Always Mine

by Cheryl Holt

  If she accomplished nothing else during their acquaintance, she would nag at him until he understood the value of renovating it.

  Halls went in three directions, and they proceeded down the one that would take them toward the ocean. They walked to where it ended at an ostentatious suite.

  “This was my father’s bedchamber,” he said. “My siblings and I were never allowed inside it.”

  “Siblings?” she asked. “You have others besides your brother?”

  “We had a sister, but she’s deceased too.”

  “You’ve suffered so many losses! If you keep telling me about them, I might begin to feel sorry for you. It certainly helps to explain why you’re so difficult.”

  “I’m not difficult,” he huffed. “Well, I might be a little difficult.”

  They entered the sitting room, the bedchamber behind it. There was furniture present, but it was covered with sheets. Paintings had been removed and were piled on the floor. The rugs had been rolled and stacked along the wall.

  “I’ve noticed the furniture is still here,” she said. “Is any of it from your family? Might you stumble on some heirlooms?”

  “I doubt it. We lost everything—in a tragedy—so every item here must have been Mr. Oakley’s. Our possessions were all sold, right down to the spoons in the drawers.”

  “My goodness! Stop sharing your sob stories. You’re breaking my heart.”

  “I like the sound of that. Will you be nicer to me now?”

  “I’ve been plenty nice to you, much nicer than you deserve.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps.”

  He led her over to a window, and he unlatched the shutters and shoved them open. They looked out on the weedy, overgrown park that stretched to the beach.

  Once again, she pictured herself living in the house, waking up every morning and peering out at a beautiful garden that was lovingly tended. He was so ungrateful about the property. Why should he be lucky enough to own it?

  They dawdled for an eternity, staring out at the stunning vista, and, to her great joy, he flung an arm over her shoulders and nestled her to his side. She shouldn’t have snuggled with him so intimately, but when he was near, she simply couldn’t behave as she ought.

  “What was the tragedy that occurred in your past?” she eventually asked. “What happened to all of you?”

  “I might tell you about it someday.”

  “Is it hard for you to talk about it?”

  “It’s not hard especially. It just makes me angry. On such a splendid afternoon, I’d rather not ponder it.”

  “Will you ever get to the point where it doesn’t make you incredibly angry?”

  “Probably not.”

  “If you’d like to confide in me, I’m a good listener.”

  “Yes, you are,” he agreed, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll spill my secrets to you.”

  She smiled at him, and when she did, he dipped down and kissed her. She couldn’t say she hadn’t been hoping he would, and she knew she shouldn’t participate, but she couldn’t convince herself it was wrong.

  He pulled her to him, so the front of her body was pressed to his all the way down. He towered over her, his chest so broad, his shoulders so wide. They were the kind of shoulders a woman could lean on when she was lonely or afraid.

  She bet he wasn’t afraid of anything, and she wondered what it would be like to have such a fierce, tough man in her life.

  Thrilling ideas flitted through her mind. He seemed to like her very much, and while she constantly told herself she didn’t like him, it was a lie. Could they have a future? What might he think about that?

  There appeared to be some destiny at work in their meeting. She’d always adored Oakley, had always imagined the grand old mansion superbly restored and her residing in it. And here she was, kissing him in the master’s suite.

  Why couldn’t they wind up together? Why couldn’t she have him for her very own?

  She never reached out and grabbed for what she craved because her dreams never came true. But why not reach for Raven Shawcross? Why not toss the dice for once?

  “You make me feel better,” he said as he drew away.

  “I’m glad. Are you really finished with Millicent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  He smirked. “My jealous little Rebecca. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a possessive type.”

  “I’m not usually. I simply can’t bear to have you focused on anyone but me.”

  “I can tell. I’m a very vain fellow, so I will admit to being delighted that you’re fixated on me.”

  He was smiling too, and she realized that she’d rarely seen him smile. Was it because of the disaster that had happened to his family when he was a boy? Or had his whole life been hard?

  She’d like to quiz him about his travels with Sir Sidney Sinclair. How had an orphan managed to join in such a fantastic adventure? And she suspected it hadn’t all been fun and games. He was back in England because Sir Sidney had been brutally murdered in Africa, so she supposed his itinerant existence hadn’t been all that glamorous.

  There was such poignant emotion in the air. It was the perfect time for speaking frankly. When he gazed at her so fondly, she was sure he was suffering from the same affectionate feelings that were plaguing her.

  She was so eager for him to provide some hint of his intentions. She’d previously engaged in that one fleeting amour when she was seventeen, so she couldn’t guess how a romance bubbled into a bigger connection. Unless he professed heightened sentiment, she never could.

  He kissed her again and murmured, “Let’s check out the bedroom.”

  It wasn’t close to the comment she’d been dying to hear, and she could have kicked herself for being so foolish. She’d always been told that women and men were totally different animals, that they honed in on completely different issues as being important, and he’d just proved that adage.

  She was pondering love, and he was pondering lust.

  “Let’s not,” she said. “The blankets are probably dusty anyway.”

