Chapter 8 #2
had been resolute in his plan to avoid her, to keep a safe distance, and now here she was, drenched, defiant, and entirely
too tempting. He would not weaken to this attraction. He couldn’t. And encouraging any banter was a very bad idea.
“I live here,” he said simply, folding his arms as if to underscore the point.
Those hazel eyes rounded in an unnervingly attractive way. “Oh.”
Some of her confidence dwindled with her posture. Was she so disappointed to have run into him? And no wonder, with his brusque manner in the Ruthtons’ library. But he had to. For his own sake as well as hers.
Forcing himself to remain detached, he watched as her gaze shifted to the looming gray edifice of Ravenscross, its stone walls
spiraling against the moody sky. “So that is the famed Ravenscross?”
“Infamous, more like,” he muttered under his breath, following her gaze to the house. With the recent history behind those
walls and the current state of the place, fame sounded like much too grand a word.
Lottie’s movement to his left caught his attention, as she attempted to disappear back into the woods. At his steady glare,
she froze in place.
So Lottie had been caught by the esteemed Miss Lockhart in the act of stealing . . . chickens, and then Emme had followed
the girl all the way to Ravenscross to nearly meet her doom in the pond?
Of course. He almost shrugged in ludicrous resignation. Why not?
His life was a madhouse.
Utterly.
And he was beginning to lose his own senses right along with everyone else.
“It’s even better than I imagined it to be.” Emme turned back to him as her body gave a shiver. “Older homes retain such character,
don’t they? Such . . . mystery. It’s one of the small disappointments Father and I express over the older buildings in St.
Groves being torn down in favor of more modern options.”
She clipped her lips closed as if she hadn’t meant to relax into conversation. But she couldn’t help herself, could she? Her
heart was much too generous, and he didn’t need to tempt her forgiveness any more than he needed to tempt his own desires.
If she turned her affections back on him after all he’d done, he might very well give up everything to secure a future with
her.
But what sort of future could it be? He had nothing.
And his siblings needed him to keep practicality as a primary motivator.
But she made it so difficult. She swept into his life so unexpectedly, bringing light into the dark places of his heart he
didn’t even realize he’d had and bathing it with some kind of gentle touch he kept craving over and over.
A desire he’d been attempting to squelch for nearly two years.
And was nigh impossible when she kept showing up in all her loveliness and wit and . . . hope.
Hope for what might have been.
He took another step back from her as another shudder trembled over her body.
“You’re shivering,” he said abruptly. “We should get you to the house. Can you manage the walk?”
“To go inside your home?” She straightened her spine, her gaze slipping back to Ravenscross, before turning back to him. “Of . . .
of course.”
His lips twitched despite himself. “Whatever you’re expecting, Miss Lockhart, I assure you, you’ll be disappointed.”
“Miss Lockhart?” Lottie’s small voice broke the moment as she inched closer, glancing between Simon and Emme. “You’re Miss Lockhart?”
Heat climbed Simon’s neck. How much had Lottie overheard during his discreet discussions with their parents regarding proposing
to Emme? Too much, if her expression was anything to go by.
Her eavesdropping was as notorious as her thievery.
“Well, I’m one of them.” Emme’s brow creased a little, and she glanced at Simon before turning back to Lottie. “I have a younger
sister.”
Before Lottie could press further, Simon cut in. “Charlotte, collect Cleopatra and go to the house with your brother. I’ll bring Zeus. Let Mrs. Patterson know to set out some of Arianna’s clothes for Miss Lockhart.”
“Wait a moment!” Emme pointed at Lottie. “Mrs. Dean’s thief is . . . your sister?”
Mrs. Dean? Surely Lottie wouldn’t have stolen from her! Fire flew through him. “You stole from Widow Dean?” His tone was low,
but Lottie flinched as if he’d shouted.
Lottie held up the sack clutched in her hands. “I overheard Cook say we only had a few eggs, and you mentioned selling trees
for repairs. Mrs. Dean has plenty of chickens, so I thought . . .” Her voice trailed off as she tried to hide the sack behind
her back. “It seemed reasonable. She couldn’t miss them.”
