Wildwood Flower (Desperate And Daring Book 8)

by Dayna Quince

  There in the corner, he met a dark gaze. The man stood, his eyes narrowing. He was large, with shoulders like an ox. Thorn slid off his stool, cracking his knuckles. He strolled to the tavern door, conscious of the man doing the same, his gaze intent on Thorn. The other patrons took note, catching scent of the tension between them.

  Thorn stepped outside, the man on his heels.

  He grunted. “Wot’s your name.”

  “Thorn. And yours?”

  “Mug.”

  Thorn raised a brow. “As in, Ugly Mug?”

  The man stiffened. “You talk foreign.”

  “I’m American.”

  Other patrons filed out, encircling them. There were whispers about odds and encouragement to fight. Every man loved a good fight.

  “Wot you doing here?”

  “Waiting for your mother.”

  Mug’s face morphed into rage. “You’ll pay for that.”

  “You’re big, but I’ve fought bigger.”

  Mug charged him, and Thorn let him tackle him to the ground. He moved swiftly for his size, a born fighter. He got one good punch to Thorn’s side and Thorn grunted. But he liked it. He preferred physical pain to heartache.

  Chapter 10

  May 1st, 1822

  Dear Rose,

  A very merry May Day to you! I attended the fair, on my own, and watched the children dance around the maypole. How wonderful it would be to be a child again. Isn’t that odd? We rush to grow up, wishing to dance with men and put our hair up. To feel older and wiser. But the truth is children have all the knowledge they need. They enjoy the simple pleasures of life. They are not yet jaded. Then comes a day when the blinders are removed, and all the things that were once exciting are now rather dull. Right now, I’d prefer dancing around the maypole to attending another ball. I will never go again. My father grows weaker. The doctor checks on him weekly, but the result is always the same. Tea, laudanum for sleep, and rest. We were forced to let Mrs. Caster go. I negotiated a wage for her to help during the day, but it won’t last more than a few months. She must find work, and I have tasked myself to finding a way to earn some extra coin.

  Your Friend,

  Charlotte

  July 23rd, 1823

  Charlotte woke as Sarah pulled open the curtains. Blinding light filled the room. Charlotte winced and rolled away. “Why are you in my room?”

  “I noticed the absence of wet boot prints on the back stairs this morning. Why have you abandoned your morning walks?”

  “Why would you care?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “You’re nosey.”

  “Call it whatever you like, but you are acting differently. Anything different in this house leads to speculation.”

  Charlotte rolled back enough to watch Sarah with one eye. “Whose speculation?”

  Sarah popped her hands on her hips. “Everyone’s. What’s become of you?”

  Charlotte buried her head against the pillow and didn’t bother answering. No one cared. Maybe at some point she believed Sarah cared, but now she didn’t. Or rather, Charlotte herself no longer cared.

  “I have until a quarter past ten to do as I please. You may leave me now.” Charlotte caught a whiff of buttered toast. Her stomach growled. She reluctantly sat up, spotting the tray on the writing desk. “You brought breakfast?”

  Sarah sat on the edge of the Charlotte’s bed, her brow furrowed. “I know that being in this house can make one feel…on edge.

  Charlotte rolled her eyes and flopped back on her bed. “On edge? Is that all?”

  “Fine. At times, it’s terrifying, but we’ve all adjusted and I thought you had too.”

  “I refuse to normalize any of this. I don’t want to be Lady Shelding.”

  She felt a hand on her ankle. She met Sarah’s gaze.

  “Have you truly thought of what happens if you don’t marry Mr. Chadwick?”

  “No. Marrying him seems the worst of the two evils.”

  “A home, a title, respect.”

  “A man who hits his wife does not respect her.” Charlotte shot back.

  Sarah sighed. “Mr. Chadwick isn’t like his father. He has not become violent with anyone.”

  “Give him time. He is not a normal gentleman. He…he is a predator.”

  As Charlotte watched, Sarah dipped her head. Something crossed her face. Charlotte sat up. “You know I am right. Once I marry Edward, I will be at their complete mercy.” Charlotte shuddered. “Lord Shelding has already taken possession of my land. He didn’t ask my permission.”

  “He is your guardian.”

  “I’m three and twenty. I don’t need a guardian. I should be free to live on my own in my own home, but Lord Shelding is building his brewery there. Did you know that? I wasn’t asked, I was used.”

  Sarah stood. “Then why are you here? You had to have agreed to marry him.”

  Charlotte looked down and folded her hands in her lap. “I did.”

  “Why would you do that if you hate this family so much?”

  Charlotte felt a rush of tears. “I had to. I promised my father. He made me promise.”

  “Well, there you have it. You made a choice, Miss Angelwood. I suggest you honor it. If you only accept it and…”

  “And what?” Charlotte looked up in anger.

  “And don’t make them angry. If you simply do what they wish and not make a fuss, you won’t have cause to fear them.”

  Charlotte was stunned. She stared at Sarah until her eyes burned. Sarah looked down her nose and then slipped from the room.

