Samantha James (9 page)

“I…nothing.”

He pulled the vellum from her hand and laid it aside, then reached for the other, turning it palm up.

“For pity’s sake, why didn’t you say you were hurt?”

“I-it’s just a piece of glass.” She made the mistake of glancing at her hand. Blood smeared the lower half, pooling thick and crimson.

She gasped. Her knees began to wobble. Giddiness flooded her. No, she thought in horror. Oh, no! If she pitched forward, she would surely die of humiliation. She’d always considered herself brave, but not when it came to the sight of blood. Then she was a willy-nilly fool.

Despite her most stringent self-admonitions, she felt herself swaying. She was queasy. She couldn’t see Simon. Black dots whirled in her vision, misty swirls of gray. She could hear him though. His voice was buzzing so that she couldn’t understand a single thing he was saying. How odd he sounded.

The next thing she knew, his hands were on her. She was caught and held close against his side. Dizzy, light-headed, she would have collapsed if not for him. One long, booted leg came out. He dragged a chair close and eased her into it.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice wasn’t as shaky as she feared. She even managed a tremulous smile. “This is ridiculous, I know. It’s just that—”

“Hush. It’s all right. Don’t fret. Don’t
look.
” His voice was almost soothing. “Close your eyes, Anne. Breathe deep, that’s the way. Don’t think about it. Just breathe.”

Long moments later, she opened her eyes. He
was watching her. He’d wrapped his handkerchief around the base of her hand. His fingers curled warmly around the other, oddly reassuring.

“Better?” he asked quietly.

She gave a jerky nod.

“Good. Let’s see if we can’t get this patched up. Don’t go wandering off,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly.”

There was a slight, reassuring squeeze of her fingertips. Those hard lips curled up in a faint, unexpected smile. Her gaze followed him up. Stupidly, she wanted to cling to him. A huge lump lodged in her chest. God, she thought, what was happening?

She leaned her head back against the cushions of the chair and closed her eyes.

It wasn’t long before he reappeared.

The handkerchief he’d wrapped around her hand was already soaked through.

He’d brought a glass of whisky back with him. “Is that for you or for me?” she asked.

He gave a rusty laugh. Rusty, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Drink up,” he advised.

She took a healthy swallow and grimaced.

“All of it, if you please.”

She complied. The whisky burned all the way down her throat and into her stomach. “That’s quite ghastly,” she complained.

“An acquired taste.” Long fingers extracted the glass, brushing against hers. Again that rusty chuckle. Anne was thoroughly amazed.

She winced when he applied pressure to the cuts. He spoke in low tones, telling her he was waiting until the bleeding had stopped. Or perhaps it was the whisky that began to take effect, she realized later.

She turned her head away when he reached for a bottle of antiseptic and dashed some on her hand. It burned mightily. She jerked. Her fingers curled hard around his.

“Easy,” he said a bit gruffly. “You’ve a good bit of glass in there, I fear. I’ll try not to hurt you.”

She looked away. Yet before long, her eyes slid back. The sunlight glinted off the small knife poised above her hand. She gasped. Her stomach lurched anew.

An admonishing black brow arose. “No,” he commanded sternly. “Don’t look.”

Once again her gaze veered away. She felt herself unconsciously shrinking back, instinctively trying to avoid the hurt—and the way he held her gently in place. The knife probed deeper. Inhaling sharply, she focused instead on the feeling of her hand cradled in his. The vision remained in her mind long after her gaze flitted away. He had lean, wonderfully strong hands; hers appeared dwarfed within his. His skin was warm and faintly rough. It declared him a working man, just as she’d thought. His fingers were
dark against hers. She was only too aware of his strength. It should have been discomfiting.

Instead it was comforting. And it was that realization which in turn roused the expected twinge of dismay.

Why the devil did he always manage to make her feel so contrary?

He sat very near, so close one of his knees wedged between hers. Anne’s heart was suddenly pounding. His head angled low. There was a faint crease on his forehead. His lips pressed together ever so slightly, so intent on his task was he.

Memory invaded, swift and unrelenting. Her breath wavered unevenly. Awareness stirred. She recalled with an almost painful acuity the smooth heat of his lips upon hers. She’d liked it. Even now, the remembrance made her heart clamor anew. Did he know she wouldn’t have refused if he kissed her again?

Merciful heavens, it appeared
she
was the one going mad. It was the whisky, she thought shakily. What else could it be?

She watched as he set the knife side and wrapped several strips of clean white linen around the wound.

