Falling in Love Again (22 page)

“Thank you, my lady,” he said. “And, if you noticed, I managed to get him to agree to buying the kegs.”

“Yes, I did notice, and I thought that was the smoothest trick of all!”

John laughed, and balancing his stack of papers in one arm, he threw his other around her shoulders.

Mallory let it rest there. She was in far too good humor to want to fight with him. “What are you going to do about these reports?”

“I think I'll ask Freddie Hanson to help. He's the only man I've met who will have the answers Tyndale is looking for.”

“You're right,” Mallory conceded. They walked a few yards further down the path in silence. The closer they came to the cottage, the heavier John's arm on her shoulder felt. At last she could endure it no longer and shrugged him off.

John knew the glow of camaraderie they'd experienced earlier was fading with each step.

For a moment he weighed the idea of offering to take the reports over to Hanson this evening and giving her a chance to be alone, but then he changed his mind. He was determined to win her back. He'd lay siege to her heart, if he had to. He wasn't going to give up, and he wasn't going to make it convenient for her to ignore him.

He placed his arm back around her shoulder and didn't remove it until they arrived at the cottage door. Inside, he set the reports on the table. He held out his hands for the reports Mallory was holding. She'd grown very quiet and seemed to be staring at the coverlet and the faint damning stains. John cursed himself for not thinking ahead and burning the cover before bringing her back to the cottage.

“Mallory, let me have the papers.”

She passed them to him, going to a bit of trouble not to touch him.

He stacked the reports neatly while wondering what his next step should be.

“Why don't I cook our supper?” he said, pretending nothing was wrong. He crossed to the hearth, took kindling from the basket, and started arranging a fire.

“I'm not very hungry,” Mallory answered.

“Well, I am,” he said, with forced cheerfulness. “I could eat a leg of lamb myself.”

Mallory didn't answer.

He glanced at her over her shoulder as he reached for the tinder box on the mantel, and then froze. She was pulling the coverlet off the bed. “What are you doing?”

She didn't look at him. “I need to wash this.”

“Now? Mallory, it will be dark in another hour. You won't be able to see what you're doing.”

She ignored him, gathering the thin white coverlet in her arms. Then, picking up the wooden bucket and a bar of soap, she left the cottage.

John swore softly under his breath and followed her out the door.

Down at the bathing pond, Mallory knelt and began scrubbing at the stains. John came up quietly behind her. “Can I help?”

She didn't answer him or acknowledge his presence.

Placing his heels right beside her, he stretched out on the grassy bank. “I think we should have a truce between us,” he said.

Her hands stopped moving and her brows came together. “We already have a truce, remember, John? The bargain we made that you would grant me a divorce if I helped you recover your fortune?”

John felt like a squirming schoolboy when she talked to him in that tone of voice. Why was he married to the one woman with the uncanny ability to make him feel like a complete ass? And she'd done it twice in one day!

Lay siege
, he reminded himself.

As she returned to her wash, John cast about for a safe topic of conversation.

“I've been thinking about Uncle Louis,” he said, deciding this was one thing she wouldn't ignore. He was right. At the mention of Louis's name, her hands paused a moment in their furious scrubbing.

John continued. “I've been searching my mem
ory for other facts and tidbits of information about him. I didn't see him regularly, even after I returned from the war. The last time I saw him before the war was at our wedding. I remember him being quite taken with Craige Castle. Are there any pieces of information you can remember from your dealings with him?”

As he talked, she picked up a rock and began pounding at the coverlet. The stains were no longer visible to John's eye, yet she pounded and pounded and pounded as if she were attempting to purge herself of something more significant.

John captured her fist around the rock. “Mallory, don't do this. Please forgive me.”

She bowed her head, staring at his hand over hers.

John spoke from his heart. “I should have told you the truth about our wedding night. I didn't realize you'd given up your own wishes and dreams to be a wife to me. I didn't think of it that way, Mallory. I only thought of my own selfish desire to make us one…and we are one now. No matter how hard you try to pretend it's not true, you know in your heart that we are destined to be together.”

He wished she would turn to him so he could see her face. He needed to know if there was some softening in her attitude toward him. Then he felt a single, hot tear land on his hand.

Hope sprang up inside him. She could forgive him. He knew it…and then she pulled her hand from his and started pounding away at the cover again.

John sat back. He cursed the fates that he had married such a stubborn, willful woman—but he would have it no other way. Whether she admitted it or not, the armor she wore against him had chinks, and he vowed to work away at those places until she completely opened her heart to him.

