Chapter Nine
Lissy never knew how she managed to get through that day’s journey in such close proximity to Roland.
She could still taste his kiss on her lips, still feel the press of his hands on her body, sending her heart into a spin every time she thought of it.
Oscar had never kissed her like that, and she had never kissed him that way either.
She must surely be a total wanton, for she had kissed Roland back.
What had she imagined she was doing? Not only was she a disgraceful daughter who had ruined her name by eloping with her art tutor, but she was now guilty of throwing herself at the next handsome gentleman to cross her path.
It would be better to swear off the entire male gender for the rest of her life, or she’d end up in a scrape from which no one could extricate her.
The worst of it was that Roland had not flirted, sought her sympathy, or made false promises—he’d simply been there, protective and thoughtful.
And courageous. Fortunately, the weather remained crisp and sharp, giving her an excuse to huddle down in her cloak and hide her flushed cheeks behind her newly mended bonnet.
For a couple of stretches of the journey, she had been Mrs. Cowley—or “my wife,” in Roland’s unrepentantly teasing tones.
Most of the time, however, they pretended to be strangers, which wasn’t difficult, since they traveled in several different vehicles alongside a range of other passengers.
The back roads were busy on that bright autumn day, and they passed many people foraging for berries in the hedgerows lining the lanes, or barrowing carts of manure for their gardens, even herding a few geese to the local pond.
The air carried the scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke that always seemed to herald the turning of the season.
Roland was right—the landscape was colorful and poignant, and she yearned to paint it.
The most uncomfortable part of the journey was spent in a carter’s wagon, whose only passengers besides themselves were a pair of cackling hens.
That brief stretch between Coggeshall and Earl’s Colne proved to be their only real moment of privacy since leaving the Metsons’ farm.
Crammed together on sacks of barley, their knees brushing whenever the cart lurched, Roland amused her with tales of his youthful escapades.
Once, he claimed, he’d climbed out of an attic window to avoid his angry father and discovered that lead pipes tended to bend under one’s weight and had virtually ended up on a gardener’s head.
On another occasion he’d rescued a cat from the roof of a nearby church and been clawed to bits even as the villagers applauded.
On reaching adulthood, there’d been a memorably awkward moment at a masquerade when he’d mistaken a duke’s daughter for a maidservant.
She had been carrying plates of food across to her party, and Roland had teasingly stolen a pastry—as well as a kiss. On that occasion, he’d been escorted from the house rather than forced to climb onto any roofs, so only his pride had been grazed, not his person.
Roland tried to coax stories from Lissy about her family, and she found she had no objection to telling him.
He appeared genuinely interested. “So, one brother is a curate, and the other divines for water and can trace the routes of coal mines deep below the ground? The family of Lady Beatrice Ashby is an intriguing set of people. I shall christen your brothers ‘the Bishop’ and ‘the Mole,’ but I shan’t joke about your elder sister Fenella. She sounds like a sensible sort.”
Lissy looked at him then, seeing not the rake she had first imagined, but a gentleman possessed of humor and understanding.
Occasionally, she thought she glimpsed a flash of something else in his eyes—something harder, more urgent—but he always looked away before she could attempt to read his thoughts.
He was mocking her family, but at least he wasn’t laughing at her, in her bedraggled clothes and with a bandage wrapped around her head.
Yet despite their newfound friendship, despite the trust they’d begun to build, he remained unwilling to divulge his reason for traveling into Suffolk.
After all they had endured together, surely, he had no cause to distrust her.
The carter deposited them close to the border with Cambridgeshire, and the final leg of their journey was spent in the relative comfort of a coach.
Lissy started recognizing the villages as they passed through—Earl Stonham, Pettaugh, and Earl Soham.
Soon, they would reach Mundlingham, and she and Roland would part ways.
Something close to panic arose in her breast as they pulled into the town and slowed up before the Bell Inn.
Mundlingham was a place she’d not expected to see again so soon.
The sight of the familiar buildings reminded her that she’d been dragged back to a life she’d gambled everything to avoid.
How would Mama greet her? Not with any affection, that was for sure.
It was all going to be positively dreadful.