“There.” His tone was rather brusque. “It’s done.”

Anne looked up into his face. Outwardly she was composed, but her insides were a mass of quivering jelly. “I…Thank you.” She could
manage no more.

Storm-gray eyes moved over her features. Anne had the unsettling feeling that the very same awareness had claimed him too.

“You’re still pale,” he observed. “I’ll take you to your room so you can rest.”

She was shaking her head, speaking almost before she was aware of it. “You need not accompany me. Really!”

A dark brow rose.

Anne flushed. “I’m fine. Truly.” Praying that he would not glean her embarrassment, her gaze slid away.

It didn’t help that he’d not yet released her hand. She started to tug it back. His grip tightened.

Anne looked up sharply.

His expression was unreadable. “May I trust that you will heed my wishes with regard to this room?” He spoke very quietly.

A part of her longed to argue. A part of her was ready to lash out. A part of her wanted almost desperately to be angry. Somehow she couldn’t.

“Please.”

His tone was very low, even gritty. Yet this time the words were more plea than directive—and how much more effective!

She gave a jerky nod.

He walked with her to the stairway. Anne quickly climbed the stairs. Yet she had the un
easy feeling his eyes followed her form long after she’d turned down the hallway to her room.

And all the while, her mind circled and churned, as if through a maze.

He was a man of secrets. A man of sorrow. She’d never been more certain of anything in her life.

And suddenly she wanted very much to know why.

Simon would have dearly loved to ignore his alluring new bride. Anne, however, made it impossible.

Within a matter of days, she made her existence known. A change began to take shape within Rosewood Manor. Buckets of water and soap were hauled inside. Carpets were beaten and cleaned. Newly waxed panels of oak shone throughout the house. When before dark and dreariness pervaded all, light and warmth and coziness began to emerge.

Simon was both impressed and angry. Who
was she to take charge of his home? It was, he grudgingly admitted, far more habitable. Still, at times he felt he’d been given the role of spectator. She had invaded his life, disrupted his home. Yet he could not protest, for he’d granted her license to do as she pleased. He had no choice but to watch grimly as everything around him was changed.

And Anne strolled through the halls as if she’d done so every day of her life. In her wake was the lingering scent of roses…

It drove him half wild.

He’d been furious the day he discovered her in the library. For one searing moment, an almost savage rage had blackened his vision. She intruded where she had no right. She invaded his sanctum, and he was almost beyond conscience.

He had not set foot within that room for many a year—shortly after Ellie and the boys had been laid to rest. That day with Anne carried him back…back to the night when vile rage erupted…the night he’d torn apart the treasures that had once meant so much to him.

He’d wanted to burn it, burn everything. Burn it the way
they
had burned.

For this room above all others called forth the memories. Memories of the three of them, laid to rest in the garden, the garden that Ellie so adored. The garden where his boys had always loved to play…

He’d failed them, all of them. He could not protect them, any of them. He could not
save
them.

Simon had no wish to remember. He’d thought the years had dulled the pain, but he was wrong. How much better to be empty and numb! How much better to be alone!

But with Anne in his house, he was no longer allowed the solitude he craved.

If he was bitter, he could not help it. He had done what needed to be done. He’d wed her. He’d brought her to his home. And now she invaded that most private sanctum of all—his mind! Would she allow him no measure of peace? He resented her. Her presence here in his home. His life. She was there wherever he looked. It was almost a violation of all the happiness that had once filled his heart.

But she was no intruder. No invader. No coquette.

She was his wife.

And perhaps it was that which he resented most of all.

Anne had never been one to keep her head down. Once she’d made up her mind, there was no swaying it. Simon might have been satisfied with his dismal surroundings, but she was not. She threw herself headlong into the task of setting Rosewood Manor to rights.

Two days after her arrival, she hired a house
keeper, Mrs. Gaines. Within the week, a staff of housemaids had been secured. By the end of a week, sunlight streamed through the arch of windows newly cleaned. The floors of the entire first floor were scrubbed and shining.

There was still a good deal of work to be done, but Anne was pleased at the progress that was being made. Simon’s reaction—or lack of it—stung. She wished that he would have made some acknowledgment of her effort. He did not disapprove. He did not debate. He turned a blind eye to everything. Just as he turned a blind eye to her.

But at least her days were filled with activity. She rose early and tumbled into bed exhausted. But mealtimes, when it was just the two of them, were particularly trying.

