Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (21 page)

He looked between the madwoman and the shop mistress. The dressmaker was staring at Lady Holland agape.

“Is that true?” he said.

“Yes.” Mrs. Cooke turned astonished eyes to him. “It is all true.”

“Have the two of you met before?”

“Not before today,” Calista said.

“Not before this moment,” Mrs. Cooke said. “Not that I recall.”

Calista grabbed his arm and drew him back into the street.

“There is Harriet Tinkerson’s millinery. Her hats are very clever, especially a little plum-colored cap that I wish I could afford, and Mrs. Whittle’s favorite, which is chip straw with taffeta in a lovely shade of sage green. But Harriet herself is something of a ninny and she has no sense of interior design and her shop is a bit of a mess, so she is unlikely to ever acquire the exalted patronage she desires.” She opened the door to the shop. “Harriet?” she called from the doorstep.

A woman of brilliant yellow curls came from an adjoining room. Tacitus had seen her earlier at the inn, speaking with Mrs. Whittle. Now her eyes popped wide.

“Calista Chance? Lady Calista! Oh, my, it
is
you. What an absolutely delightful surprise!”

“Harriet, this is Lord Dare.”

“Of course it is! I saw you two years ago in the Prince’s review, my lord.” She curtsied nearly to the floor. “It is a tremendous honor to meet you.”

“Harriet, have I ever been in this shop before?”

“Upon my word, no! Why, Calista darling, I haven’t seen you in years. But do come in and tell me how— Oh! Are you …” She looked between them. “Are you Lady
Dare
now?”

Tacitus’s heart stopped. And started again with a stumbling heave.

“I am not,” she said. “Will you show Lord Dare the purple cap with the veil, please?”

Mrs. Tinkerson blinked like a fish. “It’s just there.” She pointed to a shadowy corner of the shop where a hat the color of ripe plums was nearly hidden by several others.

“Thank you.” Calista tugged on his sleeve and he followed her again into the street. Mrs. Tinkerson came out behind them.

“Calista dear, you simply must return for tea later. Do say that you will!”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” she said and grasped his hand.

“There is the pub where the fiddler does a fine rendition of ‘Yellow Stockings,’” she said, drawing him along the street. “His ‘Speed the Plough’ is less enthralling. After he plays six dances, he breaks to drink a pint of ale and two fingers of whiskey, and in the interim Farmer Dewey tells a delightful tale about the herd of Hereford dairy cows he once owned. His account is embellished with all sorts of impossibilities, like the time one of the cows assisted a shepherd dog in herding a flock of geese. Still, they really do seem to have been extraordinary cows. And there is the smith’s shop where Mr. Rhodes keeps an axe so sharp that it cuts through beam nicely. And there is the ford, of course. In approximately three hours the water will begin to drop, but too slowly for anyone to depart Swinly today. And at the other end of the street, of course, is the church where Reverend Abbott has just finished writing his Sunday sermon and is preparing to share lunch with his visitor, Mr. Curtis, who plans to annex an orphanage to the charitable foundation in London that he now helps direct. And of course you have heard Old Mary.”

“Old Mary?”

“The bell in the tower. Mr. Pimly is just about to ring the noon hour. The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling. And …
there
.”

From the other end of the village, the bell’s toll echoed between the buildings. He stared at the tower set against the parting clouds.

“If that is insufficient to convince you,” she continued, “in about ten seconds a sheep will appear from that alleyway and walk into the middle of the street. Two minutes from now, another half dozen sheep will join her. Let’s count the seconds. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—ah. There she is.”

Tacitus watched the animal cross the muddy road to its center, halt, and release a pathetic bleat.

Calista looked up at him, her eyes entreating. “Do you believe me now?”

It was all too fantastical. Yet only one detail of the whole outrageous narrative shouted at him.

“You are a widow?”

She released his hand abruptly, as though only now she realized she had taken it.

“Yes.”

“How have you done this?”

