“He wrote in the beginning.” She moistened her lips. “Has something happened to make him stop?”
“Yes.” He paused, frowning at her, looking at her as though she was dim-witted. “War happened.”
She nodded, staring down at her hands, feeling wretched. “Of course. I should have realized.”
As if he possessed insight into her thoughts, the earl stepped closer, murmuring softly, “He has not forgotten you.”
She drew a quick, hissing breath. The words fell heavily upon her, a burden she did not wish to bear. Doubtlessly, the earl thought he was offering her solace. On the contrary. It felt as though a noose had just tightened about her neck.
“That is . . .” She groped for the right word. “That is good to hear.”
“I’m sure your eventual reunion will be most happy.” With a wince, he lifted a hand to his cheek. “No doubt different from our own.”
Familiar heat crept up her neck to her cheeks. Suddenly an apology was not too difficult to perform. “That was not well done of me.”
He inclined his head. “I offended.”
He was apologizing? She angled her head to the side, studying him, quite certain the Jamie of old had never apologized for anything. Especially not to the likes of her.
They remained where they were, a respectable distance between them in the vast space of the outdoors, yet an air of intimacy cloaked the exchange. Her fingers tapped nervously at her side. The wind lifted loose tendrils of hair and whipped them across her face, reminded her how unkempt she must appear. She gathered them with one hand and tucked the pale strands behind her ear.
Her pulse stuttered anxiously in her neck. “I hope you’re acclimating well to home, Lord Winningham.”
“As well as can be expected when I’m to fill the shoes of a much grieved brother. All while I’ve left the other one to risk his neck on a battlefield a world away. I feel a villain in a very bad drama.”
She blinked. “You do not mince speech.”
He lifted one shoulder. “To what point? I can see in your eyes what so many others already think.”
She squared her shoulders. “And what is that?”
He stepped closer. She held her ground.
His gaze flicked over her, just a quick, cursory examination before settling back on her face. He peered into her eyes as if confirming for himself that the nameless sentiment to which he referred was there. “You think it should be me rotting in the earth. Or on the battlefield. Whatever the case, I don’t belong or deserve to be here.”
She sucked in a breath.
He smiled mirthlessly, those well-carved lips curving upward. “Come. Don’t look so shocked.” He pressed a finger beneath her chin and closed her mouth for her.
Heat and awareness spread from that single point of contact. She jerked back a step. “I’m certain that’s not t-true.”
“I’ve never been anyone’s favorite.” He looked into her eyes meaningfully, and she knew he was implying that he had never been her favorite. And how could she deny the allegation? It was true.
“Do you want to be?” she challenged, knowing the answer already. He did not.
He had never behaved as one hoping to win the favor of others.
The sudden gleam in his eyes told her he knew this, too.
“My father will be missing me. It was lovely to see you again, Lord Winningham.” Oh, how the title still stuck in her throat. Turning, she moved away, not waiting for his response.
She thought she heard his murmured farewell, and something else, other words lost on the wind. Her nape tingled and she brushed her hand there, certain that it was his gaze she felt.
She quickened her pace.
Jamie watched the vicar’s daughter hasten away. His lips twisted wryly. He suspected she would run if she could. If it wouldn’t be a complete break in decorum, she’d lift her skirts and race from him as quickly as her feet would carry her.
She was everything and more than he remembered. The defiance was still there. That stubborn angle to her chin. The sparkling light in her brown-black eyes. She was a tightly wound package, her feisty nature threatening to spill free. He studied her trim shape marching briskly away. She was still the girl who had thrown manure in his face.
He winced at the memory. He’d deserved it. He’d been such an arrogant pup, full of jealousy. It was a bitter thing to feel like an outsider among your own family. But it had always been that way. His place had always been rather hazy in his mind. Brand was the heir, and Owen the beloved son from his father’s second marriage . . . a love union. Owen even possessed a title. He was Lord McDowell, having inherited a Scottish earldom through his mother.
