Chapter Twenty-Five

M ark tried to read the book about the South American and Antarctic birds called penguins, odd flightless birds that swam in the frozen ocean. It was sent to him by the secretary of the Earl of Trentham, but he knew that it had truly come from Helen. Penguins were certainly curious creatures, but his young cousin kept interrupting his reading, making it impossible for him to concentrate on the words in front of him. She kept asking him questions and then perching on the armrest of his chair.

‘I don't know how you have the patience to read in London,' Niamh said, pushing his shoulder flirtatiously. ‘There is so much fun to be had.'

She was trying his patience.

Aunt Fiona glanced up from her needlework, smiling broadly. ‘Mark has certainly made our visit an enjoyable one. He has taken us somewhere exciting nearly every day.'

Niamh jumped back to her feet, hopping up and down on the balls of her shoe-covered feet. ‘I have loved all the balls and parties. I wish there had been one tonight. Nothing is duller than staying home in the evening. My feet itch to dance.'

‘Daughter,' his aunt said, giving Niamh a speaking look. ‘Be thoughtful of your words, lass. You keep blethering on about balls and poor Mark dinnae have two feet with which to dance.'

His mother cleared her throat and set down the hem of the dress she was sewing. Her lips even upturned, in an almost smile. ‘My son does not need two feet to dance. He and Lady Helen were the most graceful couple on the ballroom floor at Lady Cheswick's party.'

Mark closed his book in surprise. His mother wasn't pitying him any longer. She finally understood that he was still an able man. She gave him a rare full smile and then returned to her stitching. Aunt Fiona looked at her daughter and then at Mark, before picking up her needlework and shaking her head.

His aunt must have communicated something in her gaze to Niamh, for she bounced back to his seat and perched again on his armrest.

‘I hope you will waltz with me at our wedding,' she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Mark could no longer dance around the subject. ‘Cousin Niamh, I shall be frank with you. I am over ten years your senior. I am much too old to be your husband.'

Niamh bounced on the armrest. ‘Mama says that doesn't matter. Women shouldn't be older than their husbands, but it is perfectly appropriate for a man to be much older than his wife.'

‘Provided he's wealthy.'

‘And titled,' she added, with a laugh that made the hairs on his nape stand up.

Aunt Fiona glanced up from her embroidery. ‘What are you two laughing about?'

‘Cousin Mark is flirting with me, Mama.'

His aunt flashed him an approving grin. ‘Well, I don't see what is to laugh about that. It's what we've all been praying for, lass.'

Mark swallowed, his throat dry. He wanted to bury his head in the dirt like a worm, but Helen would not have done that. She would have bluntly told his aunt the truth. Looking around the room, he saw the countless plants that she'd sent to him. Living, breathing creatures. She'd turned his dead garden into a blossoming one. His dark house into one of living plants and growing blossoms. Helen had brought him back to life like the flowers in his back garden.

He stood up, without a wobble on his wooden leg. ‘Aunt Fiona, I am happy that you and Niamh have come to London, but as I just told Niamh, and I must reiterate, that I do not intend to flirt with her. Nor will I ever marry her. I am much too old for her.'

‘Nonsense, lad. You're in your prime...aside from the missing leg.'

His mother gasped.

It seemed that neither his aunt nor his cousin could forget that he was missing a limb. Helen never seemed to notice it. Or if she did, she didn't care. ‘You are forcing me to be blunt, but since we are living in the same house, it will not do for me to avoid the subject. I am not interested romantically in Niamh.'

Aunt Fiona frowned, as did Niamh. It was as if she finally realised that he was not flirting with her. The concept that he wasn't interested in her seemed entirely new. But he didn't think that Niamh was interested in him .

‘Don't tell me you look down on her, like your auld father looked down on your mother?' Aunt Fiona said, dropping her needlework. She stood up, her chest heaving. ‘My daughter is as good as any lady in England. Better even for she doesn't have their namby-pamby ways. She's a sturdy Scottish lass. Just the sort of wife a man like you needs. And she has a fine dowry as well.'

Mark felt his hands curling into fists. ‘Do you mean a cripple like me?'

‘I really don't mind that much that you're a cripple,' Niamh added, smiling at him.

‘Hush, Niamh!' his mother chided. ‘Don't call your cousin a cripple.'

‘But he is one.'

He'd been wrong. His young cousin still couldn't seem to understand that he had no interest in her. Nor her pity. ‘Well, I mind that you mind.'

Aunt Fiona shook her head. ‘Whisht. You're not making any sense, Mark.'