They were, in sum, no less than an ordeal. There was no dispelling the strain in the air. The meal began and ended with the requisite greeting and farewell. In between there was little sound but the clinking of china and cutlery. Anne was reduced to admiring the newly polished silver she’d found stowed away in a cupboard.

She hated it. Throughout her life, mealtimes were conducted with talk and laughter and sharing. With Simon, she was growing to despise those hours, but she certainly wasn’t going to hide away with a tray in her room because her husband chose to be a boor.

And it appeared this particular morning was no exception.

Simon was already seated at the table.

Anne strode briskly to the lovely Pembroke table that served as a sideboard. An assortment of dishes had been laid out. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly.

“Good morning.” One long finger was curled about his cup. He didn’t bother to look up.

Choosing a croissant, she moved to the dining table. As usual, Simon’s morning sustenance consisted of coffee, strong and black. Her nose wrinkled distastefully. She reached for the teapot, glancing at him from beneath her lashes. And in that instant, she vowed this meal would not pass in strained silence. With that in mind, she wiped her fingers on her napkin and addressed her husband.

“Have you already breakfasted?”

He sipped his coffee, his gaze trained on his newspaper. “No.”

Obviously he found the question superfluous. Anne dug in, determined to stay the course. “It’s a long time till luncheon. And Mrs. Wilder prepares a lovely coddled egg.”

“Perhaps you should tell her so.”

“Actually I have.” Anne studied him openly. Certainly there was no need to worry that he would notice. She might have been a lump of clay for all the awareness he took of her. Rising, she returned to the sideboard and filled her plate
with various hot dishes. Scooting her chair into place, she sat once more.

She speared a bite of sausage and chewed thoughtfully. It wasn’t that they were at odds, she mused, slathering her toast with marmalade. He was not outwardly hostile; it was more as if he chose to look through her. She wiped her fingers on her napkin. Reaching for her fork once more, she dropped her knife onto the carpet.

She reached for it—certainly Simon didn’t notice. Her head connected with the edge of the table while she was retrieving it. When she straightened, a pair of icy gray eyes held her in rebuke. Of course it was when she least required his attention!

“Must you clatter about so? I find it difficult to read.”

Anne did not particularly care for his tone. She stabbed another bite of sausage and popped it in her mouth. “I fear,” she said with mock sweetness, “that your manners have gone awry, sir. Perhaps it’s different for Yorkshire folk, but I was taught that it was rude to read at table.”

Simon paused, his cup suspended halfway to his mouth. He lowered it slowly to the saucer, then sat back and regarded her, a faint smile—if it could be called that—curling his lips. “Indeed?”

“Indeed.” Anne savored both the word and the moment.

And it appeared she’d finally managed to
maintain his attention. His smile grew tight. “Being of hearty Yorkshire stock, I’m not entirely certain how most London folk were raised, but I was taught that it was rude to talk when one’s mouth is full.”

Anne finished chewing, then swallowed. She wasn’t about to concede victory. “Scots,” she said at length. “I own that I am half English, but I’ve spent far more time in Scotland. My father was Scots. Therefore I prefer to think of myself as—”

“Let me guess,” he drawled. “Scots.”

“Aye,” she said with relish.

His eyes had narrowed. What, did he expect her to leave? The servants might quake and quiver, but by Jove, she wouldn’t. And she didn’t. She’d grown up with two older brothers; she’d learned early on how to stand up for herself. Neither Alec nor Aidan had ever bullied her—not that they hadn’t tried—and neither would he.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “your foul mood might be much improved if you were to eat something. Mrs. Wilder would surely be pleased.”

His eyes glinted. “My mood, as you call it, is not foul.”

“Is it not? I daresay you make an earnest endeavor to make it exactly so.”

His mouth was drawn in a straight line. The
newspaper rattled. “Precisely what are you suggesting?”

“I suggest nothing. I merely make the observation that perhaps you are not a particularly brilliant conversationalist.”

“You criticize my manners. You criticize my moods. Is there anything else you wish to criticize?”

Anne smiled sweetly. “Not at present,” she said mildly.

“Ah. And do I have leave to grant similar observations in turn?”

“I should imagine,” she demurred. “After all, you are the master of the house.”

“You are given to say what’s on your mind, aren’t you?”

“If I do not, who will?”

“A pragmatic approach,” he observed. “You’ve a temper too, I see.”

“Not I.”

“And you pride yourself on your outspokenness.”

“I merely consider myself forthright.”

“Forthright. Is that what you call it?”

“What would
you
call it?”

“If I were asked, I might say that you are the most obstinate woman I have ever known.”

