When Sparks Fly (8 page)

What made
more
sense was that he just didn't want her badly enough to make the necessary adjustments in his life.

She swallowed hard. Because she was plain. He might say he desired her, but plenty of men desired women without wanting them as wives. There'd been no females here in a long time, so Martin might just be randy. That didn't mean he wanted to spend his life with her.

Dashing away angry tears, she hurried after the boys and the footmen as they headed down another path through the woods. They'd been in search of the perfect Yule log for two hours now, discarding every stupid piece of wood she suggested. Why was the male sex always so fractious and determined to make a woman's life miserable?

Well, she'd had enough of them all. She wasn't good enough for his lordship? Fine. She would be cordial and aloof with him from now on.

But that night, as they finished dinner, she wasn't so sure she could. Martin kept looking at her with an odd yearning that confused her even further. Did he want her or not? What other secrets lay behind that strange and enigmatic gaze to explain the real reason for his not wanting to marry?

Was she just being fanciful? Or was he simply not interested in her because she wasn't pretty enough to keep his interest?

“So when do we play snapdragon?” Percy asked once dessert was served.

Martin muttered an oath. “I was hoping it had slipped your mind.”

“No chance of that,” she said dryly. Her cousins never forgot a promise, even one made under duress.

“Very well,” Martin said. “I'll go see to the arrangements.”

“And I'll take Meg up to bed. She's too young for this.” She glanced over to where the girl was nodding off. “Besides, it's late.”

Picking her darling cousin up, she headed for the stairs.

“You'll come back, though, won't you, Ellie?” Tim asked.

“Yes,” Martin's low voice joined in. “Do come back.”

A little thrill darted through her at his words.

But when she shot him a surprised glance, he added, “You can't possibly expect me to handle these lads without help.”

She stiffened, tempted to tell him he was on his own, but the silvery heat in his eyes kept her from saying it. “Give me a few minutes.”

When she returned, everything had already been arranged. The shallow bowl of brandy held pride of place in the center of the dining table, laden with so many raisins that plucking them out wouldn't prove much of a challenge, fire or no fire.

Nonetheless, Martin was setting down rules as she approached. “No flinging raisins at other people. Huggett will keep count of how many each of you snatches, and you must abide by his count. Take off your coats, and roll up your sleeves. I don't want anyone catching their cuffs on fire.”

“What about me?” she asked. “My sleeves are too tight to roll up.”

Alarm suffused his face. “You mean to play?”

“Ellie always plays,” Tim said matter-­of-­factly. “She almost beat everyone last time. It's because she has little fingers. She can get in and out quicker.”

“God help us.” Martin cast her a resigned glance. “I don't suppose I can talk you out of it.”

“Not on your life,” she said, though his palpable concern softened her.

“Very well.” He gestured to her sleeves. “Slide them up as far as you can.” He turned to the boys. “If you happen to ignite anything, put it out in one of the pails I placed at each corner of the table. But whatever you do, don't throw water on the brandy. It merely scatters the fire.”

“Listen well to him, boys,” she put in. “His lordship knows everything there is to know about fire.”

“What I know is that it's dangerous,” Martin growled.

Everyone roundly ignored him.

Charlie peered into the bowl. “Where's the lucky raisin?”

“What's that?” Martin asked.

Ellie produced the gold button she'd brought along just for this purpose. “In London, we add what we call the ‘lucky raisin' to the bowl. Whoever plucks it out is allowed to ask a boon of someone else among the party.” Dropping it into the brandy, she cast Martin a teasing glance. “And whoever is asked must grant the boon or risk a dire fate.”

Martin arched one eyebrow. “A dire fate, eh? Then I'll have to make sure
I
am the one to get it.”

The husky timbre of his voice thrummed along her every nerve. If he thought she'd let him win this, he was in for a surprise. The Black Baron had already won more from her than she could afford to lose. It was
her
turn to win.

