Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (14 page)

“As you wish, my lady,” he murmured.

By dusk they had finished the bottle and dinner as well. She suggested buying more whiskey.

“That would be unwise,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“When one feels more inclined to set one’s head down on the table than to converse, it’s generally time to stop drinking.”

“Have I been napping on the table?”

“Not yet. But I can see it in your eyes.”

“Do you know what I see in your eyes, Lord Dare?”

“Thorough bemusement?”

“Goodness. You are a truly good man.”

He hauled himself to his feet. “When a beautiful lady whom I’ve gotten drunk starts telling me I’m a good man, then I know I’m doing something tragically wrong.” He offered his arm. “Come, madam. To the inn and bed you must now go.”

Her eyes snapped up to him. The room spun. “To bed?”

“Not,” he said slowly, “with me.” He laid her cloak around her shoulders and his hands rested there briefly. “Unfortunately,” he said close to her ear, then he released her.

They stumbled to the inn. Rather, he walked in an exaggeratedly straight line and she wove back and forth. Halfway there, she fell on her behind.

“I slipped,” she said when he stood over her.

“It seems so.” Heedless of the mud, he picked her up and carried her the remainder of the way.

She told herself not to put her hand on his chest, not to wind her arm about his neck, and not to rest her cheek on his shoulder. And remarkably, she obeyed herself.

“If you had been drinking to excess with Lord Mallory, would you do this for him?”

“Of course not. He’s far too big for me to lift.”

The church bell boomed and her eyes popped open. She was lying on her bed. Lord Dare was sitting beside her.

“Oh— Oh—” she gasped. “Is it
tomorrow
?”

“It’s ten o’clock tonight. Drink this.” He wrapped her hand around a glass. Head awhirl, she gulped the water. As he removed the glass, she saw before her white. A lot of white. Her lap. Her legs. All white. The
bedclothes
?

Her muddy gown, shoes, stockings and petticoat were gone. She wore only her shift beneath the bed linens.

“Did you—Have you
undressed
me?”

“Molly did, while I waited without. She’s still here.”

“Evening, milady,” came from the doorway.

Calista gathered the blanket higher. “Thank you.”

“You will have a nasty head in the morning,” he said.

She wouldn’t. But she nodded.

“Coffee helps with that,” he said. “And if you are very miserable, an ale.”

“All right.”

He gazed down at her. “Good night, Calista.”

She released the covers and grasped his hand. “Sometime … I don’t know when … But sometime I should like to do this again, my lord.”

His fingers tightened around hers. “I would like that too.” He released her and offered her a sideways grin. “You are a much less expensive drinking partner than Mallory, after all. With him, it’s never fewer than three bottles.”

They left. Calista tucked her face into the pillow and passed out.

She awoke with an alert,
clear mind. Rain drummed on the windowpanes as Old Mary welcomed the dawn.

Seven rings. Only seven. Forever seven.

Inside she was anguish.

“Goddess of Love,” she said to the statue on the dressing table that she had not bothered packing away lately. “Would you grant me two wishes? Two small wishes only?” She closed her eyes and gripped the blanket. “Would you remove him from this inn and replace him with my son? Please? I beg of you. I will do anything you wish if you grant me this. Anything. Just take away that man I cannot have and bring me my son.”

She opened her eyes. The statue’s face remained blank, beautiful, and stone hard.

Eventually Calista arose, dressed, and beckoned the cat to the kitchen, where she gathered a plate of food. Enduring Mrs. Whittle’s regular surprise at a lady doing such a thing, she fed scraps of egg and bacon to the animal. Waiting until the innkeeper left the kitchen to speak with Harriet in the foyer, and then waiting until she heard Harriet leave the inn, Calista carried the remnants of her breakfast to the taproom. The constable was well ensconced now, and conversation was all about the flood. The Marquess of Dare cast her a brief glance. But as Molly had already cleared the table at which he had breakfasted and he sat now with others, he did not offer it to her.

She sat down, drew the journal he had left there under her nose, and read the news she had already read many times while the cat sat by her ankles waiting for more bacon. With little appetite herself, she set the plate on the ground and swallowed the remainder of her tea. When she saw Molly enter the room, she walked right into the cup of coffee. Assuring Molly that it was entirely her own fault, she went into the foyer where the Smythes were just exiting the private parlor. Ducking out the front door, she hurried to the stable.

Mr. Jackson told her about his son. She sat with him for a time, and he talked about how Petey and Bartholomew were as different as night and day—one an adventurer, the other a solid worker—but their bond was as strong as steel. Watching him wipe tears from his weathered cheeks, she thought perhaps she was intentionally torturing herself now. But once he had begun speaking of his sons, he needed no encouragement to continue. So she sat and listened until a horse nickered and Jackson seemed to snap out of his reminiscences.

