Chasing the Heiress (7 page)

“Unfortunately, whether balls or marbles, the bowling alley is in the family garden. Guests aren't allowed there,” she explained, without any hope it would make a difference. He was charming and headstrong, this patient of hers.

“Nell has graciously allowed me to purchase the garden for the afternoon,” he gloated. “She says I'm her favorite guest.”

“If by favorite, you mean most lucrative, then yes.”

“Ah, unkind, my sweet. But true. At least when my brother arrives, we will have occupants to fill all the rooms I've reserved.”

Lucy had noticed that the inn was especially empty, but she hadn't realized why. Gratitude warmed her belly. By letting all the rooms, Colin had unknowingly protected her from her cousin's men.

“No one enjoys losing sleep when an infant cries in the night,” Colin continued expansively. “I'm just ensuring that all Nell's guests have a good night's sleep—at other inns. Now, help me down the stairs.”

“It is still too early for you to be roaming about—much less play a game of lawn bowls. Your wound isn't fully knit yet.”

“Sweet nurse, I was shot more than a week ago. Men returned to the battlefield with less convalescence than I've had.”

“Wellington's adjutants made those decisions, not me. And
you
only awoke day before yesterday. Besides, a walk isn't on your list.” She crossed her arms across her chest and stared at him. “I can refuse to do it.”

“Refuse all you like. I can walk on my own.” From the edge of the bed, he pushed himself up, his face paling only slightly. “I'm feeling quite well.”

“You are a stubborn, difficult man.” She tucked her shoulder under his arm to support his weight and protect him from falling.

“Says the nurse who refused to let me die.” He curled his arm around her, then pulled her closer to his side, whether for support or amusement she didn't know.

“I'm reconsidering the wisdom of that position.” She held the waistband of his pants to hold him up as she had the night they first met. “If you are foolish enough to break open my carefully sewn stitches, I might just call down St. Peter to carry you away.”

“At least you think I belong with the saints. That's something at least,” Colin led her out of the room and into the hall. “I was sure you had me for a reprobate and a sinner.”

“I'm sure St. Peter can deliver you to whatever place you are bound,” Lucy retorted, pleased that, despite his wound, his mind remained agile and quick.

“Ah, but you tuck so nicely under my arm, and you fit so perfectly next to my side. Perhaps I just want you next to me, caustic wit and all.”

“When you are well, I will make you regret that comment.” Lucy felt the warmth of a blush bloom on her cheeks.

“Could you make me regret it now?” He gave her a slow wink. “I might still die, and I'd hate to miss that pleasure.”

* * *

Colin loved taunting her, watching the way her mind leapt to the next retort, seeing occasionally, as now, a blush bloom on her cheeks. He wished he had been less narrow in his list of what activities she could expect to do. Now that he'd begun to anticipate the turn of her mind, he wanted more of her. He wanted to hear all her witty rejoinders and participate in all her thoughtful debates. He wanted to know about her past and her hopes for the future, and, most importantly, whether he could beat her at bowls.

Since that first night, when he'd pressed her for a kiss, he'd told himself that his behavior and her acquiescence was merely an aberration. He wouldn't have felt so drawn to her had he been completely sober and well. He even explained away his compulsion to tease her as merely a welcome escape from boredom. But none of that explained how happy he felt when she tucked herself, like a good nurse, under his arm. He must remind himself not to grow too attached.

But he set aside that reminder as soon as they left the lodge to walk through the carriage yard to the garden door. Lucy looked fearful, holding him more tightly, anxious—he supposed—that he would fall on the graveled drive. Her concern touched and warmed him.

Of course, once they were in the garden with its verdant grass paths, she relaxed and slipped immediately out from under his arm. Little harm could come to him here, save for grass stains if he fell. He breathed deeply the cool breeze, pulling the air into the lowest quarter of his lungs. His side pinched, but not badly.

Beyond them on the wide green, a narrow alley of close-mown grass held several hand-sized balls and, at some distance away, the target, a smaller ball of a different color called a jack.

