Authors: Alexandra Ivy
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” he pressed.
“This is my property.”
“And?”
Her fingers clenched into tight fists. He was being deliberately obtuse. And worse, she did not know if she wanted to throttle him or rip off that shirt and kiss her way down his gorgeous chest.
Portia sucked in a deep breath, deliberately jutting out her chin. “And you have no right to make decisions here.”
“Even if they are good decisions?” he demanded.
“They are
mine
to make,” she gritted.
Without warning he had reached out to grasp her hand and tugged her into the nearby stables. Portia stumbled behind, too startled to put up a proper fight.
Or at least that was what she told herself. Otherwise it would mean a secret part of her actually wanted to be alone with the man in the shadowed stables.
Pulling until they were out of sight of the servants, Fredrick at last halted and regarded her with a narrowed gaze.
“I admire your independence, poppet, but surely a gentleman can offer you a gift without threatening it?”
She gave a jerk on her hand, attempting to free herself from his grasp. When it was obvious he would not loosen his grip without a futile struggle, Portia was forced to content herself with an aloof expression.
“You consider this a gift?”
That charming grin curved his lips. “You did not seem the sort of woman who desired the traditional posies or pretty trinkets.”
Her heart slammed against her chest as she felt his thumb lightly caress the skin of her inner wrist. Her eyes widened as they clashed with the shimmering gray gaze.
Oh . . . mercy.
Concentrate, Portia. Just . . . concentrate.
“Why would you offer me any gifts?”
“To please you, of course.”
A sharp fear arrowed down her spine. “No, Fredrick, do not . . .”
Her words stuttered to a halt as he stepped closer, his hands lightly running up her arms to grasp her shoulders. His touch was soft, but it sent a shock of heat to the tips of her toes.
“I am asking nothing of you, Portia,” he said, his tone low and as smooth as honey. “And I do have an ulterior motive.”
“What is that?” The words came out strangely hoarse.
“I have already ruined one pair of boots.” The silver eyes danced with amusement. “If I ruin my last pair I shall be forced to go about in my stockings.”
She lowered her gaze, unable to think clearly when he was so near. “Please do not jest.”
“Portia—”
“This is not just a business to me,” she interrupted, far too conscious of his proximity. It would be so easy to reach out and touch that beautiful face. To run her fingers through his tangled curls. Gads, it was actually painful to resist. “This inn is my . . . security. So long as it is in my charge I know that I need never fear for my future.”
“I understand, poppet,” he murmured. “I truly do.”
With a sharp movement she had pulled from his distracting touch. “You could not possibly understand.”
The elegant features hardened as he caught and held her wary gaze. “Portia, I was born a bastard. There is no one in the world who better understands what it is to be completely alone in the world. My mother died when I was born, and until the age of eight, I was forced to live with an elderly widow in Winchester who took great delight in beating me with her cane. I had no friends, no one who cared if I cried myself to sleep at night.” His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Not even my beloved father who did not even acknowledge me as his bastard until I was sent to school in London.”
She bit her bottom lip, touched in spite of herself by his stark words. “I am sorry.”
“I did not reveal my sordid past for your pity,” his features softened. “I only want you to know that I understand your need to feel that you are in control of your life. When one is forced to endure uncertainty and constant upheaval, it is inevitable to crave a need for security.”
He did understand. Perhaps more than she wanted.
This man had felt the terror of being helpless against the whimsy of fate. Of knowing that he had no one but himself to depend on if he was to survive.
Which in some ways only made it worse, she acknowledged. If he would just primp and prance and flutter about like any decent dandy she could freeze him with one slaying glare.
But a kindred spirit?
That she did not know how to battle.
Portia wrapped her arms about her waist as she regarded him with a wary frown.
“If you understand, then why are you so determined to meddle where you do not belong?”
The grey eyes became misty as he allowed pleasant memories to overtake him.
“Because I was fortunate enough to be given into the care of a very wise man who taught me that being strong and independent did not mean a person cannot appreciate the kindness offered by others. In fact, it is in sharing our lives with others that brings a richness to our days.”
“I share my life with many people,” she protested. “The people who work for me are more than mere servants, they are my family.”
“And dependent on you for their livelihood.”
Portia stiffened, oddly stung by his words. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Slowly he stepped toward her, his gaze deliberately lowering to her mouth.
“They are no threat to you, poppet,” he whispered.
“And you are?”
A wicked fire abruptly sparked to life in the silver eyes. “Perhaps.”
She resisted the urge to lick her lips. That breathless tension was swirling between them. A near tangible heat that brushed over her skin and made her breath unsteady. The slightest movement and she would be in his arms.
