Crossed in Love, page 4
“I would like to see the house, if you would not mind,” was all he said.
Cecily wiped her hands on the apron she had donned before carrying the tray up the stairs. “I don’t think you’re strong enough yet. Perhaps tomorrow.”
Peter’s gaze was deliberately devoid of all emotion as he met hers. “I will need to leave on the morrow. Are my horses in good repair?’’
Did he mistake, or did disappointment flicker behind the shadowed blue of her eyes? If so, she hid it in her nervous fussing with her apron.
“They are quite well, and Hodges has had your wheel fixed, but you will find you are not strong enough to manage a rig. You will damage your health and possibly the animals if you try to take them out on the morrow. Is there some pressing engagement that you must leave so abruptly?”
“I believe I have something that belongs here. I would like to fetch it and return it.”
Startled, Cecily dropped the apron. “Something that belongs here? How is that possible?”
“I cannot say. Perhaps you can tell me.” That seemed almost an accusation, and Peter was surprised by his own words. He hadn’t meant to say any of that at all. To mention the painting was to give it up, and he was strangely reluctant to do so. But matters had come to a standstill, and he was desperate for some means to shake himself free from this dream world and progress on with the real one.
“If I go outside, shall I find a griffin on the lintel and a rose on the shutters? It is too late in the season for roses on the south wall, I suppose, and it would be too much to ask to find toys in the window. . . .”
Cecily dropped to the bed and stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “The painting. You have the painting. How can you?”
“By walking into an art gallery and purchasing it.”
“But we never sold it.”
Her words sounded as much an accusation as his. Her incredulity was almost an insult. Peter wished he had the strength to rise and shake the truth from her, but his best weapon now was surprise. He had certainly accomplished that much, but her defenses were excellent. Accusing blue eyes focused on him, and he felt compelled to defend himself.
“Nevertheless, I bought it. If you do not care to give me a tour before I go, I shall request it of Lady Honora when I return. I can’t say why, but the house fascinates me. I came this way just to find it.”
Cecily rose with an almost frightened expression. “The lady. Oh, no, that can’t be. It’s not possible. There is a very sensible explanation for all this. I’m certain it was the appraiser. It had to be the appraiser. He saw the painting and found some way to steal it. That’s all there is to it. We must go to the magistrate and report him. I’ll find Hodges. He’ll ride into town. . . .
Peter stood up and tried to halt her as she walked toward the doorway in a daze, but he merely succeeded in causing her to look up with eyes like bruised violets that made him flinch. He wanted to gather her into his arms and reassure her that everything was all right, but he couldn’t see that anything was wrong. If the painting had been stolen, he meant to return it. What was there in that to cause fear?
“If the painting was stolen, I shall report it when I return to town. If you are concerned that I’ll not return it, I shall give you my direction. You may send the law after me if I do not return immediately. There is no need to trouble Hodges.”
Cecily stared at him as if he were a total stranger. “I cannot believe you have the painting,” she murmured before hurrying from the room.
She repeated those words to Hodges when he inquired if something were wrong when she came down the stairs in a state of shock. It took a moment before her reply sank in, but though he looked equally stunned, he recovered with a happy grin.
“The lady came through, she did. A wealthy nob he must be. I’ll go up and get his direction. We can’t sit about idle and wait for the lady to do all the work. You might ought to find one of those pretty frocks of yours. The lady means him for you, no doubt.”
Cecily’s horror widened her eyes until she saw the humor in it, and her eyes crinkled with laughter. “Oh, Hodges, you cannot mean it! Wouldn’t poor Mr. Denning be terrified if he knew your plans! You said yourself he must be rich as Croesus to own thoroughbreds like those. Why would he saddle himself with a disintegrating cottage in the country and a sickly invalid when he could have his choice of any home or lady in the world?”
Hodges frowned his disapproval. “This is not just any cottage and you’re not just any lady. He should be honored to be chosen. Perhaps I ought to break one of his legs so he has to stay long enough to appreciate what he will be gaining.”
Cecily broke into gales of mirth, steadying herself against the kitchen table and finally collapsing into a chair when she took another look at the fearsome frown on Hodges’ rugged visage.
“Oh, you dear man, whatever would I do without you? I cannot remember laughing so in ages.” She wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron. “Break his leg, indeed! I doubt that even Lady Honora would consider that. Although if it was indeed she who caused the accident, she came quite close. Ahhh, Hodges, if only fairy tales came true, I could kiss him and he would turn into a prince and carry me away to his palace, or he would wake me and I’d find I was living in one.
“But I’m all grown up now, sir, and I know fairy tales are for children. So if you’ll forgive me, I’ll make his royal majesty his supper, and we will hope that he does have the painting and is honest enough to return it. If the appraiser is correct, it should bring enough to mend the roof and still leave enough to live on for a little while longer.”
Hodges puffed up into an irate caricature of himself at this heresy. “That’s just exactly the kind of thinking that brought all this down on us. The lady don’t want us to sell the painting. Don’t you see that? She brought you a rich nabob so you won’t have to. He’s a right enough fellow. It wouldn’t hurt you none to turn him up sweet.”