  “Does that mean—once I’ve had it cleaned—you’ll be happy to loaf in there with me?”

  “No, it doesn’t mean that, and merely because you snuck into my bedchamber, you shouldn’t automatically assume that I’m loose. I don’t plan to lie down on a bed with you ever again.”

  “That sounds like a challenge. It makes me want to corrupt you.”

  “I am not corruptible.”

  He snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

  He started in again, kissing her as if they were the last two people who would ever kiss. He was holding her so tightly, his palms roving over her back, arms, and hips. She felt as if her body had been electrified, as if he’d imbued it with an energy she’d never be able to tamp down.

  Suddenly, from behind them, a man cheerily called, “Hello? Hello? Is anyone up here?”

  They jumped apart as Preston Melville strolled in. He looked dapper as ever, in the tidy suit and bowler hat he wore when he was trotting through the countryside.

  Rebecca couldn’t decide which of them was more astonished, her or Mr. Melville. She was aghast to have been caught in such a shocking circumstance, and he was obviously shocked to have caught her in it. As to Mr. Shawcross, he never exhibited much excitement in any situation.

  “Miss Rebecca?” Mr. Melville said, as he stumbled to a halt. “Ah…fancy meeting you here. And Mr. Stone! Or should I say Shawcross?”

  Rebecca smoothed a nervous hand across her hair. “What did you need, Mr. Melville? May we help you?”

  “I was driving up the lane to Oakley.” His concerned gaze flicked from her to Mr. Shawcross, then back to her again. “I like the curve in the driveway; it’s thrilling to race around it in my gig.”

  “I’m sure it is,” she tepidly agreed.

  “I saw the wagons of lumber and the open door, and with Oakley being vacant for so
long, I figured someone must have finally purchased it. I wanted to greet our new neighbor.”

  “I purchased it,” Mr. Shawcross said.

  “Well…isn’t that something?” Mr. Melville mused. “So…ah…I’m sorry to interrupt, and I’ll just be going.”

  “May I walk you out?” she asked him.

  “No, no, I can find the way.” He spun away, then he stopped and whipped around. His look was beseeching. “Miss Rebecca, would you come with me? Please? I don’t believe I ought to leave you alone with him.”

  She sensed Mr. Shawcross bristling—as if he might hurl an insult—and she hurriedly said, “I’m fine, Mr. Melville.”

  “Are you?” The question hung in the air, and his furious attention shifted to Mr. Shawcross and stayed there.

  “You should be off, Melville,” Mr. Shawcross told him. “There’s naught occurring in this room that is any of your business.”

  Mr. Melville focused on Rebecca again. “I’m certain Mrs. Carter wouldn’t like this, and I’d hate for you to get yourself into trouble with her.”

  “Don’t fret, Mr. Melville. I’m about to depart myself.”

  “Come with me!” he earnestly repeated.

  Mr. Shawcross stepped in front of her, blocking her from Mr. Melville’s view, as if he was protecting her from the kindly man.

  “Goodbye, Melville,” he said. “You claimed to know the way out or would you like me to show you?”

  “No, I can go on my own.”

  He hovered another second, giving Rebecca a chance to change her mind, but she couldn’t force herself away. Her entire encounter with Mr. Shawcross had been divine, and she wasn’t ready for it to conclude so abruptly.

  Mr. Melville’s shoulders slumped. “I guess I’ll see you at Carter Crossing then. Be careful.”

  Then he marched out, and they listened as his strides faded down the hall.

  Once it was silent again, she began to shake, and Mr. Shawcross pulled her into his arms. He held her until her trembling abated.

  “Oh, my lord!” she muttered. “That was hideous.”

  “Will he tattle to Mrs. Carter?”

  “I doubt it. He’s very nice. He wouldn’t deliberately harm me.”

  “If you’re imperiled because of this, track me down immediately. Your cousins won’t have many more opportunities to be awful to you.”

  “I won’t ask what you mean by that.”

  “You’ll find out very soon.” Tears flooded her eyes, and he frowned and inquired, “Are you about to cry on me?”

  “No, I’m simply so embarrassed. I want others to think the best of me, and I try hard to guarantee that they do. I never like to diminish myself in anyone’s esteem.”

  “He’s a tedious dolt. His opinion of you is irrelevant.”

  “No, it’s not. He lives nearby, and he’s an acquaintance. He might even wind up married to Millicent. I couldn’t bear it if he thought I was loose or immoral.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “You’re from London, so you don’t have any idea how these petty scandals play out in a small town. Everything matters, especially reputation, and I am quite sick with regret.”

  “I never deemed regret to be an emotion worth suffering.”

  “You wouldn’t, but you’re male and you’re rich, so you can afford to act however you like. I can’t.”

  She drew away and went to the window to stare out at the beautiful scenery. If he didn’t speak up and tell her that he envisioned a future for them, she shouldn’t ever come back to Oakley.

  “Now that you own this property,” she said without turning around, “will you change the name? Or will you keep it as Oakley?”

  “I’ll likely change it.”

  “To what?”

  “To what it used to be.”

  “What was that?”

