He murmured, “I didn’t realize you were so adept with a gun. Where did the pistol come from?”
“My father taught me to shoot, and I always travel with a pair of coach pistols,” she said unsteadily. “But I couldn’t have reacted effectively if not for your example.”
His embrace tightened. “Whatever the reason, you were very brave.”
She closed her eyes as his gentle stroking eased her knotted nerves. This wasn’t the first time they’d touched, but there was hot liquid melting inside her, perhaps a reaction to the attack. She wanted to cling to him forever. She wanted to kiss him, lie with him . . .
Alarmed, she recognized that mingled with her shock and fear was desire. Attraction had been building gradually, and today it had burst into full, hungry flower. She wanted David with a power that surpassed anything she had felt for any other man.
Moistening her lips, she looked up at him. Their gazes locked, and David became very still. Then he raised her chin with one finger and pressed his lips to hers.
Her mouth opened under his, and a current of energy scorched through her, searing her senses and scattering her wits. He’d kissed her once when out of his head, and she’d wondered what his kiss would be like if he was fully aware. Now she knew, and the knowledge was shattering.
Her eyes closed, and for precious moments she didn’t think, didn’t doubt, simply was. Here was strength, a safe harbor . . .
No. Safe harbors were a treacherous illusion. She opened her eyes, needing to escape from the frightening intimacy his touch induced.
Sensing the change in her response, he broke the kiss, his gaze searching. Jocelyn had no idea what showed in her face, but he dropped his arms and stepped away, his expression once more calm and detached.
Jocelyn brushed back her hair with a trembling hand, as if that could restore her fractured composure. “Are the highwaymen dead?”
David crossed to the one he’d shot and dropped to one knee as he checked the throat for a pulse. “This one is.”
Looking weary, he went to the other fallen highwayman and pulled off the mask, revealing a youngish, coarse-looking face. The man was unconscious from his fall and bleeding from a shoulder wound, but his breathing was strong. “This fellow should survive to be hanged.”
Jocelyn exhaled, though she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. “I’m glad I didn’t kill him, even though he probably deserved it.”
David glanced up. “I’m glad, too. Killing stains the soul, no matter how justified it is.” His voice was bleak.
“Your soul seems unstained,” she said quietly.
“I’ve done what was necessary. It is for God to decide if what I did was right.” Dropping his gaze, he pulled out a handkerchief and began to roughly bandage the highwayman’s wound.
Jocelyn watched in silence, unable to turn her gaze away. Though he looked no different than before, her perception had utterly changed. She saw not the casually elegant gentleman but the sinewy body, the perfectly controlled strength. She was intensely conscious of his pure masculine power, and had never been so aware that she was a woman.
“Milady?”
Strange mood broken, she turned and saw that Marie had retrieved a flask of brandy from the carriage and was offering it to her mistress. Jocelyn managed a smile. “You first. You’re the one who was mauled by that beast.”
Not bothering with polite demurral, Marie put the flask to her lips and drank deeply. She choked a little, but her hands were steadier when she poured a measure into the cap, which was designed as a small cup, and handed it to Jocelyn, who swallowed only a little slower than her maid had. She closed her eyes for a moment as the fiery spirit burned through her. Head clearing, she asked, “Are you all right?”
“Better than I would have been if you hadn’t shot the swine, my lady.” An involuntary shiver went through her.
Jocelyn offered a small smile. “If you wish to finish the flask and become outrageously drunk, I promise to overlook it.”
Marie giggled. “That won’t be necessary, but I shall have one more swallow.”
David called, “Jocelyn, can you hold the horses so the driver and I can load this fellow into the carriage? He’ll have to be taken to the jail in Hereford.”
Jocelyn took the bridle of the team’s left leader, stroking the horse’s nose. Warm horseflesh was very soothing after the chaos of violence.
