Authors: Cat Lindler
Ford arrived Saturday morning at the stroke of eleven. For this performance, he donned a mustard-yellow riding coat over a pumpkin-orange waistcoat and grass-green breeches. To compensate for his appalling lack of clashing color, he chose a lacy stock that frothed down his chest like a foaming waterfall. Lace also spilled from his slashed jacket cuffs, over his collar, and around his waist from beneath his coat. He smiled, suspecting he more resembled a daisy than a suitor. A wig sat low on his head with fat, black curls, like burned sausages, streaming down his back and falling in front of his ears, á la King Charles II. A black velvet cavalier’s hat with a wide brim and arching gray ostrich feather perched atop the wig. He had rouged his cheeks and lips, but mindful of the heat, foregone the powder.
When he mounted the flagstone steps, a stone at the top broke away, tumbled forward, and landed on the toes of his other foot. He grunted and fell to one knee, slicing open his breeches and the skin beneath. “Son of a swiving fishmonger’s whore!”
Quinn hurried out the door. He grasped Ford’s elbow and helped him to his feet. “I’m dreadfully sorry, my lord. That stone has been loose for an age. ‘Twas only a matter of time before it gave way.”
“Devil take it! Why then did you not remedy it?” Ford picked up his hat from the stones, slapped it against his leg, and examined his knee. Blood seeped from the tear in his breeches.
Quinn drew forth a handkerchief and dabbed at the cut. “'Twas on the list, my lord, but with the war and all …”
Ford pushed off the butler’s hand and handkerchief with a terse gesture. He wobbled past Quinn, limped into the foyer, and dropped into a chair. Quinn hovered over him like a carrion crow drawn by a dead skunk. “I shall have Cook make a plaster for that cut,” the butler said as he turned and walked away.
“You need not bother,” Ford said to the man’s retreating back. Levering himself to his feet, he shambled back and forth across the pine-plank floor. “The bleeding has stopped. Would you be so kind as to locate Lady Wilhelmina and have the gig brought around front, we shall be on our way.” When Quinn made an about-face, Ford fired off a sharp look. “I gather Lady Wilhelmina is ready, is she not?”
Quinn bowed stiffly. “I do believe so, my lord.” His Adam’s apple danced as he swallowed. “But I fear the gig is undergoing repairs. Would you wish to take the carriage instead?”
Ford looked up from his knee, which showed signs of swelling. His stomach churned. Would naught go his way this day? “I believe not. ‘Tis too bloody cumbersome. Have Lady Wilhelmina’s horse saddled.” Wincing, he pressed his hand against the cut and lowered himself into the chair.
Quinn let out his held breath and slipped around the corner into the parlor. “He wants to take horses instead of the carriage,” he whispered to Willa, who perched on the sofa edge, her fingers crumpling the pleats in her skirt.
“Blast! I suppose we shall have to change our plans. Send a note to Emma. You know what to tell her. And have Trixie saddled. Cherokee abhors sidesaddles.” She smiled cautiously. “Did it work?”
He nodded. “Only too well. You had best watch yourself, missy. You may find out too late ‘tis not wise to toy with a wounded bear.”
Her smile spread into a grin. “Oh, I have yet to wound him. By the time I set him to rights, he will wish himself on the front lines. Compared to courting me, war will seem a pleasant pastime.”
Meadowlarks trilled amidst seed-heavy amber grass, a last joyous burst before autumn’s storms swept up the coast to flatten meadows and strip the leaves from the trees. The air sparkled crystalline clear with little humidity, bringing the promise of cooler days.
Willa balanced on the uncomfortable sidesaddle atop Trixie and swayed with the old mare’s lazy gait. She dared a peek at her companion on his Army-issued bay gelding. His pained expression clashed dreadfully with the gaiety of his wardrobe. She had no need to search far for the source of his discomfort. His knee, swollen to twice its normal size, and the indignity to his impeccable breeches adequately explained his mood. She assuaged her conscience by bearing in mind that the porch stone
had,
in all honesty, worked its way loose some time ago. But if she were entirely truthful, Quinn, in accordance with their scheme, had chipped out the small amount of mortar holding the rock in place prior to the baron’s arrival.
