Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (17 page)

              Spencer rubbed his hands together, watching her carefully. “What do you think?”

              Alix turned slowly, taking it in, catching swelling waves through a window beside the door. “It's perfect. Beautiful.”

              His shoulders relaxed, and Alix sensed her words had lifted some weight. “See your way around. Go up and change if you'd like. I'll bring in more wood and tend the horses.”

              She stared at him filling the room from floor to ceiling, not entirely recognizing him. He was easy and unbuttoned with an absence of frustrated lines, making him look young.

              He stared back, and for a moment Alix felt a palpable cord of tension drawing their bodies together. Then he swallowed hard, nodded at something only he understood, and went out.

              She exhaled in time with the door’s closing, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Everything felt awkward, her nerves throwing her off, and she hated it. When he came back in, she vowed it would be different.

              First things first, she would learn the house, get comfortable in it. Resolute, she moved from the front room into a narrow hall. A doorway on her left revealed a kitchen which was nearly medieval in construction. A cavernous fireplace dominating one wall was hung with an iron kettle, small embers already winking from the grate below. It also boasted barrels and tubs, a high nicked-up counter for cutting and bread making, and another smaller one beside it, stone-topped for butchering. A pantry and larder filled a wall opposite the fireplace.

To her right off the hall was a small dining room. A comfortable looking gray, wing-back chair sat beside the fire, a small plank table and two chairs not far away. A pale oak sideboard and cupboard hugged either side of the wide window, offering up sturdy white crockery for inspection.

              A narrow door led from the end of the hall outside, facing kitty-corner from the stables. Peeking out, she spied a knee-high stone wall which enclosed a surprisingly well-tended kitchen garden. Alix immediately recognized spikes of chive and velvety sage. Mint had claimed an entire corner for itself.

              Satisfied with the lay of the land, Alix returned to the great room, gathered her valise and went upstairs. First, she came upon a study of sorts. Front and center was a finely made, cherrywood desk, easily the most expensive bit of furniture in the whole house. Another book shelf sat along one wall, twin to one at the foot of the stairs. A telescope stood sentry at the window, ready for a night sky. A few things littered the desk: a medal, coins certainly not British in origin, a small medallion enclosing a lock of dark hair, a pen knife, and wood shavings. Alix guessed that Spencer spent a lot of his time here.

              The next room, the bedroom, was her favorite the moment she stepped inside. Larger than the study by half, two of its walls held little more than windows. They would be impractical in winter, but a rough stone fireplace nearly as big as the kitchen's occupied a third wall, ready to chase away the deepest chill. Beside it stood a square, dependable looking wardrobe.

The bed was a sort of sleigh shape, with a tall, cherry headboard and no canopy. Wide and high, it was stacked with plush quilts beneath a blue and crimson block coverlet. Alix ran her hand over its soft, well-worn fabric, then slipped a hand under the blankets into the cool space beneath and traced a silky cotton sheet. Moving upward, she pressed into a plush down pillow and imagined it below her head, warmed by Spencer's body. It took two steadying breaths to pull away, to put the bed and Spencer from her mind. Hefting her valise, she managed it onto the bed and began to undress, finding it impossible not to imagine it was Spencer doing the work.

*              *              *

Spencer planted his axe blade-first into the stump and claimed his shirt from the grass. He paused and panted, the sweat beading in his hairline a reminder of just how long he’d been without drill and the army’s exertion. Riding and shooting on the rare occasion Bennet nagged him into it was not getting the job done, physically.

He moved his freshly split pile an armload at a time to the front door, peering in the front windows on each pass for a glimpse of Alexandra. Bryn and Rory stood in the hillside’s deep grass, heads hung beneath their blowing manes. The pair shuffled and snorted at his approach, hinting at displeasure that he’d left them waiting to be put away. “I’m here now, you cantankerous nags. Come on, then.” He cooed and snapped their reins, cajoling both animals up to the barn.

Finished with horses and firewood, he turned attention to his final chore. He worked the creaking iron pump handle, splashing frigid water into a wooden pail at his feet while he considered Alexandra. Why had it been so much easier in town? Conversation had flowed. Quips and glib remarks were handy, and they had been easy in each other’s company. It had all felt so natural.

He shook his head and tried to clear it. He was over-thinking matters, suffering from the nerves of a man two decades younger and a military need to run every damned thing. Spencer grinned at himself and snatched the bucket's fraying rope bail.

It had been simpler with other women. They had followed the steps, minded the rules. Encounters were comfortable, but lacking passion.

He didn't want to follow those steps with Alexandra, and she certainly could give a damn for rules. That put him in unfamiliar territory, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy himself. Exhaling, relaxing, Spencer grabbed the door handle and went in.

The great room was empty, and there were no creaking floorboards overhead. It wasn't until he reached the hall that sounds caught his ears from the kitchen. Staying silent, he passed into the kitchen.

When his eyes found her, he had set down the bucket to take her in. Her dress was a few layers of white lawn and little more than a heavy chemise swirling at her ankles. Sleeves just reached her elbows with no trim or lace to obscure creamy skin. A wide sash caught her waist, drifting behind her as she moved. The gown had a soft effect on her, showing no fuss or formality. Its gauzy white fabric lit Alix's face, making her look much younger. Then she smiled, and his breath caught.

              “I don't know about you, but I would like to eat at some point.” She scooped a handful of potatoes and threw them into a kettle he didn't recall owning. “Soon,” she added, tossing in an onion and some oats. “And I hope nothing in here is off limits, because it's all been touched.”

              Not sure what to say, Spencer moved behind her, close enough to catch the heat of her body without touching it. Alix reached a hand behind her back and slipped her fingers inside his.

