My Runaway Heart (26 page)

Chapter 23

Lindsay wasn't daunted when Jared didn't reply,
imagining there were few men who would derive as much pleasure as she from a
grassy slope covered with wildflowers. And she had sensed his hesitation from
the start about going on a picnic, but he had agreed, thrilling her. It would
have been a shame to spend the rest of the afternoon indoors, no matter how
quaint the inn.

"I think it looks like a spot you would choose.
Anyone who revels in simple things as you do."

She glanced at him, as startled as she was warmed by
his words, the intent way he was looking at her making her heart race. Suddenly
feeling quite giddy, silly, too, she let go of his arm and proceeded to pull
off her slippers.

"You can't go to a picnic with shoes, Jared. It's
not permitted, didn't you know? One must be barefoot to walk in the grass."

He frowned as he glanced down at his black boots, and
for a moment she thought he might decline. But when he handed her the basket,
she could have clapped her hands with delight.

"I hope none of my men see me."

"And what if they did? I've never heard that going
barefoot could make someone less of a man."

Especially not a man as magnificent as he, she thought
with a shiver of longing so intense she was glad Jared had leaned over to
wrench off his boots. How she envied the sea breeze rippling through his
burnished hair, wishing it were her fingers; envied the sunlight caressing his
face—

"There. So much for my boots. Is there anything
else we must divest ourselves of to enjoy our picnic?"

Caught staring at him, Lindsay met his eyes to find his
gaze drifting as brazenly over her. Blushing to her toes, she started out
across the field without him, but he pursued her, catching up easily within a
few strides.

"The basket, Lindsay. Let me carry it."

She handed it back to him and slowed her pace, unable
to suppress a smile at how boyish he looked, his boots tucked under one
arm
and the basket tucked under the other. Again she was
overcome by such yearning, such hope that it might be true—that she might mean
something to him—that she knew she had to find out. And there was only one
thing she could do, but not yet . . . not yet.

Lindsay was grateful for the coolness of the grass
beneath her feet, suddenly feeling so warm, so distracted, that she gasped when
Jared nudged her arm.

"Isn't that the spot over there? You walked right
past it."

Indeed she had. Lindsay felt twice as warm as she
murmured her thanks and backtracked, delicate white and yellow wildflowers
swishing against her legs. The day seemed not quite so carefree now for the
import she'd given it, but she still made herself smile brightly as she whirled
to face him, hoping she didn't appear nervous. She gestured with a dramatic
flourish.

"How about here, my lord?"

"If the honeybees aren't vicious, I suppose we'll
survive. Are you as fond of them, too?"

"Of course," she said lightly, sinking down
into the grass and folding her legs beneath her. "Bees and flowers go
together—they don't frighten me."

"I don't think much does,"
came
his wry reply. Jared set the basket in front of her and then sprawled on his
back, his boots thrust under his head for a pillow. He closed his eyes, swiping
at a thin stalk of grass tickling his ear. "Hmm, is this how picnics go?
The gentleman sleeps while the lady readies the meal?"

"I suppose, if the gentleman isn't hungry. Ifs
usually been my experience that everyone helps themselves, because it's fun to
see what's in the basket. Haven't you ever been on a picnic before?"

She was surprised when he shook his head, then rolled
onto his side and propped himself on one elbow, his eyes distant.

"Never one like this. In Calcutta, picnics were
grand, elaborate affairs all the English attended with their servants and
silver plate and great tents spread over the lawn."

"Sounds lovely."

"Maybe. I don't know anymore, it was so long ago.
Like a dream."

Never having seen him so pensive before, Lindsay was tempted
to ask him more about India, especially considering what Dag had said, and that
Jared would talk about a place where he'd lived until three years ago as if he
hadn't been there for ages. But she changed her mind when his expression grew
hard, almost as if a shadow had passed across his face . . . and their picnic.

"Shall we eat?" she offered softly, wondering
what grim thoughts could have so suddenly darkened his mood. When he sat up
without a word, she threw aside the linen napkin covering the basket with as
exaggerated a flourish as she'd displayed moments ago, hoping to make him
smile.