Where she wanted to be.
“I need to return to the inn,” she husked.
He gave a soft chuckle, as if amused by her less-than-subtle need to flee. Then he slowly bent his head toward her.
Portia instinctively prepared herself to battle his kiss, but she was unprepared when he tilted his head and pressed his face in the curve of her neck. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling her scent.
“Exquisite,” he murmured. “Midnight roses.”
A shudder wracked Portia’s body. “Fredrick.”
Before she could even begin to struggle (always assuming that she had the strength or the will to struggle), he was pulling away to regard her with a searching gaze.
“Shall I continue with my drainage ditches?”
For a moment Portia fought to regain command of her scattered wits. She did not want to think of drainage ditches. Or the danger of letting down her guard in the presence of a heart-rendingly handsome gentleman. She wanted him to yank her into his arms and quench the ache that was becoming near unbearable.
At last she gave a shake of her head and smoothed her trembling hands down the folds of her apron.
If she were at all sensible she could command this man to leave her inn at once. He was worse than any mere rake.
He was bossy and interfering and capable of turning her mind to mush with a single glance.
Unfortunately, at the moment she was not feeling sensible. She was feeling as giddy and fluttery as the worse sort of henwit.
Clearly a swift retreat was in order.
“If you wish to play in the mud, then by all means enjoy yourself,” she muttered, turning toward the door and hopefully the sanity beyond. “I have learned to indulge my guests, no matter how strange or annoying they might be.”
“If you truly wish to indulge me, poppet, I have a better means of . . .”
Rushing out the door, Portia picked up her skirts and dashed across the muddy yard.
The devil take Fredrick Smith.
Portia tried any number of tricks to put thoughts of angelic features and wicked grey eyes from her mind.
She assisted Mrs. Cornell in the kitchen, she took Puck for a long walk through the woods, she took a hot bath, and she even laid down for a short nap.
Nothing, however, was effective in keeping her mind from dwelling on Fredrick Smith.
Time after time she discovered herself drawn to a window simply to catch sight of him. There was such a confident assurance in his movements, such a natural ability to command those about him. It was not arrogance, but more the absolute knowledge that he knew precisely what needed to be done and how to accomplish the task.
A part of her knew that she should have been furious at his outrageous interference. She had battled her entire life to at last acquire her sense of independence. He had no right to thrust himself into her business.
But it was not fury that was plaguing her as she slowly left the inn and headed for the stables. Instead it was a confusing mixture of fear and bewilderment, and a treacherous excitement that refused to be squashed.
Entering the stables, Portia moved past the stalls toward the back rooms that Quinn claimed as his own.
“Quinn?” she called softly.
A narrow door opened and the elderly servant appeared to regard her with a hint of surprise.
“Aye?”
Portia smiled as she moved to stand before him. She had known Quinn her entire life. He had been a groom for her father before Lord Melford had been forced to sell off his stables and turned his faithful servant away without so much as a reference. Not surprisingly, Quinn had been forced to survive by whatever means necessary and more than once he was punished for daring to poach for his food.
When her father disappeared, Quinn returned to the estate and silently took command of keeping the roof from falling in upon her head and planting a small garden to provide a bit of food for the table.
She would never forget his patient kindness toward the lonely, scared child she had once been.
Certainly he was more a father to her than Lord Melford had ever been.
“I wanted to assure myself that you did not overtax yourself today.”
He gave a lift of his shaggy brows. “Nay, I can still handle a shovel if need be.”
“Yes, I know, but you are bound to be sore in the morning.” She held up her hand to reveal the small ceramic pot she had brought with her. “I have brought you some of Mrs. Cornell’s ointment.”
Quinn reached for the pot with a smile. They had all learned to depend upon Mrs. Cornell’s salve for their various aches and pains.
“That was right thoughtful of you.”
She smiled as she studied the weathered face. “You are important to me, Quinn. I think of you as part of my family.”
His expression abruptly softened as he gave her shoulder a gentle pat. “Aye, me dear, you have managed to cobble together a fine clan, even if we are a mixed lot.”
Portia gave a laugh, thinking of the diverse staff she had managed to collect.
“Definitely a mixed lot.” She gave a small shrug. “Still, there is something to be said for actually choosing your family members rather than simply inheriting them.”
“Aye, that be true enough. No one would choose your rotter of a father.”
“No.” Portia shuddered, firmly blocking the unpleasant memories of the weak, shallow fool who had fathered her.
A small silence fell as Quinn regarded her with a narrowed gaze. “Is there something troubling you, Portia?”