“I should be seein’ about the animals, milady. With that boy runnin’ off every hour, and them other fine animals crowdin’ up the place, I’ve got to do it all myself. Don’t mind it, of course.” He stood up and tugged at his cap. “Thank you, mum.”

“I have done nothing, Mr. Jackson.” She watched him return to his work, then she drew her hood over her head and went out into the rain again.

Just as she had the day before, she walked. This time she did not stop to gather a new gown from Elena Cooke’s shop. And she did not return to the inn to dry off after each perambulation of the village. She did not want Lord Dare to see her and grow curious. She did not want to see him or speak with him or drink with him or touch him. When he noticed her, he inevitably came after her. But she knew his schedule now: cards at the inn all day, dinner at the pub. She could avoid disturbing it. The farther she stayed from the inn, the more likely she would be able to avoid him.

The walk took her over several low hills, through five fields and the sheep pasture, and along the overflowing creek. She strolled it three times as the rain came down on her head and shoulders. She considered pausing to visit Elena, or even Harriet. But the prospect of becoming acquainted with them yet again depressed her.

She went to the ford.

Roughly twenty-five feet wide, in most weather it was covered by no more than a trickling stream. The villagers said that when regular rain fell, six inches or so of water would top the pavement. Now water rose to the banks on either side. Mr. Pritchard insisted it was at least five feet deep, while other villagers estimated four and a half. She stared at the rushing water pelted now with rain and wondered if they were all wrong. What if it was actually passable? It wasn’t far across, after all. What if she could wade to the other side? What if she waded to the other side and walked right into tomorrow?

Her heartbeats were like knife jabs beneath her ribs.

She must try it. Perhaps she had been meant to try it from the beginning. Perhaps she had perished on the journey to Swinly and she was actually already dead. Perhaps this was her River Styx, or whatever that mythical river to Hades was called. Perhaps if she waded across, she would finally reach the hereafter.

Or Harry.

She had considered many times that this was the hereafter, that on the road to Swinly, poor, grieving, drunk Jackson had run the carriage into a ditch and she had perished. It seemed a reasonable enough explanation. Perhaps she only needed to cross this water in order to find peace.

Unclasping her cloak and letting it fall to the ground, she felt the cold raindrops drop onto her cheeks and lips, and she closed her eyes. Drawing up her courage, carefully she stepped forward.

Frigid water consumed her ankles, but the stones beneath her feet were not slippery. She took another step and the current caught at her hem. It seemed mild, though, not at all quick or strong like it looked from the bank. Her foot moved further and she lurched forward and down. Thrusting out her arms to steady herself, she opened her eyes.

A gasp jerked from her. From here, only two feet across, the pass looked much wider than twenty-five feet. Rather, thirty. Perhaps even forty.

She took another step, more carefully now, and the creek rose to her knees. The current tugged at her skirts. She should have removed her gown first. But she was more than a yard across already. A dozen more yards and she would be on the other side.

Feeling the bottom of the ford with her feet, she shuffled forward as the water rose to her thighs. She wavered, pressed her toes into the stone, and made her palms flat to use them as paddles. Another step across took her down abruptly; the water sank into her gown at the hips. Her skirts were heavy. Remarkably heavy. But they were entirely saturated now; they could not grow heavier than this. Her heartbeats were too swift.

She must remain calm. A lesson she had learned at Richard’s side: if she remained calm, she would survive. Drawing air into her lungs slowly, she tried to relax her pulse as the rain fell steadily about her. Then, leaning forward, she used her hands like oars and forced herself forward against the lateral pull of the water.

Arms banded around her waist and dragged her off her feet. Backward she went, stumbling, floating, grabbing the iron muscle cinched about her.

“What are you—” she shouted. “Stop! Let me go!”

In knee-deep water he twisted her around and pulled her hard against him.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Lord Dare’s furious eyes matched the gray water, the rain, the entire day, and Calista knew finally that this
was
Hell. She needn’t cross any mythical river to descend into Hades. She was already there.

He gripped her arms. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” he demanded.

“Release me.”

One of his hands fell away, but the other stayed clamped about her arm. “Not until you tell me exactly what you hoped to accomplish wading into this river.”

“I wanted to see if I could cross to the other side. It isn’t so wide. It is swimmable.”

“If it were swimmable, don’t you imagine someone would have already swum a
horse
across it? An animal that is considerably stronger than a wisp of a woman. For God’s sake, haven’t you any sense?”

“I didn’t know that horses could swim.”

He stared at her as the rain fell between them. “You would have drowned.”

“I guess I would have.” She shivered, chilled and burning up both at once.

“Did you intend to?” he said, as if he spoke around gravel.

“No.
No
. I don’t want to die. I want to
escape
. I want to see my son again. I want to be gone from this place. And from you.”

He released her. “Me?”

“Yes.”

Rainwater ran in rivulets from his perfect jaw. “Like you wanted to escape me six years ago.”