Suddenly, she threw the rock to the side with vehemence and broke down in quiet sobbing. He moved to take her in his arms.

Mallory jerked away and came to her feet. She didn't look at him. “I can't let you close, don't you see? I'm the most foolish of all women. I've fallen in love with a man who has betrayed me over and over again.”

John rose from the bank. “Mallory, I promise it will never happen again—”

“It has already happened two times too many,” she said, whirling on him. “If I let myself believe in you one more time and you use me again, you will destroy me. You're too fickle to trust. It's always what
you
want or what
you
think. I had no role in your life until you decided
you
were ready. Well, what about me? I have to consider my needs now, John, and I can't let you hurt me. Not again.”

She lifted her skirts and ran from the pond.

John watched her leave. He'd caused her this pain, and it tore at his very soul. Yet didn't her intense emotion mean that she cared…even a little?

He looked down at the cover lying in the water. The first stars of the evening were coming out and
he could see no stains. He picked up the coverlet, washed off the mud from where she'd thrown it down, and spread it over the bushes to dry.

Filling the pail with water for the next day, he took it and the slippery bar of soap back to the cottage.

Mallory had left the door open for him and John considered that a very good sign. He told himself it meant that she truly didn't know her own mind anymore…that she was weakening.

Resolved not to give up, he marched forward. The inside of the cottage was shadowy and silent. No candle had been lit, and he didn't see Mallory immediately until his gaze turned to the bed. She lay there with the sheets practically pulled up over her head.

“Mallory?”

“I left the door open so you could get what you need to eat or whatever,” came her curt voice. She didn't turn over to face him. “I expect you to sleep in the barn.”

John closed the door, set the pail down by the door, and placed the bar of soap on the table. His desire to make amends battled with his irritation at her high-handed treatment. He crossed over to the bed. All he could see of her was the top of her toffee-colored hair and the tip of her obstinate little nose. Even though her eyes were closed, feigning sleep, he suspected she was every bit as aware of him as he was of her.

Lay siege
. He was her husband, not some lackey. If he wanted to win her back, he could not allow her to subject him to her whims.

He removed his jacket and hung it over the
back of a chair. Returning to the bed, he began removing his shirt, watching her all the while. She didn't stir as he folded it and laid it neatly at the foot of the bed.

He sat down on the bed and began removing his boots. She didn't rouse. He deliberately dropped the boot on the floor.

She flinched.

John smiled. He bent over and pulled off his other boot. He dropped this one on the floor also—but she didn't respond.

That was fine. He knew he had her attention. Pulling off his socks, he threw them down by his boots, stood, and facing her, began unbuttoning his breeches.

First one button, then the second, and he'd started the third when she threw back the sheets and sat up. She wasn't ready for bed at all but still wore her brown cambric dress. “What do you think you're doing?”

“I'm going to bed with my wife.” He flicked open the third button.

“Oh, no, you're not!”

“Oh, yes, I am.” John pulled down his breeches, unashamed to let her see he was fully aroused and ready for her. He wanted her even now, when she was so angry she was practically spitting with fury.

Mallory scooted closer to the wall on the other side of the bed. “Leave me alone.”

But John wasn't going to relent. He couldn't, if he wanted to win her back. He placed his knee on the mattress. “I'm your husband,” he said quietly. “I love you. Your place is beside me on this bed.”

Mallory scrambled off the mattress. She pushed down her tangled skirts and confronted him. “Never!”

Sitting on the bed, John shook his head. “So dramatic….” He patted the spot next to him. “Now, come to bed, Mallory, and let us set aside our differences for one night. I promise I won't bother you.”

She cast a doubtful glance at his already aroused state and crossed her arms. “Now, let me see,” she said, angrily tapping one foot. “You expect me to believe that I can spend the night lying next to the most infamous rake in England and not expect him to attempt to seduce me?”

John held his hands up in the air to show her he meant no tricks. “I want only to hold you.”

“I'm not that green, John…not anymore.”

“Very well, we shall not sleep together.” He bounced back on the bed and grabbed the sheets to cover his nakedness. “However,
I
am not going to be the one spending another night in the barn. It's your choice, Mallory. You can either join me in bed, sleep on the floor, or toddle off to the barn.” Placing his hands behind his head, he stared up at the rafters. His ultimatum was a stroke of genius, and he considered for a moment that winning his wife was like a game of chess…and he had just said “checkmate.”