“First strawberries from the Sutherlands’ field and then apples from the Lennoxes’ orchard . . . now chickens?” Heat rose
into his face for a whole new reason, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting for control. “We will discuss this later,
but on your ride back to the house, I want you to devise a proper apology for Mrs. Dean that you will deliver in person.”
Lottie’s face paled to such a degree, the faint freckles across her nose stood out. If he was going to be forced to face the
embarrassment of her choices, then she should feel the sting as well.
Lottie’s eyes pleaded. “We could take the chickens back and she’d never know.”
“Go to the house.” He snatched the bag from her hands and turned to William. “And ask Mrs. Patterson to have tea ready. I’m
certain Miss Lockhart will appreciate something to warm her.”
Warm her? And their balcony kiss flashed to mind.
Simon marched to Cleopatra and raised Lottie to the horse’s back, then patted its haunches to usher it along. Emme’s black
mare had exited the water and kept close by the shoreline, its ears still poised as if waiting for another mishap. Its entire
body edged for retreat.
Well, her horse was not ready to be ridden at the moment.
With a whistle, Zeus left his grazing position by the forest’s edge and approached.
Emme reached out to him, and in uncustomary style, he nuzzled her palm.
“Such a magnificent animal is much more fitting for you.” Again, her lips pinched into a frown, as if she’d forgotten her
anger toward him.
Another shiver shook her body. September hadn’t turned cold yet, but it had lost the warmth of August.
Simon stepped up beside her and retrieved a coarse blanket from Zeus’s saddlebag, Emme’s sweet apple scent slipping within
range. His throat closed and he took a measured stepped back. “Charlotte tends to overestimate her abilities.”
“That isn’t very surprising, considering . . .” Emme seemed to catch her words again.
He studied her, brow raising in challenge for her to finish her sentence, and then he reconsidered.
Her lips crooked before another tremor rippled through her.
Smothering a groan, he stepped closer and draped the blanket around her shoulders, holding the corners longer than was strictly
necessary. Yet the sudden awareness of how near she was—close enough to see the golden ring encircling her irises—froze him.
He’d helped her with her shawl once when the wind had caught it during one of their walks near town. Just as now, he’d looked
into those lovely eyes and time had stilled. It had been that moment when he knew he wanted to marry her.
But now, as she stared back at him, the current wariness in her gaze gave way to something he didn’t fully understand.
Another shiver from her broke the spell, and he relinquished his hold on the blanket. “We must get you somewhere warm.”
The words came out sharper than he intended, and she flinched slightly. He gestured toward the path leading to the house. “Please. Your father would never forgive me if you fell ill under my watch.”
But she hesitated. “Simon, what about the chickens?”
Simon! She kept calling him Simon, each instance chipping away the distance he was attempting to maintain.
“The chickens?” He coughed out the words.
“We really ought to try and catch them, if we can.” She waved her hand from beneath the blanket back toward the forest, where
one chicken pecked at the ground. “The poor things might feed a local fox, and then both you and Mrs. Dean would gain nothing.
But would you mind going after the larger one with the black speckles? He’s rather nasty and has always had an unjust vendetta
against me.”
Simon blinked a few times, trying to comprehend her request. “You . . . you want the two of us to chase after Mrs. Dean’s
stolen chickens?”
He narrowed his eyes. Did she hear the ridiculousness of it?
“We can’t just leave them out here.”
Perhaps everyone else was mad and he was the only sane one. “Miss Lockhart, you just fell into a pond and are now shivering
to such an extent that your lips are blue, and instead of seeking warmth, you propose we chase chickens?”
Those lovely blue lips trembled in a very different way, giving off the slightest warning she might laugh. “If you put it
that way, the chickens can wait.”
They walked in silence a moment before she broke it. “I suppose I ought to thank you for your intended rescue, at the very
least.” She tugged the blanket closer. “Certainly not the behavior of a notorious scoundrel.”
He said nothing, quickening his stride. The sooner he saw her safely inside and dried off, the sooner he could send her home.
Let her believe whatever she wanted.
She hurried to match his pace. He instantly slowed.
“I assume William is your brother?”
