A Lady by Midnight

“If it’s causing you that much anguish, release me from the engagement.”

Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t do that so fast. I would look fickle, even mercenary. What kind of woman would engage herself to a man one evening, then throw him over the very next day just because her circumstances changed?”

“A great many women would do that.”

“Well, I’m not one of them.”

Thorne knew very well she wasn’t.

“The Gramercys might be my relations,” she went on. “I want them to like me—and to know me—for who I truly am. I’m not the kind of woman to marry for convenience. Unless we lie a little bit, I’ll feel dishonest.”

Thorne frowned. Was she asking him to behave like an interested suitor? He’d made concealing his attraction to her such a habit, he wasn’t sure he knew how to do the reverse.

He opened his mouth to speak, but from beyond the wall came another shout: “Ready!”

Another count: “Three, two . . .”

Another shot from the trebuchet. This time, after several seconds of silence, he heard a distant, watery splash.

“Better,” Sir Lewis called. “The force is right, but the aim is off. I need to adjust the mechanism.”

“Our stories,” Thorne said, once the men had gone quiet again. “Let’s make them matching, as you say.”

“First, what are our plans after the wedding? Supposedly you’re going to America.”

“I am going to America. So supposedly you’re coming with me.”

“Are we headed for New York? Boston?”

“Philadelphia, but only to gather supplies. I’ve a plan to claim some land in Indiana Territory.”

“Indiana Territory?” She scrunched up her face. “Indiana. That sounds very . . . primitive.”

Thorne shifted his weight. Through the lacy castle ruins, he could see the glistening, aquamarine cove and the expansive Channel beyond. Clearly the prospect of wide-open spaces didn’t appeal to her the way it called to him. He’d been planning this for some time now—his own tract of land. He’d been clinging to the idea so long, he could feel the grit under his fingernails. There’d be rich soil to till, game to hunt and trap. Ample timber for the felling.

True freedom, and the chance to make his own life.

“Where would we live?” she asked.

“I’d build a house,” he said.

“How would I continue with my music? I couldn’t give it up. Not plausibly. This is me we’re talking about. Everyone knows I’d never have agreed to marry you—or anyone—unless music was part of the bargain.”

“I’ll see that you have a pianoforte.” He had no idea how one would be transported to the middle of the woodlands, but the logistics hardly signified.

“And pupils?”

He gestured impatiently with one hand. “There’d be children, eventually.”

“I’ve tutored the daughters of dukes and lords. And now I’d be teaching frontier neighbor children?”

“No, I meant ours. Our children.”

Her eyebrows soared. A rather long time passed before she said, “Oh.”

He made no apology for the insinuation. “This is me we’re talking about. Everyone knows I wouldn’t offer marriage to you—or anyone—unless bedding were part of the bargain.”

Her cheeks colored. Thorne had a vivid, sudden vision of the two of them in a rough-hewn log cabin, tucked between a straw-tick mattress and a quilted counterpane. Nothing but heat and musk between their bodies. He’d curl his strength around her softness, keeping out the cold and howling wolves. The scent of her hair would lull him to sleep.

That picture looked damn near paradise to him—which meant it was unattainable. And he could imagine she wouldn’t see the charms.

“What about love?” she asked.

He jerked his head, surprised. “What about it?”

“Do you mean to love me? What about all these children you mean for us to create? Am I to believe you’ll laugh and play with them, be open with them, let them into that stony thing you call a heart?”

He stared at her. If he thought he could ever give her those things, he would have offered to do so. Months ago.

He said, “No one needs to believe love’s involved.”

“Of course they do. Because I would need to believe it.”

“Miss Taylor . . .”

“This will never work.” She rubbed her brow with one hand. “No one will credit that I’ve agreed to leave my friends, my work, my home, and my country behind. And for what? To cross the ocean and take up residence in a remote wilderness cabin with a man who can’t fathom the meaning of love? In Indiana?”

He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. “We’re ill suited. I know that. I could never make you happy. I know that, too. I’m so far beneath you, the best I could ever offer would be a paltry fraction of what you deserve. I’m aware of all of this, Miss Taylor. You don’t have to remind me.”

Regret softened her eyes. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”

“Save the apologies. You spoke the truth. I was only agreeing.”

“No, no. I can’t stand for you to believe that I’d . . .” She reached for him.

Holy God. She reached for him, and before he could duck or step back or fall on his sword to prevent it, her gloved hand was on his cheek. Her palm flattened there, warm and satiny. Sensation jolted through his body.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but strong. “You’re not beneath me. I’d never think that.”

Yes, you are beneath her, he reminded himself, bracing against the forbidden bliss coursing through his veins. And don’t dare imagine you’ll ever be atop her. Or curled behind her. Or buried deep inside her while she—

Bloody hell. The fact that he could even think such a thing. He was crude, disgusting. So undeserving of even this slight caress. Her gesture was made out of guilt, offered in apology. If he took advantage, he would be a devil.

He knew all this.

But he flexed his arms anyway, drawing her close.

“You’re worried you’ve hurt my feelings,” he murmured.

