Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

L ovie's head lay cushioned on Hawke's arm, and he relished the feel of her silky hair against his skin, wanting to believe for a little while they were the only two people in the world. It had been a long time since he felt so safe and at home. The way they had come upon the cottage was as if fate had manifested around their feelings, creating a cocoon for something more profound. More meaningful than a dalliance. She was not someone to be trifled with.

These were feelings out of his control and ones he could not box in or tidy up. He couldn't stay in England, and even if he could, he wasn't certain how she would react to his truth. He wasn't just an investor. He worked hard for a living at something he loved. Raising sheep for wool and lanolin was more than a boy's hobby. But she was a refined woman with ties to the social elite, and he was not the man to fill those shoes. He might be able to keep her well, but he would never be accepted in her world.

"How long do you think it will be before someone comes looking for us?" Lovie asked, stroking his sensitive skin with tantalizing fingers like tickling feathers along his arm.

He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of lavender and fresh rain. "I suppose it depends on the extent of merry-making yesterday. Most of them are likely to be spinning and warding off headaches this morning." They were both dry now, lacking any physical reason to stay except for the afterglow of emotion and feelings that neither seemed to have words for yet.

"If you don't regularly spend holidays here, do you and Hudson spend them with Rochester?"

"More than not, we spend them at Rochester's family estate, but since his Mayfair home is more livable now, he stays there exclusively. Aside from that, Hudson and I share the burden of travel between Mayfair and here. But Hud makes the trip less frequently because I manage the household accounts."

"For two estates? Rochester's Mayfair address and this one?"

She nodded, snuggling close, his arm draped around her. Her soft derriere tucked into his hips, made him hard for her again. He tried to ward off the thought, but it was too late. "I'm sorry you weren't with your family this year."

"I'm not." She continued to stroke his arms. "We would have never been able to get away like this."

His gaze washed over her, and she drew his arm more firmly about her, examining his hands, the tips of his fingers and his palms.

"You don't have the hands of a banker."

"Because I'm not a banker. My father worked closely with investment companies, sitting on several boards and managing accounts. He taught me much the same, and I did agree to continue his watch over one or two, which I have done in good faith. But after he died almost three years ago, I moved to a property he had gifted me." With her hair twisted between his fingers, fanned out at the end, he brushed it against her jaw and down her throat until she cinched in her neck and giggled. "Now, I spend all my days tending a Merino sheep farm."

"You lied. I knew it." There was no accusation in her voice, but there was a hint of question.

"I led you astray a little, I'll admit."

She looked about the tiny room. "You've led me astray quite a lot."

He narrowed his eyes, trying to look severe, but his unapologetic smile wouldn't allow it. "Agreed."

She turned in his arms. "Why not tell me that you went back to raising your sheep? Did you think I would think less of a farmer?"

"Perhaps." He sighed heavily and gently withdrew his arm, pushing himself into a sitting position. He pulled one of the sofa pillows under her head. "I left out a few details of my life. Things I should tell you now, like I'm only here until spring. I have to go back, Lovie." He watched her for signs of disappointment.

"I'm not a ninny." She sat up, and he helped her pull the blanket around her while hanging on to just enough to keep himself partially covered. "You've said that before. I knew you were going back. I did."

He licked his lips, pulling his brows together. A serious pall fell over the room. "Lovie, my feelings?—"

"Don't say it. Do not, I beg you." Her eyes pleaded with him to understand.

"Lovie."

"No. Not a word. Don't tell me you love me, and don't tell me you're sorry. Nothing like that, do you hear me?" She got the words out in a rush of desperation.

"The spring."

"Yes. You're going back in the spring." She turned her back, dropped the blanket, and reached up where her things hung over a chair, pulling them into her lap. She slipped her chemise over her head. "No words. No sorry. No feelings." She shimmied into her stays, motioning him to help with the ties. "I'm not sorry." She turned to look at him, holding his gaze. "I'm not, Remington. So don't say something that isn't true or that you haven't thought about, and neither will I. This doesn't need to be anything more than what it is."

The words plagued him while they dressed, while he folded blankets, blew out candles, and doused the fire. They tormented him as they padded along the fence rail where the cows had been, trekking back the way they had come. Before the barn was upon them, he stopped. The rain had become a damp mist but was manageable. "You need to know some things about me."

"Why?" She stood several feet away, her cloak pulled tight around her throat. "You were right when you said I wanted to kiss you. Where's the harm in that? Why must this be anything else?"

