No. She’d fought him that day, and she’d bought herself time. She’d done so again today… but for how long?
Grace shivered in her chemise and started at the sound of a knock at the door. She snatched up the quilt and wrapped herself in it.
“Yes,” she said.
Mr Hardy came back in, dressed this time, and so Grace felt more able to look at him. It had been indecent before, with him in just his nightshirt. She’d been far too aware of the heat of his hands, the strength in his powerful body. When he’d stood up before the fire and turned his back to give her privacy, his body had been a silhouette within the nightshirt. She’d never seen such a man before, such a masculine physique. The thought of what he could do if he chose had made her tremble. She’d come to know of late what the blow of a cruel hand felt like, and this man’s hands were far larger, his body far more powerful than her brother’s. She’d not been able to stop staring at him, torn between fascination and terror, but when he’d spoken, reassuring her of her safety, his voice had been gentle. Grace had never experienced gentleness from a man before. She knew it was possible, had clung to the belief that one day she’d find such a man and escape. In her mind she’d held tight to a different future. In that world, Christmas was a joyful time filled with love and the noisy chaos of a family, of children, of a man who loved her as she loved him, but Harold had taken that last hope from her.
The men she knew best were cruel; the ones that ought to have protected her were to be feared and obeyed. Her father had been a man to fear, not because he beat her, but for the way he mocked and controlled and kept her isolated from the world. Her brother was not so inventive, and since her father died and she’d become his property, his cruelty arrived on the end of a fist. Yet this man who was twice their size, with his rough hands and uncultured voice—a man strong enough to crush her brother with ease—he’d promised her safety.
I won’t let no one hurt ye, and you’ve nowt to fear from me.
He’d said that, and she’d believed him. Perhaps she was a gullible fool, but her instincts told her otherwise. Even the dog who obeyed his master without hesitation looked at him with adoration, not with fear.
I’ve never laid a hand on a woman what didn’t want me to, and I don’t mean to start now.
She blushed as she remembered those words, wondering who the woman had been who’d wanted him to touch her. His wife, she supposed.
“Are ye warmer?” he asked, and Grace smiled at the depth of his voice, the gruff quality that was somehow soothing. Her brother would consider his accent rough and ugly, but it seemed soft-edged to her, the country burr reassuring.
“I am, thank you.”
He looked down at the pile of clothes on the floor and frowned. “I came down too soon,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
He gave a little huff of laughter and looked up at her. “Truth be told, I… I thought perhaps I’d dreamed ye. I expected to come down and find the place empty.”
“I’m afraid not,” she said, frowning as guilt sat heavy in her chest for the trouble she was putting him to.
He smiled at that, and Grace stared at the way it transformed his face from something harsh and a little forbidding into an almost boyish expression.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “It’s the most excitement me and Rufus have had in… well, ever,” he said, tugging at the dog’s ears. The hound closed his eyes with an expression of bliss. “We thought you was a Christmas angel.” He looked awkward at the admission and rubbed the back of his neck again. “I’ll… er… go to the pantry and find something for ye to eat and give ye time to….”
He made a gesture towards the pile of clothes and took himself off again.
Grace watched him go and then reached for the clothes he’d brought her. Nothing fit. Whoever his wife had been, she’d been a deal taller and built with more generous proportions. Still, she dressed as best she could, and stared down at herself in chagrin.
“Are ye decent?” he called from the pantry.
Grace sighed. Well, at least everything was covered. “Yes.”
He came back in, holding a heavy tray, and stopped in his tracks when he saw her. She could only imagine what she looked like, dressed in clothes that were far too big for her, like a child trying to act like an adult. It was an apt enough description. Her father and brother had always treated her like a child, and she’d had no choice but to allow it, no matter how it rankled. It was better than being locked in her room, or slapped, or worse.
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and his harsh features softened. “Sarah was a deal bigger than ye, eh, and not half so elegant?”