“Well, look at that. The jack is already in place. A nice distance for the target, don't you think? Or should we reset it.”

Her eyes measured the distance, then she sighed loudly.

“After you, my lady,” he offered with expansive gallantry, but also watching for her reaction. There was none, not even the startled surprise he would have expected from a servant.

She knelt, picking her way through the balls.

He picked up his first ball. The wound in his side ached only slightly. He let the ball bounce in his hand a few times to feel its weight and shape, then bowled it down the alley—badly. His ball stopped twelve inches from the jack. “I used to be better than this.” He picked up his second ball.

“This is a very bad idea. You may feel well now, but think of all the movements you are making: leaning over, lifting a weight, twisting as you pull your arm back, then driving your arm forward against the resistance of the ball. All those are things you haven't done since before you were shot.”

“And I'm having a very good time doing them. The day is splendid. I'm in a garden with a delightful woman, and I'm alive to play a game of lawn bowls. Play with me, Lucy. If I die tomorrow I will have had this last exceptional day. Wouldn't Quixote approve?”

“Yes, he would,” she said grudgingly, picking up one of the other balls. Her bowl arched beautifully, knocking his off the green and curving to rest less than an inch from the jack. “Beat that.”

“Why, my sweet, you never told me you are a shark at lawn bowls.”

“I have many talents you have not yet discovered,” she said archly, and his stomach flipped at her slight smile.

“Oh, but I would like to discover them, Lucy. I would like to discover every one.”

She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh, and bowled again, placing another ball within an inch of the jack, setting her balls in such a way that by the end of the match, she had beaten him roundly.

He stood looking at the balls, “Tell me, Lucy, what do you value most in a friend—honesty, bravery, or circumspection?”

“I understand that men turn philosophical after a gunshot, but discussing the meaning of life is not on your list.” She looked at the jack and threw her ball. “Why do you ask?”

“I need a distraction to ensure I win.”

“Ah, then pick a better question, because I value most a friend who has all three.” Her ball swung wide, stopped far beyond the jack and Colin's balls.

“Brilliant. My strategy is already working!” Colin pitched his ball. It came to rest perfectly in a small space between his last ball and the jack. “I would choose honesty.”

She looked up, regarding his face carefully. “Honesty is the least trustworthy of the virtues.”

Colin heard her words with dismay, and he threw his next ball far too short. Octavia had told him much the same thing: “
Ah, but my sweet, it is not in the nature of man to tell the truth. You lie to yourself every time you lie with me”.
But when he turned to Lucy, he made sure he was smiling. “Explain, dear lady. Are you saying that you would wish to have a friend who lied to you?”

“Honesty depends on the context. To keep a friend's confidences sometimes requires that one lie or, at the least, dissemble, to other friends or acquaintances. Even to say, ‘I cannot say,' sometimes is a betrayal.” She flung her ball hard, sending one of his balls far off the field. “That is why I would not have honesty without it being accompanied by circumspection and bravery.”

Not like Octavia, not like her at all. He breathed in deeply, feeling the air calm in his lungs. “Your turn.”

She looked at the bowling ground with confusion. “I just threw there.” She pointed at her last ball and said with a certain pride. “The one closest to the jack.”

“I meant it's your turn to ask a question.” He bowled through, moving her ball away from the jack several inches.

She grimaced, then threw short, setting her ball precisely where Colin would need to throw to gain the match. “I seem to lack imagination. I can't think of any questions.”

“Ah, see I have the advantage here. I was at a party recently where one matchmaking mama insisted we all ‘make our confession' by answering a series of thirty-six questions she'd hand-lettered on long sheets of paper and tucked with a pencil under our dinner plates.” He threw a deft curve, avoiding the obstacle and placing his ball between hers and the jack.