"Because it is. At least for me."

Her grip on the cloak eased a little.

"You think me so cavalier with my feelings?"

"Perhaps I'm the one who is cavalier," she said with too much confidence, her chin held high.

Stepping forward, he held her face between his palms and kissed her softly. "What don't you want me to say?"

Tears misted her beautiful eyes. "That you care too much."

He chuckled softly the way lovers do. "Care too much? Or that I'm falling in love with you?"

She shrugged. "Either one."

"Are you falling in love with me?"

"No." She shook her head, leaned into him, hugging him about the waist, and rested her cheek against his chest. "Not falling."

He tilted his head to see her. "Lovie Wright, you are in love." His mouth turned up in a soft smile meant to coax and encourage.

She wrapped her arms tighter, squinching her eyes closed. "How can that be?"

He pulled back. "How can it not be? There has been a spark between us from the moment we saw each other. Did you not feel it?"

"Only like a bolt of lightning."

He bent forward, taking her hand. "But I haven't been honest, and I need to be."

"Yes, I've heard, you're a farmer."

"It's easy to be someone else when you are not in your own backyard. It was a pleasure, for a while, to give up the ghosts who are always with me. But I did not expect you to happen. For us to happen."

She held him off, standing there in the mist and chill, insisting they get back and that anything he needed to say would be better said in the warmth of a parlor. Except Lovie continued to stave off any serious discussion. She busied herself, putting the house in order before they left.

* * *

Lovie knew Remington had something weighing heavy on his shoulders. Something about home, something secret, and something she didn't want to know. In her mind, he was married, convincing herself it didn't matter because he would eventually return home, and she would stay here. They'd grow apart, and the little fling that felt like something extraordinary would fade over time.

If she did not indulge her baser instincts with flirtation and haunting kisses, perhaps she could temper the flash of pain chipping away at her heart.

Two days following their liaison, a note arrived saying the roads had cleared. She knew hours of confinement would likely lead to the conversation she was most afraid of having.

She allowed Remington to help her into the coach, but she'd managed to waste what little time they had together with worry.

They were an hour into travel when she relented. "All right. I've been avoiding this conversation for days, so have at it. Tell me you're married. Tell me you have a mistress, or children, or a family somewhere. Tell me everything."

"Is that what you've been thinking? That I'm married? Oh, Lovie. Have we not missed enough time in silence?"

With her chin tucked, she stole a glance at him. "Is it worse than marriage? Because I think I could stand it if you were married but not if you had a mistress. I would be more than happy to fill that part, however."

He started to laugh. "Why would you ever settle for being a mistress?"

"Because men get married with little choice, but they choose mistresses."

"I believe we chose each other."

"For a little while, yes." She swallowed.

"I only wanted to explain why I lied to you about my livelihood. I am mostly embarrassed about it, not for what it is, but for what I did that almost destroyed it."

She pulled herself up, regarding him with interest. "I'm listening."

He sighed heavily. "It's a cautionary tale, really. I had come so far in my knowledge of wool and wool grease. I had learned and loved the business, although my father wasn't as keen. We lived in a little town of two dozen families, perhaps, and I liked a girl."

She smiled at the thought of him with a boy's crush. "As long as you didn't marry her, I think I can handle the truth," she said, teasing him and pulling some of the guilt from her heart for keeping him at arm's length.

"She didn't care for me in the same way, but we had been friends since childhood, and the boy she liked was also my friend. I was a bit of a third wheel, I'm afraid."

"How dare she. Did she not take a good look at you?"

"I was fifteen and gangly thin, looking much like the boy I'd been. I was a late bloomer." He raised his eyebrows and batted his dark lashes.

"You're quite handsome now. I imagine she's sorry for her decision."

"Doubtful." He chuckled softly, more to himself than her. "Samuel, or Sam for short, was my good friend, and I wished him well. I truly did. And Bethany?—"

"The girl," she interjected.

He nodded. "Yes, the girl. They were half in love with each other. Even at fifteen, it was obvious there was something between them. Anyway, they were found by Bethany's older brother engaging in a bit of sport."

She cringed, feeling sorry for the poor girl.

"Kissing, hugging, that sort of thing. Nothing too scandalous. But Anthony—Bethany's brother—didn't see it as sporting fun. He was three years older and overconfident. He thought to call out Sam for his roguish behavior. The unfortunate reality was that if Anthony had let it lie, there would have been no repercussions. No town gossip. No cautionary tale. But Anthony was bent on defending his sister."

