The Mistress of Tall Acre (42 page)

Her life—their life—flashed before her eyes. Every misspent second, every withheld word.

With a little cry, she jumped from the porch and ran toward the paddock.

A nimble groom gave chase and grabbed for the reins, finally bringing the agitated horse to an uneasy stop. Another groom disentangled Seamus’s boot from the stirrup, but for a few moments he simply lay on the ground, chest heaving and head spinning. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet, more mindful of his pride than any injury. He spied a flash of blue and saw Sophie—calm, competent Sophie—running toward the paddock, a look of terror on her face.

“You all right, sir?” The nearest groom was regarding him as if he doubted it, apprehension foremost.

“I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t gone for the bridle,” Seamus said with a small smile of thanks as he bent and retrieved his hat. “Turn Prince loose in the far pasture, aye? I’ll not do any more riding today.”

The stallion was led away, still shying and snorting, as Sophie entered the dusty paddock, looking even more frightened than when he’d come to her in the night. “Seamus, you’re hurt.”

He touched his temple, his fingers warm with blood. “A scratch.”

“Come, let me look at you.” Taking his arm, she was intent on the stillroom, reminding him of the flowers he’d left for her that long ago, half-forgotten afternoon.

For a moment he stayed dizzy, and then the sharp tang of herbs cleared his head as she led him to a chair. Unused to being on the receiving end of her care, he stayed silent while she took out rags and salve and, with the finesse of a physician, set about cleaning him up.

Her touch was light and capable. She stood so enticingly close he had to clench his hands lest he reach for her as he had last night.

“Seamus, you might have been killed.” Emotion flooded her eyes, turning them a darker blue. “I saw you fall—”

“I’m fine, Sophie.”

“Well, I’m not.” The words came in a rush as if she’d been holding her breath since she’d seen him tumble. “I-I was thinking how life is passing us by, how sometimes there are no second chances.” She choked and stumbled over the words, though her ministrations never ceased. “All is well one minute, and then everything is turned on its head the next.” He smelled something strong but not unpleasant as she uncorked a bottle. “I could be here with you now, only you might be laid out on this table instead, broken and lifeless and—”

“Sophie, what exactly are you saying?”

“’Tis not what I’m saying, Seamus. ’Tis what I’m feeling.” She set aside the rags, nearly spilling the tonic. “I . . . I . . .”

He felt a jolt of alarm at how pale she was, all the blood drained from her face. Unthinking, he caught her wrists and pulled her toward him. There was no other chair in the room but his lap.

She sat down without a protest, with a willingness that had been missing last night. This close, he marveled how he could no longer chase her from his thoughts. Her wealth of dark hair, the memory of her bell-like laugh, her ongoing eagerness to please him combined with her befuddling distance, had worked a spell on his hardened heart. Despite everything that had happened to them and between them, he longed to touch her, to know her inside out. He wanted her and her alone. He wanted her intimately and lastingly and forever. Could she not sense that?

Mayhap she did.

Her gaze held his, open and honest, conveying things too deep for words. Leaning ever nearer, she took hold of his shoulders and pressed her mouth to his. His heart seemed to stop. She tasted sweet. Pure. True.

“Seamus”—the words came on a rush of air—“I love you.”

He fought for a response. For clarity. A question rose inside him, but his throat closed, denying him. Dazed, he tucked a strand of loosened hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her pale cheek.

“There’s no one else. There never was. I told Captain McClintock what I did because of my feelings for you. At the time I knew you didn’t love me—might never love me. I could not tell you then, but I tell you now because sometimes there are no second chances . . .”

He took the confession in, every stunning syllable. His thoughts cut to Lily Cate. It seemed almost a betrayal to feel even painfully happy without her. The hole she’d left never lessened. But joy was here, in this very room, calling out for him to claim it.

“Sophie, I believe I loved you long before this. Till now I don’t think I even knew what love was—”

“Hush, Seamus.” She put gentle fingers to his lips. “We shan’t waste another second.”