Her gaze dropped as she absently plucked at a thread that had frayed from the hem of her sleeve.
“Why did you agree to assist Mr. Smith today?”
“Because the yard was in need of work and he had the skills to make it the finest in the county.” Reaching into his pocket, Quinn pulled out a folded sheet of vellum. “Ye see, he has written a recipe for a mixture to spread over the ground to keep it dry. Soon enough travelers will know that they need never fear being stuck in the mud when they halt at the Queen’s Arms.”
He had a point, of course. She had been in the business long enough to know that those who frequently traveled the roads were well aware of which yards could be depended upon not to mire them during a rain.
And she did not doubt that Fredrick had ensured that her yard would be the best tended in the entire county. She might not know a great deal about Mr. Smith, but she did sense that he would demand nothing less than absolute perfection in anything that he attempted.
She gave a faint shake of her head. “That is all very well, but you know how I feel about others interfering with my inn. Especially strangers,” she said.
Quinn shrugged. “Yer a fine woman, Portia, but ye can be a mite too stubborn. We needed the work done and Smith gave us the direction we was needing. I saw no purpose in cutting off me nose to spite me face.”
Was that what she was doing? Had she become so isolated that she could no longer determine the difference between a simple act of kindness and meddling in her affairs?
Gads, she did not know what to think.
“Where is Mr. Smith now?”
“He said something of a hot bath and a tray in his room.” Quinn grimaced. “I fear he is still suffering from the blow he took to his noodle. Not that he would admit as much. In some ways he is as stubborn as ye.”
Her brows lowered. She had nearly forgotten that he was still recovering from a dangerous blow to his head. Drat, the infernal man. He could have made himself seriously ill spending hours shoveling and hauling that mud about.
“I will see to Mr. Smith,” she promised before pointing a finger toward Quinn’s beak of a nose. “You are to have an early night and do not forget to put the ointment on before you go to bed. It will do no good if it is left in the pot.”
Fredrick felt considerably better after his bath, but there remained a dull ache in his temple.
What a blasted fool, he chided himself as he pulled on a brocade robe and ran a comb through his damp curls. He possessed his fair share of intelligence. Some might claim that he possessed more than his fair share. So why had he blithely pressed himself to continue even when his head began to throb and his muscles shake with weakness?
Because he was so bloody eager to impress a woman who did not possess the least interest in being impressed.
Quinn had been quite forthcoming during their afternoon together. He had not only revealed that while Fredrick was attempting to display his skills in her yard the aggravating woman was napping in her room, but that the only reason she had so often appeared in his chambers was because she did not want her maids left alone with him.
She felt it her duty to attend to Fredrick to protect the hapless maids from his ungovernable lust.
Fool, indeed.
Moving toward the window, Fredrick watched as the sun set behind the line of trees just beyond the inn.
His only consolation was that Ian and Raoul were far away in London. The last thing he needed was to have his friends witness his rather pathetic attempts to capture the interest of a reluctant lady. He doubted that either of them had ever encountered a female who did not leap into their bed with eager anticipation. Hellfire, the two probably had to lock their doors to keep them out.
Certainly they had no need to flaunt themselves like a shameless popinjay.
A soft knock on the door thankfully interrupted his uncharacteristic broodings and, turning from the window, he called for the servant to enter.
Expecting Quinn with his evening dinner tray, Fredrick felt his chest tighten and his blood heat at the sight of Portia Walker sweeping over the threshold.
She was tiny enough to fit into his pocket, and yet, she managed to fill the room with her feminine power and the sweet scent of midnight roses.
Momentarily captivated by her unexpected arrival, Fredrick watched in silence as she glided across the room. Dash it all, she was a beautiful wench. Even in the ugly grey gown that was fit for nothing better than the rubbish heap, she managed to appear exotically beautiful with her raven dark hair and porcelain skin.
That now familiar fire stirred in his groin as she neared the bed. Oh yes. That was where she belonged. All he need do was take a few steps forward and he could scoop her off her feet and . . .
The heated fantasy was destroyed as Fredrick belatedly noted the heavy tray she was setting on a low table.
By gads, he disliked the notion of her waiting on him as if she were a mere servant. And more, he disliked the notion that she attended upon him because she feared he was some sort of animal that was just waiting for the opportunity to rape some poor maid who happened across his path.
At the time Quinn had confessed the truth, Fredrick had been rather startled to think he could be mistaken for a lecher. God knew, it did not often happen.
But now, with his head aching and his body tormented with frustrated need, he discovered his usually placid temper distinctly on edge.
“Portia, what are you doing?”
She straightened to regard him with a faint surprise at his sharp tone.
