Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

" I will stay only an hour, Barlow." Ford's mother, the Countess, had hold of his arm as they walked along the path to town. The two led the way for the guests and servants, too.

Directly behind Ford and his mother came Vicky and Aunt Celeste. "I will return with the countess," Celeste said. "There is only so much of this revelry I can take."

At sixty, Vicky's mother's younger sister was getting on in years and needed to sit to avoid the pains in her aching bones. "Tell me when you wish to leave, Aunt, and I will accompany you."

"No, you will not," Celeste said with pointed look in her blue eyes. "You will stay to dance. It's what you came for."

"Initially," Vicky added with the satisfactory glow she'd felt all day.

"And why not. You are young, ma cherie . You should." Her aunt tilted her head toward Ford who walked before them. "So should he. Both of you need a lot of gaiety in your lives."

"I'd say you're right on that."

"Have you talked with him about his years away?"

"No.

"You should. In fact, now that you plan on keeping this child, you should stay longer to ease the boy's transition. That will give you time to reacquaint yourself with Ford."

"A good point, but I don't?—"

"Don't wish to overstay your welcome." Her aunt squeezed her hand. "I understand, but your invitation from the Countess was a kind one. Think on extending your stay. The holiday would suit you, Vicky. Not only do you take on the rearing of a young child, but as a rule, you don't do good things for yourself. It's time you freed yourself."

Vicky eyed the broad shoulders and lean hips of the handsome man walking before her. Her thoughts were the same as her aunt's. Why wouldn't she enjoy herself before she took on the care of her sister's boy?

"I have similar thoughts, Aunt."

"I hope you act on them, dear. It's good for the soul to claim what you want."

The fiddlers began the next set of country dances and Ford Barlow strolled away from the gaggle of town girls lined up by the hay stacks. He'd danced with four of them, and his feet hurt. Clementine Wingfield was also dancing with old Mr. MacDonald, the hatter. So for once, she was not staring at him, pining for the attention he could not in good conscience give her. And at the moment, he needed a chair, a large tankard of ale—and Vicky.

Where was she?

The last he'd spied her, she danced with Gwen Hughes's beau, Jack Wrath. But he'd also seen her skipping down a line of a country reel with one of the Beeson brothers. Earlier, he'd even seen her cajoling old Mr. Warren to take to the sawdust floor with her. To many people's delight the elderly fellow who owned the bake shop had done his jolly best to keep up with those four decades younger than he.

Ford rounded the corner of the bake shop and saw Vicky fanning herself as she braced her back against the wooden frame.

"Come join me in an ale?"

"Gladly. I could take a bath in one and still be parched."

He offered his arm and grinned that he'd have minutes alone with her.

She allowed him to lead her toward the brewer's stall.

"Did my mother go home?"

"She did. My aunt went with her. The two of them danced one part of the first country set, and they were ready to fly home."

He ordered from the brewer's daughter and put down his pence on the rough-hewn bar. Two mugs in hand within a minute, he lifted his jaw toward the bales of straw set up for dancers to rest on between sets. "Over there."

When they were seated and reclined against the large bales, he clinked mugs with her. "To you and Sam."

"And you and your success here."

He took a swallow and considered those dancing past him. Townsfolk, young and old, strangers who'd come to town recently, those who took up the local feud and those who had buried the hatchet in just the past few days. Of that, he was so pleased. That old townfolks' dispute was so ancient few understood why they had to fuel it, if only for tradition. Many of the men and women dancing by with stars in their eyes were new to each other and romance. Gwen Hughes and Jack Wrath. The farmer, Martin, had found a mysterious lady asleep in his barn—and kept her on for chores and then more. His friend Thom Owen, the vicar's son, had taken a liking to the French girl, Charite. In contrast, his cousin Meg Barlow stood alone, her thoughts less than happy as her mouth drooped. Thinking no doubt of the physician she spoke to him about earlier—and his own mother's attempt to marry her off to another fellow.

Then there is me. He winced. He wanted to take Vicky to the dance floor and have her look at him as if she could never let him go. But she had another fellow on her mind these past few days. This child. Her sister's boy.

He was happy she had decided to take this boy. He didn't blame her. If his brothers had sired children, he would take them up in a moment and promise to rear them and love them. But now, because of her choice to take Sam, which was something he'd never put into his plan for this harvest holiday, he had a new problem. His mother, having learned about Vicky's adoption of Sam, was now adamant that Ford court Clementine Wingfield.

"Forget Victorine," she had said to him this morning when they sat alone in the breakfast room. "She has decided to take this boy. And who is he? How can she be sure he is Yvette's? She cannot."

"Forgive me, Mama, but that is not your choice to make."

"It is if you are set on marrying her!"

"I have enough money to rear one child."

"And Victorine?"

"She has money too. Sam Hughes will have a good life and a sound education."

"But Victorine has no children of her own!"

"I don't understand why…" But then his mother's reasoning dawned on him."I won't continue to discuss this, Mama. Vicky and I have not talked about her marrying me, and all this is unfounded, if not downright premature."