He knew Mallory was glaring at him. Her body was radiating heat, she was so angry. But her voice was that of a true aristocrat—cool, calm, and slightly superior. “I shall take the barn, because it is the place furthermost from you.”

John gritted his teeth. He didn't want her to
leave. His impulse was either to rise from the bed, grab hold of her and kiss her until she mindlessly confessed that she was madly in love with him…or relent and go to the barn himself, letting her have the bed.

He refused to do the latter. He was a man, not a lap dog. He heard the door open. His whole body tensed as he willed himself to stay where he was.

She paused in the doorway. So attuned was he to this woman, he could sense her presence. He heard her take a step out the door and then stop.

Closing his eyes, John wished her to return to the bed—and then she started walking toward him. Her kid slippers were almost soundless as they crossed the hard dirt floor.

Relief ran through him. She was backing down.

He turned to her, ready to make amends and forgive her, when a pailful of cold water splashed right in his face.

Mallory threw the bucket aside and it clattered into the corner. “I hope you enjoy your sleep,” she hissed, before storming out of the cottage.

John sat up in the now soaking bed. He wiped his face, chest, and stomach with the already wet sheet. “Siege,” he reminded himself as he set his feet on the ground, pulled on his breeches, and chased after his wife.

M
allory ran up to the barn, fearing John might be angry enough to follow her. Perhaps dousing him with the bucket of water hadn't been a prudent action, but oh, she had enjoyed seeing him all wet. Nor would she apologize. Ever.

When she reached the barn, she attempted to close the door, but the hinges were rusty and wouldn't work. She abandoned that idea and ran down the row of stalls to the first one that was
empty. She threw herself down on a clean bed of hay.

The swaybacked coach horses were in the stalls on either side. They both nickered a greeting. She shushed them to be quiet.

At that moment, a shadow crossed the barn door. Mallory held her breath.

She strained her ears, listening for movement, but didn't hear anything until he stood in the stall's open entrance. He was wearing his breeches, a damp scowl, and little else. “Here you are.”

Mallory sat up, her heart in her throat. “I thought you were going to sleep in the bed.”

“It's wet.”

“I don't want you here.”

“I'm aware of that.” He turned and walked away.

Mallory felt a small glimmer of surprise that he would give in so easily.

The next moment, he was back carrying the horse blanket they'd used for their picnic. “Here, lie on this. It will make the hay more comfortable.”

He flapped it up in the air and let it drift down to cover the hay.

Warily, Mallory did as he'd suggested. Hay was not as comfortable to lie on as she'd imagined it would be. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“Right here beside you.”

Mallory struggled to get up, but John had knelt beside her and placed his hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. “You can leave, Mallory, but it
won't make a difference. I'll follow wherever you go. I will sleep beside you tonight.”

“And I was told chivalry was dead,” she answered, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

John pressed his lips together in a poor attempt to hide a smile.

“I don't want you in my bed.” She bit each word out.

“I'm not here to make love to you—”

“Oh, is that why you got yourself naked and ready?”

He grinned at her and Mallory wanted to wipe the grin off his face with her nails. How
dared
he laugh at her when everything inside her was confused and jumbled?

“Mallory, I won't deny I want you…although the bucket of water in my face dampened my ardor some.” He sat down on the straw, leaving the blanket to her. “But my reaction to you is the natural reaction for a man when he's around the woman he loves.”

She clutched handfuls of the blanket, telling herself not to believe him. Last night he had initiated her into passion, and apparently she was a very good student because even now, when she was so dreadfully angry with him, she'd like nothing better than to melt into his embrace.

She hid behind sarcasm. “Oh, John, please. Men are capricious characters. I've been made to understand that they feel an attraction like
that
for every woman who passes in front of them.”

He pinned her with his gaze, his expression open and honest. “Mallory, I'm not a rutting
animal. I've always had control over myself except when I was around you. I've been this way ever since I saw you standing by the pond with your gorgeous hair down.”

“The pond?” she said doubtfully. “You mean the day Ruth was plastered naked against your body?”

His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “Your jealousy gives me hope.”

“I'm not jealous. I'm merely pointing out your fickle nature.”

He leaned on one elbow. “I'm
not
fickle. I felt nothing for Ruth or any of the others. I love you.”

Mallory covered her ears with her hands. “I don't want to hear this. Stop saying it.”