“I’m grateful for dry clothes, Mr Hardy, I assure you.”
He nodded, put the tray down on the kitchen table, and pulled out a chair for her.
“Come and eat,” he said. “It will help to warm ye. I’ll heat some soup, too.”
“There’s no need to go to such trouble—”
“’Tis no trouble, though it’ll not be what you’re used to.”
“Good,” she replied with some force, startling herself as much as him. She blushed and looked away, busying herself with cutting a slice of cheese from the platter he’d set down.
The food was excellent. Perhaps it was simply the relief at being safe and warm, but Grace had tasted nothing so wonderful in her life. The cheese was sharp and crumbly, and there were generous slices of ham with a rich smoky flavour. Mr Hardy returned to the table, covered a huge slice of brown bread with thick, creamy butter, and handed it to her. Grace stared at it for a moment before tearing off a small corner. She closed her eyes as she chewed and sighed with pleasure.
“My housekeeper, Mrs Tucknott, is an excellent baker,” he said, his rumbling voice recalling her to the table and her manners.
“She is,” she said, smiling. “I can make bread too,” she added, with no little pride, before blushing as she realised how foolish she sounded. “It’s the only thing I can make.” The amendment was made with rather more humility as she realised such a boast would hardly impress him. “And not as well as this.”
“I didn’t know such fine ladies could cook.”
Grace looked down at her plate. “My father and brother wouldn’t approve,” she admitted, as a prickle of fear slithered down her back. “But our cook was a God-fearing woman and didn’t approve of idleness. I’d get lonely all by myself when everyone was away, so I would spend time in the kitchens for company. I pestered her into teaching me.”
She looked up to find him staring at her hands and slid them under the table, disconcerted by the quality of his gaze. He got up then and went to the fireplace, ladling out a bowlful of soup for her before setting it down on the table with a spoon.
“That will warm ye up,” he said, pushing the bowl towards her with an encouraging smile.
Grace remembered how he’d warmed her so far and felt the heat scald her cheeks as she averted her gaze from his face. It had felt good, the sure touch of his hands on her feet, warming her so gently. She dared another glance at him, intrigued by this rough fellow, who was far more civilised than the men she knew, men who would claim to be above Mr Hardy. They believed themselves of a higher rank, gentlemen, and Grace wondered at the nature of a word that could describe a man who was anything but gentle.
The man beside her fitted the true meaning better than any she’d met before.
“I’m sorry. My manners won’t be what you’re used to,” he said, sitting back in his chair.
The words had been gruff and apologetic, and Grace realised he had misinterpreted her blush.
“No,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “They’re not. You’re by far the kindest and most well-mannered person I’ve ever met.”
He frowned at that, curiosity and concern colouring his expression as he leaned towards her. The lamplight caught his eyes and Grace could see that they were brown, a deep, rich colo
ur like chocolate, and flecked with gold. A kind man, said a hopeful voice in her head, one that won’t hurt you.
“When ye arrived, ye asked if they’d followed. Ye were frightened out of your wits. Who was it, lass? Who had ye running through the dark all alone on a night like this?”
Grace hesitated. From what she could see of the house she sat in, it was as neat as a pin and well kept. The man’s clothes were not those of a gentleman, but they were good quality. A farmer he might be, but he appeared to be a successful one. Would money tempt a man like this? Would he return her to her brother, hoping to gain a reward? The idea made her heart skip and her stomach clench, and she jolted as he reached for her hand and covered it with his own.
“I’ll not let anyone hurt ye,” he said, his words fierce, a promise in them that she wanted to believe. “Not even if they’re your kin. You have my word.”
She tore her gaze from the massive hand holding hers with such tenderness to stare up at him. Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked hard.
“Ah, don’t cry,” Ned murmured, raising his other hand to wipe away a tear that spilled down her cheek with his thumb.
