Chapter Twelve #2
‘You mean me, I suppose,’ Calliope said airily, dropping his hand but not moving away.
Ah, so that was the game. She wanted him, that was clear, but Calliope could not permit herself to admit that she wanted him. So she needed a little persuading. A little flattery. A little adulation.
Oh well, Montague thought with hope rising. He was at home with adulation.
‘You, or whoever else I decide to wed, if I truly cannot convince you,’ he said blithely. ‘Look, if we go a step closer to the edge, I know it looks dangerous but I promise—’
‘Whoever else?’
Ah, he had been right. As Montague turned to look at the indignant Calliope, his pulse skipped a beat and he knew he had her precisely where he wanted her.
That was, not quite where he wanted her…and she appeared to have him right where she wanted him, trying to convince her to marry him. Hang on. Who exactly was teasing who here, and who was…the teasee? The teasette?
‘Do you honestly think you can just pick and choose a bride as though— Well, as though from a menu?’ Calliope appeared to be genuinely affronted.
The trouble was, she did not appear to know that when she became vexed her beauty, which was already rather fine, became something splendid. It was perhaps the reason why Montague relished doing so, so frequently.
He shrugged, picking the head off a long stalk of grass and letting the seed scatter through his fingertips as a kestrel soared over them. ‘Why not?’
‘Why—’
‘I want a wife. I want you, in fact, but as you have made no bones about rejecting me—’
‘I didn’t—’
‘—even going so far as to be strong-armed into it through an art competition,’ continued Montague cheerfully, his heart singing as he spoke over her protests.
‘—it wasn’t like—’
‘—I’m sorry, Calliope, but I have to presume based on everything you have said that you do not wish to marry me. I must, alas, look elsewhere,’ Montague finished with a heavy sigh.
It was almost perfectly pitched, too.
Come on, he taunted her silently with his open and innocent expression. Prove me wrong.
Because she had, numerous times. Oh, not with her words. With every ounce of her strength, Calliope had appeared most unwelcoming of his addresses and most stern in her refusal of his hand.
But in everything else, in every other way she could communicate, had she not told him, encouraged him even, to keep trying? Had she not made it clear that she enjoyed his company? Had she not shared her dreams for her artistic talent, and he his painful past?
Could he not see they were perfect for each other?
Calliope was flushing underneath her bonnet. With struggling fingers, she tore the knot to shreds and tugged off the offending item. ‘I never know when you are serious, my lord.’
Montague winced. My lord. Perhaps he had gone a touch far.
‘Perhaps…perhaps I am only being so obtuse because I wish to unseat your concentration,’ he hazarded, half wondering himself what drew him again and again to this wilful woman. ‘Prevent you from winning our competition.’
Calliope’s eyebrow raised. ‘But that would mean you did wish to marry me.’
Blast, of course it did. ‘Or—’
‘I think you don’t know what you want,’ his companion said, tilting her head on one side and treating him to an expert’s eye.
An artist’s eye. ‘I think you have meandered through life just doing what feels instinctive, even if your decisions have ridden roughshod over others, and now you have met someone you cannot simply berate into obedience.’
Montague’s mouth fell open. ‘That is not—’
‘And I think you are intimidated by me. Not my art, not exactly, but by the knowledge—’ Calliope continued mercilessly, ‘—that I can walk away from you.’
This was not going at all to plan. He picked at another blade of grass irritably. ‘That is not—we’re in the middle of nowhere!’
‘We are but a few miles from Brighton, the walk would not be difficult along the lane—but that is not what I meant and you know it,’ Calliope shot back, her colour rising now.
‘I think it pains you to let anyone close. That you expect rejection and so you act so brutally, so roguishly, to everyone around you to pre-empt their rejection. They dislike the behaviour and you consider that confirmation of all your beliefs, all your fears—’
‘Stop.’ Montague had not intended to speak harshly but she had to stop. He could not, he would not hear any more. ‘Stop it, Calliope.’
‘—and you will be alone and stay alone with that attitude,’ she continued, stepping towards him and poking him painfully in the chest. ‘And that is why you made that foolish wager with me, to prove someone would only wish to marry you if—’
‘Stop or I will stop that mouth for you.’
