Samantha James (11 page)

Simon did not deny the smoldering hunger that seeped along his veins. He did not savor it. He most certainly could not assuage it. Perhaps, he thought dimly, this was his penance, his price—to want her with a searing, blatant need that ripped into his very soul.

Anne proceeded to tuck her bare feet beneath
the hem of her wrapper. A faint smile rimmed his lips, a smile she did not see. There was nothing overtly provocative in either her bearing or her attire. Both nightgown and wrapper were modest. There was certainly nothing to warrant the sharpness of his need…

Save the fact that he’d seen her naked. And every womanly curve was burned into his consciousness like a brand.

Anne appeared to have forgotten her earlier unease. Her pose was prim, so at odds with the bent of his thoughts that he almost gave a shout of black laughter. Indeed, she appeared wholly oblivious to the twist of yearning in his gut. Yet why should he expect otherwise? goaded a mocking voice in his brain. He’d made it quite clear he would not assert his husbandly rights.

Yet his body betrayed him. And somehow his acknowledgment only increased tenfold the surge of heat that swelled—and settled—between his thighs. Simon decided it was a good thing he was sitting, else he’d have surely embarrassed them both.

He turned his attention to the tray that sat between them. There was cheese, thick slices of crusty bread and freshly churned butter, and meat pie covered with gravy. Simon filled a plate for her, and one for himself.

Anne nibbled on the bread, partaking rather liberally of her brandy. After a while, Simon
noticed her regard had settled on him. She scrutinized him rather closely, her head tipped to the side. She had a habit of that, he’d noticed, when she was considering this possibility and that. It was almost as if he could see the thoughts circling in her mind, one after the other.

“Is there something you wish to say?” he inquired.

“Actually, there is,” she declared. “It’s quite ridiculous, you know.”

“What?” He tasted the meat pie. Delicious.

“The way you avoid me.”

The words were a distinct challenge. Simon arched a brow. “Am I avoiding you now?”

“You know you are not.” She cast him a frown—or was it a glower? Simon was still debating when she spoke again.

“I would, however, like to ask you something.”

“Please do.” Simon smothered a smile. He eyed her glass, which was nearly empty. The brandy, he suspected, had nourished her courage and loosened her tongue.

“Very well then. I should like to know if you are always so difficult.”

Why, the chit! “I wasn’t aware,” he said rather stiffly, “that I was.”

“Well, you are,” she announced. “I think you go to great lengths to avoid me. I think you want me to think you difficult. Indeed, I think you
want
me to dislike you.”
Simon said nothing. Perhaps he did. Perhaps she would.

“You’re wrong,” he said shortly.

“Am I?”

“Yes, go—”
Goddamn it
. He clamped off the word just in time.

He began anew. “I don’t avoid you,” he lied. “I certainly don’t dislike you.” That, at least, was the truth. “If such were the case, I wouldn’t have been so concerned when I discovered you’d gone out in the storm.”
Against my wishes
, he almost reminded her, then thought better of it.

“Well, you needn’t have been,” came her hearty rejoinder.

Simon watched as she took another healthy swallow of brandy. He was sorely tempted to pluck the glass from her grasp. Ah, but no doubt she’d have called him difficult.

“I was frantic, Anne.” His voice was very quiet.

“Rubbish!” She vehemently declared her opinion.

“Oh, but I was.” His tone relayed the gravity of the statement. “Promise me you won’t do such a foolish thing again.”

He’d startled her, he realized. She blinked, as if perplexed. She gave a little shake of her head.

“Simon”—she spoke his name—“I was fine. You needn’t have worried. Truly. I took shelter throughout most of the storm.”

He frowned. “Where?”

“The building just inside the gates. I waited there until the worst of the storm was over.”

He sucked in a breath. “The carriage house?” he asked sharply.

“Is that what it is? I’m not sure. But there was once a fire there, I think.” Her eyes fixed earnestly on his.

For the space of a heartbeat, Simon couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He certainly couldn’t speak. Everything inside him rushed into a dark void.

“Good Lord,” he said sharply. “Do you how dangerous it is? Surely you saw that the roof has caved in.”

“Yes, yes, I saw that. But if it’s dangerous, why don’t you have it razed? Or rebuilt? If someone could get hurt, would it not be best to—”

Some strange, raw emotion seized hold of him. He could stand no more. He could
listen
no more.

He laid down his fork. He folded his napkin into a neat, precise square—it was the only way he could steady his hands.

Anne had broken off and was staring at him.

Pushing his chair back, he got to his feet. Bemused, she looked at him.