  “Stone Crossing.”

  A shiver slithered down her spine. Was Mr. Melville’s story about him being Raven Stone actually true? What else could it indicate?

  “I have to get home,” she said. “I’m positive people are frantically looking for me.”

  “You can visit me whenever you like. I figure you’ll be curious about how the renovations are progressing.”

  “I can’t visit again. It’s too dangerous.”

  She glanced out a final time, then walked to the door, skirting by him so he couldn’t touch her. If he did, she’d never escape.

  “I was serious about Mrs. Carter,” he said, “and I’ll add your cousin, Clayton, to the list too. If they bother you over any issue, let me know. I’ll put an end to it.”

  “I don’t need any help with them. They’re my family.”

  “Which isn’t much in my book.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re planning, Raven Stone, but please don’t allow your rage to pummel me. I haven’t ever hurt you, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t hurt me in return.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  As he voiced the remark, he appeared cold and bitter—and very, very alone.

  “Are you still staying with us at Carter Crossing?” she asked. “Or have you packed your bags and snuck out without my realizing it?”

  “Yes, I’m still there. Clayton’s party is proceeding for the next fortnight. I intend to revel with him.”

  She didn’t dare ponder what his reveling might involve. “I’ll see you again then. Thank you for showing me the house. I’ve always loved it.”

  “I’m glad you stopped by.”

  He was so disconnected from her—as if they hadn’t kissed a single time. How did he switch his emotions on and off like that? She’d certainly never developed such an icy ability.

  She hurried out without another word, being extremely relieved that Mr. Melville had arrived. If he hadn’t burst in and yanked her to her senses, there was no predicting how she might have disgraced herself in order to make Mr. Shawcross happy. She definitely had a new understanding of how a girl got herself in trouble.

  She practically ran down the stairs and outside, and she continued to run all the way home, not slowing until she was off the promontory and approaching the manor.

  Hopefully, she hadn’t been missed, but if she had been, she couldn’t deduce what excuses she’d provide. What lie could she possibly tell that wouldn’t land her in more of a jam than she probably already was?

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Will you come into Frinton with me?”

  Clayton glared at his mother and scoffed. “No. I have a houseful of guests who are eager to be entertained. Why would I traipse off with you instead?”

  “It’s the day of the month when I stop by the shipping office to sign paperwork.”

  He waved toward the door. “So sign away. Why bother me over it?”

  “It’s been so long since you visited the company. When you’re the owner, it’s vital to occasionally display an interest.”

  “There’s the problem for you, Mother. I have no interest whatsoever. Don’t expect me to pretend about it.”

  “I wish you’d at least try to exhibit some authority.” Beatrice’s cheeks heated—as if she was about to confess a shameful secret. “I’m having trouble with the men you’ve put in charge. They don’t listen to me.”

  “And you think I could make them?”

  “Men like to deal with men. They don’t heed women.”

  “With good reason,” he muttered.

  “It’s been getting worse.”

  “Well, fire them and replace them with some idiots who are more malleable. Honestly, I don’t understand why it seems so complicated to you.”

  They were in the dining room, which was the one spot you could be certain to find his mother. She was an absolute glutton, and it was humiliating to have his acquaintances discover what sort of parent he had, but he supposed everyone had relatives who were an embarrassment.

  His sister was seated at the table too, and she chimed
in with, “Don’t be such an ass, Clayton. What could it hurt to escort her into Frinton? It will just be an hour or two. You’ll be back in plenty of time to over-imbibe with your disgusting friends.”

  He glanced about, frantic to ensure no eavesdroppers were lurking.

  “I caution you, dear sister, to shut your mouth. I’ve brought my favorite chums to the country with me. I won’t have you denigrating them.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she sarcastically said.

  He didn’t really know Millicent. She was a decade younger than he was, so he’d grown up feeling like an only child. Her attitudes were like a gnat buzzing around his ear.

  Girls were such a pricey annoyance, and smart families married them off quickly so some poor sap would assume their expenses. Four years earlier, Beatrice had ordered him to fund a lavish Season in London to snag a husband for Millicent, but he’d quashed that idea.

  If money was to be spent, he would spend it on himself. He was the one who had an image to maintain. She simply dawdled at Carter Crossing, with naught to do and no future opening up.

  He wouldn’t waste a farthing on her, and he wasn’t concerned that she was twenty and unwed. Whenever she became weary of waiting for Prince Charming, she could marry Preston Melville, and the match wouldn’t cost Clayton a penny. Melville was so besotted he’d probably pay Clayton to have her.

  “Why not oblige Mother for once?” Millicent badgered. “It’s not as if you’re busy this afternoon.”

  “I’m very busy,” he insisted.

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  A sibling spat might have erupted, but Beatrice intervened. “Millicent, you’re being a pest. What are your plans for the afternoon? Has Mr. Shawcross suggested another outing?”

  “No, thank goodness.”

  Beatrice leaned nearer and said, “If you make one more disparaging remark about our guests—especially Mr. Shawcross—I will lock you in your room until they’ve all gone back to London.”