Grimly David and the coachman lashed the dead highwayman’s body to the top of the coach, then deposited the living thief into the rear-facing seat of the carriage. Not wanting to sit beside him, Marie chose to join the driver on the box. The last leg of the journey into Hereford was quiet. David kept a close eye on the prisoner, a loaded pistol ready, but the man never regained full consciousness.
Jocelyn withdrew tensely into her corner of the seat, her thoughts whirling. Was there any significance to that kiss? She was inclined to think not. Letters exchanged with her Aunt Laura over the years had made her realize that there was a dark connection between violence and passion.
Exhausted by nursing after the siege of Badajoz, Laura had poured out her horror at the sights she had seen, explaining that if a city gave in to an attacking army easily, it was usually treated mercifully. But if the attackers had been forced to fight a long and costly siege, by the barbarous logic of war the city would be sacked when it fell, its buildings looted and burned, its citizens slaughtered and raped. Badajoz had been just such a bloody victory for the British, and Wellington had stayed his hand for two days and nights as his men avenged themselves for their losses. Rape and murder had been twined together like strands of a hangman’s rope.
The brush with danger Jocelyn’s party had just experienced was a faint echo of the eternal struggle between the threat of death and the passion for life. David had saved their small party from harm, and in the aftermath he kissed her. A fleeting masculine impulse, indulged and immediately forgotten.
Jocelyn’s own reaction was surely rooted in that same disturbing, unfathomable blend of deadly fear and the joy of survival, but as a woman she would not so quickly forget. The embrace had created an intense physical awareness of the man who happened to be her husband. She was burningly conscious of David’s shoulder against hers, and she wanted him in the most ancient and primal of ways.
She closed her eyes as if overcome by the attack, and prayed that she would recover from this madness by the time they reached their destination.
Chapter 24
When they reached the town of Hereford, David installed the two women in a private parlor at the Green Dragon, then left to turn the prisoner over to the law. Jocelyn and Marie shared a bracing pot of tea, and Jocelyn was tolerably composed by the time David joined them.
“What will happen to the highwayman?” Silently she offered tea.
Waving away the offer, he replied, “The Assizes are meeting in Hereford at the moment, so he’ll be brought to trial quickly. Probably a week from today.”
“Will we all be called as witnesses to the attack?”
“That shouldn’t be necessary. The coachman and I can testify to events better than you and Marie. Since the man is not known to have a prior record of violence, I’ll ask the court for clemency. Highway robbery is a capital offense, of course, but the influence of my exalted rank should get him transportation instead of the gallows.” David paced the parlor, unable to conceal his impatience. “It’s time we were on our way. I’d like to reach Westholme before dark.”
“Of course.” As Jocelyn gathered her shawl and reticule, she realized that he was avoiding her eye as much as she was avoiding his. If they didn’t manage to bury this embarrassing intimacy, they would have an awkward stay in Herefordshire.
Forty-five minutes beyond the town of Hereford, David began to show signs of tension. Jocelyn asked, “Do you recognize landmarks?”
He nodded. “We’re almost there. The oldest part of the estate lies within a loop of the Wye River, though more land was added over time.”<
br />
The carriage slowed and turned between a stone pillar and an empty gatehouse. In the fading light, the drive stretched away through a long aisle of thick, gnarled trees. Curious, she asked, “What are the trees, David? I don’t recognize them.”
Not turning from the window, he replied, “Spanish chestnuts, over two hundred years old. This drive is almost half a mile long.”
His body was taut as a bowstring. A day earlier, she would have laid her hand on his to show her sympathy at what he must be feeling on this return to a long-lost home. Now, she didn’t dare touch him.
When they halted in front of the house, David climbed from the carriage, his expression shuttered. Jocelyn followed, scanning the rambling structure with interest. The house had been expanded in a variety of styles, but the native stone, warmed by a hint of red, tied the sections together. Though lacking the grandeur of Charlton, it was attractive, and the surrounding hills and woods were as lovely as David had promised.