“I haven’t
done
anything. In fact, nothing I
have
done has made a difference, not for many days. No matter what I do, I am trapped here in this village, in this flood, in this day. This day that never ends.”

“And you expect me to believe this,” he said slowly, “because I have been gullible with you once before?”

The panic had receded from her eyes. They were soft now with resignation.

“I don’t expect you to believe it. I only hope that you will.”

“Do you think me thoroughly addled?”

“Near the beginning of this, when I had only lived this day a few times and still believed I could escape it, you were trying to distract me from my determination to wait out the hours in the cold at the ford. Or perhaps you were simply being yourself—kind, patient, somewhat absurd,” she said with a fleeting smile. “That night by the ford, you told me that six years ago you courted me because of my perfect teeth.”

He had never told another soul that secret. Never.

“I admire you, Tacitus,” she said. “I admire your kindness and generosity and, well, many things about you. If any good has come of this day, it is that I now know a man whom I can admire.”

He took the step that brought him close to her—to her vibrant, sublime beauty that had always drawn him. Allowing himself to do what he had wished to do since he had seen her in the rain the previous night, he studied her features openly, slowly, taking in the shadowed crescents beneath her eyes and the crease in her brow that had not been there years ago. Then he looked into her eyes, crystal blue and bright and assessing him just as acutely as she had assessed him then.

“You don’t look mad,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“What do you want of me, Calista?”

“I don’t want to be alone in this endless day. Not for one minute longer.”

He nodded. “All right.”

She blinked. “All right?”

“You needn’t be alone today. I will stay with you.”

Relief came over her lovely face.

“You don’t think I’m mad?”

“Let’s not be too hasty.”

Her partial smile revealed her white teeth. “If our positions were reversed, I would no doubt reserve some suspicions as well.”

“If our positions were reversed, I would not have waited weeks to tell you about this.”

“How do you know I haven’t told you already?”

Ah
. There was the spark in her eyes that he remembered.

“I suppose you might have. Now, what would you like to do today? I am at your disposal.”

“Anything I want?”

“Anything you want.” Predictably, his heartbeats quickened. If their positions were reversed and she offered the same … “Anything,” he repeated somewhat huskily.

“I have an idea.” She started off down the street, a decided spring in her step. “Come now, my lord. I’ve a mind to learn how to make a cabinet today.”

Apparently her idea of
anything
was quite a bit different from his.

He went after her. “A cabinet requires many more than a single day to make, and skill far beyond that of a novice.”

“Oh, don’t be so stuffy.”

“Ah, there. Now I am certain you aren’t mad. You sound exactly as you did six years ago.”

Laughter rippled back to him on the chill air. He watched the sway of her hips and the cascade of her hair and thought that if she was indeed mad, he wanted to be too.

“What do you call it?”
He stood in the open doorway of her bedchamber, peering down at the cat sitting at his feet.

“What do I call it?”

“What is its name?”

“It doesn’t have a name. Not that I know, at least.”

He looked at her curiously. “You have spent weeks in this animal’s company and you haven’t named it?”

“You don’t believe I have spent weeks in its company.”

“I might.”

She laid the wooden spoon she had made at the carpenter’s shop on the dressing table. Lord Dare had showed it off to Elena and Alan during their dinner at the pub as though it were a work of art. It was a simple thing, in truth, but it had been remarkably satisfying to make.

“Here she is,” she said before the statue. “The author of my curse.”

He came to stand beside her.

“She doesn’t look too horrid,” he said. “She’s very attractive, actually. Are you certain she is to blame?”

“Why is it that if a woman is beautiful, men never expect evil of her?”

“Don’t they?”

“I—” For the first time in days she thought of her husband’s hard fist. “I suppose they do.” She moved away from him, stripping off her cloak. A quick sheen of sweat had coated her skin at the recollection of Richard. She went to the open door. “Well, my lord, you have made good on your promise. You have not left me alone today, and I thank you for it. I am more grateful than you will ever know, in fact. But I must say … I would like to say …”

He crossed the room until he stood very close. “What would you like to say?”

