The Vicar's Frozen Heart (4 page)

As she stepping across the threshold, she took note there were more rooms at the end of the hall. Perhaps she would explore them later. Tentatively, she made her way to the front of the residence. A parlor--and a good sized one, with high-quality furniture. In her quick exploration she did not notice any personal touches such as photographs or portraits in gilded frames. The room consisted of a sofa, a few well-placed chairs, a fireplace, and not much else. About to head back through the hallway, the front door banged open, causing her to jump. Good God, the man made an entrance. He was dressed elegantly and all in black, from his boots, trousers, and long frock coat, all except for the stiff white collar--
collar?

Eliza clasped her throat in shock. “You’re a priest?” she rasped.

He bowed stiffly. “Reverend Tremain Colson at your service, Miss.”

A vicar and not a Catholic priest, though that was bad enough. Humiliation covered her as she realized she told her sordid story to a man of the church. No wonder he acted with cold disdain and wanted her gone from his sight.

“Why...why didn’t you tell me?” She motioned to her throat, pointing at her own collar, her hands trembling.

“That I was a vicar? Would it have made a difference?” One thick, black brow arched in question.

“Yes, it bloody well, I mean...yes, it would have! I wouldn’t have told...never mind.” Eliza flushed in embarrassment.

“You should return to bed and rest. The roads are not clear enough to head to the village. My trip will have to wait until tomorrow.” His voice was commanding and would brook no argument. Truth be told, she felt far too weary to mount a dispute over much of anything. Bed sounded wonderful. To her surprise, the vicar moved to her side and clutched her elbow. “Allow me to assist you.”

Heat emanated from his body and instinctively she leaned against him. Besides the warmth, she reveled in the solidness of him. Shame on her for finding an Anglican priest attractive. But she did, and as they slowly made their way back to his room she stole a glance at him. Ruggedly masculine profile, square jaw, and strong chin, yet he resembled a cold marble sculpture. Once across the threshold, he released her elbow and stepped back. “I will bring you a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of tea. You must eat.”

She didn’t care for oatmeal, reminded her too much of the industrial home, but he was right: she should at least attempt to eat. “Yes. Thank you.”

Mr. Colson turned and left the room, ignoring her gratitude. How rude.

Eliza hurried as quickly as she could to remove some of her clothes. She left the chemise and blouse in place and crawled in under the covers, the warmth of the blankets causing her to moan softly. In truth, she could use another day to recover. Good thing the snow hampered her departure. And where would she go? A lump formed her in throat. After everything that happened, it would be easy to indulge in self-pity and have a good, cleansing cry, but she had the distinct feeling the vicar would not tolerate such behavior. Wasn’t in her nature, at any rate, and she was too tired to muster up a few tears.

Mr. Colson returned with a tray, laid it on her lap, turned, and left the room without saying a word, closing the door behind him.
Well.
She frowned and glanced into the bowl at the paste-like lump of oatmeal. Eliza shuddered in distaste. At least he brought in sugar. Scooping up a heaping teaspoon, she sprinkled it over the oatmeal. To her surprise, she ate most of it and drank the tea, both warming her insides. With a yawn, she laid the tray on the floor, then curled up under the covers and fell fast asleep.

* * * *

By the time Eliza opened her eyes darkness had filled the room. She must have once again slept the afternoon away. The sudden urge to urinate caused her to sit upright. Should she locate a water closet or use the chamber pot once again? In her brief exploration, the vicarage appeared modern enough. Surely he must have an indoor necessary. She stood and then stepped into her wool skirt.

After doing up the buttons she moved to the bedroom door and opened it, peering out into the darkened hallway. Had Mr. Colson already retired for the night? After stepping across the doorsill, Eliza quietly made her way to the end of the hall. Splashing water halted her steps. Since the door was partway open, she glanced in. At the front of the room Mr. Colson stood with his back to her, apparently having a sponge bath.