The grounds had been dreadfully neglected, though. Catching movement from the corner of her eye, she spotted several small ornamental deer that had escaped from the park and were now happily nibbling on the shrubs.
David’s expression was remote, and Jocelyn could only guess at his thoughts. With the lightest of touches on his sleeve, she said, “Shall we go in?”
Mood broken, he nodded, and they climbed the broad stairs side by side. David gave the lion’s-head knocker several sharp raps. The sounds echoed hollowly inside the house. While they waited for a response, Jocelyn asked, “Were we expected today?”
He scrutinized the facade of the building. “I sent a message, but from the look of the place, Westholme is badly understaffed.”
After several minutes of waiting, the door swung open to reveal a balding man of middle years. His face broke into a wide smile. “Master David! Welcome home.” He executed a low bow. “Or rather, Lord Presteyne. Everyone in the household has been eagerly awaiting your return.”
As they stepped into a high, paneled hall, David stared at the man, then exclaimed, “Stretton, by all that’s holy! Are you the butler now?”
The man bowed again. “I have that honor, my lord.”
David explained to Jocelyn, “Remember the fight with my brother that I told you about? Stretton was one of the footmen who rescued me.” To the butler, he said, “It’s a pleasure to see a familiar face. I didn’t think anyone would remember me. I’m glad to see that you have advanced in the world.”
He offered his hand. After a startled moment, the butler returned a firm handshake. Jocelyn guessed that in the future the two men would stay within the roles of man and master, but for today, recognition outweighed protocol.
David continued, “This is my wife, Lady Presteyne, and her maid, Mademoiselle Renault. I trust rooms have been prepared for us?”
“Yes, my lord, but I’m afraid you will not find things as they should be. Your brother, the late lord, was loath to spend money on the household. Also”—Stretton coughed delicately—“because of the, err, proclivities of Lord Presteyne and Mr. Timothy, it was difficult to persuade decent young girls to work here.”
David’s brows arched. “Are you the only servant left?”
“Not quite, sir. The lawyers didn’t want new staff hired until you arrived, but my wife, who is a good plain cook, is in the kitchen, and a couple of village girls come every day to help with the cleaning.” He sighed. “I fear it will take some time to put the house properly to rights.”
Jocelyn glanced around, seeing the dullness of the woodwork and the shabbiness of the furnishings. The general air of neglect was enough to make any self-respecting butler apologetic.
“I’m glad the kitchen is operating. Could your wife produce a light meal in, say”—David glanced at Jocelyn questioningly—“half an hour or so?”
She nodded, glad for the chance to rest and regroup.
“It shall be done.” Stretton pulled a bell cord three times, perhaps in a prearranged signal to his wife, then led David and Jocelyn upstairs.
Her bedchamber was as shabby as the rest of the house, but the proportions were gracious, and the worn draperies and bedding had recently been cleaned. She had stayed at inns that were far worse. Marie was less charitable, muttering under her breath in French as she unpacked for her mistress.
Jocelyn paused by a window to study the estate. The house stood on a rise that offered a lovely view of fields and woodlands, now glowing with golden light from the setting sun. The sweep of the Wye River showed in the middle distance. Though the landscape was not so dramatic as the Welsh mountains to the west, it was vastly welcoming. No wonder David had wanted to come home to Hereford when he was out of his head.
He would be a fine landowner, very like her father. Less flamboyant in style, but knowing his crops and stock and people, taking the time to share a tankard of ale with a tenant, and never afraid to dirty his hands if a job needed doing.
Smiling a little at the image, she explored the rest of the suite of rooms. To the left, she found a small sitting room in a corner of the house, with views in two directions. Another door led to a large dressing room that contained several empty wardrobes. She opened the door in the far wall and discovered another bedchamber. David’s bags were by the bed, though luckily he was not in the room himself.