“Thirty-six? That sounds dreadful—and time-consuming. Were you able to finish before the fish or did you have to write through dessert?” She considered the playing field, and chose the direct route, hitting the ball she'd bowled to thwart him back toward the jack. But he enjoyed her growl of dismay when her throw hit its target off-center, sending both her balls toward opposite edges of the alley.

“It was only dreadful if you answered honestly. Since I wished for all the mothers in her circle to have their daughters give me a wide berth, I gave answers no mother could love.”

“Like what?”

“To the question ‘Do you believe in working for money and marrying for love?' I answered with an unequivocal ‘Marriage is the province of fools unless the woman and dowry are equally handsome.' To the question, ‘What do you consider the most beautiful thing in nature?' I responded, ‘My horse crossing the finish line before the pack.' To ‘What is your favorite piece of poetry?' I declaimed loudly, ‘O good ale comes and good ale goes, good ale makes me sell my hose, sell my hose and pawn my shoes, good ale keeps my heart from sinking.' That's Bobby Burns, by the way.”

“I recognized him.” A small smile creased the corners of her mouth. “It was a popular song in the camps, except the Highland regiments insisted we sing it with the Scottish words.”

Leaving him at the end of the alley, Lucy stood before the jack, assessing the distances between their balls and the target. “Your bowls are clearly closest. That's one match to me, and one to you. But before we decide to break the tie, I'd like you to rest a little. There's a seat behind the fruit trees where the walls join.” Without waiting for his answer, she disappeared into the shadows.

The stone seat was sheltered in an alcove, invisible from the inn itself or the attached two-story wing where his party lodged. Thick ivy hung down the garden wall on either side of the enclosure, giving it the feel of a grotto.

“Were you successful in frightening the mothers away?” She sat first, then patted the bench beside her. “There's plenty of room for you.”

“Ah, yes.” He settled in next to her, feeling the side of his leg touch hers from hip to knee. “I doubt if any of them would allow their daughters to sit with me in a secluded grotto.”

“Not that secluded.” She patted the wall beside her head. “This wall, on the other side, forms part of the mews. What other questions were part of the game?”

“What? No answers of your own?” Colin pretended horror. “Who, my dear lady, is your favorite living orator? Your favorite hero and heroine of fiction? Your favorite proverb? Your favorite animal? Color? Flower? I can go on.”

“None of those seems so terrible.” She patted his knee in commiseration.

“Ah, but you haven't heard the more personal ones: ‘Have you ever been in love, and how often? Briefly describe your ideal man or woman. What is your idea of the greatest earthly happiness? The greatest misery?'” He groaned. “And worst yet, ‘Do you believe in love at first sight?'” He heard the words as they left his mouth.

Her hand was still on his knee, her scent—rose water—filled his lungs. It would be so easy to pull her into his arms. He turned his face toward hers to find she was examining him intently. Her eyes so dark were unreadable, her lips—oh, those lips!—tempted him. He looked at his shoes, but he could still feel her warmth where their legs touched.

“Do you?” Her voice was soft, even a whisper.

“Do I what?” He turned back to her and saw the uplift of her chin. Then she was kissing him. Her lips pressed firmly on his, not with the sweet gentleness that began their first kiss, but with a pent-up passion that caught him off-guard. Her passion called to his, and he did not resist.

He felt her body turn into his, her arms curl around his neck. And then he was holding her, her chest rising and falling against his. He knew he should stop. An officer to an officer's daughter, but that phrase had little sway over the desire growing at the pit of his stomach. Her mouth ravaged his, and he met her, stroke for stroke, each pushing the other higher, until his breathing, increasingly ragged, caught against the stitches in his side. The swift flash of pain called him back to himself with an unwanted speed.

He set her back from him, searching her face. “I did not intend . . .”

“I did.” Her voice was firm. “Your family will arrive soon, and when they do, I will return to my place in the kitchen. But before we part, I wanted a kiss to remember you by.”

“And if I'm not satisfied that this was my best possible kiss—to remember me by, that is?” He pushed a lock of hair away from her face, letting his fingers trace the line of her forehead, her cheek, then her jaw.