The proper thing would be to retreat unnoticed and return to her room. However, she could not get her legs to move for the sight of his bare torso, broad shoulders, and muscular back held her in thrall. In the dim lighting, he appeared as perfectly formed as a demigod. Like Adonis. Her mouth went dry as he lifted his arm and washed underneath, muscle and sinew rippling under his skin with each movement. Eliza’s own skin grew hot as her concentrated gaze followed the trail of the cloth from under his arm to across his stomach. His shoulders and back tapered down to a slim waist with not an ounce of fat to be seen. The tight trousers hugged a firm backside, and Eliza bit her lip to stem the moan from escaping her.

She was incredibly aroused. Moisture gathered between her thighs and her insides dipped. Mr. Colson turned to face her. Their gazes locked and held. Though mortified at being discovered, she still could not find it within herself to flee. He lowered his arms and she drank in the vision before her. He stood mostly in shadow, but still there was no mistaking the front of him was as muscular and appealing as the back. Her gaze lingered; curly black hair covered his astounding chest. By the time her gaze slid to his face, she could have sworn she saw fire in his eyes. Again, they stared at each other and Eliza’s breathing came in short gasps. Did his nostrils just flare or was it merely her overactive imagination?

Several minutes passed before Mr. Colson turned from her and continued on with his task. Taking a cleansing breath, Eliza managed to back out of the doorway and then fled for the safety of her room.

After a night of erotic dreams about a certain muscular vicar, Eliza awoke feeling far from rested. Tossing and turning in an agitated state all night did not translate into soothing slumber. Her sexual experience was brief; the assignations with William Winters happened quickly and under secretive circumstances. The young man did not exactly spend a great deal of time seeing to her needs and in two of the meetings, they hardly removed any clothing.

But in her dreams, she allowed her fevered imagination to conjure all manner of erotic scenarios with Tremain Colson. The virility fairly oozed from the man, which caused her to awake scorching hot and aching. Standing at the window she closed her eyes, and in her darkened vision a fully naked and aroused Tremain strode toward her with purpose. Funny, in her dreams he did not limp or need the cane. Her skin prickled with awareness as she fantasized that he pushed her against the wall, slowly removing her clothes, kissing her exposed skin. Then he lifted her, thrust into her over and over again in a wild, untamed manner until she cried out...Eliza’s eyes snapped opened and the erotic visions vanished as quickly as they’d formed, leaving her aroused.
Enough dreaming, time to get on with the day.

At least the sun came out. Once she dressed, she gathered her courage in order to locate the vicar, hoping he would not bring up the fact she found him half-naked and openly lusted after him. Did she learn nothing at all from her humiliating dismissal? Besides, hunger urged her onward as she’d slept through supper and was too mortified to venture out of her bedroom afterward.

Eliza found the vicar in the parlor. He stood, leaning on his cane, his face as brittle and cold as a sheet of ice. So much for their heated gazes of the previous night. Perhaps she dreamt the entire thing. “The road is passable enough I can make my way to the village.” Reaching for his long frock coat, he struggled to slip it on, and without thinking, Eliza stepped forward to assist him. Grasping his hand, she lifted the coat up over his shoulders, then stepped back. Pulling his black leather gloves from his pocket, he put them on as he spoke. “I will make inquiries for you regarding accommodations and work. You cannot stay here another night.” His voice was stiff and formal.

No. She could not tarry here. Not at all. And not only because of her strange attraction to him. Growing up in a Catholic orphanage was oppressive, downright depressing, and she had no desire to share housing with anyone associated with
any
church, regardless of the denomination. Her life growing up consisted of duty, prayer, and cold indifference. A couple of nuns were kind, but for the most part her regimented childhood turned her away from any type of organized religion. Yes, she gained an excellent education and ultimately a fine position, but there was no love or affection in her life.

Perhaps that was the reason she eagerly and greedily took what William Winters offered. Love, even the carnal, was still a form of love. Warmth. Intimacy. All the things she lacked in her past experience. This tall, solemn man of the cloth had nothing to offer her in spite of his handsome face and form. Nothing she craved. She nodded briskly. “Yes, I cannot stay here. It is patently obvious.”

His brow arched again at her chilly tone, but she did not care. “Very well, help yourself to tea and porridge in the kitchen. I will return directly.” He clasped his cane and then hobbled out the door, closing it behind him.