He gave a curt nod, keeping his gaze forward. “You shall meet him properly once you’re no longer traipsing about my grounds
in a soaked gown.” Which, unfortunately, clung to her frame in ways entirely too distracting. “Mrs. Patterson will chaperone
your visit.”
“Mrs. Patterson?” Her breaths came in puffs, so he slowed even more. Well, his legs slowed. His pulse still pounded like a
hunted buck’s.
“My housekeeper,” he answered tersely, but she refused to take the hint.
“Oh.” She fell silent, mercifully, but only for a moment. “As I recall, you have three sisters and two brothers?”
The question was innocuous enough, yet it edged toward dangerous territory. Two years ago, he might have answered freely.
Back when he had trusted her so completely, he’d considered sharing every secret, every burden, every scar.
But not now.
An ache pricked at the center of his chest and spread a heaviness through him.
Now those secrets were his to bear. Alone.
“You’ll meet the three youngest inside.”
Her smile, so radiant, unexpectedly bloomed at his words and almost undid him.
He had to quell this conversation.
“I imagine Ravenscross has enchanting tales to tell.” The lilt in her voice somehow loosened the tightness in his chest. “Old
houses always do. Perhaps even a ghost or two?”
He almost smiled at her absurdity. Almost. And then caught himself.
Ah, he knew very well how to redirect the conversation into an argument.
“You’ve been reading too many of those ridiculous novels.”
Her head whipped around, and she came to a complete stop. “And what, pray tell, is wrong with those?”
Perfect.
He turned to face her, folding his arms across his chest to keep from reaching out to brush those absurd curls away from her
face. “Vampires?” He gestured with his chin toward the house. “Haunted estates? They are fanciful nonsense, designed to fill
women’s heads with unrealistic expectations.”
Her eyes brightened with fire.
Oh no. He’d not counted the cost of how much he loved watching her fight.
“As a man,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “you cannot begin to understand a woman’s life.”
“Please enlighten me.” His challenge hit its mark, igniting her ire all the more.
“We wait—constantly. For our father to grant us an escort to town. For a suitor to request a dance. For a husband to provide
us a home. And heaven forbid a woman act outside these expectations, or she’s cast out entirely.”
Was she alluding to their meeting two seasons ago?
That meeting had been improper. She shouldn’t have come.
But she had.
His defenses began to soften, so he grunted through an eye roll and began walking again. “Men, Miss Lockhart, bear the far
greater responsibility in providing for a woman’s welfare and safety. Waiting for someone else’s initiation seems a small
price to pay.”
Some ungodly sound erupted from her throat as if she might very well explode on the spot. “And how often have you been on
the receiving end of waiting, Lord Ravenscross?”
Ah, she’d reverted to using his title. The distance ought to have pleased him.
It didn’t. And waiting? He knew it too well.
Waiting for his mother’s health to return.
Waiting for word of Arianna. Waiting for his finances to unravel.
Waiting for his heart to stop longing for someone he couldn’t have.
“You have no idea of my personal circumstances.”
“Nor you, mine.” Her gaze locked on his, challenging and captivating all at once. “You, with your estate and your title and
your”—she waved her hand, clearly searching for the right word—“man-ness! You have no idea what it’s like to feel like a pawn
to be bartered or a trophy to be won.” She drew a breath and continued, her voice firm. “And as for those novels, I daresay
they require great thought and ingenuity to craft. Why not enjoy them? Why not offer adventure where it is wanted?”
He stopped at the bottom of the steps to the back door, turning to admire the full glory of her fury.
“And”—she raised a finger as she hurried to keep pace with him—“not all of them are unrealistic. The lady who wrote novels
like Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice crafted stories that are both realistic and . . . sensible.”
She shook her head and turned to march up the steps—only to lose her footing among the tangle of her wet skirts.
His arms wrapped around her instantly, steadying her against him for only a moment.
But it was enough. Enough to recall a stolen kiss on a balcony. Enough to make him forget every reason he needed to keep his
distance.
She stilled, her face so near to his that he could feel the warmth of her breath. Those eyes—how they drew him in like a man
parched for water. She shivered, and his hold instinctively tightened.
Heaven and earth conspired against him.
He was lost.