My Fair Mistress (52 page)
She caught his hand inside her own. “It is lovely, just the right temperature, neither too hot nor too cold. The baby likes it. He’s been laughing.”
“Laughing, hmm? You know his nurse will say it is only a bit of trapped wind.”
“Mrs. Bascom is a kind and wise woman, but she is wrong in this instance. Cam is definitely laughing. Watch.”
Placing her palms over her eyes, she bent over the baby, who watched her with rapt fascination. “Peek-a-boo!” she exclaimed in an exuberant voice, opening her hands as quickly as she could to once again reveal her face.
The baby paused for a half second, then let out a high-pitched giggle. After a moment, he grew still, watching.
Julianna hid her face again, then sprang the surprise. “Peek-a-boo-boo-boo!”
Cam giggled again, his infant laughter rippling into the breeze.
“See,” she said, turning to Rafe in delight. “He
is
laughing.”
“He certainly is.” Rafe grinned and made a funny face at his son. Cam chuckled, meeting his gaze with eyes that had turned nearly as green as his own. “Isn’t he amazing?”
Julianna nodded, her gaze turning solemn. “He is. Our little miracle.”
He slipped an arm around her waist and nuzzled her neck. “I can’t wait until you feel well enough for us to try for another.”
Although they were sleeping in the same bed every night, they hadn’t made love since well before the birth, a situation that was wearing on them both, especially him.
“Actually, the doctor stopped by this morning while you were out inspecting the tenant farms,” she said.
Rafe raised a hopeful brow. “Oh, and what did he say?”
“He said I’m very healthy. So long as I feel like it, I can resume relations anytime I wish.”
He paused. “And do you—feel like it?”
Her cheeks flushed a light pink. “Yes, I do, quite strenuously, in fact.”
If they hadn’t been outside in full view of the house with the baby next to them, he would have laid her down on the blanket and had his way with her right then. Instead, he had to content himself by other means.
Cupping her jaw, he crushed her mouth to his, pouring every ounce of his passion and adoration into the kiss. Julianna trembled and moaned, threading her hand into his hair as she parted her lips wider to invite his tongue inside. Intoxicated by the pleasure, he took them both deeper, his senses afire in a way that made him shake.
Only by sheer force of will did he find the strength to pull away, breath shallow in his lungs. He and Julianna stared at each other for a long moment, then turned together toward the baby.
Cam was sleeping, peacefully unaware.
“That got a bit out of hand,” she murmured.
He nodded. “Just a bit.”
In unison, they sighed, then laughed.
“I love you, Rafe.”
“I love you, too. More each day, if that’s possible.”
“It is,” she said. “Because I feel the same.”
He kissed her again, careful to keep the embrace light. “You know, it is time for Cam’s nap. We could take him upstairs and let his nurse see to him for a while.”
Her eyes gleamed with interest. “I suppose we could. I sometimes take a nap in the afternoon as well. No one would remark if I stayed in my room for a couple of hours.”
“And there is a book I’ve been meaning to retrieve from my bedchamber. I could come upstairs and stay for a bit.”
Slow smiles curved over both their mouths.
Standing, he gently picked up his son. With the baby nestled in his corner of his arm, he reached down a hand to Julianna.
“Shall we, my love?”
“Yes, Rafe.”
Placing her hand in his, he lifted her to her feet. Together they strolled toward the house.
My Fair Mistress is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2007 by Tracy Anne Warren
Excerpt from
The Accidental Mistress
copyright © 2007 by Tracy Anne Warren
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming mass market edition of
The Accidental Mistress
by Tracy Anne Warren. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eISBN: 978-0-345-50244-5
v1.0
Read on for a sneak peek at
The Accidental Mistress
by Tracy Anne Warren
Coming from Ballantine Books
Available wherever books are sold
April 1814
Cornwall, England
O
NLY A FEW more yards
, Lily Bainbridge told herself.
Only a little while longer and I will be safe. I will be free.
An icy wave struck her dead in the face. Gasping for breath, she pushed on, arm over arm as she fought the unrelenting drag of the rough, rolling sea. Above her, lightning flashed against a viscous gray sky, slashes of rain hurtling downward to sting her skin like a barrage of tiny needles.
Arms quivering from the strain, she put the discomfort out of her mind and kept swimming, knowing it was either that or drown. And despite the suicide note she’d left back in her bedroom at the house, she had no intention of dying, certainly not today.
Many would call her insane to plunge into the sea during a storm, but regardless of the danger, she’d known she had to act without fear or hesitation. Delay would mean marriage to Squire Edgar Faylor, and as she’d told her stepfather, she would rather be dead than bound for life to such a loathsome brute. But her stepfather cared naught for her wishes, since marriage to Faylor would mean a profitable business deal for him.
Slowing, she scanned the jagged shoreline, and the waves that crashed in thunderous percussion against the rocks and shoals. Although she’d swum these waters for nearly the whole of her twenty years, she’d never done so during such a seething tempest. Alarmingly, nothing looked quite the same, familiar vantage points distorted by the dim light and the churning spray of the surf.
Treading fast, she fought the clinging weight of her gown, the sodden muslin coiling around her legs like iron shackles. Doubtless, she would have been better off stripping down to her shift before taking to the sea, but her “death” had to look convincing, enough so that her stepfather would not suspect the truth. If she lived through this and he discovered she was still alive, he would hunt her down without an ounce of mercy.
