Falling in Love Again (11 page)

Mallory had grown lost in Mrs. Irongate's whirlwind monologue, but John answered easily,
“Yes, I do.” He then told the story of their being robbed. He wove such an animated tale, even Mallory started to believe it.

She watched as John easily charmed Mrs. Irongate. In short order, the woman promised to provide them with necessities such as a needle and thread, and pots and pans. For a moment, Mallory thought Mrs. Irongate would offer to sew up the seams of his jacket, too, but she took one look at Mallory's face and pressed her lips together.

Mallory wondered if her irritation at the fawning woman showed that clearly.

Around a clump of trees stood the barn. It was a pleasing old Norman structure of stone and timber with a tile roof. Nearby was a pond with ducks swimming across it. Several chickens scratched in the yard.

“What do you think?” John asked her.

Mallory sniffed the air experimentally. “I think the bedding for the animals hasn't been changed for ages.” She flashed a teasing look at him. “You may have plenty of fertilizer to use on the fields.”

He sent her a dark look before laughing. “You'd like to see me mucking out stalls, wouldn't you?

“It could be entertaining.”

Mrs. Irongate led them down a hill and through a small wooded area before they came upon a clearing. There, beside a small gurgling stream and sheltered by the branches of two spreading oaks, stood a small thatched cottage.

“It's lovely,” Mallory said. “The setting is charming.”

“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Irongate agreed. “The stream
flows to another pond about a quarter mile that way. You might wish to use it for your washing and such.”

But when Mallory entered the cottage, she immediately wanted to turn on her heel and leave. The room was little better than a pig sty. The hard dirt floor hadn't seen a broom in decades, and spiderwebs hung from the wooden ceiling beams.

A bed large enough for two people had been pushed against one wall close to a hearth full of cold ashes. No mattress or bed ropes were laced on the frame. Several pieces of broken pottery lay on the floor. A table and one chair looked to be in good condition, although another chair lay on its side, a leg broken.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Irongate said. “I haven't been down here for quite some time.”

Mallory turned to John, who was frowning. He took a deep breath before saying, “We'll just have to make it better.”

“Make it better?” Mallory repeated skeptically.

“Mrs. Irongate, you have bedding up at the house?”

“Oh, yes. We do.”

“Then why don't we give my wife a moment to relax while you and I fetch some things down.”

“Yes, we can do that,” the housekeeper said, and they left Mallory alone.

Mallory wondered how he'd known she needed these few moments alone. She sank down onto the only good chair, an almost overwhelming sadness threatening to engulf her. She had gone from being the proud lady of Craige Castle
to the hunted mistress of this little hovel. She clasped her hands together, feeling her wedding ring bite into her finger. She wouldn't give in to her emotions. She wouldn't. But the struggle to maintain her composure was hard.

By the time John returned with rope and a rolled-up mattress, she had herself firmly in control again and was picking broken pottery up off the floor.

He stopped in the doorway. “Are you going to be all right?”

She looked up at him. “I'll be fine. I'm always fine. One thing I know how to do is survive.”

He reached a hand out to her, his gaze dark and full of concern. “I'll make it up to you, Mallory. I promise I will.”

“It's not all your fault, John. I know that now.” Impetuously, she lifted her hand and brushed it against the hard line of his jaw. His day's growth of whiskers scraped her skin. “We need to get you a razor. You're starting to look like a felon.” Her teasing eased the concern in his eyes. He set to work on weaving bed ropes for the mattress. A few moments later, Mrs. Irongate, Lucy, and Mrs. Watkins arrived, their arms loaded with dishes, bedding, a broom, and other household items—including a razor.

Mrs. Watkins also brought a hamper of food. She was a chubby lady with rosy cheeks. “Come to the kitchen on the morrow and I'll supply you from the food stores,” she promised Mallory. “You're also welcome to help yourself from our nice vegetable garden. Lord Woodruff doesn't eat much.”

The first fireflies of the evening lit the path up to the barn by the time the three women had left. In an amazingly short time, they'd helped make the cottage habitable.

John finished tying the bed ropes and tucked sheets around the mattress. Mallory laid out food from the hamper—a cold chicken, cheese, buns, and a jug of cider. “I'm surprised you know how to make a bed,” she told him, and her cheeks flushed as she realized the unintentional double meaning of her words.

He shot her a lopsided grin, acknowledging that he had also heard the double entendre. “I can cook, too.”