Inhaling, Mark held up his hands. ‘I cannot say this any clearer. I will not offer for, nor marry, my cousin Niamh. I am not simply a cripple. I am a man. A decorated soldier. An earl. When I marry, it will be to a woman of my choosing. One that doesn't mind who I am now. And I am done with this subject.'

He limped out of the room. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw his mother smiling at him. Mark took the book to the back garden and sat in his chair. The grass had grown a little long because Helen had not come to visit. But the seeds she had planted had sprouted and a few were blooming into happy yellow flowers. Little drops of sunshine, like the happiness Helen had brought into his existence. New life.

Mark couldn't help but keep looking up at the fence and hoping that a fairy queen or a human changeling would appear there.

He had been outside for nearly an hour before he saw the top of her nearly white-blonde hair.

‘Is it safe?' she called from the other side of the fence.

‘From what?'

‘Your mother,' Helen said, her gamine face peeking through the trees. ‘She doesn't like me at all. I can tell. Most of my governesses didn't like me either.'

Setting down his book on his lap, Mark grinned back at her. ‘There are no meddlesome mothers or mean governesses about.'

Something clattered behind him on the pebble path. It was a pair of red pruning shears. Above it, he saw Helen's backside climbing over the stone fence. Her hair was down and flying in the breeze. The dress she wore was yellow, like the flowers she had planted. She jumped the last couple of feet and landed heavily on the pebbles.

Turning, she looked at him. ‘You were right about Jason.'

He swallowed, heavily. His heart felt as heavy as a stone. ‘How so?'

Helen came even closer to him. So near that her dress brushed his pant leg. ‘I do not feel romantic love for him. The affection in my heart is that of friendship and the empathy of shared childhood experiences. And I mostly accepted his proposal because I wished to stay close to my home.'

‘Did you tell him?'

She nodded.

Of course she had told the curate to his face. Helen was blunt to a fault.

‘I asked him to kiss me and I felt nothing,' she said, a pretty pink stealing into her cheeks. ‘It was nothing at all like when I kissed you. I didn't want to devour him whole.'

Mark's pulse quickened. He had no idea what Helen was going to say or do next. She kept him in a constant state of terror and delight. ‘I am glad to hear that.'

Her face turned from pink to red. ‘I was wondering if I could kiss you again? But I don't want to be your countess.'

‘Why not?'

‘Scotland is too far from Hampford and I would make a terrible hostess. I always say what I think and Mama says I have no tact.'

‘Do countesses have to be hostesses?'

Helen nodded. ‘Yes. And they have to move to where their husband lives and provide him heirs like a broodmare. Not that I would mind the mating part. But will you kiss me or not?'

Warmth coated his belly and his own cheeks felt hot. Mark would take what he could get. ‘Yes.'

Helen beamed at him. ‘Can I sit on your lap? That was nice, too.'

Mark couldn't trust his voice to speak, so he only gave a sharp little nod. Helen carefully sat on his good leg and then her legs draped over his wooden one. She held very still as if allowing him to retain his balance—a wise thing, for since he'd lost a limb it was hard to find his equilibrium. Tentatively, he placed his arms around her waist, fearing that this was all a dream and that Helen would disappear. She placed her hands on his chest above his heart. Her lips twitched upwards as she felt his heartbeat as hard and as loudly as a cannon firing. After she pressed her hands against his waistcoat, they coasted upwards to his shoulders and then around his neck.

‘I love the way you feel,' she whispered, her voice more a breath than words.

He could have happily let her touch his chest underneath his shirt like she had in the carriage, but they were sitting in his back garden. His mother, aunt or cousin could come outside at any time. He had to keep their kisses light and not a full-on seduction. Helen was a physical creature and he doubted she would know how or when to stop. Nor did she want to marry him if they were caught and compromised. It would be a struggle to keep his own feelings in check.

She moved her head against his cheek. Her skin was soft and scented against his own scratchy whiskers. She rubbed the side of her face against his, causing him to moan with need and want. He could feel her smile as her lips brushed their way from his cheek to his mouth in a slow burn. In the carriage she had kissed him like a barracuda, ravishing his mouth with her own.

When she slanted her mouth towards his, it was with brief, teasing brushes of softness. Her hands moved from behind his neck to cup his face. She kissed him lightly again, but he felt her tongue lick the seam of his lips. He obligingly opened his mouth and let her tongue in and it found his own. He wished to domesticate this wild little creature.

Helen pulled back a little, their noses practically touching. ‘Did you feel something?'