With her heart drumming in her chest, she swam harder, knowing she dare not let herself drift and be swept out to sea. A knot formed in the base of her throat at the disquieting thought, a shiver rippling through her tired limbs.
What if I’ve miscalculated
? she worried.
What if the storm has already carried me out too far
?
Her apprehensions evaporated when a familiar sight came into view—a narrow fissure, black as coal, that cut its way into the towering cliffs, which lined the shore. To the casual eye, the opening appeared no different from any of the other sea caves in the area, but Lily knew otherwise. For beyond its foreboding exterior lay protection and escape.
Giving an exuberant pair of kicks, she continued forward, crossing at an angle through the waves. With the tide now at her back, the surf pushed her fast. For a second she feared she might be dashed to pieces against the rocks, but at the last second the current shifted and washed her inside with a gentle, guiding hand.
Darkness engulfed her. Tamping down a momentary sense of disorientation, she swam ahead, knowing better than to be afraid. The cave was an old smuggler’s pass that had fallen into disuse, a secret retreat that had once provided a perfect hideaway for inquisitive children, and now a truant, would-be bride.
With seawater eddying around her at a placid lap, she glided forward until she brushed up against the cave’s perimeter wall. A small search soon revealed a ledge that told her she was in the right place. Dripping and shivering, she hoisted herself up onto its surface, then paused for a moment to gain her breath before rising to her feet. Careful of each step, she followed the cave’s gentle bell shape until the interior gradually widened to provide a pocket of natural warmth and dryness. When her foot struck a large, solid object, she knew she had arrived at her ultimate destination.
Teeth chattering, she leaned over and felt for a wooden lid, opening the trunk. Her fingers trembled as they curved around the lantern she knew lay inside and the metal matchbox set carefully to one side. With the strike of a match, light filled the space, flickering eerily off the rough walls and low stone ceiling. Stiff with chill, she stripped off her clothes, then reached again into the trunk for a large woolen blanket, wrapping herself inside.
Thank heavens she’d had the foresight to secret away these supplies! After her mother’s death six months ago, she’d known she would eventually have to flee, aware that as soon as the mourning period ended, her stepfather, Gordon Chaulk, would likely decide “to do something about her,” as he’d been threatening to for years.
And so, while out on her regular daily walk, she had slowly filled the smuggler’s chest with necessities, including money, food, and a set of men’s clothes she’d altered from an old one of her father’s. As for boots, she’d had no choice but to steal a pair from one of the smaller stable boys. Not wanting the lad to suffer for his loss, she’d anonymously left him enough coin to purchase new ones. He’d grinned about the odd theft and his propitious windfall for weeks.
To her knowledge, no one but a few old-time smugglers knew about this hide-out, despite the thriving business of sneaking contraband tea and French brandy past the noses of the local excise men. Certainly her stepfather wasn’t aware of the caves. To most Cornishmen, he was still considered an outsider, despite having lived here for five years—ever since marrying her mother and taking up residence at Bainbridge Manor.
Five years
, Lily sighed.
Five years to wear the life out of a good woman who’d deserved far, far better than she’d received
.
A familiar lump swelled in her throat, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Ruthlessly, she dashed it away, telling herself that now was not the time to dwell upon her mother’s untimely demise. If only she’d been able to convince Mama to leave years ago! If only she’d been able to keep her mother from falling prey to the blandishments of a handsome charmer, who’d turned out to have the heart of a poisonous viper! But having been a child at the time, her opinion had not been sought, nor heeded.
Toweling dry the worst drips from her hair, Lily crossed to a pile of kindling stacked against the far wall. Using some of the wood, she built a small fire. Blessed heat soon warmed the space, calming the worst of the shivers that continued to rack her body. Returning to the trunk, she dressed in a shirt, trousers, and coat, the masculine attire feeling strange against her skin.
At least the clothing is warm, and—even better—dry,
she mused.
And until I reach London, I had best get used to being dressed like a boy.
She wasn’t so foolish as to imagine she could journey to London on her own, at least not dressed as a woman. A female traveling without escort would invite comment, but worse, she would be subject to all manner of predators wishing to make her their prey—out to steal her reticule, or, shudder the thought, her virtue. And in addition to providing her some measure of safety, the ruse would allow her to leave the area without detection. Rather than accept help of any kind, she planned to make the long walk to the coaching inn at Penzance. That way, should her stepfather question anyone later, they would have no cause to remember a redheaded girl matching her description.
Nerves made her wish she could leave now, but until the worst of the storm subsided she would be better off staying here inside the cave. Pulling on a pair of long woolen socks that eased the cold from her toes, she reached once more into the trunk for a cloth-covered wedge of cheese. Belly growling, she broke off a chunk and ate, enjoying the sharp, satisfying flavor.
Minutes later, her meal finished, she prepared to complete one last task—an act she had been dreading. Just the thought of proceeding made her cringe.
But the deed must be done
.
Locating her ivory comb, she drew the teeth through her damp, waist-length hair, careful to remove every last tangle before tying it back with a thin, black silk ribbon. Drawing a deep, fortifying breath, she lifted a pair of scissors and began to cut.