Huggett lit the bowl, then extinguished the candles, leaving only the eerie blue flame playing over the surface. At once the boys began to chant:

“Here he comes with flaming bowl,

Don't he mean to take his toll,

Snip! Snap! Dragon!

Take care you don't take too much,

Be not greedy in your clutch,

Snip! Snap! Dragon!

With his blue and lapping tongue

Many of you will be stung,

Snip! Snap! Dragon!”

They'd scarcely finished the final verse when Tim plunged his fingers into the luminous glow to snatch the first raisin, and the game was on.

Bracing herself for the quick heat, Ellie darted forward to grab her own prize. She popped it into her mouth, dancing it about on her tongue to extinguish the fire, then chewing up the hot raisin as she reached toward the bowl for another.

For a moment, Martin only watched and shook his head as they complained about their sore fingers even while they thrust them right back in. But then he began grabbing raisins himself with a deftness even she couldn't match.

“Tell me again why we're doing this?” he muttered as he tossed a blue-­tinged raisin into his mouth and winced.

“Because it's fun!” she cried, laughing at the chagrin on his face.

When Charlie crowed after snatching up two raisins at once, she noticed that Martin's lips bore a ghost of a smile.

She bent closer, trying to spot the gold button, no small feat with only the blue flame for light. Just as she caught sight of it Percy did, too, and lunged forward. His arm caught the side of her head, snagging her braid loose of its pins to fall right into the brandy. She still managed to seize the lucky raisin, but not before the end of her braid had caught fire.

As the acrid smell of burned hair rose around them, Martin grabbed her braid and tugged her to the nearest pail. “I knew this was insane,” he grumbled as he dunked it repeatedly. “Snapdragon indeed. You people have no sense!”

“Ow!” she cried, torn between pain and laughter. “My head is attached to that, you know. Stop pulling so hard! The fire is out, for goodness' sake!”

Releasing her braid, he scowled at her, ignoring the boys, who'd returned to the game as soon as they'd seen she was safe. “What in God's name were you trying to do by leaning so close to the flames?”

“I was trying to get
this
.” She held up the lucky raisin with a grin. “And I succeeded, didn't I?”

“You nearly succeeded in igniting your whole head!” he countered, the panic in his voice mirrored by his expression of dark concern.

“I was fine, really.” She swept her braid up to examine the end. “It's hardly even burned.”

“That's only because you have it so tightly plaited. That slows down the rate of—” He broke off, his eyes going wide. “That's it. Oh my God, that's
it
!”

“What's it?” she asked. “The rate of what?”

But his mind seemed to be elsewhere. Swiftly, he relit a couple of candles, then set a plate over the bowl to extinguish the blue flames.

“Wait!” Percy cried. “We're not done!”

“Yes you are,” he shot back. “I have to go, and I'm not leaving you lot here alone with a burning bowl of brandy.”

“Where are you going?” Tim asked. “Can we come?”

“Certainly not,” Martin growled as he donned his coat.

“It's nearly ten o'clock, sir,” Huggett pointed out. “Surely it's much too dangerous to be riding out on icy roads—”

“I'm not riding anywhere.” Martin stalked for the door. “Make sure they don't light up the brandy again, Huggett.” He was halfway out the door when he halted, whirled around, and returned to where she stood gaping at him.

Before she knew his intent, he caught her hand and pressed a hard kiss into the palm. “Thank you,” he said fervently, his eyes regarding her with such hot intensity that a blush rose to her cheeks. “You don't know what you've done.”

“I certainly don't,” she shot back, but by the time the words were out of her mouth, he was already heading for the door again.

After he'd gone, Percy shook his head. “He's an odd fellow, isn't he, Ellie?”

Odd
wasn't the word she would have used.
Impassioned
was more like it.

Her hand still burned, and not from the hot raisins. She stared down to where he'd kissed it, then curled her fingers into the palm, wishing kisses could somehow be saved. Because just that touch of his lips on her bare skin had brought all her wanton feelings from that morning rushing back.