              She stopped cutting and relaxed, laying her head back against his shoulder. Smooth skin along her neck teased him and her hand pressed his hip for balance. His body’s response was total and immediate.

              Not now, not yet. He pecked her temple and tore himself away. “There's ham in the burrow and some aged beef.”

              “Ham,” she answered, watching him now over her shoulder with a stormy gaze that made it hard to look away.

Shaking himself loose, he bent to raise the small stone door. He took the ham from its cool earthen cave and rested it on the block. “Shall I?”

              Alix shook her head, her back to him and bent fetchingly over the fire. “No, I can manage.”

              “How long will you be?”

              She glanced back. “Just the ham and then I'm done. Why?”

              “Come outside when you've finished.”

              Her smile was wary and sly. “What for?”

              “Come outside,” he whispered again, backing away one step at a time, returning her smile, not willing to turn away until she disappeared from sight.

*              *              *

              She missed him at first, seated in high grass beside the house. His hand waved, giving her a hint, and Alix made her way down from the porch with eager curiosity.

              Spencer was wrapped in a quilt, and he held it open at her approach. “This is my favorite spot,” he said, snuggling her into the warm crook of his arm. He pointed out over the water. “On a crisp day you can just spy the headlands over there, usually only in fall, but today the view has been obliging. Any other time, it’s just the tide, cresting and swelling.”

              She squinted, barely spying the proud slopes of land through an ocean haze but grasping why he loved the spot. If they had settled more to the right, a near cliff would steal their view; more to their left would subtract part of the panorama.

              The sun was dropping to the horizon on their left, spilling in at a warm golden angle that obliged her to shade her eyes. Spencer turned his body, pressing her and moving their backs into its heat without diminishing the view. Alix inhaled his scent drifting up from beneath the blanket. It was salty and citrus, crisp like lemons and something oily, bergamot and a hint of wood smoke. She laid her head against his chest and inhaled, dizzied. “I have missed you.”

              “Aye.” His shoulders rocked with a nod. “It was hard, coming up alone. Harder to spend the days waiting.”

              Exactly the way she had felt. Inside the blanket, she found his hand and wrapped their fingers together.

Spencer leaned away, fiddling with something beside her and then held out a little glass in front of her face. She took it in her free hand and smelled it. “Woo! Scotch.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Traditionally a spot of trouble for me. I can't take much. Well,” she brought it close to her lips, then away, “I
shouldn't
take much.”

              “Good,” Spencer chuckled, holding up his own dram. “I won't have to spend all my best malt on you, then.”

              She snorted, pulling out from underneath his arm in order to better manage her drink. “That sounds like a challenge.”

              Spencer gave her a once over, warming her head to toe. “Perhaps it is.”

              Alix groaned, bringing her thimble-glass close again. “This cannot end well.” She tipped it back with a flick of her wrist. Smoke filled her nose; it burned her throat and warmed her chest. Exhaling, she shook her head and glanced to Spencer, staring back wide-eyed beside her. “What?”

              “God, woman. I meant for you to sip it! We're not at Barnaby's tavern,” he cried, pinching her hip under the quilt.

              Rather than admit her embarrassment, she held out her glass and smiled. “Stop crowing at being unmanned and fill me up.”

              “Lord and saints, Alexandra. Pace yourself.” His chastising fell flat; he was smiling and already refilling her glass.

              She was giddy, and the scotch made quick work of an empty stomach. She raised a mock toast. “Pace your
self
, sir.”

              Spencer made a big show of seating the cork back into the green glass bottle. “That is quite enough for you, Mrs. Rowan. Nurse what you have or do without.”

              She took a small mouthful of her second round, suddenly confessional. “It isn't Rowan.”

              “What?” She might as well have slapped him, by the look on his face.

              “It isn't Rowan. Just Paton. Rowan's just a name I adopted after my behavior humiliated Paulina with some imagined scandal. A name I was
forced
to adopt,” she corrected.

He scooted further back, and leaned in to study her face. “I don’t understand.”

“Silas had got control of our business, thanks to Chas. He had control of us, too. He wouldn't brook my
nonsense
and neither would she. Of course, Chas had no choice. So I was marched home from Carolina to discover that I had been 'gone on my honeymoon with Mister Rowan, who had tragically fallen overboard and drowned'.” She raised her voice theatrically, throwing arms wide from under the quilt.

“Carolina. Where had you truly gone?”

“To Carolina,” she asserted, a surprisingly raw ache in her heart. “Tempted by a man I was madly in love with.”

Spencer’s gaze cooled. “And now?”

“And now he’s a memory. I have no idea what became of Edward. If he wrote afterward, I never saw the letters.”

“He never came for you?” demanded Spencer.

“Silas was waiting when we put into port.” She swallowed and closed her eyes, wishing the images didn’t hang behind her lids. “I saw him on the docks, brutish and glaring, with Chas beside him. He dragged me ashore.”

“And no one stopped him, no one interfered?” he demanded.

“Not with his hands,” she clarified. “With a leash of fear and a heavy palm on my brother’s shoulder.” She breathed deep and let a swell of nerves subside. “I felt he would be at every port, waiting any time we came ashore and using Chas as leverage. Edward had been so patient through my father’s decline, tolerating Chas’s abuse. He grabbed my arm at the gangplank and said that if I left him now, it was for the last time.” She dabbed her eyes with a sleeve. “I didn’t even offer an excuse, just walked past.”

Spencer was up on his knees, raking fingers through his hair. “Well, did he come after you at all? Try to stop you? What did Silas want with it all?”