“Don’t be downhearted,” Roland urged as he handed her down from the coach. “I bought something along the way that may cheer you up.”
He produced a box from his valise and handed it to her before turning away to arrange for his luggage to be delivered to his final destination.
She felt the weight of the box in her hands, then shook it. It had been a long time since anyone had given her a gift, and she knew she ought not to accept it, but curiosity got the better of her. When she opened it, she gasped.
“A set of watercolors! And brushes too. When did you get this? Why?” She stroked the wooden handles of the brushes, admiring the bright colors of the pristine paints.
Roland finished paying the carrier who’d taken up his baggage, then gave her his full attention.
“Why not? You had to sell your own.”
“You remembered!”
“Of course I did. I never forget a confession from a young lady.”
Her throat ached with unshed tears. “Roland—I don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you will suffice.” He caught her gaze, and for a long moment she looked into his magnetic blue eyes. Silence hung between them, and the noise and bustle of the coaching inn and stable yard receded until it felt as if they were the only two people left on earth.
Roland cleared his throat, then bent and picked up her valise.
“I now voluntarily release you from your fake marriage to me, Miss Felicity Ashby. It is time to return the damsel to her castle.”
As they walked along the short bridge toward the castle gate, his presence was more comforting than she could have imagined. Her home now seemed alien to her, looming and gray, cold and intimidating. If she were to pass through those portals once more, they were going to become a prison.
She halted, and Roland paused beside her, studying the building intently. “Remarkable. The place fairly reeks of history—I swear I can still smell the old moat water. And that ivy climbing up the walls looks as if it conceals many secrets. Tell me, has anyone ever climbed it?”
She gave a shaky laugh. “Not in my lifetime, shall we say. Despite the number of damsels in towers who might have needed rescuing.”
She heard him suck in breath. “I must leave you here, Lissy.”
Her heart squeezed. “You won’t come in?” Wasn’t he curious to see where she lived, to find out more about her? His refusal struck harder than she’d expected.
“No.” He gave her a strange look, appeared to be about to say something, then glanced away, bleakly.
Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a slip of paper and pressed it into her hand.
“This is my direction in Woodbridge. If you should need anything—anything at all—send word. Especially if our friend Mr. Misstep reappears.”
She took the paper, tucking it away before he could see the tremor of her fingers. “I will do the same for you, should you be threatened by Mr. Sutton.”
The bleak expression retreated, and he laughed. “Let’s hope that day never comes. But if it does, hit him with a poker. Or an umbrella stand. Right here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Enough to daze him, not enough to kill. I should hate to see you up before the judge at the local assizes.”
He regarded her solemnly, and she sensed his need to reach for her—and the willpower that held him back.
He shook her hand. “Well. At least we part as friends. For the moment.” Then he bowed, turned, and strode away across the old moat bridge.
She watched him go, tall and purposeful, until he vanished beyond the castle’s crumbling outer wall.
A sharp ache settled in her chest—part loss, part longing.
His touch had reminded her of the power he held over her, of how she felt his presence like a second skin, of how her surroundings were empty and cold whenever he moved away.
Surely, she must be sickening for something—what she needed was one of Miss Lavender Metson’s remedies for fever!
But there had been a note of hope in his words. What exactly did he mean by “for the moment”? Surely, that implied that they would meet again.
Before she could speculate any further, a sound behind her made her start.
“Lissy?”
She turned, and there, framed in the shadow of the medieval gateway, stood her mother.
Although it had only been a few weeks, Lady Beatrice Ashby looked older than Lissy remembered, and the proud lines of her face had deepened. Before Lissy could speak, her mother closed the distance between them and pulled her into a hard, rose-scented embrace.
“Thank heaven! You’re safe. You’re home.”
For an instant, Lissy could not breathe.
When was the last time Mama hugged her? Not since the tragedy of Papa’s death, if she remembered rightly.
Hesitantly, she returned her mother’s embrace.
She eased away, conflicted. Had Mama been cold and cruel, she’d have felt justified in her vow to wreak revenge upon her for her machinations regarding Oscar.
But this warm, emotional welcome was entirely unexpected. Was it a sign that maybe, that from now on, life at Mundlingham Castle would be . . . bearable?