Still laughing, Cecily rose and bobbed a simple curtsy. “Yes, sir, right away, sir. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, is it not? Let me fetch him one of my fabulous stews, and all will be well.”
Hodges frowned as he heard her chuckles floating through the hall as she headed toward the cellar. He supposed it was a good sign that she was laughing again, but he wasn’t one to sit and wait for something to happen. Somehow, he had to take matters into his own hands.
Peter was pleasantly surprised by the differences in the maid’s appearance when she returned with his evening meal. She was smiling, and the laughter lit her eyes to a glorious blue as she set his tray beside the chair. She had changed into a simple frock of striped challis with traces of lace about the bodice and hem that he heartily approved of. He didn’t know much about women’s fashions, but this gown was feminine enough to catch his eye and hold it long enough to discover that the little maid had a handsome figure.
But he wasn’t one for dallying with the servants, and he kept his hands to himself as she lingered for a while in his presence, questioning him about London and his family. Her voice was soft and cultured and somehow soothing, and he was quite certain he would be content to listen to it all day were he not impatient to get on with his plans.
“’Tis a pity you did not come in a grand carriage,” she said almost mockingly at one point. “You could take Hodges and me into town with you to retrieve the painting and save yourself having to return.”
“I will be happy to take Hodges with me on the morrow if you are concerned about the painting, but I have every intention of returning,,” he replied stiffly.
“A busy gentleman such as yourself cannot have much interest in a country cottage once you have seen it. When you are strong enough, Hodges will take you about. That should satisfy your curiosity.”
“It is not just curiosity.” Peter wondered at this, but he trod boldly on. “Is there some reason why I cannot make the acquaintance of Lady Honora before I go?”
“Lady Honora knows where you are,” Cecily answered airily. “She will find you if she wishes. But I contend that you are not strong enough to take the stairs yet. You may as well resign yourself to a few more days’ rest.”
Irritated, Peter set aside his empty plate and rose to his full height. Cecily was not really diminutive but seemed frail in comparison to himself, yet she did not flinch when he stood before her. She met his eyes boldly, almost with defiance, and before he quite knew what he was doing, Peter reached for her.
Her lips were warm and sweet, almost intoxicatingly so. He shifted her slender weight closer and she swayed easily with his will, blending into his arms as if she belonged there. Her kiss pierced him with a longing so deep he almost forgot himself. When her hands crept to his shirt, Peter was jarred back to the present by a very real and pressing desire, and he was thankful he had thought to dress for supper. It would have been most embarrassing to have this encounter wearing only Hodges’ nightshirt.
But remembering where and who he was, Peter set Cecily back from him, although he could not quite bring himself to release her waist. His hands easily encompassed her slimness, and he realized how frail she was. Yet the eyes that stared back at him were not afraid. They searched his with a wonder that made his insides shake.
“I am sorry. I did not mean to insult you.” He was the one ill at ease. He supposed in his younger days before he left home that he had kissed a few maids, but since then his encounters with females had mainly been of the commercial sort. He wasn’t certain what was expected of him with the gently bred kind even if she were naught but a servant. He knew what his body wanted, but he was horrified at even considering treating her that way.
“I am sure there was no insult intended,” Cecily whispered before stepping out of his hands and toward the door. “I had better go now. Hodges will be up later to see if you need anything.’’
“Wait. . . ” But she was gone before Peter could halt her.
He supposed that was the way it should be. If he had persuaded her to give him a tour of the cottage there would have been more opportunities, more dark corners and beckoning nooks where he would be tempted to put his hands on her. Perhaps the ladies of society were right in barring him from their doors. He wasn’t quite civilized yet. He hadn’t realized it would be this difficult to keep from offending innocent women.
Yet she hadn’t seemed offended. That gave him enough confidence to meet Hodges’ suspicious glare with equanimity when he returned later for the supper tray. Peter thought the little maid had liked his kiss, and he grinned at the manservant. It was good to know his uncivilized ways weren’t entirely unattractive. Now if only he could track down the elusive Lady Honora . . . .
He waited until he was certain the house’s inhabitants had all gone to their beds. He had slept for days now and felt no need of sleep as he sat beside the lamp and listened for any signs of life. Convinced that all was well for his midnight adventure, Peter checked the wick of the lamp and set out to explore.
His legs were weak, but they held him steady as he touched the dark walls and started down the hallway to his right. This wasn’t how he wanted to see the cottage, but he felt compelled to show his ability to do so. Lying in bed having dreams of living inside a painting was too disconcerting. He meant to prove that he was in a real house with real people, that he had somehow stumbled across Rosebud Cottage by accident and not fallen into delirium.
Kissing Cecily had proved her reality. Peter wanted to try it again, almost hoped he would stumble across her room, but he knew that would be beyond the bounds of proper behavior. He remembered well the rich scoundrels who had seduced the maids in his former home, leaving them with dreams of grandeur and babes in their bellies. He’d be damned certain his intentions were honorable before he touched any innocent, be she maid or lady.