He didn't, but, undaunted as before, she smiled at him
and drew a small crock of fragrant Irish stew from the basket, placing it on
the grass between them. "I hope the innkeeper thought to give us spoons.
The poor woman was in a terrible tizzy. I told her I was in such a hurry, you
were waiting for me
outside—
ah, here we are!"

Handing him a spoon, she immediately dove hers into the
thick lamb-based broth studded with pearly chunks of potatoes, her stomach
grumbling so loudly she imagined they might hear it all the way out to where
the
Vengeance
was anchored. Only when
she popped the wonderful-tasting stuff into her mouth did she realize Jared was
chuckling, which made her redden with chagrin. Yet she could hardly talk, her
mouth was so full.

"Sorry. I'm . . . I'm so hungry—"

"Swallow first,
then
make
your excuses," he said, amused, then dug into the stew as well.

Lindsay couldn't help herself, enjoying several more
heaping spoonfuls to soothe her long-denied stomach before she pulled out the
rest of the basket's contents. A crusty round of bread, a creamy wedge of goat
cheese
and a tall corked bottle the gracious innkeeper had
thrown in at the last moment.

"Wild berry wine," she announced, producing two
tin cups. "Last year's vintage, a bumper crop on the island, or so I was
told. Will you honor us, sir?"

Jared smiled and nodded, Lindsay glad to see he
appeared to be enjoying himself again, which relieved her immensely. Deciding
she wasn't going to touch the subject of India at all, at least not today, she
tore off a generous hunk of bread and sprinkled one side with crumbly goat
cheese while Jared poured the wine.

"Do picnics always inspire such a hearty appetite?"

Meeting his eyes, Lindsay could see that he was
teasing, but her cheeks grew warm again anyway. "Actually, I made this one
for you."

"Ah. Then it's only right that we should share it."

He set a brimming cup of wine in front of her and then
accepted the bread, his fingers grazing hers making Lindsay feel as if her
entire body were aflame. Suddenly she wasn't so hungry any longer, ignoring the
torn half he offered her and reaching for her wine instead.

"How is it?"

She must have grimaced, the stuff more tangy than sweet,
for he winced in empathy. Yet he raised a brow when she drained the cup, then
sheepishly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Sorry. I was—"

"Thirsty, I know." Smiling, he shrugged,
then
proceeded to drain his cup, too. His eyes were watering
when he finished, his mouth pursed as if he'd bitten into a lemon, which made
Lindsay laugh aloud when he tossed his cup back into the basket, clearly
disgruntled.

"A vintage year, you said? I'd hate to taste a bad
year's bottling—either that or these Irish don't get off their island often
enough to know what's bloody drinkable!"

"Ah, but at least the stew was lovely, wasn't it?"

"Lovely? That's a word I'd use to describe you,
but a stew?"

As if he hadn't realized what he'd said
,
Jared rolled back onto the ground, adjusting his boots
higher under his head while he stretched his long, lean legs out in front of
him. Meanwhile, Lindsay could only stare at him, her heart thundering, as he
finished his bread, crumbled bits of goat cheese falling onto his chest.

He brushed them away, but not all. Almost without
realizing what she was doing, Lindsay moved to him, a startled look coming over
his face when she reached out to brush away a last few crumbs.

"I'm sorry, you missed . . ." She couldn't
finish, his eyes darkening to such a vivid blue as he stared at her that her
breath caught, too, and suddenly she knew that the moment had come. She had to
know,
she just had to, her heart in her throat as she leaned
over and pressed her lips gently to his.

At once Lindsay felt him tense, and she feared she'd
been too brazen, too bold. But almost in the same instant she heard a low
groan, Jared's arms encircling her to crush her fiercely against him, his
fingers enmeshing in her hair.

Joy overwhelming her, she thought no more, surrendering
to a kiss that belonged to Jared now, not to her, not gentle but deep and dark
and powerful, her hands fisting in his shirt when his tongue swept into her
mouth. Wildly she clung to him, scarcely realizing he had rolled over and drawn
her with him until she felt his weight atop her, pressing her into the grass,
her arms flying around his neck to draw him closer still.

