A Wildflower for a Duke, page 14
“No, foolish duke, you would have to ride home with only one boot. Not nearly so plebeian. And I will rescue you from your embarrassment. A man’s boots can’t be half so stubborn as a woman's corset.” Violet scooped up Gabriel’s foot, ignoring his wary expression, and tugged with all her diminutive might. She managed to drag him several inches before the boot gave and she collapsed backwards in an undignified heap, the heel crashing into her eyebrow.
Dropping the boot, she threw both hands over her throbbing eye with a groan. When she opened her uninjured lid, he was above her, dropped to one knee and blotting out the sun with his imposing form. “Easy there, sweetheart. No. Don't move too fast. Let me help.” The murmured endearment released a rush of warmth as one hand slid beneath the nape of her neck, easing her forward into a seated position.
Both her hands remained protectively over the bludgeoned eye, patched like a little girl playing pirate. He tucked her close, one knee in the sand between her hiked-up skirts, his open palm rubbing slow, tender circles over her back. As the throbbing fizzled into a dull ache, she lowered first one hand, then the other.
“Ouch,” she said dryly, her lashes wet with unshed tears. “Is it terrible? It feels terrible.” Violet tried for a smile, but it translated into more of a tumultuous grimace.
Hissing his sympathy at the already discoloured swelling, Gabriel reached up to touch her bruise with featherlight strokes of his index finger, as if he could brush away the pain he had unwittingly inflicted.
Gabriel’s eyebrows drew together in a frown, narrowing her attention to a smattering of grey hairs that were woven through the dark brown of his brows. She had never noticed them before. They made him seem distinctly human. Too human. Too attainable. Like a star that had broken from its orbit and fallen squarely at her feet. His errant finger smoothed down her temple before being joined by the warm, comforting weight of his whole hand as it cradled her face. There was such gentleness in his touch. Almost reverence. Gabriel’s thumb traced back and forth across her cheek, each stroke coming closer to the corner of her lower lip, like the gradual rising of the tide.
Violet’s breaths had quickened into shallow inhalations that didn’t seem to fill her lungs. She struggled fruitlessly to match her breathing to the slow, deliberate rhythm of his sweeping touch. Then the caress tapered away, like the last flickers of firelight before being consumed by darkness.
His hand dropped, but his eyes continued staring openly into hers. Lacerating conflict was evident in his expression, as clear as if it were carved ruthlessly across his beautiful face. He severed their tethered gaze abruptly and closed his eyes.
Easing to his feet, Gabriel took several steps in retreat. “I apologise for my errant boot”— he paused, as if the moment had stolen the fluency of his speech—“and for my familiarity thereafter. I didn’t mean … I feel I may have … I am sorry.” The last was uttered so softly, and with such utter remorse, that she had a sudden urge to comfort him. To smooth her thumbs across the vulnerable greys in his otherwise flawless, brown brows.
Instead, she blinked a few times, both to gather her composure and to measure the level of discomfort to her eye. Finding it bearable, she hauled herself to her feet before Gabriel could offer his hand. “Well, no battle ensues without its casualties. At least we managed to remove your boot without pulling off your foot in the process. As to the latter …” She shook her head to disabuse the entire sentiment.
Gabriel brushed bits of stray sand from his trousers. “Now Hamish will have legitimate reason to dislike me. You’re returning from an afternoon in my company bruised and battered.” He looked out into the ocean, then back to Violet.
In silent agreement, they walked side by side in the direction of the lapping waves. The breeze was steady but warm, and the children, half-drenched from splashing, were now quietly inspecting a hermit crab.
“Hamish doesn’t hate you. He’s protective. We’ve supported one another through some very trying hardships, and that kind of friendship breeds intense loyalty.” She paused to scoop up a handful of sand, then let it slide through her fingers. “He and Nathan were inseparable. Hamish suffered that loss as deeply as any man could, and he has accepted responsibility for my well-being in Nathan’s stead.”