  In all her time here, Charlotte had never seen Lady Shelding make a fuss about anything, certainly not in any propensity to deserve being hit. She’d seen it now, and it haunted her dreams. Three evenings ago, they were waiting for Edward to come down. It had been more than an hour since dinner was announced, and Lady Shelding suggested they not wait any longer. Lord Shelding had turned on her, bearing down on her. Charlotte had been too stunned to move. She remembered it clearly in her mind. Lady Shelding had cowered into the sofa, terrified, she’d put up her hands to cover her face. Lord Shelding wrenched her hands away and slapped her. Then he’d bent over her, spittle flying from his lips as he berated her.

  Shortly after, when the room was as silent as a grave, Dules entered to announce that Edward had gone to a prizefight in Canterbury. He wasn’t even there. Charlotte had tried to comfort Lady Shelding when her husband left the room, but she had shied away and told her not to make a fuss. It would only irritate him. Her words still resonated in Charlotte.

  A lady always rises from the ground with grace.

  Charlotte had followed Lady Shelding into the dining room, the glowing red print of a hand on her cheek and brow, so damning it was a disgrace. But still they pretended that nothing had occurred. They ate in painful silence that night.

  Charlotte pushed herself out of the bed. She would not allow herself to live like that. She bit her knuckle in frustration. She knew in her head that she was brave, but when it came to action, she was a coward. As much as she wanted, she couldn’t stand up for herself, couldn’t fight back the way she needed to. She was trapped inside herself, watching her life turn into everything she feared. Loveless, violent, devoid of any joy.

  She thought of Thorn then. More than a week had passed since that awful day. Charlotte should stop counting the days.

  He represented all those things and more, but she’d lost that too. It was her own fault. She was so afraid to speak out that she’d hidden behind lies. Why was lying so much easier than the truth?

  She closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek. She opened them and walked to her window. The back garden was hidden in the shadow of the house. It looked gloomy and hostile. Beyond it the sun shone, the clouds drifted slowly across a placid, blue sky. In the distance, she could see Wildwood Forest. Birds danced above the trees, nothing more than black specs that darted and swirled.

  Charlotte wanted to be there. She wanted to be out th
ere more than she wanted her next breath. She pressed her forehead against the glass. Her cage was invisible, but it felt as real as iron bars. To break them, she had to defy them, to push back, to open the door herself and tell the guard to go to the devil. But the guard was herself. She pressed her hands against the window, pushing hard until it felt as if the glass might break. She stepped back.

  She was getting out. She was going to see those birds up close. She didn’t care what the consequences were.

  Once in the forest, she felt that she could breathe again. She was so close to Wildwood, her home, to Thorn, that she could hear the pounding of hammers. She was afraid to get any closer, so she remained in the shelter of the cool, shadowed woods and wandered around. She found the woodsman’s cabin and went inside.

  The door opened easily. It looked exactly as she had left it, dusty, cold, and empty. She ran her hand along the sill of the window, pushing a small wave of dust to the edge where it fell.

  Footsteps scuffed behind her, and she turned sharply.

  Her heart faltered, but it was not the face she dreamed of at night.

  “Mr. Pruitt.”

  “Miss…”

  He had to know. He would be in Thorn’s confidence. “Angelwood.”

  “Ah, yes. Forgive me.”

  “I think it is I who needs forgiveness,” Charlotte murmured. She faced the window. The view beyond blurred by the murky glass. She expected him to leave. It was the proper thing to do, but she could still feel him standing there. Judging her.

  “So how goes the building? My father never had much luck growing hops, in fact it ruined him.” She looked over her shoulder at the captain. He was leaning against the jamb. He looked content to stay there.

  “It’s going well. Thorn has a way with plants. We should be done building by September. Just in time for harvest, I’m told.”

  Charlotte turned to face him. “That soon?”

  “Thorn can be unstoppable when he’s made up his mind. He’s a carpenter as well, and when he picks up a hammer, things get built quickly. He’s been working sunup to sundown.”

  Charlotte grit her teeth. “I’m so glad my land can be of use to he and Lord Shelding. No doubt they will make a fortune.” She turned back to the window. She couldn’t bear to look at him a moment more. He was boasting of their success, success that would not be achieved without her. It occurred to her that this whole scheme began before her father had died. Was he aware? Was he a co-conspirator? Her marriage to Edward would ensure the land became his. Everything would become his, which meant it became Lord Shelding’s.

  But not yet.

  Her insides were shivering with rage. It was nauseating. She tried to breathe through it, to calm the roiling storm inside her. “Why are you here, Captain? These woods belong to me, as does this cabin. Am I to have nothing left? Lord Shelding has taken my land, my home, everything he can. All but this cabin. I doubt he knows of its existence. I’d like to keep it if I may.”

  “Miss Angelwood.”

  “Yes.” Charlotte turned to face him. She was struggling to maintain control, to not break down in front of this stranger.

  “You seem upset.”

  “Do I?” A pained laugh escaped her.

  He took two steps forward then halted. He looked confused, and a little afraid. Of what? Her? She wanted to laugh again.

  “You don’t want to marry Mr. Chadwick,” he stated.

  “Am I that transparent?”

  He relaxed again. “This is an arrangement then. A marriage of convenience.”

  “Does it matter what it is?”

