Minx (13 page)

"Just enjoying the view." He bit his lip.

"It is lovely, isn't it? I could gaze at it all day."

"As could I." If he hadn't been balanced atop a stone wall, he would have kicked himself.

They skipped along the wall for nearly ten minutes until Henry suddenly stopped and whirled around. "This is my favorite part."

"What is?"

"This tree." She motioned to an immense tree which grew from their side of the property but whose limbs ventured over the wall. "Stand back," she said, her voice hushed. She took a step toward the tree, stopped, and turned around. "Farther."

Dunford was curious but took a step back.

She approached the tree cautiously, reaching her arm slowly out, as if afraid the tree might bite her.

"Henry," Dunford called out. "What are you—"

She yanked her hand back. "Hush!" Once again her face was set in deep concentration, and she stretched out her arm toward the knothole.

Suddenly Dunford was aware of a low buzzing sound, almost like—

Bees.

In utter horror, Dunford watched as she inserted her hand into the swarming hive. A pulse beat furiously in his temple; his heart pounded in his ears. The damned chit was going to get herself stung a thousand times, and there was nothing he could do about it because an attempt to stop her would only infuriate the insects.

"Henry," he said in a low but commanding voice. "Come back here this instant."

She used her free hand to wave him away. "I've done it before."

"Henry," he repeated. He could feel a thin veil of sweat breaking out upon his brow. Any minute now the bees were going to realize their hive had been invaded. They were going to sting—and sting and sting. He could try to pull her back, but what if she jostled the hive? His face paled. "Henry!"

She slowly withdrew her arm, a large chunk of honeycomb in her hand. "I'm coming, I'm coming." She ambled back toward him, smiling as she skipped along the length of the wall.

Dunford's paralyzing fear drained away once he saw she was safely away from the hive, but it was quickly replaced by pure primitive rage. Rage that she had dared to take such stupid, useless risks, rage that she had done it in front of him. He leaped off the wall, pulling her down with him. The sticky piece of honeycomb fell to the ground.

"Don't you ever, ever do that again! Do you hear me?" He shook her violently, his fingers pressing cruelly into her skin.

"I told you—I've done that before. I was never in any danger—"

"Henry, I have seen grown men die from a bee sting." His voice caught on the words.

She swallowed. "I have heard of that. I think only a very few people react to stings that way, and certainly not I. I—"

"Tell me you won't do it again." He shook her harder. "Give me your vow."

"Ow! Dunford, please," she pleaded. "You're hurting me."

He relaxed his grip slightly but the urgency never left his voice. "Your vow."

Her eyes searched his face, trying to make sense of this. A muscle was twitching spasmodically along the side of his throat. He was furious, far beyond what she'd seen when they'd had that argument about the pigpen. And even more foreboding, she sensed he was fighting to contain an even greater rage. She tried to speak, but her words came out in a whisper. "You once told me that when you were really angry, I'd know."

"Your vow."

"You're angry now."

"Your vow, Henry."

"If it means that much to you..."

"Your vow."

"I-I swear," she said, her gray eyes wide with confusion. "I swear I won't go into the beehive again."

It took a few moments, but eventually his breathing returned to normal, and he felt able to loosen his grip on her shoulders.

"Dunford?"

He didn't know why he did it. Lord knows he hadn't intended to do it, hadn't even thought he'd wanted to do it until she said his name in that soft quavering voice, and something inside of him snapped. He crushed her to him, murmuring her name over and over into her hair. "Oh, God, Henry," he said hoarsely. "Don't ever frighten me like that again, do you understand?"

She didn't understand anything except that he was holding her so very close. It was something she hadn't even dared to dream about. She nodded against his chest—anything to keep him holding her like this. The strength of his arms was stunning, the smell of him intoxicating, and the simple feeling that for this brief moment she might possibly be loved was enough to carry her through the rest of her days.

Dunford fought to understand why he had reacted so violently. His brain tried to argue that she had never been in any real danger, that she had obviously known what she was doing. But the rest of him—his heart, his soul, his body—screamed otherwise. He had been gripped by a shattering fear, far worse than anything he had ever felt on the battlefields of the peninsula. Then he suddenly realized he was holding her—holding her far closer than was proper. And the damning thing about it was that he didn't want to let go.

He wanted her.

That was a chilling enough thought to make him suddenly release her. Henry deserved better than a dalliance, and he hoped he was man enough to keep his desires under control. It wasn't the first time he had wanted a proper young lady, and it probably wouldn't be the last. The difference between him and the blackguards of society, however, was that he did not see young virgins as sport. He wasn't going to start with Henry. "Don't do that again," he said abruptly, not knowing whether the gruffness in his voice was directed at himself or her.

"I-I won't. I gave you my promise."

He nodded curtly. "Let's be on our way."

Henry looked down at the forgotten honeycomb. "Do you...Never mind." She doubted he'd want a taste of it now. She looked at her fingers, still sticky. There was nothing to do but lick them clean, she supposed.