Gabriel nodded slowly once, but he offered no other response. Instead, he bent to rescue something that was tossed about with the waves. He rubbed his thumb across the edges to clear the debris, then extended his hand out to drop it into hers.
“Cerastoderma Edule,” Violet murmured, exploring the surface with gently prodding fingers.
“Cockleshell,” Gabriel mirrored back, a smile in his voice.
“I wonder how far he travelled in his life and where the ocean currents carried him. How old he was and how he died,” Violet mused.
“And here I just thought you might like to have a pretty token to remember the day.”
“But this is only half of his shell. His perfect match is somewhere out there in this massive ocean. It could be miles away or just there amongst the waves, forever separated and incomplete.” Violet looked out into the ocean as she spoke, searching for the missing half in the tumultuous surf, however hopeless the task.
“Or maybe another fortunate explorer found the other half and is wondering, at this very moment, where this half may be.”
“It would be kind of bittersweet, I suppose,” Violet said. “Two people with such a beautiful prize, but neither ever seeing him whole.”
“I wonder if this lad has an heir and a spare out there somewhere to carry on the line.” One corner of his mouth rose with his jest.
“How do cockles even make baby cockles?”
Gabriel grimaced at Violet’s question. “I can’t imagine the endeavour would be very much fun.” His cheeks began to look a bit ruddy.
“Maybe the girl cockles simply spew their eggs about the ocean and hope for the best,” Violet mused.
“Well, that's just insanity. How’s a species supposed to carry on leaving reproduction to such implausible chance?
“I think that must be exactly how it’s done. I’ve decided it's a fact. It makes their existence that much more miraculous.”
“Violet, that’s not how scientific facts work, you know. You cannot just will them to be the truth because it makes the universe a more miraculous place.” He laughed and ran his hands through his dishevelled hair.
“Oh no. Now that I am thinking about it, I believe I read about it in a scientific journal.”
She could practically hear him raise his eyebrows.
“Is that so? Which journal? I would like to read about it myself.”
“It was the … Marine Mollusks … British Periodical?” she stammered.
An undignified burst of laughter rose up from Gabriel's chest, becoming worse with one glance at Violet’s feigned seriousness, all drawn eyebrows and compressed lips. The sight completely unhinged his control. When he had finally caught his breath, his smile slipped a little from his face, transforming into something infinitely warmer and more compelling. “You make me wish it was true that the world was just that miraculous.” He shook his head. “Don’t mind me. The ocean brings out all my un-ducal mawkishness. How about we go see what trouble our offspring are up to?”
The children, Gabriel and Violet discovered, had been busy in their unsupervised play, acquiring a cache of hermit crabs they were attempting to race. Only one was scurrying off in a frantic dash toward the finish line of the water, while the remaining five were tucked into their shells being wholly unamusing.
Losing interest in the sedentary crabs, Zach retrieved a cricket ball from his satchel and tossed it to Gabriel, who snatched it from the air with a smile.
“That’s a fine arm you have there!” Turning, he threw a gentle, underhanded toss to Violet.
She caught the ball easily with one hand and then grimaced. “What was that?”
His chin lifted, “A gentlemanly toss.”
“Gentleman never learn to throw a ball?” she goaded, pulling her arm back and tearing loose with a whirling fastball.
Stumbling to catch the ball with the tips of his fingers, Gabriel shook out his stinging hand and looked to Zach with an expression of astonishment.
“Who do you think taught me how to throw?” Zach asked.
“I had assumed that Nathan had the privilege.”
“Oh Papa did at first, but then he would hardly ever play cricket with Mum and me because she hates to lose.”
“More like Nathan hated to lose,” Violet retorted with a grumble.
Gabriel turned to Nora and threw yet another “gentlemanly toss,” which slipped through the girl’s fingers, falling between her feet.