“I am sorry the day is over.”

“It’s not over quite yet.”

Her heart did an abrupt little turnabout. “You cannot stay here. Now.”

He reached out and closed the door. “Why not?”

She backed away until her calves came up against the bed. “Because you simply cannot.”

“I won’t touch you.”

“That isn’t actually what worries me.”

His grin turned roguish. “Then you have much more faith in me than I do.”

“This is unwise.”

“Come now,” he said, much easier. “I promised. And I am a man of my word, as you have said.”

“Shall we go down to the taproom?”

He glanced at the bed. “Is this where you wake up every morning at seven o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Then we are staying here.”

“There is only the bed. Not even a chair. Do you intend to stand?”

For a stretched moment he just looked at her. Then he took the two steps to her, grasped her shoulders, and pulled her mouth against his.

Despite herself, she closed her eyes and let him kiss her, let him taste her lips, then urge them apart. Releasing the breath she held, she let herself feel him too, kiss him, adore the softness of his lips and his skill, and she touched him with the tip of her tongue and felt all the heat and pleasure even that simple caress made inside her. His hand came around her face, beneath her chin, drawing her up to him. Then he deepened the kiss, matching their mouths together fully.

He drew away slowly. She opened her eyes to see him taking a visibly hard breath.

“There,” he said firmly. “That’s done with. Out of the way. Now we can move on.”

Her lips tingled. She bit his flavor on them. “You
are
absurd.”

“Not precisely what I wish to hear after kissing a woman for the first time. But circumstances being what they are, I will allow it.” His voice was decidedly uneven.

She did not tell him that they had shared so many kisses already she knew his kiss as well as anything else about him.

“Now,” he said bracingly, “I am going to sit here on this bed—beside you, not touching you—and tell you everything there is to know about the goddess Aphrodite. And you will sit here—beside me, not touching me—and listen attentively until you nod off or murder me out of boredom, whichever comes first. Understood?”

“Understood.” She kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed as he removed his boots. “But what if I want you to kiss me again?”

“I will resist you.” He settled beside her and his gaze slipped over her body. “Valiantly. Despite the temptation. Someday someone will write an epic poem about my courage and fortitude this night.”

“You don’t want to take advantage of me.”

“Given the circumstances, I think it’s best.”

The circumstances in which she had told him the truth and he thought she was mad.

Old Mary’s song rocked through the wall. They waited until the ninth ring faded into silence.

“All right,” he said. “I will begin with the story of the Trojan War. Are you familiar with it?”

“I think there was a very big horse involved. Wasn’t there?”

His brow wrinkled almost comically. “Hm. Do you know where Greece is?”

“Somewhere in the Americas?” Her lips twitched.

“Yes,” he said with narrow eyes. “That girl from six years ago is most certainly not gone.”

“I am testing your arrogance.”

“I gathered as much.”

“But I beg your pardon.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I promise to be good now, my lord.”

He took her right hand and lifted it to his lips. Softly, he kissed her knuckles.

“I told you that I have changed too in six years,” he said. “Be exactly who you are, and I will be content.”

“Even if who I am is a woman who believes she is reliving the same day over and over again?”

“Even then.”

She looked at their hands. “You are breaking your own rule.”

“I noticed that.” His fingers tightened around hers as he rested them, still clasped, on the mattress. “Now where was I?”

“The Greeks and Trojans.”

“Ah, yes. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away—”

“In the Americas.”

He nodded. “A trio of vain, silly goddesses intent upon besting one another at any cost took note of a mortal girl of such surpassing beauty that gods and men alike all wanted her. Which of course means that she was quite like present company.”

Calista smiled, leaned back against the headboard, closed her eyes and let his hand surround hers and his voice lull her into contentment.

She started awake.

“—Mr. Smythe, didn’t you?’

She blinked and saw his coat right before her eyes and felt her cheek pressed against something much harder than a mattress. With a gasp, she pulled back.

