Had We Never Loved (18 page)

So had the golden days drifted past, and for the first time in a very long while, he'd been content. ‘When Absalom comes back,' he'd told his niggling conscience. ‘When Absalom comes back, I'll go.' But Absalom had not come back. Several times he made up his mind that the farewells must be said, but then he would recollect the expression in the eyes of men who had ogled her in Epsom, until his fierce glare had sent them off. And he thought of the louts who had tried to make him lead them to her, and of the
chals
who lusted after her. Wherefore, increasingly aware of her vibrant beauty, he was afraid to leave her alone in the ruined house in the deep woods.

She was singing now. A rather plaintive song today. Her voice was exceptional only because of the feeling she imparted to the words, and the pathos of this particular melody disturbed him, so that he went outside to find her. She had set up a small table in the little clearing at the top of the steps, and was busily arranging battered knives and forks and positioning the cracked and ill-assorted plates with as much care as any superior butler might do.

As if she sensed his presence, she stopped singing and turned around. The new scarf was draped across her shoulders, the blue ribands were wound among the plaits that were arranged into thick coils beside each ear, and her eyes were bright and happy. “Surprise!” she called. “We're going to have breakfast out here, Tio.” She spread her arms, as if to embrace the sun-splashed trees and the blue sky. “Oh, ain't—isn't it a glorious day? Look! Look! There's old Bill!” She tugged at his hand, pulling him to the edge of the trees and pointing to where a rook perched on a limb, his black garb shining in the sunlight. After a brief glance at the bird, Glendenning looked down at her again, and thought smilingly that she seemed as the spirit of this bright morning, all purity and youthful exuberance.

“Watch,” she commanded. “And stand very still, mind.” She whistled a lilting little rill, and the rook tilted its head, then sang the same rill. Amy threw the viscount a sparkling glance and went to break a piece off the loaf and toss it in the air. With a whirr of wings the bird zoomed down, caught the bread before it struck the ground, and zoomed away again.

“There!” exclaimed Amy proudly. “I taught him how to sing for his share. Ain't he the clever one?”

“Yes,” he agreed, not wishing to spoil the moment by correcting her lapse. “And lucky to have such a lovely lady teach him how to beg.”

Her eyes shot to him, the stormy look in full force. “Sit down, and I'll fetch yer breakfast,” she muttered.

“I'll help.” He followed her into the house, but he still could not walk without limping, and she was carrying out a plate of cold sliced pork and a board of bread, butter, and pickles before he had a chance to pick up anything, her movements so swift and forceful that he knew she was angry.

The smell of coffee in the open air was delicious, but she slammed his mug down so hard that he had to jerk back his hand to avoid being scalded. He said nothing, wondering what he'd done, and confirmed in his belief that women were the most unpredictable of creatures.

Stirring sugar into his coffee, he asked cautiously if she was not feeling well.

“Yes, I is.”

“Why do you say ‘is' when you know it should be ‘am'?”

“'Cause I'm iggerant.”

“You are not ignorant, but I think I have angered you. What have I done?”

“Nothing,” she said sullenly, reaching for the pickle jar.

He took it up and offered it, and perversely she pulled back her hand and gazed at the cellar wall in such a way that he wondered it did not catch fire.

“You know you crave a pickle,” he said, trying to make her smile.

Lightning swift, she snatched the jar, speared a pickle and waved it at him ferociously. “So now I got one, ain't I!”

Without waiting for the musical invitation Old Bill swooped, snatched the pickle, then dropped it in the dirt.

With a squeal of wrath, Amy threw her fork after the bird, and shouted, “Sneak and snitch, you son of a”—she glanced at Horatio from the corners of her eyes, reddened, and finished awkwardly—“witch.”

Glendenning gripped his lips tightly in an effort to preserve a solemn countenance. She ignored him, but the dimple hovered. He extracted another pickle, went to her side, and dropped to one knee. He recited,

“I have here a gift for a lady fair,

Who's sweet, petite, beyond compare.”

Amy laughed, and blushed a deeper pink. “Get up do, you silly great creature!”

“With the kindest of smiles,

And such glorious hair.”

