Sweet Surrender (15 page)

He was a libertine and scapegrace, and she was a maiden.  There were rules and laws and morals, and if he broke them and was found out, he’d be in big trouble.  Was she worth it?

With his cock raging, he was in no position to decide.  He sat up and put on his shirt as she glumly watched. 

"Why are we stopping?"

"I need to think about this."

"Think about what?"

"About how far I should travel down this road."

"I’d like to walk all the way to the end."

"I realize that, but I might not wish to follow you there."

"Coward."

Earlier, she’d leveled the same accusation, and it didn’t goad him as it had previously.

"Yes, I’m a coward, and I’d like to survive this with my manly parts firmly attached."

"There’s no one to cut them off."

"Don’t be too sure."

"I don’t have an angry father or brother who would chase you down."

Yet you do have Jackson Scott,
he mused.

He grabbed a stocking and rolled it up her leg.  She pouted like a spoiled toddler.

"I don’t want to leave," she complained.  "I didn’t even dip my toes in the water."

"It gives you something to look forward to for next time."

She brightened.  "Does that mean we’ll come here again?"

"I believe it does."

She frowned.  "You are the strangest man."

"Why?"

"If we’re going to come again, why not proceed now and get it over with?"

"Anticipation is half the fun."

"I’ve been
anticipating
for eighteen years."

"Then a few more days won’t matter, will they?"

"I bet I perish during the wait.  I’m finding that—where you’re concerned—I have no patience, at all."

"Patience is supposed to be a virtue."

"Not for me.  Not when you’re being an idiot."

"I’ll keep that in mind."

He put on her shoes and helped her to her feet.  They went to the horses, mounted, and started off. 

He was already chastising himself for his absurd denial.

Would it have killed him to deflower her?  She’d been begging for it.  Why not oblige her?

Next time,
he told himself. 
Next time, I’ll do whatever I want, and she’ll be sorry.

A stern voice warned,
No, she won’t.  She’ll never be sorry.

He shuddered, alarmed by his need for her, by his reckless desire to have her without regard to the consequences.  He’d never been in such a quandary, and he couldn’t abide the conflicted feelings she produced.

He spurred his horse into a trot and kicked himself all the way to the Abbey. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

"What is my brother like?"

"Percival?"

"Yes."

Jackson stared at Michael, wondering how to respond. 

Michael kept talking and acting as if he was Edward’s son, and no matter what Jackson thought about the situation, Michael truly believed the story about his paternity.  There was no dissuading him.

"I’ve never met Percival," Jackson admitted, "so I can’t tell you much about him."

"Why haven’t you met him?"

"I spent years living in Egypt, and I’ve only just returned to England.  I came straight to Milton Abbey, and Percival is in London with his mother and grandmother."

He paused, thinking that he had to go to London or write or
something
, but he couldn’t seem to tear himself away from the estate.

"What is my grandmother like?"

"She’s a bit…stuffy."

"Will she like me, do you expect?"

No, she won’t like you, at all.

It was terribly distressing to ponder Beatrice’s opinion.  She would never accept Michael as Edward’s son, would never allow any kinship to attach.

It was the actual reason Jackson hadn’t gone to town.  In the best of circumstances, he had little desire to fraternize with his mother.  The notion of popping in, of advising her that there was another boy besides Percival, another boy who had a better claim to the title, was too taxing to consider.

"She’s a difficult woman," Jackson carefully replied, "and she was never told about you.  She’ll be shocked, so it might take her awhile to be kind."

"I’ll win her over."

"I’m sure you will."

Jackson glanced away and smiled.  Michael’s mannerisms were too touching.  He resembled Edward in every way, and Jackson kept having poignant flashes of memory from his childhood.  He constantly felt as if he was looking at Edward, and the similarities were nearly unbearable.

"How are your lessons?"  Jackson was eager to change the subject.

"I’m a grand rider," Michael boasted.  "All of the stable lads say so."

"Then I’m certain they’re correct."

"They are.  Ask anyone."

Jackson didn’t suppose he’d have to inquire.  Edward had been an accomplished equestrian, too.  No doubt Michael had inherited his skill.

Michael’s lesson had just concluded, and they were walking out of the barn and headed to the house.  The stable master—an older gentleman named Albert—stepped in front of them.

"Master Jack?"  He used the affectionate mode of address he always used.

"Hello, Albert."

"I wanted you to know how glad I am that Michael is here."

"Well…ah…yes, we’re all glad." 

It was the first hint he’d received that there was speculation about Michael, and with Michael standing there, he wouldn’t get into an awkward discussion as to parentage or heirs.

"Edward couldn’t have sired a finer boy."  The aged fellow had tears in his eyes. 

"You’re jumping the gun on me, Albert.  We’ve started an investigation and—"

"We don’t need an investigation," Albert insisted.  "I’ve watched him in the saddle.  He’s the spitting image of his father.  The spitting image!"

"There is a resemblance," Jackson half-heartedly concurred.

"Never thought I’d live to see it," Albert muttered, and he strolled back into the barn.

Jackson and Michael continued on toward the house.

"It appears that you’ve impressed him," Jackson said.

"He thinks I’ll make a much better earl than Percival."

"He said that?"

"Yes.  That’s why I was curious about my brother.  Mr. Albert claims Percival isn’t very happy."

"Did he?" 