“Simon? Is something wrong?”

He heard the confusion in her tone. He sensed her dismay. But he couldn’t answer her. He couldn’t even look at her! Damn him for be
ing a coward. Damn him for being a cur. But everything inside had suddenly twisted into a stranglehold.

“I must beg your pardon.” He gave her a stiff bow. “I fear I’ve lost my appetite.”

Without a backward glance, he strode from the room.

It was late when Anne awoke the next morning, bleary-eyed and as tired as when she’d crawled into bed last night. Her temples were pounding—the brandy she’d consumed last night? Or her husband? No doubt, she decided, a little of both.

A glance through the window did little to improve her frame of mind. The day was dismal and gray. Ominous clouds huddled on the horizon, foretelling the possibility that yesterday’s downpour might reappear.

Sleep had proved elusive last night. She knew
that Simon hadn’t slept well either. It was near dawn when she’d heard the creak of his door, the echo of footsteps in the room that adjoined hers. Not that it was so unusual. Since her arrival at Rosewood Manor, nearly every night she’d heard the floorboards creaking in his room, long after midnight.

Not for the first time, she wondered what kept him from his rest. A mistress perhaps? No. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did.

He’d left the house early this morning. Anne heard the whinny of a horse shortly after dawn. Rising, she went to the window and peered outside just as Simon set his heel to his mount and galloped away.

It was nearly ten when she made her way downstairs. She wasn’t surprised that Simon didn’t join her, given the lateness of the hour. But when he didn’t appear at luncheon, she glared her displeasure at the empty head of the table where he should have sat.

Hearing a rustle at the doorway, she glanced up sharply. But it was only Duffy.

“Good afternoon, mum.”

“Good afternoon, Duffy.” She offered a warm smile. “I’ve not yet seen Simon today. I was just thinking that perhaps I should have Mrs. Wilder wait luncheon.”

Duffy’s answering smile vanished. A faint consternation replaced it.

“The master had business with his tenants
this morning. It appears he’s been delayed.”

Despite the hastiness of his response, Anne had the distinct sensation he hadn’t known what to say.

She inclined her head. “Yes,” she said pleasantly, “so it does.”

“Shall I tell him you wish to see him, my lady?”

“No, thank you, Duffy. There’s no need.”

“Good day then, mum.”

Anne took a breath. “Good day, Duffy.”

She didn’t blame him for his master’s faults. But it wasn’t right that he should have to offer excuses for his master. Far better to take it up with Simon.

It gave her a jolt to realize she’d been twisting her wedding ring in her lap, over and over. All at once it felt oppressively heavy.

It was probably a good thing he was absent, Anne reflected crossly. If he had been present, she would surely have strangled him. The man could starve, she decided rebelliously, for all she cared. In fact, given the foulness of her mood today, she rather hoped he would.

She was reading in the drawing room when she heard footsteps in the entrance hall. It was he—she recognized the rhythm of his gait. The footsteps stopped. She heard his deep baritone and a feminine voice that belonged to the housekeeper. She couldn’t make out the
words. Raising her head, she glanced toward the doorway, holding her breath expectantly.

Oh, but a foolish notion that was! The sound of his steps dwindled away. He was either in his study or in his chamber. What a fool she was to think he would seek her out!

His neglect—no, his utter disregard for her—cut to the bone. Bitterly she told herself she need not trouble herself with him, just as he refused to trouble himself with her.

She was on her feet in a heartbeat. She needed air. She needed
out
. God, if she stayed indoors another instant, she would surely smother. Throwing open the terrace doors, she stepped outside.

As if on cue, the drizzle of rain ceased. A watery sunshine began to shine through the clouds. Anne strolled the length of the house, her footsteps taking no particular direction.

There was a garden just off the south flank of the house, enclosed on three sides by a low stone wall. She found herself following the footpath. A bird flew out of a thicket, startling her from her reverie.

Anne glanced around. The crickets renewed their cheery chirp. A butterfly weaved and fluttered high and away. A bee whizzed by her ear. A smile curved her lips, the first genuine smile of the day. Raindrops glistened and sparkled like jewels. The air was heavy and moist, laden
thick with the smell of damp, pungent earth and a fragrant richness. Moss and ferns grew beneath the shade of the north wall, still wet with the recent shower of rain.

On the opposite end was a zigzag row of rose bushes.

Anne had never been particularly fond of formal, exquisitely manicured gardens. There was something to be admired about the order of nature, the swirling fall of leaves from the trees, the nurturing sleep of winter, and fresh shoots bursting through the soil in spring.