“What? No. Nothing like then. This time I want to run away
from
you. Seeing you—speaking with you—touching you—it’s torture. Sweet, horrible, awful torture. I want it so much, I cannot bear it.”

His throat jerked in a hard swallow. “Calista Chance, I have never met a woman who made less sense than you.”

“Well, then I am sorry for you, because I am suddenly finding lack of sense to be a remarkable advantage after all. If I had not irrationally believed I could wade across this creek, you would not have rescued me, and I still would not know what it is to feel your arms around me or your body against mine. And that would be a shame because I adored it, even if you yanked me backward and I screamed at you. It was perfect and I never wanted it to end. But that would not have happened if I hadn’t—”

He dragged her into his arms and covered her mouth with his.

The kiss was nothing like the quick peck she had planted on him at her bedchamber door. It was hot, deep, and instantly drugging. His lips were soft and demanding at once. They parted and she eagerly followed his lead. Again and again they met, and she let him taste her and take more with each meeting, each taste. She had never been kissed like this, with such seeking urgency, as though her mouth were something to be pleased, treasured,
taken
. His hands were splayed across her back and she let her fingers steal into his wet hair and down his neck, and she gripped taut sinews and beautiful man. Touching him like this—kissing him—she had never thought she would know this. He felt like sin and tasted like every dream she had ever had of him. She pressed onto her toes, he pulled her up against him, and his tongue stroked hers, and pleasure rushed through her. She moaned against his lips.

He broke away and jolted back. Across the rain, his eyes filled with shock.

“Good God,” he said, breathing hard. “What have you made me do this time?”

“
This
time? I haven’t made you do anything. You grabbed
me
.”

“Right. Yes. I know. I’m sorry. It was my fault. And yours. You kissed me back. Both of us did it.” He slashed his hand through his dripping hair. “It was a mistake.”

“Yes. I goaded you.” She bit her lower lip and tasted him there and ached all over her heated, sodden body. “Do you usually kiss women you don’t know? Rather, women you haven’t seen in years?”

His eyes flashed. “No.”

Blooms of wicked joy burst all through her. “I didn’t think so.”

“Why not?” he demanded. “I might be as loose a screw as my friend Mallory. Why wouldn’t you think it?”

“Because you are a good man.”

“Good men do not haul other men’s wives into their arms and kiss them.”

“Other man’s wife.”

“What?”

“You said you don’t usually do that. So … wife. Singular.”

Anger sparked in his eyes. “Are you making sport of me?
Now?
”

“No.” She bit both of her lips together. His gaze dropped to them, and the sparks of anger turned to fever.

“You must stop staring at my mouth,” she mumbled.

He turned away from her. “My God, this was an unfortunate coincidence, meeting you in this village.”

“If you weren’t here, I would have drowned, so I am glad for this coincidence, at least at this moment,” she said, dragging her soaked skirts out of the water and up to the bank. “Thank you for saving me.”

He grasped her arm and rotated her toward him. His face was stark.

“I beg of you, forgive me.” His hand fell away from her. “I am mortified to have insulted you.”

“I would forgive you if you had actually insulted me. As the opposite is true, I cannot offer you my forgiveness. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed kissing you more than I have enjoyed anything in a very long time.” And she wanted to do it again and again and again. “It was wrong of you, of me, of both of us. But I refuse to regret it. Good day, my lord.”

She went to Elena Cooke’s shop, borrowed a gown and dry undergarments, and returned to the inn to change her clothing. She could not remain where he was today; she feared her own weakness in wanting him more than the embarrassment. So she set off to the millinery.

Harriet greeted her like the long lost friend she was not. Calista tried to attend to her conversation but had little mind for anything except the memory she should not have at all.

If she had done that,
kissed him,
on any other day, Richard would discover it. Four years ago he had hired a footman as his personal spy. Now he always knew of every little thing she did, at home and in the village: each moment she lingered in conversation with a neighbor at a party, each exchange she shared with a farmer or shopkeeper, each glance she innocently cast at another man at church, he knew it. Occasionally he even accused her of consorting too freely with their menservants. Reprimands followed, sometimes verbal, often with the flat of his hand or his fist. Soon after marrying him she learned to avoid the sort of flirting that the gentlemen she had met in London seemed to like. Of necessity she had become docile and subdued, passive.

Especially in intimacy. Richard’s kisses had been thick and sloppy. After the first time, when she suggested that he kiss her differently and he slapped her for insolence, she never again complained. But for some time now he had been more interested in pawing at her while pleasuring himself, anyway. He said he didn’t like the way she stared blankly at him as he had her; he preferred it when she fought. So passivity, foreign to her nature, had become her armor, donned each day like an ill-fitting coat in order to survive.

She had never done anything in her life to deserve a man like Richard Holland.

But, she thought as Harriet prattled on, she had never done anything to deserve a man like Tacitus Everard either.