Jamie had always felt unnecessary. Easily overlooked. The fact that Brand and Owen preferred each other—and even the vicar’s daughter—only drove home his sense of isolation among his own family.
And then there was Paget Ellsworth. Hoyden and all-around trouble. His brothers adored her. Followed her about like puppies. Not him. Even if they had made room for him in their cozy little trio, he had refused to be another to dote upon her.
Blasted pride. He’d felt a resurgence of it today, prompting him to provoke her. He shook his head, and clasped his hands behind his back. He’d come far. Years had passed. He would not allow himself to feel the old disgruntlement. Brand was gone. And Owen . . .
A sour taste coated his mouth. He was still over there. Fighting for his life. Jamie had been forced home. He’d tried to stay, unwilling to leave Owen, but the colonel had demanded it of him once they received word of Brand’s death. He closed his eyes in a long blink and shook his head, fighting off the memory of their final encounter. The dead look in Owen’s eyes as he turned from Jamie.
“You’ll be home soon, Owen,” he had called, the promise feeble even to his ears.
Owen did not look back, merely moved forward with hard strides, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He fell into step with four other soldiers from the regiment who had been singled out for their excellent marksmanship. They were leaving to hunt down rebel sepoys who had taken prisoner several merchants and their families. It was a kill mission. His brother had become quite skilled at those. He was used almost exclusively as an assassin.
He doubted Miss Ellsworth would even know Owen when he returned. He was not the same boy who had left her.
Jamie opened his eyes again and gazed after Miss Ellsworth’s retreating figure. At least she had not changed. He took satisfaction in that. She had grown into just the kind of woman he had imagined. Passionate. Strong. Full of life.
The kind of woman Owen deserved to come home to. The kind who could remind him of life and happiness and make him forget the dark days that demanded he kill or be killed.
The kind of female Jamie intended to keep at arm’s length. No matter how much she fascinated him.
No matter how much she always had.
Dear Owen,
I saw Jamie today. The sight of him hale and hearty fills me with confidence that you are well and will soon be returned to us. He says you receive my letters so I pray they bring you some comfort. I know you’ll be home soon and we may once again . . .
Paget paused over the page, unsure what to write, what to say next. She did not wish to make any promises, nor could she be anything less than warm and affectionate. Not while he struggled for survival a continent away. She wouldn’t be that cruel. Or callous. She needed to give him hope and encouragement.
Sighing, she rose from the desk, determining to finish the missive later. A walk would clear her thoughts. While the weather held at any rate. A low, gray sky had hung about all morning, threatening to trap her indoors the remainder of the day. She’d let gray skies bully her no longer.
She passed the housekeeper, Mrs. Donnelly, in the narrow hall. “I’m going for a stroll.”
“It’s going to rain,” Mrs. Donnelly cautioned.
“I’ll be quick.”
Mrs. Donnelly shook her steel-gray head. “You’ll get you
rself soaked.”
At the door, Paget flung her cloak around her shoulders and pulled up the hood. “It won’t be the first time. If I wait for a sunny day, I should never step outside.”
Mrs. Donnelly awarded Paget with one of her less-than-fierce scowls. After all these years, the glares failed to instill fear in Paget. With so few memories of her own mother, Mrs. Donnelly had served in that capacity . . . and never having children of her own, she was a tad indulgent.
“You’ll not look so cheeky when you’re brought low with the ague. Aye, you’ll likely be dead.”
“True.” Paget nodded grimly. “I rather suppose I won’t look cheeky from within my grave.”
“Ah, you impudent lass. Hurry on with you, then. Perhaps you will beat the coming deluge.” She stabbed the air in the direction of a window.
“I won’t go far,” she promised with a smile as she stepped out into the murky morning. She took off at a fast clip, her mind drifting back to the half-written letter she’d left on her desk.
Her thoughts didn’t linger there long, however, before sliding in another direction. James. Jamie. No—the Earl of Winningham. She must remember him as such. It wouldn’t do to slip and address him so informally again.