“You needn’t move,” he said. “Either you use me as a pillow, or the cat does. And I much prefer you.”

She pushed up onto her elbow. Legs crossed at the ankles and a book propped on his waist, he was lounging in apparent comfort, with her, apparently, sleeping on his arm.

“I am sorry.”

“Don’t mention it. You dozed off at the start of chapter two, though I’ve no idea how you could have. I am enthralled by the rapaciousness of this Prince Manfred. But I think you’ve read it already. You were mumbling something about the valiant Theodore in your sleep, and I haven’t got to him yet. I suppose he might be one and the same as this heroic young peasant.”

“He is.” She pushed hair from her face. “Now I remember; you ran out of Aphrodite stories. Is it midnight yet?”

“Soon, I expect.”

She settled back down on the mattress and tucked her hands under her cheek.

“I cannot believe I fell asleep. I thought I was too full of nerves to do so. I have never … Well …”

“You have never slept fully clothed before?” He turned the page as though he were still reading. “I can remedy that for you, of course.”

“Now who’s teasing?”

“I would like to tell you that you are beautiful when you sleep, but from this angle I could not see your face. The top of your head, however, is quite taking in slumber.”

She smiled. “What did you say about Mr. Smythe that woke me up?”

“When you invited him and Mrs. Cooke to dine with us tonight, you already knew he admired her, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Perhaps you have a bit of Aphrodite in you, yourself.”

“Please don’t compare me to her.”

“Still, it was good of you to allow them opportunity to come to know each other before he departs tomorrow.”

“It was not only for them that I did it. I thought you might like the company of others.”

He turned his head to look at her. “Other than you? Today?”

She nodded.

He laid the book on his chest. “Your company is entirely sufficient for me, Calista. More than sufficient.”

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

“Midnight,” she whispered, and Old Mary’s toll boomed through the wall.

As the twelfth ring died away, he frowned. Then the frown disappeared.

“You are still here,” he said.

“I am.” She sat up. “Oh! Were you waiting for midnight, thinking—”

“Certainly I was.”

“It doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing at midnight or any time of the night. I always wake up here at seven o’clock.”

“I see,” he said gravely. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.

“You are leaving,” she said, the ache of loss already spinning through her.

He shrugged his coat off his shoulders. “If I’m to be here seven more hours at least, I would like to be a bit more comfortable.”

She swallowed again and again over the constriction of her throat. “You needn’t stay.”

“Of course I will stay.” He untied his neckcloth and removed it. “But there won’t be any more falling asleep. Is that clear?”

“Then perhaps I should read aloud instead of you, to keep me awake.”

He passed the book to her. As he settled beside her again, his shirtsleeves tugged at his shoulders and arms, and Calista did not know which flustered her the most: the memory of his flesh beneath that shirt, or his intention of staying through the night in her bed.

“You mustn’t allow yourself to be distracted by my breathtaking state of masculine undress,” he said, casting her a sideways glance as he propped his arms behind his head. “I’d thought you made of stronger stuff.”

“Usually I am,” she mumbled. She opened the book and began to read aloud.

He fell asleep in the middle of chapter four. Calista folded the book closed and curled up on her side and watched the even cadence of his breathing lift his chest.

“I wish I could see this every night when I fall asleep,” she whispered. “You beside me.”

Emotion rose in her, thick and hot.

“I wish I knew how to make this day end so that in the morning you would know me as you do now. I wish I had your kindness and decency and humor and faith in people. I wish I were as good a woman as you are a good man. But most of all, Tacitus Caesar Everard, I wish you were mine. I wish with all my heart that you were mine, and that I was yours.”

She watched him sleeping until her eyelids grew so heavy that she could not hold them open unless she got up and walked around the room. But remaining awake would not make tomorrow come. It would only delay the inevitable return of today.

Still, she struggled against sleep, trying to take into her senses as much of him as she could, and knowing that it would never be enough.