Mallory stepped back, feeling awkward. She searched for a safe topic. “Shall we eat?”

The simple meal was delicious, but Mallory could barely finish what was on her plate. She was exhausted and the bed looked far too inviting. She slipped outside for a private moment.

Night had fallen. Croaking bullfrogs called from the stream, joined by a chorus of other night sounds. Some of the tension left her shoulders. She took her time washing her face and hands. Tomorrow matters would look better. Problems always appeared easier to handle in the morning. What she needed right now was a good night's sleep.

One thing was certain, John had turned out to be the complete opposite of what she'd expected. He no longer seemed the irresponsible scoundrel she'd first thought him. In fact, he was as much a victim of Louis Barron's treachery as she was—maybe more so since Louis was his uncle. Consid
ering some of the harsh things she'd said to John earlier, she owed him an apology. It would help her sleep better.

Her mind made up, Mallory returned to the cottage. As she crossed the threshold, the first thing she noticed was that John had cleared the table.

The second was that John stood in the middle of the room, getting undressed. He tugged his shirt from his breeches and lifted the hem.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He paused in his actions, one eye peeking out at her through the neck of his shirt. “Getting undressed.”

He tugged the shirt off over his head. His broad-shouldered presence filled the room. Except for her wedding night, she'd never been with a half-naked man before—and in those days, John hadn't had as many muscles as he did now.

Memories flooded through her, vague, half-focused memories of a night she'd thought she'd all but forgotten. “I can see that. Where do you plan to sleep?” she said.

He tossed the shirt on the bed and unfastened the top button of his breeches, completely at ease as he replied, “Right there on the bed with you.”

M
allory slammed the door shut behind her. “I knew it!” Fire flashed in her eyes. Angry color rose in her cheeks.

John didn't think she'd ever looked more stunning—and suddenly sleep was the last thing on his mind. Challenged, he sat down on the bed, willing to play the game with her. “Knew what?” he asked innocently.

“Stay back, John.” She took a step away from him, holding up her hand to ward him off.

He grinned. “Mallory, I haven't come near you.”

The golden light from the single candle shut out the world beyond its small glow. An insect flew too close to the flame, causing it to sputter,
and shadows danced upon the whitewashed walls.

“No, but you want to.”

He laughed. He wouldn't deny it. Right now his wife held him completely captivated. Her braid lay over one shoulder, her hands fisted at her hips as if she dared him to doubt her.

John leaned one elbow on the bed. “Mallory, we're married.”

“We're going to be divorced.”

He wagged a chiding finger at her. “But we want everyone to
think
we are married. We should sleep together, to keep up appearances.”

Her defensive posture relaxed ever so slightly.

He patted the bed next to him. “Come, Mallory, let us be friends.”
Let us be lovers
.

He saw her hesitate and knew she'd heard his unspoken invitation. He wasn't a fool. Whether she admitted it or not, there was a part of her that was deeply attracted to him. It's what made her so prickly.

And he wanted her.

His feelings went beyond the merely physical. He admired her. He liked her intelligence, dry wit, and courage. In the twenty-four hours they'd been together, he'd begun to think of them as a couple.

It seemed only natural that they sleep together.

Of course, he reminded himself, his wife was still a virgin. But he suspected that what she lacked in experience she'd make up for in creativity. And he was just the man to initiate her. Every muscle in his body vibrated with a heavy, pulsing desire.

Her wary golden brown eyes watched him.

John rose from the bed. He would erase all thoughts of divorce from her mind forever. All thoughts of this Hal person. He had no doubt he could do it.

He walked across to her and reached for her hand, his movements slow, unhurried. Almost reverently, he lifted her hand to his lips and lightly kissed the tips of her fingers. She gave a start as his lips touched her skin. A shiver of excitement flowed through her to him. He went still, giving her time to adjust, and then kissed the top of each and every finger, first one, then another…the third, he tasted with the tip of his tongue.

Her lips parted in surprise, but she didn't pull away. John took another sample, letting her feel his teeth against the delicate skin at her wrist, and discovered he was the one being seduced. Dear Lord, she tasted sweet, like honey. Warm, sweet, wild honey. It shot straight to his soul with the power of an aphrodisiac.

A new sparkle appeared in her eyes. If that wasn't an open invitation to kiss her, then John had never received one.

He leaned toward her, closing his eyes, ready to savor the moment—

She covered his mouth with the tips of her fingers.

He opened his eyes. Their faces were mere inches apart.