So much for being cordial and aloof.

“What are you going to do with the lucky raisin?” Charlie asked her.

She opened her other hand to stare at the gold button. “I don't know.”

“You could ask Tim to stop being such a nodcock,” Percy said, elbowing his younger brother.

“Or ask Percy to grow a brain,” Tim countered, elbowing back.

“Stop that, both of you,” she said without looking up. “I'm going to save it until I decide.”

But what was there to decide? Only one person could grant her what she wanted, and it wasn't her cousins. Because what she wanted was a night of passion with Martin.

Her heart leaped in her chest. It wasn't too horribly outrageous an idea, was it? If she meant never to marry anyway, did it matter if she lost her innocence? What she contemplated might go against every principle Mrs. Harris had taught her, but such principles hadn't suited her very well of late.

She much preferred Nicolas Chamfort's principle, that “when a man and a woman have an overwhelming passion for each other . . . in spite of such obstacles dividing them . . . they belong to each other in the name of Nature, and are lovers by Divine right, in spite of human convention or the laws.”

Of course, Chamfort was French. Still, how could she live out her life without experiencing passion for herself with the only man she'd ever loved? She might not have Martin's love in return, but she could have his passion.

She
would
have his passion, at least for one night. He owed her a boon. And she was going to make sure he granted it, no matter what the consequences.

Chapter Eight

Dear Cousin,

I am not haughty, but cautious. I can understand how a man might mistake caution for arrogance, but I assure you no woman would. On the whole, women are far more aware of the world's dangers than men will allow.

Your terribly
cautious
relation,

Charlotte

C
hristmas Eve dawned cold and clear, but Martin scarcely noticed. He had passed the night in his barn, working in a frenzy of excitement on his new idea for a fuse consisting of rope impregnated with black powder, and now he was on his third rendition. Each one had worked successively better in his limited tests. He figured that by midday he'd have a version worth testing more reliably at the mine.

Why hadn't he thought of using rope before?

Because he hadn't had Ellie around before. Ellie, with her penchant for braiding things . . . Ellie, with her encouraging glances . . . Ellie, who apparently approved of any Christmas tradition that involved setting fires.

Reckless little fool. He'd nearly lost ten years of his life when her hair had caught fire. And she hadn't even flinched! She'd blithely teased him about finding that idiotic button, as if she hadn't just risked going up in flames.

The wench was a bit mad, as were her cousins. The sooner the lot of them went on to Sheffield, the better. Then his life would return to how it had been before. Predictable. Safe. . . . Lonely.

With a scowl, he bent over the table, cutting strands of jute to wind around the core of gunpowder he'd developed. How had he adapted so quickly to the pleasure of having a cozy group around the dinner table? To evenings filled with books and music? Granted, the boys were rascals, but little Meg had an endearing way of thrusting her thumb in her mouth whenever she was upset, and Ellie . . .

Oh, God, Ellie. Once she returned to London, she'd surely find a husband who wasn't liable to blow her up by accident. He'd be a respectable gentleman with a good name, who would dance with her at balls and dine with her at home and retire with her at night to their intimate marriage bed—

The penknife cut into his forefinger. “Hell and blazes,” he muttered to himself, “that damned woman will be the death of me yet.”

He couldn't stand to think of her in another man's bed. He hated the idea of some other man kissing that plump little mouth, entwining himself in that curtain of hair, fondling every inch of her lush, warm flesh.

You just have to give it time. You'll forget her when she leaves. The memory will fade, and your life will go back to normal.

Then why did the image of her not fade from his mind as his experiments continued throughout the morning? Why was it that when Huggett called to him from outside to come eat
something,
he was disappointed to find, when he went in briefly for food, that Ellie and the boys were upstairs with Mrs. Metcalf? He had to restrain himself from going up for just a glimpse of her smile.

That afternoon he went to the mine, bearing his three experimental fuses. They performed spectacularly. Though he could see that improvements would be needed, the men were impressed with the possibilities, and he knew without a doubt that he'd finally stumbled upon the solution he'd been striving for.