“You did request a tray in your room, did you not?”
“Yes, but I presumed that you had staff to deal with such requests.”
She faced him squarely, her arms folded. The army general quite prepared to quash a renegade subordinate.
“They have duties to attend to.”
“And you fear I might force myself upon any poor maid who might stray into my lair?”
Her aloof expression faltered at his blunt accusation.
“What?”
“Quinn told me that you had warned the maids to avoid my presence.”
A sudden color stained her cheeks. “Quinn should learn to keep his mouth shut.”
“Is it true?”
“I . . . I will admit that I often protect my maids from those gentlemen I fear might be a danger to them.”
He gave a short laugh as he turned back to gaze blindly out the window. “Charming.”
There was a rustle of wool before Fredrick was enveloped in the warm scent of roses. Not that he needed the tantalizing scent to inform him that Portia had halted close behind him. The flames licking through his body were warning enough.
“But that does not include you, Fredrick,” she said softly. “Never you. I do not believe you would harm any woman.”
His hands clenched with the effort not to turn around and jerk her into his arms.
“Then why are you here?”
“I am here because Quinn is concerned that you have not entirely recovered from your fall.”
He gave a short laugh. He supposed pity was marginally better than viewing him as a potential rapist.
“Do not fear, poppet, I have no intention of cocking up my toes anytime soon.”
“Good, I am far too busy to bother with your funeral,” she said briskly. “Now come and eat your meal while it is still warm. I hope that you like roasted venison and potatoes in rosemary?”
Fredrick heaved a sigh as he slowly turned to meet her searching gaze. His frustration remained, but the need to keep her here in his rooms, to keep her where he could at least gaze at the perfect Madonna face and hear her sweet voice, was overwhelming.
Pathetic.
But what was a man caught in the throes of such an irresistible fascination to do?
“You know, you should be careful, poppet, I might just steal your cook when I return to London,” he said in deliberately light tones.
Her own expression eased and a hint of curiosity sparkled in those magnificent blue eyes.
“You do not have a cook in your home?”
“I have a housekeeper who is capable of producing a meal, but I am so rarely at home the effort of hiring a full staff seems a waste.”
Clearly unaware that her proximity was causing his body to stir and harden beneath his robe, Portia tilted her head to one side.
“You work so many hours?”
“A great number.” Fredrick struggled to keep his mind on something other than soft curve of her breasts. “And I also travel.”
“Do you like it?”
“Traveling?”
“Yes.”
Fredrick searched the delicate features that appeared genuinely interested before giving a slow nod of his head.
“I enjoy exploring places that I have never been and meeting people that intrigue me. I have increased my business substantially and more importantly discovered friends that I would never have met if I had remained in London.” He felt an odd sense of melancholy as he thought of his empty townhouse. For all his pride in having achieved such a status of success, he had become increasingly aware of a haunting loneliness when he walked into the house. “Still, as I grow older I have discovered a growing desire to create a home of my own and put down roots.”
She gave a startled blink, as if caught off guard by his words. “You intend to wed?”
“Most certainly.” He wondered why she seemed so surprised. Did not most men marry and produce families? “Ever since I was a young boy I have dreamed of possessing a family I could claim as my own.”
“If it is so important to you then I am surprised that you are not already wed.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Not surprising at all.”
“And why is that?” The blue eyes hardened. “Because you have enjoyed your life as a bachelor too much?”
Fredrick narrowed his gaze, sensing that she was thinking back to the man who had abandoned her at the altar. Of course, was there ever a moment that she was not comparing him to some man or another that had disappointed her?
“Because I have not yet met
her
,” he said simply.
“Her?”
“The woman who is meant for me.”
He once again managed to surprise her. The blue eyes widened as she studied him with a bemused expression.
“You believe there is one true woman for you?”
Fredrick shrugged, only vaguely shocked that he would reveal such an intimate secret to this woman. Why would he start behaving as a rational man at this point?
“What can I say? Beneath all my logic beats the heart of a romantic.”
She gave an unsteady laugh. “Astonishing.”
“And what of you, Portia?” he demanded. “Are you a romantic?”
Her lashes lowered to effectively shield her emotions. “I believe that people wed for all sorts of reasons and that it is only for the fortunate few that love is actually involved.”
Although Fredrick was forbidden from reading her inner thoughts, Portia could not entirely hide the edge of haunting pain in her voice.
Taking care not to startle her, he stroked his hands lightly up her arms to rest upon her shoulders.
“Did you love your husband?”
Portia sucked in a sharp breath at his touch, but thankfully she did not pull away.
“I cared for him, but as I am sure you have already discovered, he was a number of years older than me.”