“What is the matter?” he asked, his lips brushing against her.

“We can't…” she whispered.

“Yes, we can,” he answered, his voice hoarse with lust. He pulled her hand from his lips.

She turned her head away. Her eyelashes fluttered. “I can't. I feel so travel stained. Let me bathe. And then we can.”

John let his lips curl in a smile of delicious anticipation. “Let me bathe you.”

His suggestion shocked her. A bright spot of color appeared on each cheek. He laughed, his low voice full of pride, full of lust. “Sweet little innocent.” He brushed his lips against her hair, her neck, and finally the lobe of her ear, reveling in the warm, heady scent of her. He couldn't wait to have her naked. “I'll get water.”

John scooped up the bucket from its place by the table, lifted the bar on the door, and opened it. “I'll be back in a moment,” he promised.

She nodded, her eyes demurely downcast, her color high.

The heady drum of lust pounded in his ears. Having a wife was a wonderful thing, especially one this modestly enchanting. Eager to return, he slipped out the door, leaving it open.

The night air felt like velvet. The light of a full moon lit his way to the stream. He'd taken only a few steps when the door slammed shut.

Surprised, he turned. The wind must have blown it closed. Funny, but he hadn't thought there was much wind this evening.

He tried the latch. It lifted but when he pushed the door, it was barred fast.

“Mallory? Mallory, the bar's down on the door.”

“That's right,” came her muffled voice from inside. “And it's going to stay barred.”

“But what about me?” John leaned against the door, dropping his voice in case someone should happen by. “You've shut
me
out.”

“Yes, I have, haven't I?”

“You can't leave me out here. Where will I sleep?”

“You can sleep in the barn,” came her incisive reply. “And you can kiss your own fingers!”

John stepped back, refusing to believe his ears. “Mallory, what happened? What caused you to change your mind? You were warm and willing only moments ago.”

“No,
you
were warm and willing. I stood my ground and bided my time.”

She'd tricked him?

John stared at the door. No, that couldn't be true.

No woman had ever rejected him before. Not one. She must be suffering from maidenly modesty. Every text he'd ever read in his life, from Homer to Milton, had assured him that virtuous women were shy. They had to coaxed.

In fact, he had it on great authority—from the other officers in the army—that virtuous women didn't like sex. Only those of bad moral character, of whom John had known plenty, enjoyed carnal passions.

Mallory was probably suffering from an attack of nerves. He should be pleased his wife was so innocent…although virginal shyness was a damned nuisance when he wanted to make mindless love to her all night.

He leaned his shoulder against the door. He kept his voice gently even. “Mallory, open the door and let's talk about it. I know you may be shy and a little frightened, but your fears are misplaced. You can trust me.”

At first, John didn't think she'd answer. Maybe she hadn't heard him. And then, he thought he heard something that sounded like…he had to strain to hear, putting his ear against the good solid door…
laughter
!

She was laughing at him
!

John pushed away from the door, his body tight with surprised humiliation. “Mallory, let me in,” he said, with all the authority at his command.

“No!”

“Mallory!”

She didn't answer.

In frustrated anger, he threw the wooden bucket at the door. It shattered. “Now, look!” he shouted. “I broke the bucket!”

“Then you'll have to replace it.”

Had the woman no sensibility? No soul? John pounded the door with his fist hard enough to make the wood bounce. “Open up this door, Mallory.”

“Go sleep in the barn, John. You'll not be sleeping in my bed this night—or any other night.”

John took a step back from the door. “Is that a challenge?”

“No, that's not a challenge,” she said, and he could tell by the sound of her voice that she was standing directly opposite him. “It's a promise.”

“You're my wife—”

“Wife? You didn't want me, remember? You left me. And I waited for you, John. Fool that I was, I waited. Waited for a very long time, but I'm not waiting anymore.”

John let her words sink in, hearing the truth of them. He also heard something he didn't think she wanted him to hear. He heard loneliness and pain, the kind of pain that only another person who has been deserted could understand.

A pain he understood all too well because he'd been raised with it. He'd felt that pain almost every day of his childhood, knowing his mother had been sent away because of him. Knowing that no matter how hard he worked to excel, he would always be considered by his tutors and classmates as an impostor, the Barron bastard.

The lust throbbing through his loins died a sudden death, and John knew they couldn't avoid discussing his desertion any longer. “I never meant to hurt you, Mallory. Never.”

No answer came from the other side.