He paused, gazing at a glossy tendril of that same hair, and thinking that it was indeed glorious.

Amy peeped at him from under her thick lashes, and asked in a very soft voice, “Are you done with your foolishness, Lordship Tio?”

“Eh? Oh—no.” He felt oddly muddled. “Let's see now …

“Yet her passion, alas,

Must all females be fickle?

It burns not for me,

But for this lowly pickle!”

She clapped her hands, and her merry peal of laughter rang through the clearing.

Glendenning waved his offering under her nose. “Now that I have charmed you with poesy, you must forgive mine offense, dear lady. And do not be looking a gift pickle in the mouth.”

Still laughing, she accepted his “gift.” “Get up now, or you'll hurt your poor ankle.”

“What? No word of thanks? No vows of undying gratitude? Then I shall claim a kiss in return for my efforts!”

She was suddenly very still, almost as if she had ceased to breathe.

Glendenning took up her hand and kissed it, manoeuvreing around the pickle.

“Hmm,” he said, struggling to his feet again. “Your dainty fingers are somewhat briney, m'dear, but—” And he stopped, because she was gazing up at him with a look he had never seen before. An awed, almost reverent look. He said, “Why … Amy,” and touched her cheek wonderingly. Always, she was quick to draw away if he attempted to so much as hold her hand, but now she did not evade that simple caress.

The breeze tossed the leaves gently, the warm air was heavy with the scents of honeysuckle and woodsmoke, and the sun struck fiery gleams from the auburn hair of the man and painted the shadow of a small wayward curl upon the girl's smooth cheek. And for a long moment, neither of them moved.

Old Bill was the villain who shattered that brief enchantment, seizing his opportunity to swoop down again and appropriate a morsel of bread.

Amy gave a start and looked at the pickle as if she could not understand how it came to be in her hand.

Glendenning limped around to sit at the table again, and stare at his plate blankly.

In a hurried, breathless fashion, Amy said, “Ye'll never be saying you made that up? Out of empty air?”

“It was worthy of the Bard—no?”

“Get away with you!
Did
you make it up?”

It seemed difficult to collect his thoughts. “I—er—”

She managed a chuckle. “Ye doesn't remember?”

“Of course I do.” Recovering himself, he boasted, “It had the power of Chaucer, the brilliance of Shakespeare himself! And to think 'twas composed by”—he bowed—“your very humble, obedient.”

“Humble, is it!” Smiling, she forked some pork slices onto his plate. “Still, 'twas very nice, and here is your reward, clever lordship.”

“Most gratifying. I'm famished! This looks jolly good, Amy.”

“I bought it from a farm wife this morning.”

“This morning!” He looked up, frowning. “I wish you'd not go off without telling me.”

“Does ye, indeed?” Carving a piece of bread, she offered it on the end of the knife. “I went about alone before you co—came. And I'll do the same after you goes, so don't get into a garden-gate.”

“Go,” he corrected absently. What she said was truth, of course. But if he was getting into a state, he felt his concern justifiable. He would have a word with Absalom. “Jupiter!” he exclaimed, hunger taking command. “Was there ever such a smell as newly baked bread?”

Amy sank her white teeth into a crusty buttered slice, and said a rather indistinct, “Never!”

They ate in silence for a while, bathed in the peace of this brilliant morning. But at length, Glendenning asked, “Why were you so cross with me just now?”

She did not reply for a minute, then with the flirt of one white shoulder said, “Reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Just … reasons.”

“That is
un
reasonable, Amy, and a typically feminine evasion.”

“Well? I'm a feminine, ain't I?”

“You are not. You are a female. And that's another thing. Why do you always allow your speech to lapse when you are vexed with me?”

“Reasons.”

He gave an exasperated groan, and she giggled and told him to eat and not talk so much. But a moment later she murmured, “Did you write lotsa poems to your Mitten?”

His breath was snatched away. He feigned a laugh. “Good Lord, no! Do not be fancying that London is littered with my—ah, masterpieces.”