“I am neither,” she returned pleasantly. Did he think he could insult her? She was made of sterner stuff than that.

“A poor choice of words. You are not obstinate, but stubborn.”

“Certainly not! Though I will own to being a trifle independent.”

“Ah.” He looked her straight in the eye. “A family trait, is it?”

“I fear so,” she said lightly.

“Is there anything else you wish to say, Anne?”

Anne opened her mouth. “Not—” she began.

“At present,” he finished.

It was victory at its most glorious. The following morning, there was no newspaper at the table.

He also partook of a substantial breakfast.

And he actually deigned to inquire how she’d slept!

Several days later, Anne chanced to pass by one of the maids, who had just received the post. Since Simon was elsewhere, Anne smiled and took the packet from the girl.

“Thank you, Mary. I’ll see that it’s delivered.”

Simon’s study was located in the east wing. Anne had glanced in briefly that very first day with Duffy. Like the library, she considered it Simon’s domain, which seemed to suit him quite well, she thought with a touch of the acerbic. And indeed, the location fit him quite well too—it was at the far end of the hall.

Stepping inside, she glanced around. The room was large, done up in the same English oak as the stairway. Just beneath the windows was a lovely chaise, upholstered in burgundy velvet and gold.

A path of sunlight led the way to the desk. Anne dropped the post in the center of his desk, then paused and looked up.

A large cobweb stretched from ceiling to wall in the corner. She shuddered, started to leave, considered—then retraced her steps. She fixed the offending cobweb with a glare. There was no help for it—it simply had to go.

There was a maid’s closet just down the hall. Retrieving a broom, she returned to the study and climbed atop the lovely velvet chaise in the corner.

“What the blazes are you about?”

The sound of her husband’s voice nearly made her lose her balance. He did not mince words, she thought stubbornly, and neither would she.

From the corner of her eye, she saw that he’d stationed himself behind his desk.

“What the blazes does it look like?” The retort was accompanied by a vigorous swipe of the broom.

It missed by a good foot. “Damn,” she muttered.

Simon’s head came up. She glanced over her shoulder.

One dark brow climbed high.

“My brothers talk much worse,” she defended herself.

“I should prefer it if my wife does not.”

Oh, bother. Who was he to chide her so? Ignoring him, Anne took a breath and balanced herself on tiptoe. Her mouth pursed determinedly, she set her target in sight once more. It was an even more valiant effort than before, only this time she nearly fell from her perch.

“For pity’s sake, let me do it.” The growl sounded from directly behind her. “If you break your neck, I won’t have it on my conscience.”

Strong hands closed around her waist. The world swirled briefly before she was set on her feet. She watched while he dispatched the cobweb with ease—and without benefit of the chair.

Anne glowered as he took a seat behind his desk. Their eyes met briefly. What, she thought, did he wish to be left alone? Her lips compressed. He could ask then. After all, she had been here first.

Deliberately she presented him with her back. She busied herself, righting a stack of books on the table in the corner.

She was unaware of Simon’s eyes narrowing as she flitted to the other corner and back again.

“My God—are you never still?”

It was less a question than an accusation. Anne froze.

He tapped his fingers together. “Have you finished here?”

“A thousand pardons,” she said stiffly. “I gather you wish to be left undisturbed?”

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

He was faultlessly polite. Anne was not so gracious. She sent him a fulminating glare as she withdrew, unaware of the regret that had already seized hold of Simon’s conscience.

A scant quarter hour later, she descended the stairs in her riding habit. Simon was in the entrance hall with Duffy when she came down the stairs.

He fixed her with a silent query.

“I thought I would go out riding.” Her tone was coolly defensive.

He glanced at the grandfather clock that had just tolled the hour. “It’s almost time for luncheon.”

“Please don’t hold it on my account. I may be quite late.” It should please him to be left alone.

Her steps would have skirted him—if he hadn’t caught hold of her elbow.

Anne’s gaze narrowed on the clasp of his fingers. His fingers released her…his eyes did not.

His expression bore a faint consternation. “Anne, of course the stable is at your disposal. But this is not a good time.”

Her brows shot high. “Why not?”

His gaze slid beyond her shoulder to the high windows at her back. “Look there.” With his chin he indicated the sky. Anne saw that a low bank of clouds gathered on the horizon. Even as she glanced behind her, the sunlight began to dim. “We are in for bad weather.”

“Ah, but you forget,” she said lightly, “I’ve lived most of my life in Scotland. A trifle of rain is scarcely of note. And I do believe I shall molder if I remain indoors another minute.”