She pulled her fur-lined hood over her head. Her body soon warmed as her legs trod over the familiar road. She came to the part of the road lined with apple trees. In the winter, their barren branches met and tangled together overhead to create a canopied effect. Even skeletal, she still loved the stretch of trees. It was one of her first memories upon arriving in Winninghamshire.
She recalled driving down the lane with her parents on either side of her and looking up at the canopy of branches. It had been wondrous. More dream than real. She had felt as if she stumbled into one of the fairy tales her mother told her before bed. The apple trees had been in full bloom. A gentle breeze sent petals fluttering through the air. Several had caught in her lashes and she fancied she was entering the realm of some fairy kingdom. When she first spotted the Winningham manor, she was certain of it. She’d imagined a princess lived in the great stone mausoleum and had been quite disappointed to learn only princes resided within. Three princes much too old for her to play with. She smiled ruefully. In the beginning at any rate. At age six, Owen had no time for a three-year-old. However, by the time she was seven, there was nowhere she went without Owen and Brand. The ever-taciturn Jamie had kept to himself.
Carriage wheels sounded behind her, coupled with the steady clump of hooves. She stepped to the side of the road and paused, recognizing Sir John’s conveyance. It slowed to a stop as it came abreast of her.
The baroness stuck her head out the window, a ridiculous confection perched precariously atop her head. This one was more feathers than hat.
“Paget! What are you doing? It looks to rain! Come within at once.”
Paget smiled at her friend. “I’m fine. I’ll be home before the rain arrives.”
Alice Mary rolled her eyes. “You always say that and then end up soaked.”
Paget frowned. Had Alice Mary and Mrs. Donnelly been talking?
Sir John then peered out the carriage window beside his wife, the two of them crowding the frame. “Indeed, join us, Miss Ellsworth. We can see you home.”
“Better yet, return home with us,” Alice Mary encouraged with an eager bobbing of her head. “I’ve countless tasks to prepare yet for the ball and could use your assistance. Now that the wretched Earl of Winningham accepted our invitation, I can delay no longer.”
“Come now, dearest,” her husband chided.
Alice Mary pouted. “I know it’s uncharitable, but he has never been a particular favorite of mine. He was always so mean to Paget . . . looking down his nose at her. At all of us in the village. Remember, Paget? I dread seeing him again.”
Paget nodded, not bothering to reveal she had already seen the earl. That would only sentence her to an inquisition.
“He’s just reserved in nature, dear,” Sir John offered.
“You are too kind, husband. Aloof and rude is a more accurate description.” She sighed. “But no fear. I shall be a consummate hostess and don a smile even for the likes of him. Oh, so many decisions yet . . . Shall the ice sculpture be a Cupid? Or is that too passé?” She wrinkled her pert little nose. “I was thinking the gentlemen might find a sculpture of Aphrodite much more diverting. I don’t want this to be like any Valentine’s ball before—” Alice Mary brushed a conciliatory hand against her husband’s cheek. “No offense intended, darling.”
A smile twitched Paget’s lips, perfectly aware that Alice Mary’s apology was in reference to the fact that Sir John’s mother had planned the ball in previous years. This was Alice Mary’s first year as the new baroness. Paget knew taking the reins from her mother-in-law filled Alice Mary with equal parts delight and trepidation.
Sir John took his wife’s hand and pressed a fervent kiss to the back of her glove. His eyes glowed with his usual devotion and something else. Something secret and deep.
Paget fidgeted, her face warming.
“Of course not, darling,” Sir John assured.
Alice Mary blushed prettily, basking in her husband’s adoration.
Paget cleared her throat, feeling awkward—not a new sensation when she was around her childhood friend lately. When she was in the company of her new husband, Alice Mary was no longer the same girl. Since she’d become the baronet’s wife—a definite coup for the daughter of the village’s only physician—an invisible barrier had risen between them. All at once she was a matron whilst Paget was still a maid. And not just any matron, but a glowing matron with secret smiles.