Despite the light tone, he was watching her intently, aware of which she adjusted the shining coil of one plait, and murmured, “It's none of my bread-and-butter, so there ain't no call to fib, lordship.”

“Nor,” he said, annoyed, “do I make a habit of telling falsehoods.”

“No? Then you must've dreamed it all, I suppose.”

“I do not take your meaning, ma'am.”

“You talked about it that first day. I told you.”

“You said I mentioned Mitten, but—”

“There's iggerance fer ye. I musta used the wrong word, 'cause it was a sight more'n a mention, sir. Fairly raved about her, you did. And a poem you'd give her. And a lotta gab about Charlie somebody.”

‘God save us all!' he thought. He must have been delirious, and babbling of the Jacobite cypher he had carried! “'Twas a private—er, poem, Amy. I would be glad if you'd not speak of it to others.”

“Would you?” Standing, she began to gather up the plates. “You must've liked her if you wrote her a poem.”

Irritated, he snapped, “I did not write her a poem. Exactly. 'Twas—”

“Lor', but ye're ruffled up. Why? 'Cause she wouldn't have you?” She laughed tauntingly. “That there poem didn't do ye much good, did it?”

He stood, and said at his haughtiest, “You are perfectly correct. The lady would have none of me. And besides being a very poor sentence, your remark was unkind.”

“Much I care,” she stormed, and flounced into the kitchen with her plates.

Seething, he made up his mind. He would leave today! She very obviously—He heard a crash then, and ran.

In the bedroom, Amy knelt on the floor weeping heartbrokenly. One of the crates had fallen, and lay beside her, the contents scattered about.

He rushed to draw her to her feet, and put his arms about her, stroking her hair, trying to comfort her. “There, there, never weep so. Oh, Gad, what a brute I am to have again upset you!”

“Yes, you is,” she confirmed brokenly. “But … but why shouldn't you be? All ye thinks o' me is that I … I'm just a iggerant thieving gypsy what … what goes about …
begging!
”

“Of course I don't think such stuff,” he said, kissing her forehead tenderly.

Clinging to his cravat, she wailed, “Yes ye does! You—you said I'd taught Old Bill how to
beg!
”

The last word was scratchy, but uttered with such loathing that he comprehended how deeply he had wounded her with his clumsiness. Remorseful, he said, “Dear little soul—may I be accursed if I meant to imply—”

Her fingers flew to cover his lips. Her eyes, very wide, looked up at him fearfully. “Oh, don't ye never invite no curse, Tio! Don't ye!”

He appropriated her hand and pressed the soft palm to his lips. “I' faith, but I deserve it for being so thoughtless. How could I think evil of you, when you very likely saved my life? Don't you know how much I respect your courage, your unfailing ingenuity? Only think what good comrades we've been. I've helped you with your grammar, and you have taught me so much!”

She sniffed, and murmured wistfully, “What have I taught you, Lordship?”

“Why—how to peel a potato, for one thing, and—”

“Oh.” The dark screen of her lashes lowered, and she gave a shaken laugh. “You peeled it all away!”

“The first one, perhaps. But I did better with the second. Come now, own it.”

“You did so much better that dinner was late because I had to bind up your thumb.”

“Yes. Er, well then, I learned how to bargain with farm wives, and—”

“And how to prig cacklers,” she teased, the twinkle coming back into her dark eyes.

He laughed, grateful that the tears had ceased. His arm was still about her. It was warm and quiet in the old cellar, only bird songs and the rustling of leaves breaking the silence. Suddenly, he was very aware that he stood in a bedchamber, with a beautiful girl in his arms. Her red lips were slightly parted, showing the tips of the even white teeth. He felt drowned in the great velvety eyes upturned to him. Her lovely body was so soft … so inviting. As one in a dream, he bent to her mouth.

His kiss was very gentle, and her lips responded with a sweet and tentative innocence. He kissed her again, harder, and when she tried to draw back, his arms crushed her closer.

Fear came to Amy. She fought to get away, but desire was in his green eyes, and he was much stronger than she had realised. She wrenched her head away, but his lips were on her cheek, sliding down her throat. Between kisses, he murmured husky promises, tender words of endearment.