At Last #2
His first look into those warm, golden brown eyes had walloped him right in the heart.
Heat that had nothing to do with the bright sunshine raced through him and in the space of a single heartbeat, he’d found himself …
something. Smitten? Bewitched? Neither word seemed adequate to describe the struck-by-lightning sensation that had rendered him incapable of doing anything more than staring and drinking her in.
All he knew was that catching her in that unguarded, carefree moment had touched a place deep inside him, one that had felt dead for so damn long.
And that for the first time in a year he’d felt something other than bleak numbness – his constant companion since the accident that had irrevocably changed his life.
She’d raised her hand to shade those Scotch whisky eyes, then moistened her lips, a gesture that riveted his gaze on her lush mouth.
For several seconds she stared at him as if she too had been struck, but then her smile faded, and uncertainty, along with a flash of fear flickered in her gaze, rousing him from his stupor.
Of course she’d be wary of a stranger in such an isolated spot, and God knows he hadn’t wanted to scare her off …
* * *
“Good afternoon,” he said, stepping from the shade into the sunlight. “Ye’ve chosen a braw day to explore the grounds of Marlington Hall.”
Distress joined the wariness in her gaze. “Forgive me,” she murmured, her accent immediately identifying her as English. “I’m visiting this area … I just arrived in Melrose this morning, and didn’t realize I’d wandered on to private property. If you’ll excuse me …”
She turned to leave and a sense of loss unlike anything Ian had ever experienced gripped him, propelling him forward.
“No need to worry,” he assured her. “I’m well acquainted with the owner and while some might consider him a bit o’ a crabbitt, he’d have no objection to such a bonny lass enjoying a stroll on his land. ”
She pivoted back to him and her gaze flicked over his scuffed, dusty boots and sturdy nankeen trousers and shirt. Certainly not clothing that would proclaim him lord of manor, but it was his preferred attire on his long, solitary walks.
“Crabbitt?” she repeated in a bewildered tone.
“Aye. What an English lass would call a curmudgeon.”
Understanding dawned in her eyes. “You’re employed here?”
A bark of laughter rose in his throat. Bloody hell, that question marked her a stranger like no other could have.
He knew he should inform her he’d been teasing and that the reason he was so well acquainted with Marlington Hall’s curmudgeon master was because he was himself the curmudgeon.
Yet the words stuck in his throat. This stranger knew nothing of him, of his past, of the accident.
For the first time in a year someone was looking at him without a trace of calculation or pity.
And not just any someone. No, this someone was a bloody beautiful woman with the most gorgeous eyes and full, kissable lips he’d ever seen.
Of course if she remained in Melrose any length of time she’d eventually learn the truth – gossip concerning the reclusive Earl of Marlington swirled about the village like thick fog.
Yet it was so refreshing for someone to see him simply as himself he couldn’t resist delaying the inevitable.
After all, what harm could possibly come of such an innocent deception?
“Aye, I work here.” Not precisely a lie as his title came with a daunting amount of responsibility.
He halted an arm’s length from her and discovered that although she wasn’t a lass in her first bloom of youth – he judged her closer to thirty than twenty, perhaps even a wee bit on the other side of thirty – she attracted him like no younger woman, or even one his own age ever had.
And those eyes – bloody hell, he felt as if he could stare into their soulful, expressive depths for hours.
They held hints of secrets and sadness, laughter and happiness, hopes and dreams – an intoxicating combination that beckoned him to learn more, to discover everything about her.
Her eyes alone branded her a beauty in his mind, rendering her high cheekbones, creamy complexion, bewitching smile and delicate brows all but superfluous.
She was tall, unfashionably so, but then so was he, and he liked that she stood up straight and regal instead of slouching to disguise her height.
Even her charmingly undone appearance didn’t diminish her elegance.
Her gown was plain, but of fine quality, marking her as woman of some means.
“I’m in charge of the grounds.” He shot the bouquet she held a pointed look. “I see you found the wild roses.”
More colour bloomed in her cheeks. “I adore flowers and roses are my favourite. They were so beautiful I couldn’t resist picking a few. However, I would have refrained had I known this was private property.”