“Oh no.” Violet shot Gabriel a vaguely accusatory glare. “You never taught Nora to throw or catch a ball?” With a sigh, she stalked over to a sheepish-looking Nora and smiled. “Quite all right. We will set this to rights in no time.” Patting Nora’s shoulder, Violet took a half step back. “All right then, show me your stance.”
Nora shifted her weight between her feet and shrugged her shoulders, as if to say this is my stance.
“Never mind. We will get to that. One of the most important things to learn first is the correct way to grip the ball.”
Nora stared at the ball in her hand as if noticing it for the first time.
“Hold the ball in your dominant hand, so that the seam is parallel to your index finger and opposite your thumb. Yes, just like that. Changing your grip can alter the direction of the ball, but we’ll get to that another time. Only the basics for today. Stand with your feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent.”
Stepping behind Nora, Violet helped her find the correct position, adjusting the bend of her knees. “Now, this step is critical. First, you tuck the ball to your chest to keep everything else centred. The next part of the process involves two steps with your feet. When you step forward, you point with your ankle, like so. If you’re right-handed, you step with the corresponding leg. Again, this is a critical moment, because if the angle of your foot is incorrect then it affects the swing of your hips and skews the entire direction of your aim. Both hands remain on the ball until your rear leg steps forward. Separating your hands early will affect the timing of your release. As you step forward, you rotate your hips. That is where the power originates, but your whole body is an active participant. Shoulders and torso and arms all working as one. As you release, allow your arm to continue down with its natural momentum to the opposite hip.”
Violet moved in slow motion, throwing a few invisible balls to demonstrate the entire process.
Nora watched attentively, then threw a series of her own invisible balls.
Violet clapped her hands with an excited little hop. “Yes, that’s brilliant! You’re a natural at this!”
Suddenly remembering the presence of the others, she glanced up at Gabriel to find that he was watching her interaction with Nora intently, wearing an expression she couldn’t quite place. Almost a reluctant kind of yearning, like when someone surprises you with your favourite dessert after you have already eaten two huge plates of supper. She turned away from the uncomfortable feeling it evoked.
“Catching is simply a matter of practice. Follow the arc of the ball all the way to your hands. Now, throw to your father.”
Violet watched with pride as Nora executed a perfectly passable first pitch that landed solidly in Gabriel’s waiting hands.
“It’s not as if I was intentionally denying her a necessary skill set,” Gabriel grumbled, throwing the ball to Zach, who tossed it to Violet. “There simply aren’t many moments in life when the daughter of a duke is required to execute a flawless pitch.”
“Fiddlesticks, I can think of countless times where the talent would be a boon for any young lady.”
Gabriel crossed his arms and lowered his chin. “Oh really? Then you won't have any trouble naming one such instance.” He was forced to break from his defiant pose to intercept a ball from Violet’s direction. He glared. “I am beginning to understand why Nathan refused to play with you.”
“One such example isn’t even a challenge.”
“Go on then.” He threw the ball gently to his daughter, who managed to catch it this time.
“One.” She held up a finger. “A lady is accosted by bandits whilst travelling home from a magical evening at a ball.”
“I can already anticipate the direction of this outlandish story. Does this imaginary duke's daughter not have outriders to protect her?”
“They are all down with ague.”
“Every able-bodied man on his staff at the same time? How unfortunate for him, and for her, poor lady. Go on.”
“As I was saying”—she narrowed her eyes—“frantic with fear, she searches about for something with which to defend herself from robbery and worse, but alas! She is alone and without defence! Reaching into her valise, she pulls out her trusty fan.”
Gabriel groaned.
Violet began a theatrical pantomime of the exciting events as the story unfolded. “Stepping into the carriage door, she takes aim, channelling all the advice she has accumulated in the art of cricket ball throwing. She hurls the weapon end over end, the pointed tip piercing directly into her attacker's forehead, effectively knocking him unconscious. She leaves without further obstacles, grateful to have only sacrificed her favourite fan in the distressing ordeal.”
Nora erupted in enthusiastic applause, and Violet curtseyed with a triumphant grin.