Jackson’s temper flared.  He’d kept Michael and Grace at the estate in the hopes of preventing stories from spreading, but he’d stupidly forgotten to order them to be silent.  How many others had they told?  What a disaster!

The slightest gossip would have everyone observing Edward’s traits, and if Grace’s allegations couldn’t be verified, Jackson would be accused of covering up the truth.

"Listen, Michael, you shouldn’t be talking about Edward."

"I wasn’t.  Mr. Albert asked me if he was my father.  I wasn’t about to lie."

"When was this?"

"During my first lesson.  I guess my father and I handle the reins exactly the same.  Mr. Albert hadn’t even shown me anything yet.  I simply did it just like my father.  Isn’t that interesting?" 

"Yes, it’s very interesting."

Jackson had to speak with Grace about the burgeoning rumors.  They had to be nipped in the bud.  He was positive his mother had spies everywhere, and they were probably sending regular, frantic messages to her in town.

Before he uttered a word to Beatrice about Michael, he intended to have Grace’s account confirmed or disaffirmed.  He was most particularly waiting for a report on his clerk’s interview with the vicar who had supposedly performed the wedding ceremony.

Then—and only then—would he broach the subject with his mother. 

"Where is Grace?"  He was thrilled to have a reason to hunt her down.

"She’s doctoring."

"Doctoring…patients?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"In the kitchen.  Cook set aside space in the back."

"Doctoring?  You’re sure?"

Michael laughed.  "Yes, I’m sure.  She’s a very fine healer.  Why?  Are you ailing?"

"No, I’m not ailing," Jackson said, although he had a splitting headache that was worrisome. 

Occasionally, he suffered a recurring and potent jungle fever that could lay him low for days, and it always began with a headache.  There were few other warning signs, and he refused to accept that the annoying disease could have followed him to England.   

"At home in Cornwall," Michael explained, "she was quite acclaimed.  She could fix you up in a minute."

"I didn’t realize she had a vocation."

"Yes. since she was a girl.  She says it’s a calling—an angel’s gift."

"My, my, if it’s a gift from an angel, she must be very good."

Michael’s attention was distracted by some boys who were playing out in the park.  They waved, and he raced off to join them.

Jackson watched them go, noticing how Michael was already the leader of the group.  They marched into the woods, the boys trailing after him, their expressions adoring, as if they’d been mesmerized.

As Jackson noted he was behaving in the same hypnotized fashion, he yanked away and kept on to the Abbey. 

He was intrigued by Michael’s tale regarding Grace and her ability.  He couldn’t imagine a female working as a physician.  Women weren’t considered smart enough to learn difficult subjects.  Who would have trained her?  What male would have had the patience to teach someone so willful and stubborn?

He skirted around to the rear servants’ entrance, causing an enormous stir as he stepped into the kitchen.

The den of rooms was always a beehive of activity.  There were a dozen people rushing around, and his entrance set off a slew of hushed, cautionary whispers of, "It’s Mr. Scott!"

The bustle instantly halted.  Maids curtsied, and footmen bowed their heads.  Cook hustled over, exasperated that he’d dare to invade her domain.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Carry on, carry on," he urged, but no one moved.  His arrival was too odd, too disruptive.  "I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m merely looking for Miss Bennett.  I was informed that she’s here."

"You found me, Mr. Scott," Grace said from a chair in the corner.  "Ignore him," she advised the assembled crowd.  "He’s probably never been in a kitchen before, so he won’t have any idea if you’re doing your jobs appropriately or not."

With her giving them permission to resume their tasks, they started in again.  It occurred to him that
her
word held more sway than his, and the notion was irritating.  How had she won them over?  Was she whipping up a petty rebellion among the staff? 

He huffed over to her, surprised to see that she was tending a footman.  He was seated, too, and extremely pale.  He had a deep gash across his palm, and she had just finished sewing a row of neat stitches to close the injury. 

"Michael told me"—he sounded halfway aggravated—"that you were doctoring, but I didn’t believe him."

"You seem astonished.  Why?  Had you assumed I was an incompetent laggard like you?"

At her rude comment, there was a collective inhalation of breath by the servants.  They were shocked that she’d speak so candidly, and he had to admit that he was a tad shocked himself.

He couldn’t decide how to reply or which charge should be addressed first.  Should he confess that he questioned her skill?  Should he defend his own competency?

He wasn’t about to engage in a debate with her for he was afraid he’d lose.  If she bested him, he’d never live it down. 

Pulling up his own chair, he made himself comfortable.  She tried to ignore him and continue with her ministrations, but it was hard when he was sitting so near and studying her every move.

She frowned.  "Is there something you wanted?"

"No.  Michael said you have an angel’s gift.  I’m curious as to whether he’s correct."

"She’s…marvelous, sir," the footman gushed.  "She’s already healed all sorts of people."

Jackson glared at Grace.  "How come I haven’t heard of this amazing feat?"

"It’s not that unusual.  The sick and wounded are naturally attracted to me.  I help whenever I can."

"Really?"  He was openly scoffing.

"Yes, now if you don’t mind, I’m busy.  If you wish to stay, you may, but you must stop interrupting."

She had an array of supplies arranged on a small table, and she grabbed a jar containing a brown salve.  She peered at the footman.  "I’m going to smear this on your cut.  It will sting—just for a moment."

The young man gulped with dismay. 

"All right."