The Summer of You (16 page)

“This should do,” Byrne said, as they came to an unoccupied tree. “Are you sure your reputation will survive being alone out here with me?”

“We’re hardly alone,” Jane pointed out, “and I think my reputation will survive being out here with you just as well as yours will having been in there with me.” She smiled at him, took a deep breath of the night air, let it fill her lungs, her body relaxing as she let it go. “Whether you yourself would survive it in there was a possibility open to debate, however.”

He acknowledged the truth of that with a soft snort. “It was touch and go for a moment.”

They let the silence stand then . . . not uneasily, just taking a moment to breathe in time, to listen to the noises around them. How pleasant, Jane thought, to be silent for a few moments. Normally noise overtook her life—normally she sought it, finding silence solitary and confining—suffocating. But how pleasant to be silent with someone.

That’s when they heard the twitching in the shrubbery beyond, the mischievous giggle of young boys, out of bed far later than they were allowed. What they were saying Jane could not make out, but Byrne—gracious, she could see him listening. He didn’t move his head or shift his gaze, but she saw his eyes narrow, his scowl return.

“Now!” was the one word she made out, right before she saw two small figures pop out of the shrubbery, pitching two red orbs into the air at speed, and letting them fly.

Oh no.

In the barest second before impact, Jane tried to duck, tried to shift out of the way. But it was too late. She hunched down, shielded her eyes . . .

And glimpsed the lighting-quick flash of Mr. Worth’s hands as he intercepted the projectiles.

“Gor!” Jane heard Michael Wilton say—there was no hiding now, he stood straight up from the bushes in shock. “He caught ’em!”

“He must be the highwayman,” his little brother Joshua lisped, in complete awe. Then Byrne turned his head, his body, by spare degrees, just enough to eye the boys. His brow shot up fractionally. And if Jane hadn’t known better, she would swear she heard him growl.

“Run!” Michael yelled, and he and Joshua made quick work of beating a path back to the Wiltons’ house, nothing but a trail of dust left behind them.

Byrne straightened and turned back to her. “Apple?” he asked, proffering one of the orbs. Unable to do or think or say anything else, she took it. “Rather solid,” he commented, as he took a bite. “And sweet. When I was young, we found the rotted ones better for throwing—they explode upon impact, make a fine mess. These would brain you before they ruined your clothes.”

“You caught them,” Jane said, finally finding her voice beneath her pounding heart.

“Yes,” he replied.

“You caught them,” she repeated.

“For heaven’s sake, madam—I could hear the boys rustling in the shrubbery . . . and having been a boy myself, I had a feeling mischief was afoot.” He leaned down, hopping a bit as he grabbed the cane that must have fallen to the ground when he released it to pluck fruit from the sky, Jane thought wryly.

“I do have some skills left,” he grumbled.

“But how . . .” she began again, only to have him shake his head.

“I would never expose any tricks of the trade,” he replied, and happily took another bite of his apple.

“I should march inside and tell Sir Wilton,” Jane remarked, turning the apple over in her hand. “He has the audacity to despise you, but those are his sons, and the biggest mischief makers this village has seen since . . .”

“Since . . . ?” he prodded curiously, as he took another bite.

“Since me.” She smiled sheepishly.

His eyes lit with wicked curiosity. “Now, aside from running naked through this very square when you were five, what kind of mischief did you manage in your youth?” he asked, a wry twist transforming his face in the sliver of moonlight. No longer the beast that frightened children or the stone-faced gentleman that made polite conversation with the rector’s wife. Nay, that little smile, that spark in his eyes . . . He looked like a devil, she thought . . . but not the demonic, nasty kind, with sharpened teeth and pointy tails . . . nay, he looked like the devil that will offer you a sweet, play you music . . . and lead you into temptation.

If possible, her heart began to beat even faster.

“Oh, the usual,” she replied, her voice a mask of gaiety and light. “Mud pies. Stealing eggs from the Morgans’ chicken coop. Moving old Mr. Frederickson’s fishing dinghy from the lakeshore to the top of a fell . . . while he was asleep in it.”

If anything, Byrne’s smile became more devilish. “Now, how on earth did you do that?”

“I would never expose a secret of the trade, sir,” she replied primly.

He laughed aloud, a rusty sound, deep and fitful. But real. Jane was so startled by it, she felt the need to take a look around the square, finding none of the partygoers as interested in his laughter as she—just as they had been unresponsive to the apple throwing. Everyone was in their own world, discussing their own lives, creating their own secrets.

“A mischief maker,” Byrne repeated through his laughter. “No wonder you’re so eager to run after a robber.”

Jane stuttered, “But . . . no, I . . .”

“Jane,” Byrne said, looking her dead in the eye, his voice strangely seductive. “Eat your apple.”

So she did, taking a small bite, enjoying the tartness of its flesh. “I should still tell the Wiltons about the boys’ behavior. Or at least Victoria. The parents may not believe me, but Victoria would try to set the boys to right.”

Byrne regarded her at a distance. “Miss Victoria seems a good friend to you.”

“She is,” Jane replied. Yes. Victoria, for all her foolishness about Jason, was a surprisingly good friend. Especially considering how Jane had abhorred her in the past.

“Good. I should think you could use some friends,” he remarked.

“Don’t be silly, I have dozens of friends,” she replied offhandedly, taking another bite.

“Lady Jane Cummings has dozens of friends,” he countered. “I sometimes wonder if Jane has any.”

Her head snapped up, swallowing hard the bit of apple in her mouth. She stared into his face, for once open, unguarded. But it was Jane who felt exposed. Because . . . how did he know?

Unwilling to follow that course of conversation, Jane cast about for a new one. And she remembered half her reason for coming tonight.