“What happened to the other bandits?”
Violet’s head snapped around. Damn, she had forgotten that detail.
“Yes.” He dragged the word out like a tasty morsel on his tongue, a sly smile flexing into view. “You said bandits in the plural, but our fictional lady is now left to defend herself against … what? Two? Three? More monstrously menacing bandits? And worse”—his voice lowered as if it impart a great secret—“she is now without her trusty fan.”
Violet rebounded without further hesitation. “That you even have to ask that question demonstrates a complete ignorance with respect to the character of pirates and highwaymen.”
“I cannot wait to be educated.”
“Indeed, there were three more bandits, but they were so amused by her grit and cunning, so impressed by her tremendous skill, that they were compelled to let her continue onward due to the traditional piratical code of honour.”
“And what exactly was it that this code of honour decreed?”
“That if a lady’s throwing arm is superior to your own, you must release her without further delay.”
Northam’s deep, rumbling laugh carried over the others, joyful and relaxed. This was the man he must have been before the loss of his wife, and indications of that man were becoming more evident. He showed moments of lightness, more frequent and longer in duration, like a bear waking up from hibernation, still groggy, but noticing one brightly-coloured flower after the next, the sight of each bloom luring him further away from his sleep.
***
Violet pulled away from the playful pack as the game wound to an end. She was nestled in the sand, clutching a thick reed, absorbed in her task. Her hair fell in a scraggly veil over her face.
“Again I ask, what are you working on so diligently?”
She glanced up, then scooted her body away, shielding her project from view. “I will show you when I am done, impatient man. Does everyone leap to answer your every question the moment you ask it?”
“Yes. Did you miss the part where I am a duke?”
She glowered in playful rebuttal.
“You will have to wallow in the unknown for a few more moments. Now be quiet, you’re disrupting my concentration.”
Ignoring his unsettling gaze, she used the sharp end of a hairpin to whittle away a tiny, matching line of holes and a small “V” at the top, then lifted it to her mouth and played a few high-pitched, hollow notes. As she covered the holes with fast-flickering fingers, the pitch changed.
Gabriel glowed with delighted amusement. “You astounding woman! You magicked up a musical instrument out of weeds and a hairpin.” The trilling notes carried across the breeze, alerting the children, who abandoned their play to investigate the sound.
“Is there anything you cannot do? I bow to your ingenuity. You should be the duke. God only knows what you could achieve with a thousand tenants and bottomless coffers!”
She beamed up at him, then squeaked out a series of thin, off-key notes.
“I can also fold a paper swan and peel an apple in one long curl, as long as I am ticking off my qualifications for peerage.”
He levelled her with some indeterminate expression, then shook his head.
“Well, sadly I do not believe Mrs Simmons packed any apples to allow for you to demonstrate, but shall we sit down and have lunch anyway?”
They ate their picnic at a leisurely pace. Nora commandeered the reed, amusing herself with discordant melodies that echoed mournfully across the empty beach. Gulls swarmed, pecking greedily at scraps of abandoned food as they basked under the waning sun. After rinsing away a small amount of their accumulated sand in the now icy water, they dragged the children, exhausted and happy, back home. Gabriel rode in his stocking feet, his boots scrunched beneath the handle of the picnic basket.
Chapter 15
T he clock chimed two, and Gabriel rolled, kicking his legs to dislodge the satin sheet that had wrapped him like a mummy during all his restless writhing. The book he had attempted to read but eventually discarded, poked him in the ribcage. Sliding the massive farming compendium to the plush carpet below, he shook out his pillow and flopped on his back to continue his vigil, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about Violet Evans.
He had nearly kissed her. Twice! His fingers had stroked the soft skin of her cheek of their own volition. They had wrapped about her waist as she dismounted, mere inches below the swell of her breast, stubbornly remaining for long seconds whilst his brain commanded, implored, rioted for them to release her. Her eyes had connected with his, so sweet and trusting and full of life, and he had promptly lost all his sense.