Reaching up, he pulled down her hand. “I won't stop saying it, not ever.”

“Yes? Well, you'll never be my ideal of a husband.”

“That's because I don't know what your ideal is!” John pulled her down on the blanket and on her side to face him. He didn't let go of her hand. “Teach me, Mallory. Talk to me. I've never been a husband. I've only known one married couple who seemed happy in their marriage and that was Peterson and his wife, Liana. It seemed to me the difference between them and other couples, including my parents, was that they considered themselves partners, and Peterson never did anything without talking it over with his wife first. We used to tease him about it. Of course, Liana had a Latin temper. I certainly never wanted to make her angry. But I'm not afraid to face you.”
He gave her a gentle squeeze. “I'm laying siege, Mallory, and I won't give up until I win your heart.”

“Siege?”

“Yes, siege. It's what we did in the army to capture a city behind high walls. We would camp right next to the city and wait. We wouldn't give up until those walls came down.” He leaned toward her until they were almost nose to nose. “I'm not giving up, Mallory, not until I've torn down every wall between us.”

In spite of her anger with him, she felt a small trill of excitement at his words. Did he really care so much that he would never give up?
Test him and see
, a small voice said inside her.
Wait and watch
.

“I don't care where you sleep,” she said. A fleeting expression that looked like disappointment appeared in his eyes and then vanished. She must have imagined it in the dark. She turned over to her side and surprised herself by falling almost immediately asleep.

 

John woke her up shortly around dawn, before Terrell and the dairy maids arrived for work. He was already dressed for the day. The cuffs on his fine lawn shirt were frayed beyond repair, and Mallory couldn't help but remember how fashionable he'd appeared that night at Lady Ramsgate's party.

While she was tending to her toilet by the stream beside the cottage, he prepared her tea and hauled fresh water from the bathing pond. She couldn't stop herself from admitting drolly, “I could grow used to being under siege.”

He answered with a quick laugh and carried the wet mattress out in the sun to dry.

John headed up to the barn to set the others to work. He surprised Mallory by returning later that morning. She was kneading bread dough when he poked his head in the door.

“I've just learned that Tuesday is market day in Horsham,” he said. “Is that where we'll find harvesting crews?”

“Yes, or hear word of who is in the area.”

“Good,” John said with a smile. “You and I will go to Horsham tomorrow.” He didn't wait for an answer but dropped a light kiss on her forehead and disappeared out the door.

Mallory watched him go, a bemused smile on her face. Her whole day seemed suddenly brighter because he had taken the time out to pay a surprise visit. The terrible anger she'd felt against him yesterday morning had abated somewhat.

She'd just set the bread to bake when she had another visitor, Mrs. Irongate. Mallory offered her a cup of tea.

“I say, Mrs. Dawson,” the housekeeper said, after they'd talked about several mundane subjects, “is that your bed mattress out in the yard?”

“Yes, it is.” Mallory suppressed a smile. Now she understood what had lured the curious housekeeper to the cottage that morning. Mallory knew the other servants must be whispering about the mattress but was sure none would have the courage to ask John.

“Why is it out there?” Mrs. Irongate asked.

“Because it is wet.”

Mrs. Irongate's lips formed “oh.” “Is there a
leak in the roof? Did the mattress get wet in yesterday's rain?”

“Oh, no,” Mallory assured her. She paused, looking over the brim of her cup before some mischievous imp urged her to say, “It got damp because I threw a bucket of water on my husband, who was sitting on the mattress at the time.”

Mrs. Irongate's eyes opened as wide as an owl's. “You don't say. Did he deserve the bucket of water?”

“I thought so then.”

The housekeeper burst out laughing and slapped her knee. “Oh, this is rich; this is rich, indeed. Wait until I tell the others.”

Mallory set down her cup. “Please, Mrs. Irongate, I don't think you should bandy it about—”

“How could I not, Mrs. Dawson? It's so seldom we poor women get the last laugh on our men.” She wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. “I'd have paid to've seen the expression on his face.” She placed her elbow on the table, getting cozy with her topic. “Sometimes with a man as handsome as your husband, it's good to rattle him up every once in a while. Of course, I imagine the reconciliation for your misdeeds was worth the trouble, right, Mrs. Dawson? We've all been talking about it in the kitchen ever since Ruth reported the mattress in the yard and Evie noticed the coverlet by the pond. You must have had a busy night last night, Mrs. Dawson.” She waggled her eyebrows up and down.