“Not only has Victoria been a good friend, she’s been a useful one! Here,” she said, handing him her bitten apple as she needed both hands to fish in her reticule and draw out the small packet of papers Victoria had given her earlier that evening. At his quizzical expression, she told him what they were.

“And you should have seen his office—I’m surprised we managed to find this,” she finished, breathless.

“Well, if Sir Wilton didn’t suspect me before, he will now,” Byrne drawled, and he leaned close to her, peering down into the papers she held in her hands. “I’ll know the exact details of every crime.”

The spare moonlight did little to illuminate Victoria’s tight handwriting—which was why Byrne had to stand so close, she reasoned.

“I haven’t read them yet,” Jane replied, her mouth surprisingly dry, “and I very much wish to. Might I review them tonight and bring them by tomorrow?”

She looked up into his eyes. He was shoulder to shoulder with her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his frame, but it was the heat in his gaze that set her cheeks burning.

They held there together in their own silence, both waiting for what would happen next.

She could do it, she realized. All she had to do was lean in a fraction, let her gaze drop to his mouth, and he would kiss her. She could feel it. It was such an easy thing. And she knew he wanted it, too.

She wasn’t some foolish young thing with a scared heart, nor was she a novice at the business of being made love to. She had been kissed before, she had let men sweep her into corners on warm nights under solitary oak trees.

And oh, she wanted it. The anticipation. That moment when you forgot to breathe, the electricity of being touched.

But . . . a small worry pricked the back of her mind. Those other gentlemen—nothing would change with a kiss. With Byrne, would it change the way they spoke to each other? Would it color every conversation that was to come, every time they ran into each other between their houses, every look? And suddenly, it mattered to Jane.

It mattered, she realized, because he was her friend.

So, even though she craved the connection, more than she had ever craved it before in her life, Jane did not lean that fraction closer. She did not glance down at his perfect, wry mouth. She did not let herself get gloriously swept away.

Instead, she pulled back, ignoring the confusion she saw in his eyes. And Jane remained ridiculously, frustratingly, safely untouched .

But not for long.

Because at that moment, a pair of revelers, male and female, tripped merrily across the square, headed for their corner.

“Do you remember which one it was?” Jane heard Jason say, the laugh in his voice apparent and all too infrequent.

“I think it’s that one,” the lyrical voice that could only be Penelope Wilton replied.

They weren’t merely headed for their corner. They were headed for their tree.

Jane met Byrne’s eyes. If Jason found them, he was likely to burst like a volcano.

Byrne obviously surmised the same thing and judged the easiest recourse. Quickly he grabbed her hand, and together they stumbled to the bushes recently abandoned by Michael and Joshua, leaped over them, and hid.

And Jane found herself in the most awkward position in her memory, wedged between the disturbing body of Byrne Worth, a surprisingly large stockpile of apples, and peering through the thick shrubbery as she listened to her brother in what had to be one of the worst conversations of his life.

Lord Jason Cummings, Marquis of Vessey, was having a better time than he expected. He was rarely one for dancing and never one for quaint village gatherings, if they could be helped—and yet, here he was, having talked with the puffed-up men of Reston and danced with their country daughters, and he was having a marvelous time. Not even Mr. Worth’s aggravating presence dampened the evening.

“It is—this one,” he cried, coming to a tall oak at the far corner of the square. From here, the light from the Assembly Hall left them almost completely behind. Him and Penelope.

It was such a giddy thing to be back here, in Reston, with her. He had been gnashing his teeth since Jane had blackmailed him into coming, tearing his hair out trying to deal with long-neglected accounts and bored to tears by it, begging for some kind of distraction from his family . . . his father . . . and then, suddenly, she was here.

And there was still that little mole just below her left eye.

“It was this tree where I kissed you for the first time,” Jason said, turning to face a bemused Penelope.

“And did a fine job of it,” she complimented.

Jason saw his opening—and he would be damned if he let it pass. “I have a feeling I can do better than fine now,” he growled (at least he hoped it came off as a growl) and grabbed her about the waist.

“Sir, I—”

“Let’s find out.”

“My lord, n—”

He placed his mouth on hers, pressed, pulled, teased.

And got nothing in return, except for a firm hand on his chest, pushing him back.

He straightened and looked into a face that had lost its smile.

“I am married,” she said sternly.

“I know.”

“You met my husband; you spoke with him.”

“Yes, and he’s a very amiable chap, but, Pen—don’t you miss us? The thrill of it?” he took a step toward her and watched as she took a wary step back. “I’m here now, you’re here now.” He shot her his crooked grin, the one that had earned her kiss five years ago. “Let’s have some fun.”

Penelope looked over Jason, then matched his eye. But what he saw there was not the sparkling mischief that he remembered from their childhood. Nor was it the starry gaze that she had every time she looked at him that long-ago summer. Instead, she looked at him steadily, her expression neither judging nor engaged.

“You haven’t changed at all,” she finally said. “Have you, Jason?”

It should have warmed him to hear his name on her tongue, under this tree, but it did not. She spoke with admonishment, as if to a child, which caused him to respond as one. “I certainly hope not,” Jason replied, squaring his shoulders proudly.

“You recall well that summer we spent together?” she asked.

“And all the ones before.” An easy grin spread across his face. “But especially that one.”

“And would you take the memory of those lovely days from me?”

He regarded her quizzically, and she continued. “My husband is in there.” She nodded to the lights and music of the assembly hall. “And I love him so dearly.” She sighed, the smile on her face apparent in her voice. “When you pulled me out here, he was torturing Victoria into dancing with him, and before that, he was telling everyone who would listen that his daughters would only be allowed to marry princes.”