Yet despite the congratulations, despite the drinking in celebration of Christmas Eve at the mine, he chafed to be back at the manor. He told himself it was only because he wanted to tell Ellie about his “safe fuse,” that he wanted to give credit where credit was due since she'd sparked the idea in his mind. It wasn't because he yearned to see her face bloom in a smile, to hear her praise his accomplishment, to steal a kiss. No, indeed.

Yet instead of drinking into the wee hours of the morning with his miners as on past Christmas Eves, he begged off early. After a quick washup, he rode back to the manor around nine o'clock, praying that Ellie hadn't yet retired.

She hadn't. He found her sitting alone in the great hall, near the hearth that held a monstrously large piece of timber. “I suppose I missed the lighting of the Yule log,” he murmured as he came up to where she sat reading before the fire.

She looked up, a smile of welcome flashing over her lips. “Yes. And dinner, too, though I believe Mr. Huggett put a tray of something in your study. He said that was where you generally eat.”

“It is, indeed.” He suddenly realized he'd had nothing but ale since midday, and not much of that, either. He held out his hand to her. “Will you come sit with me while I eat? I have much to tell you.”

“Certainly.” Taking his hand, she rose, leaving her book on the chair. As they headed off together, with her hand nestled in the crook of his arm, she added, “You look tired.”

“I am. Tired and famished. I only slept in snatches last night, and it's beginning to catch up with me.”

“The children were disappointed that you weren't here for the Christmas Eve festivities,” she said in a tone of forced nonchalance.

“Only the children?” he said, unable to stop himself.

“Certainly not.” Her gaze shot to his, an arch smile playing over her lips. “Mr. Huggett was positively
devastated
by your absence.”

He laughed. “The rascal probably had the time of his life with those boys running around setting fire to Yule candles while I wasn't here to put a damper on things.” He covered her hand with his. “But I wasn't trying to avoid any of you. I was working out my new invention.”

They'd reached the study, where a tray of cold ham, bread, and cheese awaited him. She sat down across the desk from him as he began to eat, describing the safety fuse between bites of his meal. Some of the excitement still beating in his chest must have conveyed itself to her, for her expression soon grew as animated as he felt, even though she probably didn't understand half of what he babbled about blends of chemicals and the proper winding of the jute.

Until now, he'd never realized how much he craved having someone share his successes. She even seemed to understand his enthusiasm. Not even his father had ever done that, and it touched him deeply.

Shoving his tray aside, he leaned forward on the desk. “It's all because of you, you know. Your braid gave me the idea.”

“You mean, setting
fire
to my braid gave you the idea,” she teased. “Seems to me that since I risked my life for your cause, I ought to receive at least half the proceeds of your safe fuse.”

He chuckled. “I do owe you,” he said, matching her light tone. “I owe you double, as a matter of fact—unless you've already demanded that one of the others give you your lucky raisin ‘boon.' ”

Mention of the “boon” inexplicably banished the smile from her lips. She smoothed her skirts and fidgeted a moment, then abruptly rose and went to where the door stood open. “Actually I . . . um . . . kept the fulfillment of the boon for
you.
In fact, I was hoping you'd do it tonight.”

She glanced out, then closed the door, and he frowned. Whatever she wanted of him must be very secret indeed. Something for her aunt, perhaps?

But then she stowed her spectacles in her pocket, and he knew this was no ordinary favor. She returned to the desk, looking decidedly nervous. “I . . . um . . . well . . . I've been thinking, and I was hoping . . . that is . . .”

“For God's sake, Ellie, tell me what you want. I'll be happy to give you—”

“I want a night of passion,” she blurted out.

The coals that had been smoldering inside him ever since yesterday in the barn leaped instantly into flame. It took all his will to tamp them down. “What in blazes do you mean?” he said, praying he'd misunderstood her.