She nodded, just a little.

“I don’t have those.”

“I forgot.”

Amazing. He marveled at her foolishness. After all he’d said to her, she would worry about him? Within this small, slight woman lived so much untapped affection, she couldn’t help but squander it on music pupils and mongrel dogs and undeserving brutes. What was it like, he wondered, to live with that bright, glowing star in her chest? How did she survive it?

If he kissed her deeply enough and held her tight—would some of its warmth transfer to him?

“Wait,” came a call, echoing vaguely in the distance. “Hold still! Not yet!”

Perhaps the voice belonged to his conscience. He couldn’t bring himself to pay it any mind. All he knew was her touch and her caring and the raw, trembling force of his own need.

He drew her closer still. Her eyes went wide. Larger and more lovely than he’d ever seen them before. A whole world of possibility was opening in those dark pupils.

And then . . . Her gaze drifted up and a little to the side. Her lips fell apart in wonder.

A strange shadow appeared on her face.

A shadow that was round, and growing larger by the instant. As though some projectile were rapidly approaching from above.

Jesus, no.

Thorne had been here before, many times. Battle, sieges, skirmishes. Thought ceased, and instinct took over. His grip tightened on her shoulders. His already thundering heart pumped faster, powering strength to his limbs.

The word “Down!” tore from his throat.

He threw himself forward, wrapping her body in his arms and flattening her to the ground—

Just as the explosion hit.

Chapter Eight

It took Kate several seconds to register what had happened.

One moment she’d been staring, incredulous, as an object plummeted toward her from the sky. She’d stood transfixed by the sheer absurdity of it. This strange, roundish thing silhouetted against the sun, growing larger and closer . . . and greener.

The next thing she knew, she was on the ground. Corporal Thorne was on top of her. And they were both covered in wet, sticky melon pulp. Shards of rind littered the ground nearby. A pungent sweetness filled her heightened senses. Evidently, Sir Lewis’s adjustments to the trebuchet had gone awry.

Really, there was nothing else for it. She had to laugh. Softly at first, but soon her whole body shook with mirth.

Thorne didn’t share her amusement. He didn’t rise or roll to the side. He kept her in his arms, covering her with his body. His muscles had gone rigid, everywhere. When she sought his gaze, she found his blue eyes searching and unfocused. His nostrils were flared and his breaths were harshly won.

“Thorne? Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer. She didn’t think he could answer.

He wasn’t there.

It was the only way she could think to describe it. His body lay atop her, heavy as sacks of grain. She knew he was alive, from the way his heartbeat slammed against hers. But mentally, he wasn’t there. He was somewhere else. On some scorched, smoking battlefield, she imagined, where round objects falling from the sky had a great deal more destructive force than the average overripe melon.

She touched his face, just lightly. “Thorne? It’s all right. It was only a melon. I’m not hurt. Are you?”

His arms flexed, squeezing her until she winced with pain.

He forced a strange growl through his clenched teeth. The sound was inhuman. Each hair on her arms stood tall, as if to wave a tiny flag of surrender, and her pulse drummed in her ears. She was truly afraid now. For him, and for herself. She lay small and defenseless beneath him. If he’d mistaken her for the enemy on his phantom battlefield, he could do her true harm.

She caressed his face with trembling fingers, reaching to sweep the hair back from his brow. Between the velvet of his thick, soft hair and the wetness of the melon pulp, it felt like stroking a newborn foal. Tenderness swelled in her heart.

“All’s well. We’re unharmed. This is Rycliff Castle. Spindle Cove.” Kate tried to keep her voice low and steady, aiming to soothe them both. “You’re home. And it’s only me. Miss Taylor. Kate. I’m the music tutor, remember? I’m your . . . I’m a friend.”

His jaw tensed. And not in a friendly way.

She’d never been more aware of the brute power contained in a man’s body. If he wished, he could snap her in two. Though perhaps not very cleanly—which was all the more reason to avoid the experience, she thought. Somehow, she needed to remind him of his humanity. The gentleness these same bones and tendons and muscles could produce.

“I’m Miss Taylor,” she repeated. “Yesterday, you came to my rescue in Hastings. You brought me home on your horse. We stopped to take bread, and—and you kissed me. In a field of heather, just at sunset. I’ve tried so hard to forget it, but I’ve thought of little else since. Can you recall it?”

She brushed a thumb across his lips.

His mouth softened a little and a shaky exhalation rushed over her fingertips. She thought she glimpsed a spark of awareness returning to his eyes.

“Yes,” she said, encouraging him. “You’re well. We’re both safe. It’s only me.”

A shudder racked his body. He blinked hard, and his gaze began to focus on her face.

From his throat came a raspy, “Katie?”

She half sobbed with relief. “Yes. Yes, it’s me.”

He stared blankly at the melon pulp splattering her shoulder. “You’re hurt.”

“No. No, I’m fine. It’s not blood. The militiamen were adjusting Sir Lewis’s trebuchet, and there was a mishap. You took a melon for me.” She smiled, even though her lips trembled. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">