. “I’m afraid you can’t.”

  “We don’t know that unless you tell me what it is.”

  Captain Pruitt cleared his throat from across the room.

  Mr. Thorn moved away, with what Charlotte would consider reluctance. Could he…did he care for her? She watched the men share a glance. More wordless communication. They must be very good friends.

  “Perhaps we can assist you home,” Captain Pruitt said.

  “Oh no. I can’t go home yet.”

  The men looked at her with expectation. She had to give them some reasonable answer. She thought frantically about what to say, about the things she’d already told Mr. Thorn. What was plausible? And more importantly, what would keep her here with Mr. Thorn?

  “I am upset, you see,” Charlotte began. It was unnerving to have the attention of both men on her and nothing else. A blush began to crawl up her neck. “My father, he…” Christ, what could she say? All she needed was a plausible reason to be upset and away from her home, or whatever it was they thought she ought to be doing that wasn’t wandering the countryside alone.

  She looked down. On the leg of the end table, there were chew marks from her father’s dog, Knight. He was a terribly misbehaved dog, but her father had loved him and given him far more attention that he gave to Charlotte. Not a positive memory, but it was enough. She felt emotion choke her throat. “He shot my dog,” she said to the floor. It was half true. Though Knight hadn’t been her dog, he had grown old and had trouble walking. He was in pain, and Charlotte could remember the day her father took his pistol from his desk and walked Knight out to the heath. She hadn’t seen it, but she’d heard the shot.

  The men were still silent. Charlotte looked up. They looked quite baffled and enraged on her behalf. Men and their dogs.

  “It was necessary. He was old and very ill…but still.”

  Mr. Thorn was nodding before she even finished. “Our condolences.”

  “Thank you. I understand how my behavior would seem odd, but I’m just not ready to go home. I was given leave to have the day to myself, but I couldn’t stay inside.”

  “I am sincerely sorry for your loss, Miss Woodhouse. But I hope you can understand it isn’t advisable for you to hang about our work site among men,” Captain Pruitt said.

  “Yes, Captain.” Charlotte stood. As usual, she couldn’t argue. She looked around the room. It was hers, and yet it wasn’t. Like this house, her life didn’t belong to her anymore. It would soon all be Edward’s.

  “You can’t leave just yet.” Mr. Thorn turned pleading eyes to the captain.

  The captain sternly looked back.

  “Not without a tour of the hops field. Hops are soothing, practically medicinal. The rain has let up. A good walk will lift your spirits.” Mr. Thorn presented his arm.

  This was exactly what Charlotte needed. She could walk the lands of her home on his arm and find her center again.

  “I would like that very much, Mr. Thorn.”

  “Pruitt? I’m sure you will wish to join us as a matronly chaperone?”

  Charlotte could tell Pruitt wa
s not pleased.

  “I must get back to my work, but please, do enjoy your walk amid the fields, where there are plenty of workers to see you.” He gave a pointed look to Mr. Thorn before turning his gaze to Charlotte again. “Good day, Miss Woodhouse. I am terribly sorry about your pet. What was his name?”

  “Knight.” Charlotte said.

  He raised a brow. “Knight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah. Good name.” He looked back at Mr. Thorn for a moment, and then back to Charlotte. “Good day.” He retreated from the room.

  Mr. Thorn looked after him until he was gone. “Well, that wasn’t awkward at all, was it?” He looked to Charlotte.

  She chewed her lip. “Not at all.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea before our walk?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Good.” He led her to the front entry and then back to the kitchen. “We haven’t a cook right now. He’s preparing the mid-day meal for the ship’s crew and will return later for dinner. There are not enough rooms to house everyone.”

  “So, you are building your brewery here?” Charlotte asked carefully.

  “Aye. Lord Shelding contacted me last year. After some negotiation, I sent him seeds from my hops to see how they would fare here. As you saw, they did exceptionally well.”

  “But not all crops do well, do they?” Charlotte remembered her own father’s crops. They declined year after year.

  “No. Hops can be finicky. They need to be babied. But my breed is hardier than most.”

  Charlotte nodded, but in her mind, she wondered if her father had been aware of this plan. He had to have been. The hops were on his land before he had died. Charlotte hadn’t paid attention to what was happening outside of her father’s health. Toward the end, she’d been with him day and night. What else did she miss?

  She clenched her jaw in anger. She was a stranger in her own home, and it was being inhabited by outsiders. Everywhere she looked stirred memories, and yet she couldn’t enjoy it. Mr. Thorn busied himself making their tea, and Charlotte looked around the kitchen. It was small, emptied of the clutter that used to inhabit it. Charlotte could remember the row of pans that hung on the wall, and the pots that used to sit in the window above the sink. They were all gone now. Very little remained but a few spare cooking tools.