“Was he good to you?”
Her gaze abruptly lifted. “Thomas was very good to me. Without him . . . I do not know what I would have done.”
Fredrick frowned at her obvious sincerity. “And yet, you have not married again.”
Something that might have been panic at the mere thought of marriage flashed through the blue eyes. Peculiar.
“I have not been asked.”
“Oh come, poppet.” Fredrick smiled wryly. “I do not doubt with very little effort you could have any number of gentlemen anxious to kneel at your feet.”
“Very pretty, but I am no longer a young maiden with stars in my eyes. I have no interest in flirtations.”
“Now, that I do not believe for a moment.”
“Why?” She tilted her chin. “Cannot a woman be more interested in her business than chasing after some man or another?”
Fredrick allowed his fingers to drift down her back in a gentle caress.
“There are none of us that enjoy being alone, even when it is by choice. We all have the need to feel the warmth of another, to share our most intimate selves.”
Just for a moment her eyes darkened with the same heat that pulsed through his body. Then, with a choked sound she took an abrupt step backward to break his hold.
“It is a simple matter for a man to share his intimate self. He pays no consequences for his pleasure. A woman is not so fortunate.”
Fredrick frowned. “Consequences?”
She made an impatient sound. “If a woman weds then she is under the complete authority of her husband. If she takes a lover she risks her reputation and the very real possibility of getting with child.”
Well, he could hardly argue with that.
It was true that women risked much when placing themselves in the hands of a man.
His mother had paid with her very life.
But the thought of this woman remaining frigid and unloved throughout the endless years was unbearable.
He wanted her to discover that there were men who could be trusted. Men who could offer her more than disillusionment.
Stepping forward, he grasped her hands before she could elude him. “Portia, there are means for a woman to enjoy pleasure without risking her reputation or becoming with child.”
Her gaze lowered to his hands that held her captive. “A man will promise anything when he seeks to seduce a woman.”
Slowly he lifted her hands to his mouth, stroking his lips over her slender fingers.
“Not all men are alike, poppet, just as not all women are alike.” He turned her hands over to nuzzle the center of her palm. “I would never lure a woman into my bed and then abandon her to her fate. I would treat no woman as my mother was treated.”
She shivered beneath his touch, her breath unsteady.
“Fredrick . . .”
“Do you want me, Portia?” he demanded, capturing her wary gaze with his own.
She stilled, as if she were struggling to erect those barriers that kept others at a distance. Sensing her battle, Fredrick stroked his thumb over the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, willing her to admit the truth.
At last she heaved a frustrated sigh.
“I do not
want
to want you,” she muttered. Fredrick could not halt his soft chuckle. “It is rarely a matter of choice.”
“Of course it is a matter of choice,” she protested, her voice husky. “There might be an . . . attraction between us, but we have a choice of whether or not we act upon it.”
He held her gaze as he touched his tongue to the center of her palm. “Shall I tell you what I choose?”
A shudder wracked her body. “I do not need to be able to read your mind to know what you would choose,” she breathed.
“It is a fortunate thing that you cannot read my mind.” He sucked the tip of her finger between his lips as a raw heat flowed through his veins. He wanted to taste every inch of her satin skin. To feel the smooth velvet rubbing against him as he thrust into her. “If you actually knew the deliciously wicked thoughts that have plagued me since I first caught sight of you, poppet, you would have me chained to the wall.”
Her breath caught, her eyes darkening with a need she could not disguise. “I have not yet ruled out that possibility,” she muttered.
“You can chain me anywhere, so long as you promise to stay here with me,” he murmured, lightly nipping her finger before he tightened his grip and pulled her inexorably forward. “In fact, the notion of being at your mercy is a most intoxicating image.”
Portia did not struggle as he tugged her against his hard body, not even when his arms carefully encircled her body. Instead she regarded him with wide eyes that held a confusion of fear and vulnerable longing.
“Fredrick, I do not think this is a wise notion,” she whispered.
He trailed his fingers up the curve of her back, his head lowering to brush his lips over her temple. “If you want me to stop, Portia, all you need to do is tell me,” he promised. “My only desire is to please you.”
She clutched at the lapels of his robe, her lashes fluttering down to hide her expressive eyes.
“Why? Why do you want to please me?”
Fredrick drank in the sight of her ethereal beauty in the flickering candlelight. His heart squeezed as his gaze drifted over the porcelain perfection of her features. The narrow line of her nose, the dark sweep of her raven brows, the lush curve of her rose-kissed lips. She was by far the most lovely creature he had ever held in his arms, but it was not her beauty that captivated him.