"Oh, God, Lindsay . . ."

His husky words against her lips like a prayer, she
gave herself to him as surely in that moment as if he'd sworn his undying love,
her hope soaring, the longing she had felt for him from the moment they'd
waltzed together growing so intense, so searing, she thought she would shatter
into a thousand aching pieces. And when he tore his lips suddenly from hers to
stare into her eyes, her breath gone, her limbs weak and trembling, she knew,
she knew. Yet she found she had voice only to whisper what she wanted to shout
from the depths of her heart.

"Oh, Jared, I love you. I love—"

"Damnation, woman, enough!"

He'd thrust himself off her before she could blink,
Lindsay staring at him in shock as he rose and swept up his boots.

"Get up. Get up now. We're going back to the
village."

Incredulous tears blinding her, she didn't think she'd
ever heard him sound so harsh. Or seen him look
so
furious as he wrenched on his boots. Somehow she made herself rise shakily to
her feet while he began to throw things back into the basket, the crock of
stew, her tin cup. She winced at the sound of a bottle shattering, red berry
wine seeping out onto the grass.

"Jared—"

"I said enough, Lindsay!"

"But I don't understand. I know I mean something
to you, just as—"

"You mean nothing to me, woman! How many times
must I tell you?"

As his cruel shout echoed across the field, Lindsay
almost sank to her knees in despair. "No, I don't believe that's the
truth," she said hoarsely, unable to check the tears running down her face
as Jared thrust her slippers into her hand. "I can't, I won't."

He sighed then, so raggedly, turning his face to the sea,
that Lindsay felt once more the slimmest ray of hope. But his voice was so
cold, so hollow, that the tiny flicker seemed to freeze in her heart.

"Someday you will find someone to love you—someone
who'll care for you and never let you go. But it can't be me. It will never be
me."

"But you kissed me. If you don't care, then why .
. . ?"

He laughed
brittlely
, his
expression hard as stone when he turned back to face her. "Still naïve,
too, and as reckless. Maybe after today you might be better able to discern the
difference between lust and love. I'm a man, Lindsay, like any other. You're a
beautiful young woman. If you've imagined something on my part, then I'm sorry,
but I don't love you."

He looked away, grabbing up the basket, but she
scarcely noticed, as numb as if her heart had been torn from her breast, no
feelings left inside her. The only thing that stung badly was her arm, the
exertions of the day obviously too much, too soon for her.

Wincing, she glanced down at her right sleeve, not
surprised to see a small bloodstain there, her wound seeping. Jared saw it,
too, and he came up beside her, but she brushed past him and began to retrace
their path across the field. He didn't bother to pursue her this time, yet she
knew he was behind her, probably thinking what a foolish twit she was, so
ridiculously romantic to have fallen in love with a pirate.

Reaching the winding lane, Lindsay faltered; to return
to the village made little sense to her. Without meeting Jared's eyes, she
glanced toward the distant beach, where the two sailors who'd rowed her and
Walker to shore sat waiting for them beneath a stubby tree.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to go back to the
ship. To lie down—"

"You can lie down at the inn. Come."

Jared's face inscrutable, she couldn't fathom what he
had meant
,
the walk to the village unbearable compared
with how wondrous everything had seemed when they'd left. Wondrous and
lighthearted and so full of promise

"So you're back. Enjoy your picnic?"

Walker was striding from the inn to greet them. His
grin faded when Lindsay gave no reply, Jared steering her past the American to
the door.

"What happened to the wench?"

"The wench . . . ? Oh, yes, the wench. She had a
father—an old bugger, really, but he had a pistol. He thought it best I wait
for you at the inn."

"Wise man."

Wondering how Jared could make sport with Walker after
what had just happened, Lindsay felt her heart sink even lower, for everything
he'd said must have been true. Fresh tears burning her eyes, she didn't bother
to turn around when Walker cleared his throat, his voice oddly strained.