Her sweet hands pressed into the back of his neck, tangled in his hair, stroked his shoulders and down his chest until he was on fire with her. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, smoothing his calloused hands down her waterfall of hair. He might be a mess, long past midnight and smelling of gunpowder, but she’d cleared away the mud and she didn’t seem to mind the man who was not at all a wooden soldier, who was alive with passion and tenderness and the nearness of her.
When she pulled back, just a little, her breath shaking, he knew they were close to tumbling into something more. Too much. He caught her gaze and smiled, slowly, letting her know he meant it. He ran the back of his fingers down her cheek and pulled her into an embrace, and she smiled as she burrowed her head into his shoulder. He pulled her close and rocked them both, whispering her name, resting his cheek on her hair.
He didn’t know what to say.
He didn’t know how to love.
But he was going to figure it out.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Love All, Trust a Few, Do Wrong to None
They did nottravel the next day. Celia had been prepared to put her foot down and insist that they stay, but when she came to breakfast, Peter had already left word that it would be a rest day.
Celia arranged details with the innkeeper and checked in with her party. Marianne wanted a long ramble through the hills, and Leavenworth offered to accompany her. Peter had already gone out; something about making sure that a bird was properly gone. The coachman was mending the harnesses, the outriders were setting up a game of quoits, and the ominous-looking JC was overseeing laundry. Bridget and Celia walked dutifully to the crest of the hill and straight back. Bridget bustled off to the stillroom; Celia retired to her bedroom.
Celia didn’t like sleeping alone, although she had to admit that she liked having her bottles laid out properly on her dressing table instead of pushed aside for a mug of chocolate, and she liked a few moments of quiet. She ran her fingers across the tasseled bedspread, opened and closed the little drawers in the dressing table. Stood sidelong to the escritoire, as though she didn’t know what she was going to do.
She unlatched her letter box and slid a hand into the hidden pocket.
Henrietta’s letter, the one with the squashed-together writing, now worn soft and ripping at the creases. Celia readit again, and still didn’t find the answers she wanted. If Henrietta were here, they could have talked, perhaps they could discuss their fears. Celia did not really believe that everything was solved—that Henrietta’s suitor would propose, and Owen Featherstone would arrive, all before the thousand pounds ran out—but hopefully they would make it to Charlotte’s house party. Hopefully, wherever Peter was taking her was big enough to host a couple extra young women.
Her hands were shaking as she slid her beloved cousin’s letter back into place.
She selected a variety of colored silks and hurried downstairs. This inn was rustic and the food simple, but their parlor was quite nice. Rather large, overlooking the courtyard, and the early afternoon light was lovely. She smiled as she thought of how Peter had kissed her last night. While she sewed, she could think through his every gesture, every word, and her every shimmering feeling in response…and just perhaps, Peter would come back from his errand and find her.
Celia rang for tea and gathered her embroidery supplies. It felt good to be tucked in pillows, snuggled in a comfortable chair, nice and warm. She had made sketches of different herbs, and placed one after another on her taut linen, choosing which leaves to portray in the garden scene. Next time, what about putting watercolor on the fabric before she began the embroidered picture? It would blur, but that could be intriguing for a background, allowing the stitches to leap forth.
The rectangles of light were leaning farther into the room when there was a commotion in the hallway, followed by a knock on the parlor door.
Celia’s needle poised above her fabric. Marianne and Leavenworth would have returned by now, but they would not bother to knock at the shared room.
“Come in!”
The housemaid, Janie, stepped in and curtsied. “A visitor to see you, Mrs. Alcott.”
Celia was tense, already rising to her feet. Who would look for her in this tiny hamlet?
Janie glanced back into the hallway and curtsied. “Your lordship? She is in here.”
There were no lords in her life anymore—
“Lord Kilairne,” Janie announced, and Clarence walked in.
Celia froze.
Clarence bowed.
Janie turned to leave, but Celia gestured desperately. She could not be alone!
“Ordering tea?” Clarence meandered past the dining table. “Tell her to bring sandwiches. I’ve been traveling all day. Roast beef, with proper mustard.”
Janie scurried over, cupping her hand over her mouth to whisper, “Ma’am, are you quite right? You’re white as a ghost.”
The afternoon before, when Celia had been ordering dinner, she had listened all about Janie’s brother who was emigrating to America. This morning, she had given Janie the receipts for her best tisanes.
“Please fetch my husband,” Celia whispered back. “Or Mr. Leavenworth. Or—anyone, please fetch anyone. Quickly!”