Embarrassed to be the subject of such speculation, Mallory didn't know what to say. Fortunately, Mrs. Irongate changed the subject.

“Have you started the plans for the harvest home? Mrs. Watkins and I have some ideas.”

Mallory refreshed the tea in their cups. “I'm to meet with Sylvie Hanson this afternoon on that subject. Why don't you come with us?”

“We'd like that very much.” The housekeeper reached across the table and patted Mallory's hand. “When I first met you, I said to myself, that woman thinks she is too good for us.”

“And what about me made you believe that?” Mallory asked, truly curious.

“Oh, it was the way you carried yourself, all stiff and quiet. Then there was that afternoon in the kitchen when you got so hoity-toity about our doing a bit of teasing. But you're not such a bad sort, after all.” She lifted her cup to lips. “Besides, I have to admire any woman can keep a man like Mr. Dawson chained to her side.”

Her words startled Mallory. “Chained to my side?”

Mrs. Irongate waved a dismissive hand. “Not actually, but you know what I mean. The man adores you. Everyone's noticed it. They say he picked you up and twirled you around at the Hansons' the other night and made all the other women so jealous, their own men had to do the same. The lads are all grumbling that they got dizzy trying to keep pace with Mr. Dawson.”

“Are they, now?” Mallory said thoughtfully.

“Aye, they are. And in church yesterday, the man could barely keep his eyes off you. If I hadn't asked Mr. Dawson myself and found out you've been wed a good seven years, I'd have thought you both newlyweds.”

“And why is that?”

“This may come as a surprise to you, my dear, but most husbands don't act the way yours does, not after the first year or two of marriage,” Mrs. Irongate confided.

Mallory could well believe that. “And how do most men act?”

“Well, if it is a bad or mediocre marriage, the wife is ignored a good deal of the time. You should consider yourself a lucky woman to be married to a man who still enjoys ripping your clothes off and taking you to bed.”

“Mrs. Irongate!” Mallory protested, her cheeks turning hot.

“You can't pretend with me. I saw your clothes thrown all over the floor every which way.” She heaved a jealous sigh. “You must have had a wonderful night.” With a wink, she added, “I'm surprised you don't have a score of children.”

Mallory didn't want to touch that subject. “What is a good marriage, Mrs. Irongate?” she asked instead.

Mrs. Irongate gave a moment's serious thought to the question before replying, “A good marriage is where you and your husband know each other very very well and still like each other in spite of all the flaws. Of course, it helps if you enjoy a little Dickie Diddle every now and then. Smoothes over the bumpy times.” She placed her teacup on the table. “I must be off. Thank you for the tea, and Mrs. Watkins will meet you at the barn to ride over to Mrs. Hanson's house.”

Mallory thought about what Mrs. Irongate had said while she cleaned out the mugs. When she'd
first seen John in London, she couldn't have imagined him as a father…but now she could. He'd be a good one.

I'd never condemn a child to the half-life I've lived
…that was what he'd said when she'd asked if he'd fathered children out of wedlock.

Yes, he would take his responsibilities seriously, just as he took his responsibilities on the farm seriously. Even Hal, who was the very soul of reliability, would not have worked as hard as John had been working.

For a moment, she let herself dream she was pregnant. John's babies would be beautiful, especially if they had his eyes, and they'd be healthy. He was a strong man and she could expect strong children from him.

Of course, the same could be said for Hal—or could it? Her mother had pointed out that all three of Hal's sisters were sickly. Mallory didn't want weak children. She couldn't imagine any pain sharper than the death of a child.

She rose from the chair and set the cups in the cupboard. What nonsense was she thinking? The kind of father John would be and the health of his babies were not of importance to her, particularly since she knew she wasn't pregnant. Her menses had started that morning.

Telling herself not to be a goose, Mallory left for the pond to fetch the coverlet.

However, later, when John came in for the midday meal, Mallory caught herself studying him. She'd always admired his easy grace and long, tapered fingers. Now, while he slathered butter on a slice of her fresh bread and ate it, she
noticed he had good teeth, his forehead was the right height, too. She didn't admire men with high foreheads, and she didn't want it for her children.

“Mallory, a shilling for your thoughts.”

“What?” She shook her head, coming to her senses.

“You've been wool gathering,” he told her, moving to stand by her, next to the hearth. He picked up the heavy iron teapot and poured boiling water into his cup. “You had such a frown on your face, I was afraid you were thinking of me.”