But this was Mother Earth gone somewhat awry, a shame really, for this was a garden that could be quite lovely, a peaceful haven in which to bask. She fixed an eye on the roses. In the center were three bushes of pale, creamy white blossoms. Lovely as they were, they looked rather lonely sitting behind the rest. As for the others, the branches twisted and twined and vied with one another, as if doing battle.

Anne placed a finger on the center of her chin and considered. How much more attractive, she mused, if those three lonely white bushes were brought forward and set between the vibrant blush of the red.

A gardener really should be employed, she thought. Why was she not surprised?

It took but a moment’s consideration. Why wait for a gardener? Indeed, why wait at all?

Hurrying inside, she borrowed an apron and
gloves from a maid in the kitchen. On her way back, she stopped at the gardener’s shed just behind the wall and retrieved a small spade and pail, then set out briskly for the garden once more.

Duffy encountered his new lady just as she emerged from the kitchens.

“My lady!” He had to stop himself from gaping in astonishment. An apron tied loosely over her gown, her bonnet askew, she looked so young and vivacious, his heart nearly stopped. And judging from her gay smile, her temperament was much improved since luncheon.

“Oh, hello, Duffy!”

“My lady, the master has returned. Shall I tell him you wish to see him?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I think not,” she said.

He stared. “My lady?”

“There’s no need, Duffy. I shall be engaged elsewhere for a while. However, if he wishes to know where I am, I shall be in the garden.”

“The garden?”

“Yes,” she returned gaily. “Have you been there of late? It’s dreadfully in need of tending, you know.”

Duffy gulped. “My lady, perhaps you should—”

“I know what you’re thinking, Duffy, and it’s quite generous of you. But I don’t need any help. Truly. I’m quite capable of moving a few rose
bushes on my own. The earth is quite soft, particularly after this rain.” She laughed breezily. “Carry on, if you please, and so shall I!”

Duffy’s eyes widened as she sailed outside.
No
, he thought.
Oh, no…

With heavy heart, he made his way to the master’s study. He rapped lightly on the door, then stepped inside.

“Sir?”

The master looked up from his desk. “Yes?”

Duffy hesitated. He disliked being the bearer of tales. He particularly disliked telling tales on the new mistress of Rosewood. He liked her—nay, he’d grown to love her, for already she had brought light and warmth to a place that had seen only shadows and darkness for far too long…

If only his master could see it. If only he would allow himself to see
her
!

But it was not his place to judge. And oh! but he had no choice to do what he was about to do.

“Her Ladyship, sir. She is…”

“She’s what? Speak up, man.”

“She’s in the garden, sir.” He gulped. “There.” He pointed to the windows.

The master’s eyes followed his finger, where a figure had just breezed down the footpath.

“She…she said…something about…moving the roses, sir.”

The master was already on his feet and
wheeling about the corner of his desk. A blistering curse seared the air.

Duffy’s shoulders sagged. Fiercely he berated himself. He was a traitor. And he could only hope his new lady would forgive him—

And that she would understand.

“What the devil are you doing?”

Anne jumped at the voice booming above her. It resounded in every pore of her body, much like the thunder that had roared across the earth yesterday.

Hauling in a steady, calming breath, she blew aside a wisp of hair that had fallen across her brow and regarded her husband.

What the devil was
he
doing? she thought irritably. He looked a madman, every bit as ominous as yesterday’s storm. Dropping the pruning shears next to the largest of the three ivory rose bushes, she sat back on her heels. She would not lose her temper. She would
not
.

“I should think it would be obvious,” she stated coolly. “I’m clearing the garden.” She dusted off her hands. “I do believe that rose belongs over there.” She pointed. “The white would look so much prettier against the red. Besides, just look at it—why, it’s so atrociously overgrown it looks perfectly horrid—”

“Do not cut it. Do not move it. Do not touch it.”

Strong hands caught her beneath the elbows and dragged her upright.

Anne yanked away. “What!” she cried, incensed. “Leave me be, Simon! I’m tired of your rules. I’m tired of your moods. Do not go here. Do not go there. I’m tired of being told where I can and cannot go. I
won’t
be told what I can and cannot do.”

His eyes fairly sizzled. “Hear me, Anne. You will not cut it. You will not move it. You will not touch it.”

His speech heated her temper, like flame to tinder. “And why not?” she cried. “Why can’t I move it? Why can’t I touch it? Or any other one I please?”

The look he turned on her was utterly fierce. “Because my wife is buried there. My wife—and my boys.”