He kissed her hungrily, even fiercely, afraid he might startle her. But her response held a willingness he’d not anticipated. For long minutes they lost themselves in each other, passionately and unashamedly, till their breath was spent. He’d forgotten the wonder of this kind of closeness. He’d been without it so long he was stunned by the power of it, the way his blood raced, the way it left him shaken.

Someone was coming. Yet another interruption. He could hear a footfall on the walk. They drew apart, flushed and breathless, and he felt the distance between them like never before. His thoughts raced full tilt to the sweetness of tonight. Being alone with her again couldn’t come soon enough.

His wedding night had come.

He took a breath, the razor in his maimed hand less steady than usual. He was a bridegroom . . . again. Though the war had ground sentimentality out of him or at least forced it into retreat, he found himself wanting to stop time, hover on the edge of this hallowed moment. Come morning his world—and hers—would have shifted. They’d be one in the truest, most biblical sense, never to be undone.

At not yet ten o’clock, the house was locked, the servants settled. Finished with shaving, he ran a hand through freshly washed hair, feeling a bit self-conscious in bare chest and breeches. The floor was cold against his naked feet. He felt young and in love and uncertain again, not an experienced widower and soldier.

His mind kept traveling downstairs. From this night forward they’d share his parents’ bedchamber. Was Sophie readying for him, wondering if he’d come? At supper she’d said little. A silent current had pulsed between them, as felt as lightning, making words unnecessary. Ever since she’d first kissed him in the pungent shadows of the stillroom, he’d thought of little else.

He left his bedchamber, passing by Lily Cate’s and feeling the familiar ache. But for the moment Sophie was waiting. He took the back stairs to her bedchamber slowly, a sconce on the landing lighting his way. Thankfulness warmed him, pooling in his chest till his eyes smarted. Sophie was God’s gift to him. For years of war. Griefs unspoken. Heartaches on the field and at home. He paused at her door, head bent. Humbled.

His heart had never beat like this for Anne.

Sophie could barely breathe. As she shook the pins from her hair, the candlelight called out her expectant, pensive expression in the looking glass. She wasn’t sure of Seamus till she heard his footfall on the stair. She’d forgotten to leave the door ajar. Would he think she meant to turn him away?

Self-consciousness flooded her. She was unsure of what was to come. The intimacies of marriage were unknown to her, but this melting ache inside her was becoming all too familiar. Did Seamus feel the same?

As her hair tumbled past her hips, she reached for her nightgown, little more than a skim of lace, the fabric was so sheer. It fell into place as his light tap on the door turned her round. She called to him and he pushed the door open, standing on the threshold, a final question in his eyes. With a shy but joyous smile she doused the candle flame and opened her arms to him.

By morning it seemed they had always been this way, she curled against him, her head on his hard shoulder, he on his back, his relaxed features barely visible in dawn’s feeble light. Nothing in the big house stirred. A rooster crowed beyond the shuttered windows, but it barely intruded on her happiness.

In the drowsy haze of half sleep, she remembered it was the Sabbath. Lily Cate was not with them. They would go to church without her. And then all the wonders of the night rushed in, making her rue the morning.

Seamus’s sleepy voice roused her completely. He turned on his side and looked down at her with a new tenderness that was her own special possession. “I must be dreaming . . . you . . . this.”

“If this is a dream, I never want to come awake,” she whispered.

The intoxication of their closeness lingered, making her wish it was nighttime again. As she thought it, he took her in his arms, showing her she needn’t wish for anything at all.

32

A
tumultuous month passed, half of it spent in Williamsburg. This time Sophie went with him. Seamus hadn’t told her about the note found in the stables. He’d simply given it to the sheriff, who now knew that the threat extended beyond Lily Cate. The strain of her disappearance never lessened, but life went on its relentless, consuming way, tarnishing his beloved memories of her.

Sophie filled the emptiness, a tonic for his fury and loss. They returned home to Tall Acre, determined to start anew. Once again he was pitched headlong into the needs of the estate from dawn till dusk. But his priorities had altered. His evenings, his every waking thought, were hers.