Grace gasped at the intimacy of his touch and he sat back at once, withdrawing both hands and looking mortified. “I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. I… I ought not have—”
“No,” she said in a rush, regretting the loss of his warm hand and the promise of safety. “No, I’m… I’m not offended, only… surprised. I’m not used to such—”
“Aye,” he said, sounding disgusted. “Like I said, I’m no gentleman, and my manners aren’t what you’ll be used to.”
“You’ve been a perfect gentleman, Mr Hardy, but like I told you, I’m not used to such kindness,” Grace said, determined he not misunderstand her.
He looked puzzled by that and leaned a little towards her once more. “But a woman of such beauty, surely you’ve men tripping over themselves to be kind to ye?”
She stared at him. He thought her beautiful. The idea made something warm and fluttery uncurl inside her. “My father did not let me socialise. He… He was a solitary man and preferred to live quietly. He died in September, and since then my brother… m-my brother—”
Her breathing picked up at thoughts of her brother, her heart speeding in her chest, and she felt giddy as panic overtook her.
“Hush, lass,” Mr Hardy said.
She gasped and gasped, but no air seemed to reach her lungs.
He moved, getting to his knees before her and taking both of her hands in his. “Look at me,” he commanded, and there was such force behind the words there was no possible way she could do anything else. “You’re safe here,” he said, squeezing her hands. “You’re safe.”
Grace nodded as her heart settled at his reassurance, her breathing slowing a little.
“H-He’ll c-come for me,” she said, trying to keep the panic at bay.
“Your brother?”
She nodded, holding onto his hands far harder than he held hers, as if he was her lifeline, the only thing keeping her from sliding into dark waters.
“You’re afraid of him?”
Grace nodded again, fighting not to cry.
Mr Hardy frowned at that, his expression troubled. “We’d have to hide you if he came,” he said, and she could tell he was uncomfortable with the idea. “He’s your legal guardian, is he not?”
“Yes,” she said, knowing it was unavoidable.
If Mr Hardy didn’t want to bother himself with her, if she caused him too much trouble, it would be easier to hand her back. She belonged to her brother, after all… until she was married.
Her heart gave an uneven lurch in her chest.
“Why does he frighten you so much?” Mr Hardy asked, still holding her hands. “Does he…?”
He paused as his gaze fell to where their hands were clasped. She’d rolled up the sleeves of the shirt, as they were too long, and one was pushed farther up her arm than the other, exposing bruises, dark and angry against her pale skin.
Mr Hardy grew very still.
Grace withdrew her hands from his and tugged at the sleeve, covering the bruises, shame rising within her. Perhaps he’d believe she’d deserved it. She’d been sitting holding his hands, a man she’d just met. She was alone with him. Perhaps he’d think….
Mr Hardy took her hand back and pushed the sleeve up again, his eyes fixed on the bruises. “He do that?” he asked, his voice low.
Grace nodded and her heart skipped at the way his expression darkened.
“Why?” he demanded. “What excuse did he give for laying hands on ye in such a way? For I tell ye now, Miss Honeyfield, there’s no excuse, none in the world other than that the man who calls himself your kin is a vile brute.”
She stared at him in wonder. No one had ever taken her part before. No one had ever stood up for her. They were too afraid of her father while he lived, and then Harold.
“My brother, Harold, is in debt,” she said, trying to calm herself enough to explain. “My father’s estate was not as wealthy as he’d supposed, and the inheritance he’d relied upon not enough to support his lifestyle. The property is entailed and so… and so—”
Mr Hardy covered her hand within his and she thrummed with the awareness of the strength held within the man before her, strength he was trying to lend her, to make her brave. “It’s all right. Tell me. I’ll help ye, I swear I will.”
Grace stared at him, at the sincerity in his eyes.