"Not if she plans to make Sam Hughes your heir."

He had stood up. "That's enough, Mama. Sam can never be Earl Barlow. He has not the blood recorded in the parish records."

"But you can give him land. Our unentailed land could be his."

"You fantasize, Mama."

"I forbid it. Victorine cannot give you children, but she can foist Sam Hughes on you."

His mother would never know why Vicky had no children by her first husband. Perhaps she would not by her second, either, if she accepted his proposal. But Sam Hughes would have a good life, regardless of his mother's objections. "I leave you, Mama. The festival awaits. And you need to cool your heels on that sawdust dance floor. Or in your room. By yourself. Never displaying this pique of fit to anyone. For your own sake as well as Sam's, Vicky's, and mine."

She had shot to her feet and flounced from the room.

So now, before he ever dealt once more with his mother on this matter, he had to make certain Vicky cared for him. Wanted him.

He made another try at it. "Don't go tomorrow, Vicky."

She sat, examining him. "I've thought about it. I have. I just…do not wish to be one of those guests whose stay outlasts their laundry."

He snorted. "Hell. Remain as long as you wish. Borrow my clothes."

Her blue eyes twinkled in the starlight. "Your shirt perhaps?"

They both laughed. She had years ago when they had spent the night together and modesty demanded she acquire some covering from him as they talked and kissed and never stopped the urge to lay their hands on each other.

"I have plenty. I may even have that one!"

She gave him a long look. "I doubt it fits you, Colonel!"

"It will fit you," he said with all the longing he'd kept locked away all these years. "Stay. Not just for Sam. But for me."

"If I do…"

"If you do, we can talk like this on more moonlit nights. Dance, too." He motioned toward the revelers. "Finish your ale, and we'll go show them how it's done well."

She worked hard at trying to refuse him. Her reluctance and shyness in the way she bit her lips, looked away, then back at him.

"I am not certain I should stay, Ford. I doubt your mother approves of me. Of my decision to adopt Sam. I don't wish to irritate her, and so I think it best if I leave tomorrow as planned."

"I doubt that's good for the boy. He has grown attached to Vicar Owen, Charite and her aunt and Thom. You can't just pick up the child and run. He's good natured, but he won't understand. You'll have a baby bellowing all the way to Bath."

"I know. I have to return and stay longer. Perhaps I can stay with Gwen. Although I hate to impose. She and Jack are getting married. Did you know?" Her gaze drifted to the pair as they glided around the floor with a few others in their set.

"To look at them, you can't but see how much they mean to each other." And I want the same for myself. It's what I promised myself after every damn battle I survived. "They deserve happiness. So do you. Vicky."

"I agree. I do. But so do you. And I wonder what would make you happy. I'm not sure I know you anymore. Six years is a long time."

He took her free hand. "Do I look different to you?"

"Oh, my!" She laughed, suddenly a shy but ebullient girl, years younger. "Of course, you are. Look at you, sir. You were big and broad and luscious before. A young girl's dream. And now, you are ever so devastating. The warrior. The hero. The man whom all admire and they should." She put her hand to his cheek. "Last night at dinner, I could not take my eyes off you. Dashing Colonel Lord Barlow. If there is anything I would change about you, my darling man, I'd take this vicious scar away." She traced her fingertip down the length from his temple to his throat. "I'd take the lines from around your silver eyes." She traced those too. "And dye the grey from your bold black hair." She sank her fingers into the waves at his forehead.

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. "I'd change not one thing about you, my darling. You are perfection. You always were."

She locked her gaze on his. "Perfect, no. But I am trying to become so."

He put down his mug and drew her near with both hands. "You need never prove anything to me. I know who you are, what you are."

"No, I?—"

"You are the woman I loved years ago. At first sight. The woman I never forgot. The one?—"

"The one who refused you six years ago. The one whose rejection drove you to join the army and risk your life! Oh, Ford! I am not proud of that."

"You had no choice. I had none either. But hear me on this, Vicky. I knew long before you came to visit us and I fell in love with you, that I would have to leave my family and the estate. I was not valued. I was not rewarded for my efforts. The only other Wrath I had to anyone was my ability to shoot a flying target at top speed. I had to go. My brothers were not going to give me good pay or even build a wing of the house for me if and when I wanted to marry. I knew it. I had heard them talking about ‘what they could afford me' long before you came. It was nothing. Nothing! Wanting you, falling in love with you, showed me even more vividly that they were selfish. I was their slave. I had to go to the army. It was the only way for me to make a life. And now that I have, I find my two brothers who denied me a decent life with them, have none of their own."

He swallowed and looked away. "I work at not hating them for what they did. I try not to hold a grudge."

"And your mother? What was her opinion then?"

He felt some peace fall over him. "She argued for me then. To them, she argued that I should have more for all that I did. But they would not listen. Today, she grieves that her two oldest children are not alive, but she is thrilled I survive. And frankly, so am I."

She ran her fingers through the shock of his hair. "Thank you for telling me that."

"Shall we dance now, Baroness?"

"Indeed, we shall, my dear Earl Barlow."