The door to the next room was wide open, and he lifted his lamp to inspect it. A massive bed of Elizabethan proportions dominated the room. He could see little of the draperies other than that they must once have been velvet. They appeared moth-eaten in this light, and there seemed to be no other furniture to add to the room’s doubtful comfort. Peter suspected the bed remained only because it was too large to move.
Almost unwillingly, his feet carried him onward. He wanted the house in his painting to be filled with light and laughter and carefree happiness. But every sign indicated that this place was falling into disrepair. A piece of plaster crumbled in his hand as he rested against the wall, and his toe caught and tripped in a bare place in the carpet. The next room was draped in holland covers, but it appeared to be a nursery. The rocking horse was covered with dust, and it emitted a mournful squeak when he set it to rocking.
Peter didn’t want to see this. He brushed a cobweb from a shelf of children’s books and studied the titles with tears in his eyes. He was a grown man, a rough sailor who had seen the worst the world had to give, but he remembered a schoolroom with books like these and his envy of the children who had owned them. His own children would someday have every book that money could buy. But he wanted the children in this house to delight in these volumes. Why didn’t they?
Jerking himself from the contemplation of children he did not know, Peter returned to the hall. He wasn’t certain what he had proved to himself, but there seemed little point in going on. He was beginning to feel like an intruder. The place was odd, but he couldn’t be certain how much of it had to do with his fevered dreams and his fanciful desires. If this truly were reality, he was behaving unforgivably. He turned his feet in the direction of his room.
That was when she appeared. Caught by surprise, Peter stared as the lady hurried from a room at the far end of the hall. There was something in her haste to give the impression of fear, but her expression was implacable as she lifted her skirts and started down the stairs. In the dim light he could be certain of her features but little more. She seemed to carry the light of the moon with her, for she had no lamp or candle, and the rest of her was lost in shadow.
Feeling her fear as if transmitted through the air, Peter hurried after her. The congestion in his chest was clearing now, but he was still short of breath by the time he traversed the entire hall and reached the stairs. He just caught a wisp of white going through a doorway at the far end of the downstairs hall as he set after her.
He could not imagine what would cause terror in the middle of the night when all else was asleep. Perhaps one of the children had become ill, but already he was dismissing his fantasy of laughing children inhabiting these halls. They must have been neighboring children he had heard. That this house was empty he realized as he rushed after Lady Honora.
The musty stillness of the house enveloped Peter as he gasped for breath at the bottom of the stairs and forced himself on. He needed to cough, but the sound would no doubt bring the plaster crumbling down around him. He half expected to run into cobwebs and perhaps large rats, but the hall was amazingly unencumbered. The plank floor beneath his feet rattled and groaned upon occasion, but he was moving too swiftly for it to sound too loud.
Raising his lamp, Peter burst into the front room he had seen the lady enter, only to discover Cecily standing wide-eyed and frightened in the circle of light from his lantern and hers. Her hair tumbled around her white-clad shoulders in a cascade of chestnut curls that amplified the intensity of her enormous blue eyes, and he was aware of the slenderness of the shoulders beneath the nightdress.
His gaze fell to the shape of her thinly covered breasts, and he felt the same shock of desire he had experienced earlier. But before he could act on impulse, she raised the book in her hands to her breast as if in protection, and Peter was returned to reality,
“Where is she?” he demanded.
Cecily stared at this figment of her imagination that she had conjured with her dreaming. He was more than she remembered, more than she dared dream after the kiss they had shared, and the restlessness that had brought her down here stirred. His dark curls covered his collar in a most ungentlemanly fashion, and she longed to touch them. She noted that his shoulders strained at his coat in a manner even the best Bond Street tailors could not contrive. His weathered face was almost fierce as he faced her, but she had seen the laughing tenderness there, and she was not afraid.
“Who?”‘ she asked simply. She didn’t dare risk testing his forehead for fever under these circumstances, with the tension rippling between them, but she feared his illness had returned with the overexertion of the day.
“Her ladyship, of course. She came in here. Something must have frightened her. Surely you saw her?” Peter was beginning to doubt his senses as Cecily stared back at him with incomprehension.
“I. . . I just came in.” She ought to say more, but his expression was so intent that she began to be afraid. Perhaps something was wrong. Something was always wrong. She shivered and watched him for a signal as to how to proceed.
Peter searched the corners of the room with his light, finding the various doors and windows and frowning. It was a room made for openness, as if it had no secrets to hide. But the number of draped exits made it easy to conceal a hasty departure. He turned his lamp back to Cecily.
“Something frightened her, I’m certain of it. I want to search the rest of the house, starting with the outside. I don’t want to leave you here alone. Let me take you back to your room and you can lock your door.’’
That seemed like quite a sensible thing to do if this madman meant to roam the house in search of the invisible. Cecily lifted her nightshirt and hastened toward the door to the hall.
Her gesture struck Peter as frighteningly familiar, but he didn’t dissect the feeling. He could almost sense an air of panic in the house, as if it waited for him to discover the menace. Catching Cecily by the waist when she didn’t leave swiftly enough, he nearly carried her up the stairs, the urgency preventing him from enjoying the closeness of her supple form.