"I'm afraid to ask how."

"Exactly, my love. He called out Sam. Of course, Sam thought to protect his young love for the fair Bethany and agreed to meet Anthony on the field of honor. If not for falling from his horse that evening and breaking his arm, perhaps it would have gone differently. But I was his best friend."

"No. You stood in?" The thought of him putting himself in the way of a bullet at such a young age terrified her.

"I was his second. I was not going to let him down. And let us not forget that I had a bit of a crush on the girl. So, I volunteered my father's pistols, which he knew nothing about. I handed one to Anthony, and we made a mess of loading the damn things. Bethany was incensed, as any wise woman would be. But we were pigheaded and idiots. We thought that real men did not listen to women."

"Oh, no. I should think not." She teased him, enjoying the story but still a little worried about the outcome.

"Well, we took our paces, turned, and both had agreed to delope even before we started. After all, neither of us fancied dying. But we were green, and the kick of gunpowder fairly stuffed into the barrel took him by surprise, and the bullet whizzed by my head. I had an unconventional grip on the gun, terrified if truth be told, and my pistol went off half-cocked, with my hand high on the grip. And if you would stop laughing, please."

She couldn't help it. The words cock, hand, and grip sent her mind in the obvious direction. "Continue." She rolled her hand.

"When the hammer failed, the gunpowder exploded, and the incorrect hold threw the hot metal back into the web between my thumb and forefinger, nearly ripping a hole in it."

"I noticed the scar when you were indisposed."

He spread his hand open, examining the wound.

She could see the recollection in his distant gaze, and the downturn of his mouth made her rethink her laughter.

"My inexperience was more serious. My error and poor judgment did more than cause a tear through my hand. The errant bullet struck Bethany." His countenance grew somber. His throat convulsed.

"Remington." She reached out and touched his knee. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have laughed."

"No, you should have. It was stuff and nonsense until it so gravely involved Bethany."

"Was she… is she all right?"

"Now, yes. But for a few days, we could not be certain. The bullet lodged in her arm right here." He pointed to the soft skin between the inside of his elbow and his wrist. "The doctor had to be called from another township, and the bullet stayed there for several days. She was sick with it." He ground his teeth and tried to smile at her reassuringly. "Thankfully, she survived. But her brother was jailed for a short time because of his age. My father managed to keep me from jail because of my age, and the townsfolk didn't much care for that."

"You were only a boy."

"A stupid boy who should have known better. Later that year, we moved away."

"What happened to Sam?"

He sucked in air through his teeth and bobbed his head side to side. "Five years later, he and Bethany married. Her brother was forgiven, and I was gone."

"Are you friends now?"

"No."

"That wasn't fair."

"It was more than fair. I could have gone to jail for a long time. Fifteen-year-old boys go to war. Anthony spent two months in a cell and never spoke to me again."

"But it wasn't your fault."

"It didn't matter whose fault it was. I was there. I shot Bethany." He shut his eyes against the words. "We were all very lucky. After that, I promised to learn everything I could about investing—about my father's chosen trade. I hated it. Numbers and figures are subject to desks and paper, and I wanted to be outside. When my father passed away, I returned to my first love. I think he wanted that for me. Else why would he have purchased a plot of farmland?"

She didn't say anything. She had no right to an opinion, and instinct told her he would not appreciate it. He held some pain from the experience that perhaps he needed. A lesson hard learned.

"Do you have more family here? Or in America?"

"Not really. If I have any family here, they are distant, and there are none back at home that I'm aware of. My mother had been an orphan when my father met her. So you see, I had but one grandmother, one grandfather."

"Remi? Why don't you stay here in England? You are English by right."

"Remi, is it?"

She shrugged. "I think it has a nice sound. What nickname would you give me?" she asked in fun, putting the conversation behind them.

"You? You don't need a pet name. You are a pet name. Lovie." He winked at her. "Who named you?"

"My father. I was the first and only girl." Her knees brushed his, creating a hush as the coach labored over a pit in the road, and she realized there would be no more contact when they returned to Rochester's home.

He cleared his throat, reaching across the seat and taking her hands. "Lovie, I must return to the States, but I'm coming back. Do you understand?"

She nodded, but in truth, she did not understand. She wanted him to stay. She was afraid if he left she would never see him again.