Paget knew it was only partly because Alice Mary was now a married lady while she was not. It was more because Alice Mary was a happily married lady. A happily besotted, cannot-stand-to-be-apart-from-her-husband lady.
Quite simply, they were enamored of one another. Paget suspected this was the grand passion she read about in novels. It was there, evident in their shared glances, the small touches between them. The very air around them was charged with something even Paget, for all her ignorance on the matter, recognized as desire.
It intrigued her. Her single kiss with Owen had been nice . . . but, well . . .
She yearned for more than nice.
She wanted what Alice Mary had and that wasn’t something she could ever have with Owen. He was like a brother to her. Not a lover. In his absence, she had come to realize this. She only hoped he had reached the same realization in the years since he left Winninghamshire. She did not wish to hurt him.
Alice Mary tore her gaze away from her husband, appearing to suddenly remember Paget’s presence. She motioned for her to join them. “Come now, Join me—”
“Thank you, but I told Mrs. Donnelly I’d be home shortly. I wouldn’t want to alarm her.”
“Oh, very well. But you must call on me this week. The sooner the better. I really need you, Paget. Decisions must be made. I haven’t a moment more to spare.”
Paget smiled, doubting very much her friend needed her to make such weighty decisions as what type of ice sculpture she should commission, but she would humor her. “Of course. I promise.”
“Very well. Enjoy your walk.” She glanced to the skies. “Were I you, I would hasten for home.”
Paget nodded, but overtly avoided agreeing. “I shall call on you tomorrow.”
Satisfied, Alice Mary nodded and sat back in her seat. Sir John called out farewell and knocked on the ceiling. The carriage lurched forward.
Paget watched as the newlyweds rounded the lane and vanished from sight. Instead of turning for home, she set out across the countryside, burrowing deeper into her cloak and relishing the bite of wind on her cheeks that made her feel so very alive. She ignored the darkening skies, telling herself she would turn back for home soon. She simply wished to walk off some of her restlessness. An unidentifiable energy buzzed through her. Her strides quickened as if she could somehow exorcise the sensat
ion from her limbs and imbue herself with the serenity that had once ruled her.
For some reason an image of the earl rose in her mind. She snorted. Of all men, he shouldn’t be the one to occupy her thoughts. So he was handsome . . . and virile. He wasn’t the only gentleman in these parts, and he certainly was not the one to cure her restless nature. It was purely coincidence that her encounter with him coincided with her longing for . . . something. For more. Adventure. Excitement. An end to her dull existence.
Her breath fell harder as she walked. As if she could forget her encounter with the earl and Alice Mary and Sir John and the longing consuming her. As if she could once again be satisfied with her life.
CHAPTER THREE
* * *
The rain fell in heavy sheets, coloring the landscape an opaque gray. Jamie squinted against the deluge and wiped at his face. It did little good. Visibility was still low.
He’d departed early this morning on foot to visit Mrs. Neddles, his former nurse. Now almost eighty, she lived a village over from Winninghamshire. She was still as sharp as ever. He’d never forgotten her. She’d done a great deal for him, especially after his father remarried and Owen came along—when Jamie often felt invisible, lost in the middle of Brand and the new son. Mrs. Neddles had given him additional affection and always tried to lure him from his shell.
In the gray haze, he spotted a tight copse of trees in the near distance. He vaguely recalled it from his youth. It would do until the worst of the storm broke.
The rain pelted him like icy needles as he strode ahead, mindful of where he stepped on the spongy ground.
At the fringe of the copse, the ends of the branches gathered close and dipped low. He ducked his head as he stepped beneath the canopy.
Immediately he was protected from the worst of the rain. Water dripped sporadically through the ceiling of tightly tangled leaves and branches. The world seemed quieter, the patter of rain a distant thing under the umbrella of foliage.
The Earl in My Bed Page 2