‘I felt everything,' he said, before pressing his mouth hard against hers, his tongue entering between her kiss-swollen lips. His hands moved up from her waist to her shoulders in a slow burn. He loved her gentle curves. Helen made a purring noise against his mouth and he moved his hands back to the dip in her waist to pull her closer to him.

He sucked, tugging on her lower lip and then making a trail of kisses to her ear. Instinctively, he nuzzled the sensitive spot on her neck there. She purred again and shifted on his lap. It was a good thing that he was sitting down and holding her, because for a moment he lost his balance, but she held him in place. He was going to spontaneously combust.

Mark took a few ragged breaths before Helen pressed her lips against his again. She rubbed her chest against his and he deepened the kiss. Her hands running through his hair and neck. There wasn't a part of him that wasn't on fire for her. That didn't want to make her his countess in every way.

The sound of the door opening caused Helen to practically jump off his lap. Her hair had been down before and his amorous handling hadn't made it any tidier. Her lips were swollen and red, and her skin had the beautiful pink flush of a well-loved woman. It was obvious what they had been doing.

Helen dived to her knees and picked up her pruning shears, turning her back to the person who was coming outside. Mark could see her beautiful form through the light material of her dress and he now knew how wonderful she felt in his hands. He could never let her go. He would have to convince her to come with him and promise that he would not try to change her. But the sight of his mother walking towards him was enough to cool his ardour and stop him from begging Helen to reconsider a coronet.

He sat up in his chair. ‘Mama...uh, you see...uh... Lady Helen has been helping me with the back garden in exchange for sketches for her snake book.'

Helen glanced over her shoulder, still keeping her face mostly hidden. ‘Yes. We are only gardening, in the garden, with gardening tools.'

His mother put her hands on to her narrow hips. ‘Is that right now, my lad? I thought you said that you'd already finished the sketches for the lady.'

Mark felt his colour rise from embarrassment. She was no eejit. His mother knew exactly what they had been doing in the garden.

Before he was forced to come up with a bad lie or a terrible truth, Helen said, ‘You are correct, my lady. But your son has promised me more drawings. Instead of snakes, he is going to share illustrations of his battle experiences at Waterloo.'

Mama shook her head. ‘Whisht. 'Tis best forgotten.'

Helen snipped off the dead head of a flower. ‘Sometimes we must remember before we can forget.'

Her words had a wisdom older than her age. Mark had tried so hard to forget the pain. The ugliness. The hopelessness of battle, but Helen was right. He couldn't forget it. The sound of a gunshot caused him to stop breathing. More often than not, he woke up in his own sweat after having nightmares of his men dying. Of his leg being sawed off by a surgeon. Lying in the hospital, watching soldier after soldier die. Their screams of pain. There was no way Mark could forget what he'd seen and experienced, but he could find a way through the horrors. And if anyone could help him do that, it was Helen. His otherworldly, fairy queen.

‘'Tis not a Scottish proverb,' his mother said with a sniff.

Helen turned to face his mother. Her lips were still cherry red and ripe from his kisses. ‘The Scots don't have all the answers.'

‘Neither do the English.'

Mark used his arms to lift himself up to standing. ‘I don't think any humans do, Mama. Why don't you take my seat and I will help Helen with the weeding?'

His mother took the chair and Mark limped over to Helen's side and slowly sat down. His arms shook a little with the effort and he couldn't help but wish that Helen hadn't seen him like this. That she couldn't see his limitations. But if his wooden leg bothered her, she made no sign of it. She simply handed him the shears.

‘Cut off the heads of the dead petals,' she said. ‘I'll do the weeding. I don't trust you not to pull out the flowers that haven't bloomed yet.'

‘I am grateful that you trust me enough to prune,' Mark said cheekily. ‘I hope to be able to work up to weeding duty one day.'

Helen leaned forward and spontaneously kissed his cheek, in front of his mother! ‘Oh, you will in no time.'

Mark couldn't help but steal a glance at his mother. He expected to see her frowning, but the look on her face was positively benevolent. He hoped that she realised that despite Helen being a sassenach , she was the person who had brought him back to life.

‘Mind you pick up the clippings, Marky,' his mother chided. ‘Can't have those in our garden. Keep your pile nice and tidy, like Lady Helen's.'

Grinning ruefully, he picked up his clippings and spent one of the most memorable afternoons of his life gardening with his mother and Helen. Mark could envision them all living together in Scotland. If only he could convince Helen that more than one place could be home.