  “It does to Thorn.”

  Charlotte held her breath. “Why?”

  “Do you hear that hammering. It echoes like thunder, relentless and angry.”

  Charlotte immediately thought of Thor. He was a god, impervious to any wounds she could inflict, but Thorn was a man. The man she wanted more than the god. “I lied to him. You’re implying that I hurt him, yes?”

  “I am, but that is not all I’m implying.”

  “What is it you want, Captain? Do I regret it? Yes, I regret many things, but I am helpless to change them. I’m mourning the loss of my father and the loss of my—” She swallowed, the emotions inside choking her. Her throat felt thick and dry. The air in her chest burned.

  He moved closer and she shrunk away. She didn’t have far to go before she had put herself in the corner. “Don’t touch me.”

  He frowned at her. His gaze searched her face.

  “Please just go.” She pleaded. She needed to be alone.

  “I will leave you now, but before I go, I want to assure you that… If you seek help, all you need to do is ask.”

  Heat filled her cheeks, and hot tears seared her eyes. “There is no help now.”

  Chapter 11

  September 14th, 1822

  Dear Rose,

  Reading your letters is like looking at my own life. I would feel so alone if I didn’t know you were there, living the same ordeals. I never imagined that it could come to this. I surprise myself at times. I’ve begun taking in sewing. I’m embarrassed but also hungry. I can see the sympathy in their eyes as they look upon my tattered gloves and stained hem. I realize now how much I took for granted. Growing up, these things just happened for me. Have you had to wash bedding yet? It’s a dreadful task. The weight of wet sheets alone is astonishing, but then I forgot to bring them in before the rain, and we had no more dry, clean sheets. I used the coverlet from my bed for my father and my cloak to cover me. It was not enough, but this letter is proof I did not freeze to death.

  Ever persevering,

  Charlotte

  September 30th 1822,

  Mr. Thorn,

  I received your package of seeds and I have acquired assurance that the land discussed in previous communications will be ready for planting. I’ve tasked my own tenants with the task of readying the field. Preparation is key, I should think. My associate failed year after year with his own crop and was grateful to accept my aid. I have confidence I will succeed where he did not. I can tell that you and I are similar in nature. I look forward to our future meeting.

  Lord Shelding.

  Thorn set his hammer down as the sun sank below the hills. He stretched and flexed his arm, his strained muscles and tendons crying for relief. He needed a hot bath in a large tub, or a cold river to douse himself in. He wasn’t sure what day it was. The only passage of time he’d marked was the rapid growth of the building before him. There was now a complete frame built, and most of the bottom half had finished walls.

  Thorn wanted to continue, to see the end of this endeavor swiftly so that he may leave this place. Instead, he turned away, entering the house that he loathed and making his way to his room. He passed the maid in the hall—Maggie, or something with an “m” sound. He couldn’t remember. They paid her to keep the place livable and prepare simple meals. She was an older woman, the blush of youth faded but still lively in her eyes. She smiled and bobbed each time they passed each other.

  He paused. “Miss?”

  “Margery, sir.”

  “Is there still a bathing tub in this house?” He heard all about the previous owner’s complete financial ruin from the laborers. That explained why the house was so bare. Everything that could be sold, had been. Including the daughter. Thorn tried to ignore those parts, but lord these men loved to gossip and speculate. He didn’t like the idea of women being traded for land, but that was basically what marriage was, wasn’t it? Not for his sister, thank god. She’d fallen for her husband the moment she saw him and would hear none of their mother’s talk of marrying up. Thorn supported the match. Roark was like him in a lot of ways—the good ways—not the stubborn, arrogant, brooding ways. Thorn’s worst vice was pride, his mother always said. No matter how much he did to erase the pain of the past, it was never enough. There was no limit to his ambition. Why should there be?

  He had no reason to stop. Why be content with some, when one can have it
all?

  Not all, apparently.

  He hadn’t been good enough for Charlotte.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. Would you like me to heat some water and bathe you? I’m very skilled in massage.” Her smile twitched higher.

  Thorn grumbled internally. “No, thank you.”

  He turned away and went into his room, feeling dirtier than when he left the work site. He shrugged out of his shirt, grunting as his back began to tighten and protest the daily abuse. There was a knock on his door, and for a moment, he feared it was the maid.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Pruitt.”

  “Come in.”

  Pruitt entered, looking so calm and collected that Thorn found it irritating. “What do you want?” He turned his back to Pruitt and dipped a rag in the cold water of the basin to wash his neck and chest.

  “You’ve made excellent progress in only a month.”

  “Has it really been a month?”

  “As of tomorrow it will be.”

  “Good. Then we’re closer to going home.”

  “You’re eager to go home?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’re eager to spend a month or more on the ship?” Pruitt raised one brow.

  “That’s the only way to get home, isn’t it?” Thorn threw the rag in the basin, splashing water on the floor. He used his discarded shirt to wipe it up. “What do you want, Pruitt?”

  “I want to congratulate you. I was worried you lost your head before, but now I see it was only your heart. You’ve risen above the temptation of her, and look how far you’ve come, burying yourself in strenuous labor to try to forget her.”