Hastily she closed the door. Of course they would have been given the master and mistress’s suite. She considered checking the door to see if it had a lock, then told herself firmly not to be a lackwit. She would be as safe from David here as she had been in her own house.
The question was, given her alarming reaction to him, would he be safe from her?
David swallowed hard when Jocelyn joined him in the small salon outside the family dining room. Looking fresh as a spring flower, she’d changed into a green muslin gown that brought out the green flecks in her eyes and revealed her slender throat and a tantalizing amount of creamy shoulders. From her smile, she had recovered from the attempted robbery. On the drive into Hereford, she had been taut as a drumhead.
Reminding himself that a gentleman really shouldn’t look down the front of a lady’s dress—or at least, shouldn’t be caught doing so—he pulled out her chair. Stretton had wisely set their places at right angles to each other rather than at opposite ends of the table. Having to speak across six feet of mahogany tended to limit conversation. As David took his own seat, he said, “If I’d realized how rundown the place was, I wouldn’t have asked you to come with me.”
She laughed. “This is a palace compared to the house I shared with my aunt and uncle in Fuente Guinaldo.”
“I had forgot that you are a hardened veteran of the Peninsula.” He wondered if things would have been different if they had met then. Might her heart have been more available? Of course, two years earlier he’d had no prospects beyond that of dying of fever or wounds, and probably wouldn’t have dared to court her.
It had been a long time since tea with the Morgans, so they applied themselves to the meal. As the butler had said, his wife was a good plain cook, and the food was solid and satisfying. After the plates were removed, Jocelyn remarked, “Good food, and really excellent wines.”
“I’m not surprised,” David said dryly. “I imagine the horses will be equally good. Apparently the late lord lavished money on his pleasures and ignored everything else.”
Jocelyn selected a fresh peach from a fruit bowl and began to peel off the fuzzy skin with a thin, sharp knife. “Has the house had no mistress since your mother left?”
“Not for some years. My middle brother, Roger, had married, but he lived in London rather than here. There were no children, and his widow has since remarried. Wilfred also had a wife, but she died in childbirth some years ago, along with the baby, and he couldn’t find another female desperate enough to take him.”
“Is there enough money to take care of what needs to be done here?” She cut a slice of juicy peach and ate it with obvious enjoyment.
Wishing
he could kiss that peach-flavored mouth, he replied, “Rowley thinks so, if I live frugally and invest every penny I can spare in the estate. It will take years to return everything to order, but it can be done, which is all that matters.” He swirled the wine in his glass absently, thinking of his childhood at Westholme. The good times far outnumbered the bad. “I can’t think of a task I would enjoy more.”
“Shall I get together with Stretton to hire some housemaids? With your lecherous brothers gone, it shouldn’t be hard to find women to work here.”
“That would be very helpful, if you don’t mind.”
She grinned. “I love hiring people and giving orders. You said yourself that I was one of the most managing females you’ve ever met.”
“It was rather a compliment, you know.” He’d never understood why some men were attracted to women who were as helpless as fluffy chicks.
For an instant, intense awareness thrummed between them. Then she dropped her gaze and said randomly, “This is the strangest birthday I have ever had.”
“Good God, this is the infamous twenty-fifth birthday? Why didn’t you tell me?” he exclaimed. “I knew it must be around this time, but I don’t recall ever hearing the exact date. August twentieth. I shall have to remember for the future.”
Though perhaps it was foolish to mention a future when their marriage would soon vanish like the morning mist. He wondered if they would occasionally see each other in London and nod politely, or perhaps exchange notes once a year, as if they hadn’t once, briefly, been husband and wife.
Grimly reminding himself that the marriage hadn’t been annulled yet, he said, “Westholme has a famous wine cellar, and I’m sure that would include champagne. Shall we go down and see what Wilfred left?”
“Lead the way.” She swallowed the last of her peach. “Better to celebrate a birthday with champagne than bullets and bandits.”
The Bargain Page 21