Eliza rushed to the window. It was then she saw the church to the right of the residence. The structure was a fair size and possibly a hundred years old or more, judging from the weathered granite stone walls. It had a tall wood spire and a large bronze bell within. Stiffly, Mr. Colson climbed aboard a small gig. Considering his damaged leg she doubted he could ride a horse. With a snap of the reins, he departed and she watched until his broad-shouldered form disappeared from view.

How surprising that he left her alone in his residence. If she wished, she could rob him blind, though there did not appear to be much of value there. After inspecting each room, she stepped into the one he had washed in last night and was amazed to find a tub and wash basin attached to pipes in the wall. Strange for a village vicarage. She opened a small door at the back of the room and smiled with pleasure. An earthenware water closet. She used it and then cleaned out the chamber pot before exploring further.

The two rooms at the end of the hall consisted of a guest room, where she assumed the vicar slept the past two nights, and a small study where he no doubt wrote his uncompromising sermons. As tempted as she was to explore his desk to find out more about the man, she backed out of the room and gently closed the door. Invading his private space seemed wrong. Bad enough she had done so last night. The place was clean and neat, sparse in its furnishings, personal touches non-existent. As if he were a guest in his own residence.

When she stepped into the kitchen she gasped in astonishment at the bright, huge space. Two large windows in the far right corner of the room gave the area a blast of sun, providing ample light and heat. A large cast iron cooker stood against the opposite wall, with various sizes of copper pans hanging above it. But what truly surprised her was the oak icebox. The Bowater Manor owned one, as did most upper-class homes, but a vicar? Did he have money or did he live under the auspices of a wealthy patron of the church? An odd thing to find in a small village. Grasping the heavy kettle, she turned on the tap and filled it halfway. Again, water in from pipes.

After lighting the stove, she placed the kettle on the burner. The room was spotless and well-stocked with dishes and pans. She inspected the pantry and found the shelves full of all the staples required for preparing meals, and when she located a biscuit jar, she greedily snatched a few. Cold porridge sat in a bowl on the counter and she curled her lip. Couldn’t stand it. As a governess, she could not claim many cooking skills. A few nursery dishes, a cup of tea, not much else. In her previous position she became used to being waited on, as trays were brought to the nursery.

Exhaling a wistful sigh, she knew those days of privilege--such as they were--were now at an end. Perhaps a good thing in retrospect, since she ate alone and maintained little interaction with the staff and as a result, never made any friends at the Bowater Manor. The loneliness became unbearable. Trapped between two worlds--the servants and the served. Probably another reason she jumped at William’s invitation. Deep in the dark recesses of her soul, she knew the assignation was wrong and a terrible risk, considering her position. How reckless. How unlike her.

A loud hiss of steam from the kettle pulled her thoughts from the past. Dashing a lone tear from her cheek, she made a vow to stop reflecting on her mistakes. Time to move forward and take what comes with courage and determination. Reaching for a cup and saucer from the shelf, she nodded. Considering recent events, it would be easy to retreat to a bitter, dark place and stay there, ruminating over her fate. What happened in the coldly handsome vicar’s past to have him hide behind a curtain of chilly indifference?

The trip to Hawksgreen took longer than Tremain anticipated, but the warm sun melted the snow enough to allow him to plow a path toward the village. During the entire journey he could not tear his thoughts from Eliza standing in his parlor in her colorless governess garments with her bruised and swollen face. She looked quite alone, at a loss and uncertain. Much like he acted and experienced of late, though he fought to suppress his emotions, revealing them to no one. But the memory seared on his brain was her finding him washing last night. The air between them had crackled with heat and life, and a good thing her gaze never lingered below his waist for he’d been as hard as oak beneath his trousers. It took all of his restraint not to cross the floor and pull her into his embrace. Instead he retreated behind the wall he’d constructed for himself.

He hadn’t always been cold and remote. When did the exact change take place? Almost three years to the day at the Battle of Rorke’s Drift in South Africa. Even thinking of the Anglo-Zulu war caused a blast of white hot pain to shoot up his leg and settle in his upper thigh, tearing at his damaged muscles and cartilage with insistent claws.
No, not today.
Tremain banished the horrid memories from his mind as he pulled on the reins until the horse stopped in front of The Rusty Cockerel, the only inn and pub in the village.