“He arranged a marriage for me, with a man who has always… he’s always….” She took a breath, encouraged by the warmth of his hand, by the firm clasp of his fingers around hers. It ought to shock her, appal her, this dreadful lapse of propriety— with his rough hand holding hers, without even gloves between them—and it was rather shocking, but it also made her feel safe and protected. That was too novel and wonderful a sensation to give up lightly. It made her believe he meant what he said to her. “He was a friend of my father’s, m-much older than me, and—”
“Ye don’t like him?”
Grace shook her head, trying hard not to become hysterical at the idea she didn’t like Mr Carrington.
“You’re afraid of him?”
She nodded this time. “H-Harold is a b-brute, like you said, but Mr C-Carrington—”
“Carrington?” he said, his eyes going wide. “God above, your brother would wed ye to Carrington?”
He got to his feet, cursing under his breath and Grace knew that was it. Of course he would know Mr Carrington. He was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the region. He’d not want anything to do with her now.
“I-I’m sorry,” she said, her heart returning to the bleak place that had sent her tumbling from a carriage in the dead of night and running into the icy darkness. “I ought not have involved you in my troubles, but… if you could just give me directions to the nearest town, and then perhaps I could—”
He swung back around, staring at her in consternation. “What?” he said, so obviously bewildered that her heart skipped a little with hope. “Ye think I would leave ye to the wolves? To a man like Carrington? Good Christ, what manner of man do ye think me?” he demanded, so obviously offended she could only stare up at him and fight the sudden urge to fling herself into his arms.
This man, whom she did not know and who owed her nothing, had shown her more compassion in the past hour than she’d known her whole life.
“I think you quite the kindest person I’ve ever met,” she said
Pity filled his eyes, and he returned to crouch before her. “That’s likely the saddest thing I ever heard,” he said, with such regret in his voice her throat tightened.
He rubbed a hand over his face and let out a long, slow breath.
“Mr Carrington is a cruel man,” he said, after a pause. “I’d not give a dog into his keeping, let alone a woman.”
Grace made a pitiful sound as the breath she’d been holding escaped her and he smiled, shaking his head.
�
�I promised ye safety and I meant it. Trouble is, how to achieve it.”
She swallowed, praying he’d come to the same conclusion she had, though the idea filled her with both alarm and anticipation.
He looked her in the eyes and Grace felt herself held in the depths of that warm gaze, in the promise of safety she saw there.
“There’s only one way I can keep ye safe, lass, for your brother owns ye, body and soul, and I can do nothing to stop him if he discovers ye here with me. There’ll be the most god-awful scandal too, for ye must know your reputation will be ruined if anyone found out you’ve been alone with me this night.”
She nodded, her breath coming fast.
There was a long, taut, silence, and she sensed he was fighting some internal battle.
“I’m no prize, Miss Honeyfield,” he said quietly. “I’m no gentleman, and I’m a deal older than you myself. I can’t afford to give ye fine dresses and jewels. You’ll be an outcast to your own kind, and no doubt folk of my station won’t welcome ye. Neither fish nor fowl, ’tis what you’ll be….” He hesitated, before getting to one knee and taking her hand between both of his. “But I promise ye safety, and that I’ll never lay a hand on ye in anger, nor ever touch ye if ye don’t welcome it. I’d do everything in my power to make ye happy, though I know that isn’t much to offer a lady like yourself, but, if ye think ye might bear it, to keep ye safe, I’d be honoured if ye would marry me, Miss Honeyfield.”
Grace stared at him, searching his face for any signs of duplicity or guile, but found nothing but the doubt in his eyes, and she realised he expected her to reject him. Was she a fool to trust in his promises so easily? Yet, what choice was there, and it appeared her heart—foolish thing that it was—had not given up hope after all.
“Yes,” she said, breathless with the enormity of what she was doing. “Yes, I would marry you, Mr Hardy.”
His astonishment was enough to make her lips curve upwards, and then as he realised she would not change her mind, he smiled. The expression transformed his face. It was devastating, that smile, and Grace felt quite winded. He was a handsome man, her husband-to-be.
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