A snippet of his favourite Christopher Marlowe poem drifted into his mind – And I will make thee beds of roses, and a thousand fragrant posies. It was all he could do not to reach out and touch her. “Ye should never have to refrain from taking what your heart desires.”
“You should if it belongs to another.”
“Not if it is freely given, and as I am the keeper of the roses, you are welcome to pick as many as you like.”
“Thank you, Mr …?”
To prolong the inevitable, he offered his middle name rather than his surname. “Broderick. But you may call me Ian – all my friends do.”
Amusement glinted in her eyes. “We’ve hardly been acquainted long enough to be considered friends, Mr Broderick.”
“Perhaps, but the fact that ye picked my roses makes us instant friends. ’Tis a law here in Melrose.”
She hoisted a brow. “Indeed?”
“Aye. In fact, there’s another law that once you pick a man’s roses, you’re obliged to stroll through the rest of the gardens with him.”
She pinned him with a stern stare, one rendered far less threatening by the twitching of her lips. “I know a Banbury tale when I hear one, Mr Broderick.”
“Ian. And I’m certain you do, but ’tis the truth I speak. Lord Marlington himself declared it a law.”
“For what reason?”
“Why, so the other flowers wouldn’t be jealous of the roses, of course. Ye wouldn’t want the other blooms to suffer from neglect, would you, Miss …?”
He swore something flickered in her eyes, but it was gone before he could be certain. “Mallory. Sophia Mallory.”
Sophia Mallory. Her name echoed through his mind like a siren’s call, and he suddenly knew precisely how Ulysses had felt – inexorably drawn, unable to resist. “’Tis a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Mallory.”
“Thank you, although it’s Mrs Mallory.”
Disappointment crushed him. Of course she would be married, would belong to someone else.
While Ian had done many things he wasn’t necessarily proud of, and he’d told her to always take what your heart desired, he wasn’t a man to pursue another man’s wife – no matter how much he might want her.
Still, he couldn’t rescind his invitation at this point. “Your husband is welcome to join us––”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. He passed away several years ago.”
Ian’s conscience kicked him at the wave of relief washing through him.
Damn it, he shouldn’t feel such joy that any man was dead.
Especially as his own loss had left him gutted – until he’d seen Sophia laughing and spinning in his meadow.
Before he could stop himself, he reached out and lightly grasped her hand.
Their palms met and warmth spread through him.
“I’m sorry. I suffered a similar such loss and wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. ”
She stilled and for several seconds he thought she meant to pull away, wouldn’t have blamed her for doing so. But instead she gently squeezed his hand. “My sympathies for your loss.”
He would have thanked her, but bloody hell, the sensation of her skin against his robbed him of his ability to speak. Instead he brushed his thumb over the silky smooth back of her hand and simply nodded.
Her gaze locked on his and something that looked like heat kindled in her eyes, giving him hope that she felt this …
whatever it was grabbing him by the throat.
Had his very life depended upon it, he couldn’t have looked away.
And he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to release her when she gently withdrew her hand.
Indeed it required a Herculean effort not to snatch her hand back and press it against his chest, so she could feel his heart pounding, could know how deeply she affected him.
“You’re certain the earl wouldn’t object to you showing his private gardens to a stranger?”
He had to swallow twice to locate his voice.
“He’d insist upon it – unhappy flowers wilt and if there’s one thing that makes the earl even more crabbity than usual, ’tis wilted posies.
He’d issue you the invitation himself were he in residence.
Indeed, he’ll have my head if his blooms are withered when he returns.
” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “I can only hope ye’ll obey the law and save me from his wrath. ”
Again she hesitated and Ian forced himself to remain quiet, to not give in to the unprecedented and uncharacteristic urge to drop to his knees and beg her join him.
To spend the day with him. The day? He nearly laughed.
More like a fortnight. A month. A decade.
He wasn’t certain what had come over him, but whatever it was, there was no denying this fierce, overwhelming desire to spend more time with her.
“Very well, Mr Broderick. I shall save you this once.”