She set her shoulders as her gaze met his. “I mean I want you to make love to me. Tonight, i-­if you're not too tired.”

Too tired? He could leap over mountains right now if it meant a chance of bedding her. But that didn't mean it was wise. He rose from the desk so abruptly, his chair fell over. “Are you daft?”

“No!” Her chin began to tremble. “I-­I just thought perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me what I want since you . . . seemed to desire me, at least a little.”

“Of course I desire you, and more than a little,” he bit out, not sure how to handle this. “But that's not the point. You're an untried maiden. Someday you'll marry, and your husband will expect—”

“I shall never marry,” she said stoutly. “So given the choice between a spinsterhood without ever knowing passion and a single night with you, I'd just as soon have the night with
you
. If you don't mind.”

His blood pounded in his veins.
Mind?
He minded quite a lot. His control was already stretched to the breaking point, and he didn't know how much farther it would hold, now that she'd roused images of her and him together in his head.

“Ellie,” he said, attempting a soothing tone as he approached her, “of course you'll be marrying. Why wouldn't you?”

Anger flared in her eyes. “If you're going to be condescending about it, forget what I said.”

What did she mean—he was just stating facts!

She turned for the door, but he caught her arm to stay her. “I didn't mean to be condescending. All I was trying to say—badly, it appears—is that some respectable man is sure to offer for you.” God rot the lucky bastard.

“Some respectable fortune hunter, you mean.”

“No, that's not what I mean at all!”

“Because that's the only type who will ever offer for me,” she went on in a tortured voice, her arm trembling in his grasp. “I can't take another season of their insincere smiles and their polite conversation while they follow my friend Lucy with their eyes. I'd rather die than marry a man who doesn't care for me.”

Pulling free of his grip, she faced him. Her eyes held so much pain that it shocked him. “I understand why you don't want to marry me, either. Sadly enough for me, you're a man of character, and like most men of character, you can't be tempted by a mere fortune. I can even”— her voice caught on a sob before she steadied herself—“accept that. But I don't see why that should prevent you from showing me what passion is.”

He was still trying to follow her skewed reasoning when she added in a heart-­wrenching voice, “I . . . I know I'm not pretty enough to marry . . .” She was crying now. “But surely you find me . . . desirable enough . . . to share your bed . . . for just one . . . night.”

“Ellie, my God,” he whispered as it finally dawned on him what notion she'd taken into her head. Catching her face in his hands, he forced her to look at him. “Pretty enough to marry! Are you mad? I've spent the past few days in a torment trying to keep my hands off you. I can't sleep for dreaming of what it would be like to have you in my bed.”

“Then why won't you make love to me?” she choked out. “I promise no one will ever know. It will be only the one night—”

“One night would never be enough,” he said fiercely. “Hell and blazes, don't you understand? You're everything I dream of in a wife. You have a heart as big as the world. You're honest, and clever, and you make my blood run hot whenever I see you.” He brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “And yes, you
are
pretty. To me, you're as pretty as a woman can be. I don't know what those idiots in London have been telling you, but they're wrong.”

She dropped her gaze. “You're just s-­saying that to be kind.”

“When have I ever been kind before?” he said, desperate to relieve her pain. “I'm saying it because it's true, love. I swear I would marry you in an instant if not for—”

“If not for what?” She lifted her lovely, innocent gaze to meet his. “And don't say it has anything to do with the gossip, because you know I don't care about that. Besides, none of it could hurt me nearly as much as marrying a man who doesn't love me. Or remaining a spinster. Because if you don't want me, that's what will happen. I'll live with Papa and never know the passion of the marriage bed—”

“At least you'd be alive!” he cried, the words torn from him. But he couldn't let her think that he didn't want her; that would be cruel.

Her face was incredulous. “
That's
what this is about? You won't marry me because you're worried about my safety?”

“Don't you see? I couldn't bear it if anything ever happened to you.” He
had
to make her understand. “I won't marry you at the risk to your life. I can't.”