It was a growl, not speech, and Montague knew it was too much.
But it worked. Calliope’s eyes widened, her lips parting in a stare of bewilderment and it was all he could do to prevent himself from pouring all his passion and frustration down on those pretty, welcoming lips.
Pretty, welcoming lips that were wetted. ‘You know it’s true. You know I’m right. You know—’
‘Yes, I know!’ snapped Montague, pushed beyond all endurance as his body reacted, his pulse pumping, his knees telling him to run from these truths that hurt so much. ‘You think I want to be alone, Calliope? You think I want to fear any connection because I know it will end?’
He was shouting now and she was just standing there, staring, aghast. And she had a right to be. He was being discourteous but Montague could not stop now. He could not stem the tide, the tirade, of words pouring from his mouth from God knew where.
‘I have always been proven right. People always leave and if they do not leave they never wanted to be with me anyway—and you will too!’ Montague wished he could stop himself.
Wished he could prevent himself from snarling at this precious woman, but the bitterness was being drawn now and it could not be stopped.
‘Montague—’
‘You cannot know what it is to be so unlovable,’ he shot back, wishing she would step back, wishing the sun was not so hot and the skylark not so loud. ‘To be lonely and then wish to be alone because that is better than seeing another person’s disdain for your very presence.’
Calliope looked at him. She just looked at him. No hatred, no revulsion, just her gaze, her beautiful eyes affixed to his own.
He was not going to cry. He was not going to cry. ‘You’ll leave and I’ll be alone, and it will be— You… You are…’
There were other words, but somehow Montague could not tangle his tongue around them.
It did not matter anyway. Calliope had stepped forward in a rush of skirts and honey and pulled him into her arms.
Montague sagged into her embrace. It was like falling into a warm bath full of lavender.
Like realising one’s bed had been freshly made and there was nothing stopping you going to sleep.
Like knowing you had just reached a door and on the other side of that door were a great number of people who all eagerly anticipated your arrival.
Calliope’s hands were soft as they stroked the back of his neck and Montague held onto her tightly, her small waist in his hands.
How long they stood there, he could not tell. There did not appear to be time, not any longer.
Eventually, when time decided to start up again like a musical organ that had been rewound, Calliope tightened her grip around him, just for a moment, and then stepped back.
Montague dashed away a tear that did not exist. ‘Sorry.’
‘You have nothing to apologise for. I do, but you don’t,’ she said softly. ‘I shouldn’t have—’
‘No, no. It’s fine.’
It was not fine, but being with her was. Dear God, what was this woman doing to him?
When Montague looked up again, it was to see Calliope smiling.
‘What?’ he said, far more defensively than perhaps he should have done.
‘Do you not think,’ Calliope said quietly, ‘it might be time for us to admit we do not actually hate each other?’
The laugh that was tugged from his lungs was unexpected and Montague was glad of it. More than glad. He was relieved. There was always a moment, after he sank into the depths of a pain like that, when he wondered whether he would ever be able to laugh again.
‘Hate you?’ he said brightly, putting an arm around her shoulder and guiding her to walk through the meadow. ‘I don’t hate you, Calliope.’
‘Good.’
‘I loathe you,’ Montague said with relish, enjoying her outraged laugh beside him. ‘I abhor you.’
‘Oh, you do?’ Calliope was looking up at him with mirth in her eyes and, for a moment, he wanted to make sure it was always there. ‘Well, then I think it only fair for you to know that I abhor you.’
‘You do?’
‘I absolutely abhor you,’ she said seriously, though there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘And I abhor this place.’
She looked about them and Montague allowed himself once more to enjoy the specialness of this field that he had found, treasured and finally shared with the one person in the world that he was certain would understand its beauty.
Calliope Oliver.
‘I will win that competition, you know,’ he said quietly, watching a seagull ride the air and swoop down over the cliff. ‘And I will marry you.’
‘And I will win our competition,’ Calliope said softly, not looking at him but at a buttercup, which she lowered momentarily for. When she straightened, she grinned as she tucked the buttercup behind Montague’s ear. ‘And I will not marry you.’