She sighed and experienced an unwelcome pang of sympathy for Montford’s condition. Mayhap this one outing would squelch his matrimonial intentions. With that in mind, and having no desire to allow the baron to grow too comfortable, she kicked Trixie into a lope, then extended the horse into a gallop. “Race you to the pond,” she called out as she sped ahead, though Trixie’s ability to outrace any creature other than a mule with a broken leg was debatable.
Montford emitted an audible groan and urged his bay forward. When Willa looked back, lines of distress etched his countenance. She all but abandoned the race. But what, pray tell, would be the point of that? Her goal was to ensure Lord Montford undergo the misery of an unpleasant courtship. Thus far, the plan had gotten off to a satisfactory start.
The baron brought up his horse alongside hers. The strain of the faster pace brought sweat and a clenched-teeth grimace to his face. This time her conscience gave her a good talking-to. Discomfort was quite disparate from agony. She slowed Trixie to a smoother gait and could all but feel the baron’s sigh of relief when he eased into a rocking canter.
The pond emerged from the field like a silver mirror with morning sun reflecting off its surface. Weeping willows with lacy fronds bounded one side. A thick grove of stately walnuts and silver-barked birch framed the far bank and wandered into a mixed pine-oak forest. A kingfisher, its bright blue back flashing in the sunshine, dove for minnows from a perch on the overhanging limb of a dead snag. Willa guided Trixie to a shady spot beneath an old oak and drew her to a halt.
Montford’s face contorted into a scowl while she waited for him to help her from her horse. He slid down with a moan, hobbled over to her, and lifted her from the saddle, setting her feet on the ground. She directly strolled off toward the pond, bending down and picking wild strawberries along the way.
Ford unhooked the picnic pannier from his mount and limped to the shade under the oak. After spreading out a blanket, he clenched his jaw and, needles stabbing his knee, lowered himself to the ground less gracefully than he would have wished. A hiss escaped his clamped teeth. This was as far as he planned to go. He would be damned if he would accompany his betrothed on a berry-picking expedition. Stretching out on his side, he rested on an elbow.
“Is this not gorgeous?” Wilhelmina inquired in a lilting voice after ambling back to where he lay in torment. “I do so love autumn, when the air is crisper and seems not to stifle one like it does in summer.” Her skirts cradled the strawberries as she plopped down on the other side of the blanket. She plucked one from the pile and dangled it before his nose. “Strawberry?”
He shook his head and glowered as he shifted his weight and another twinge seized his knee. “Perhaps we should return and picnic another day,” he gritted out. His annoyance bled through his words.
She beamed a smile of complete unconcern for his state. “Nonsense. Why, we have not eaten yet.” She tossed her head, and the short curls framing her face bobbed as though with a life of their own. He watched, entranced despite his underlying suffering. Notwithstanding the odds he would have laid on its occurrence, between the paint and gilt and the manure and stems of straw, the scraggly caterpillar had emerged from her unkempt cocoon as a comely butterfly. Sun shimmered in her hair, turning its drab brown to an alluring chestnut, and sparkled in her eyes, now a deep chocolate brown with lighter flecks, like floating sugar crystals. Strawberry juice glistened on her lips. Her modest, muslin-sprigged gown hugged lithe curves and hinted at what he had glimpsed beside the creek the night of their betrothal ball.
God help him, she was almost … pretty.
Beelzebub’s balls,
he swore silently as a surge of sensual heat and an unexplainable emotion of possessiveness claimed him, exactly as it had once before. ‘Twas conceivable the fall damaged his brain as well as his knee.
He gave himself a mental slap with the broad side of his common sense. Lady Wilhelmina was the enemy and naught but a means to his ends. This picnic was merely part of a plan designed to bring him closer to the sources of information he sought for General Marion. He had succeeded in assuming the role of her betrothed and integrating himself into Tarleton’s command. An added bonus was access to Willowbend, which afforded him the opportunity to gather further intelligence. Bellingham’s study likely contained a safe holding sensitive documents on the British war effort. Ford originally intended to distance himself from the lady once his position as a spy became secure. But he now realized that deepening the relationship might prove more productive and gain him entrée to the manor’s private rooms. On the other hand, engaging the girl’s affections could be counterproductive. After all, he could hardly search the house with her hanging onto him like a limpet.
Stick to the plan,
he reminded himself, though his nether regions and injured knee had disparate plans of their own and clamored to be heard.