John pressed both hands against the door, wishing he could see her face. “Mallory?”

She still didn't answer, but she was there, listening. Every instinct told him so.

He spoke slowly at first, cautiously feeling his way. “I didn't leave to hurt you. I left—” He paused. “I was young…confused.” That much was very true. “And angry.”

John pressed his cheek against the cool, smooth wood of the door. “Yes, I left, but I didn't run away from
you
. I ran away to find myself.” He
paused, wishing she would say something, anything.

But the woman on the other side of the door was silent.

“Mallory, I admit it was wrong of me not to stop and think about how my departure would hurt you. I thought you'd be taken care of, and that was what you wanted, wasn't it? To be taken care of and to keep your castle? Never, not even in my wildest dreams, did I expect our marriage to come to this pass.”

He thought back to their wedding and those fateful moments between them. “Do you remember our wedding night? You were frightened, Mallory, even though you pretended to be bold.”

No response.

He straightened, determined to see the air cleared between them. Until he did so, he knew she wouldn't give up this nonsense talk of a divorce.

“I have a confession, Mallory, one I don't think you'll like hearing—but I never felt as if I were married.” He paused, frowning. The words didn't sound good when spoken out loud. For a second, he was tempted to confess that he hadn't consummated the marriage so she would understand his feelings, but he quickly erased that idea from his mind. Mallory was angry enough without him giving her more ammunition. Later, perhaps when she trusted him more, he could tell her the full truth. Right now, he had to convince her to open the door.

He thought of Liana and Victor Peterson, of what he'd learned from watching them defy all odds in their marriage. He spoke from his heart. “I believe marriage should mean something more than fulfilling the wishes of parents or adding gold to a family's coffers. Marriage can't be good unless both people are committed, and neither one of us was committed to each other when we married, no matter what vows we took before God. Mallory, we still don't know each other very well, but we're older and wiser now. We can give our marriage a chance. We can make it work—but not if you lock me out.”

He pushed away from the door, straightened his shoulders, and faced it. “I'm asking you to forgive me, Mallory. Please.”

No words had ever been harder to say.

And no man had ever felt the need for forgiveness more. The irony was, he hadn't realized it until this moment, when he'd found himself standing in the dark outside a cottage door, waiting….

For an absolution that never came.

She wasn't going to forgive him
. Minutes passed while he put his astonished thoughts in order.

He'd spoken from his soul, and the woman wasn't going to forgive him! The realization made him irrationally angry.

He stomped away from the door and then charged back to confront her again, only this time his words were far from conciliatory. “I feel like a bloody idiot. You have a heart of stone, Mallory Barron, to listen to me talk on and on and say not
one word yourself. I'm a fool! A fool to think you'd ever forgive me, and a fool to want to lie with you. Well, keep the cottage and the bed. I'm a man. I don't need to beg.”

No answer.

He doubled his fist and punched the air in anger. “You are an obstinate woman. I'll sleep in the barn, but I wish you no joy in your cold bed.”

He waited, willing her to answer, demanding her to answer. Needing her to answer.

John waited until the crickets felt it was safe to begin their chorus and the air was full of their melody. But Mallory remained silent.

Finally, he turned on his heel and walked up the narrow path heading toward the barn.

Inside the cottage, Mallory sat on the floor, her head pressed back against the door, tears streaming down her face.

No, John
, she wanted to say,
I'm the fool
.

Out of a misplaced sense of duty, or pride, she'd waited for him, postponing her own dreams and desires. His words brutally confirmed what she'd always known in her heart about her wedding—he hadn't wanted her.

What was worse, over the past twenty-four hours she'd found much to admire in him. John Barron would be a very easy man to love, and the honest truth in his words about marriage, a
real
marriage, had touched her deeply.

She would have to be very careful and guard her heart…or she would quickly lose it to John Barron.

 

“Wake up, Mr. Man. Wake up,” cooed a woman's soft voice. Something brushed against his ear.

Years of military conditioning had honed John's reflexes, even when he was dead asleep. He reached up and grabbed the hand holding a piece of straw over his head.

The woman on the other end of the hand gave a squeal of surprise. John rolled on top of her and pinned her with his body before he'd fully awakened.

He found himself looking into a stranger's face. “Who are you?” he asked gruffly.

The woman in his arms was at least twenty. She had curly red hair and an inviting smile. “Who are you?” she echoed, and then boldly wiggled her body beneath his in a suggestive manner. “And do you always wake up this way?”