While Willa set out the food from the basket, she mused on the most advantageous approach to take with the baron. Why not simply attempt to reason with him before subjecting him to more mayhem? It would be more sensible to get to the crux of the matter rather than continuing along her twisted course. In all likelihood, he had as much distaste as she for the match.
“Why do you desire to marry me?” she asked, plowing forward in her usual outspoken way as she passed him a leg of fried chicken.
His eyebrows inched toward his hairline. Accepting her offering, he took a bite and chewed it thoughtfully before answering. “My dear,” he said in that vexing, courtdandy tone, “what leads you to believe I desire to marry you? Desire has naught to do with marriage. Betrothals are matters of honor and obligation. My father contracted this betrothal; I am obligated to honor it.”
She chewed on her lower lip, drawing his gaze to her mouth. The intensity of his eyes made the nerves twitch beneath her skin. “Do you then want naught for yourself? Is all duty to family? Have you no desire for a life with a woman you love? Have you never dreamt of a grand passion as your destiny rather than simply honor and obligation?”
He released a bark of mocking laughter. “Dreamt of love? What a silly girl you are, Wilhelmina. Discharge yourself of that notion. Like any man of position, I dream only of dynasty, heirs, wealth, and land.”
“How very practical of you. Still, you must possess some requirements for the sort of wife you prefer,” she persisted, though she suspected she was flogging one exceedingly dead horse.
Then her breath suspended. He was making a slow and much too thorough perusal of her. In the midst of that regard, a frisson of awareness sparked between them. She had first made the acquaintance of this man the night of the ball. Be that as it may, she could not help but feel she had gazed once before into those gray eyes, knew the weight of that large body. She recalled a bearded face, piercing silver eyes, and black swamp mud. The thought was beyond ridiculous. Although she pushed away the image, her cheeks grew hot.
He terminated the peculiar moment by shifting his attention to a deer drinking from the pond’s far side. “What I require,” he said with a chuckle rumbling his chest, “is a girl old enough and healthy enough to bear my heirs, comely enough to inspire me to do my husbandly duty, intelligent enough to supervise the running of my household, and submissive enough to obey me and leave me to my pleasures. On the first three counts you barely qualify; on the last, I have yet to make up my mind.”
Snatching a pear from the basket, Willa savaged it with her teeth and imagined a panther treating her betrothed in the same manner. She could now add rude and delusional to Montford’s growing list of faults. His words added tinder to her fire, but they were far from original. He ascribed to the universal male attitude toward women and marriage. Nonetheless, she had hoped … She forced a smile from her wooden lips. “I see. Do you have no inclination to inquire about my requirements for a husband?”
His answering smile was as insincere as hers. He reached across the blanket, snagged the jar of tepid tea, poured a cup, and offered it to her. “By all means, pray inform me of your requirements for a husband.”
Her opinion mattered to him not in the least; she knew it by his tone. And at that moment, Montford sealed his fate. Keeping her expression serene, she chose her words with care. “I require a man of honor, loyalty, and integrity.” The baron preened as though certain she referred to him, and her jaw muscles tightened. “One presentable enough to preclude causing a spectacle when he enters a room, intelligent enough to accept his wife as an equal partner rather than chattel, secure enough in his masculinity to recognize the existence of love and its importance in a lasting relationship, and sensitive enough to consider his wife’s feelings in all things and place them above his own. On all counts I have yet to find you acceptable.”
Montford fell back on the blanket in a fit of laughter. Rolling up on his elbow, he subsided to chuckles. “Touché, my lady,” he wheezed out. “Did I mention wit? A woman who can amuse me is priceless. I am quite convinced you may make an adequate wife after all. Your sharp wit will go far at court so long as you restrain your tendency to hone your tongue on me.”
He might have been amused, but she was not. Her attempt to find an amicable solution to their dilemma was doomed to failure. She would have to continue with Jwana’s scheme to drive the baron away. And should he suffer the agonies of the damned due to his stubbornness, so be it. She had no more compassion to spare. She had done her best. Her conscience was clear.
Willa brought her feet beneath her, stood, and walked over to the pond. As she looked across its surface, she searched the trees on the far edge. A gray object in one walnut tree captured her attention. Turning back to the baron, she smiled with false sweetness. “Shall we stroll around the pond?” Her voice tripped across her tongue as syrupy as molasses.