The silence was overwhelming as they traveled the length of Stannage Park's eastern border. Henry thought of a thousand things to say, saw a thousand things she wanted to point out to him, but in the end lacked the courage to open her mouth. She didn't like this new tenseness. For the past few days she had felt so utterly comfortable with him. She could say anything, and he wouldn't laugh, unless of course she'd meant him to. She could be herself.

She could be herself, and he would still like her.

But now he seemed a stranger, dark and forbidding, and she felt as awkward and tongue-tied as she had all those times she had had to go into Truro—except for that last time, when he'd bought her the yellow dress.

She stole a look at him. He was so kind. He must care for her a bit. He wouldn't have gotten so upset about the beehive if he didn't.

They reached the north end of the eastern border, and Henry finally broke the silence. "We turn west here," she said, motioning to a large oak tree.

"I suppose there is a hive in that one, too," he said, hoping he'd managed to inject a sufficient note of teasing into his voice. He turned around. Henry was licking her fingers. Desire uncurled in his chest, quickly spreading to the rest of his body.

"What? Oh, no. No, there isn't." She smiled hesitantly in his direction, praying their friendship was returning to normal. Or if not, that he would hold her again because she'd never felt as safe and warm as she had in his arms.

They turned left and began walking the northern border. "This ridge marks the edge of the property," Henry explained. "It runs the entire length. The northern border is actually fairly short, less than a half mile, I think."

Dunford looked out on the land—his land, he thought proudly. It was beautiful, rolling and green. "Where do the tenants live?"

"On the other side of the house. They're all to the southwest. We'll see their houses toward the end of our hike."

"Then what is that?" He pointed toward a small thatched cottage.

"Oh, it's abandoned. Has been as long as I've lived here."

"Shall we explore?" He smiled at her, and Henry was almost able to convince herself that the scene by the tree had never happened.

"I'm game," she said brightly. "I've never been inside."

"I find it hard to believe there is an inch of Stannage Park you haven't explored, inspected, appraised, and mended."

She smiled sheepishly. "I never went inside as a child because Simpy told me it was haunted."

"And you believed her?"

"I was very small. And then... I don't know. It's difficult to break old habits, I suppose. There was never any reason to go in."

"You mean you're still afraid," he said, his eyes twinkling.

"Of course not. I said I'd go in, didn't I?"

"Lead on, then, my lady."

"I will!" She marched across the open field and stopped when she reached the cottage door.

"Aren't you going to go in?"

"Aren't you?" she shot back.

"I thought you were leading the way."

"Perhaps you're afraid," she challenged.

"Terrified," he said, his smile so lopsided there was no way she could believe he was serious.

She turned to face him, her hands on her hips. "We all must learn to face our fears."

"Exactly," he said softly. "Open the door, Henry."

She took a deep breath, wondering why this was so difficult. She supposed that childhood fears stayed with a person long into adulthood. Finally she pushed open the door and looked inside. "Why, look!" she exclaimed in wonder. "Someone must have loved this cottage very much."

Dunford followed her in and looked around. The interior was musty, a testament to long years of disuse, but the cottage still managed to retain a certain homey quality. On the bed was a brightly colored quilt, faded a bit with age but still cheerful. Sentimental knickknacks adorned a set of shelves, and tacked to a wall was a drawing that only a child could have made.

"I wonder what happened to them," Henry whispered. "There was obviously a family here."

"Illness perhaps," Dunford suggested. "It isn't uncommon for a single disease to take away an entire village, much less a family."

She kneeled in front of a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. "I wonder what is in here." She lifted the lid.

"What did you find?"

"Baby clothes." She picked up a tiny smock, tears unaccountably pricking her eyes. "It's full of baby clothes. Nothing but."

Dunford got down on his hands and knees next to her and peered under the bed. "There is a cradle down here, too."

Henry felt crushed by an overwhelming melancholy. "Their baby must have died," she whispered. "It's so sad."

"There now, Hen," Dunford said, obviously touched by her grief. "It happened years ago."

"I know." She tried to smile at her foolishness, but it came out wobbly. "It's just...Well, I know what it is like to lose one's parents. It must be a hundred times worse to lose one's child."

He stood up, took her hand, and led her to the bed. "Sit down."

She perched on the edge of the bed and then, unable to get comfortable, scrambled on top and leaned her back against the pillows resting against the headboard. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "You must think I'm very foolish."

What Dunford was thinking was that she was very, very special. He'd seen her brisk, efficient side and he'd seen her joking, teasing side. But he'd never guessed she had such a sentimental streak. It was buried deep within her, to be sure, underneath layers of men's clothes and cheeky attitude, but it was there nonetheless. And there was something so utterly feminine about it. He'd seen a glimpse of it the day before in the dress shop, when she had gazed at the yellow dress with such a deep and unconcealed longing. But now... It quite unmanned him.

He sat on the edge of the bed and touched the side of her cheek with his hand. "You will make a superb mother someday."

She smiled gratefully at him. "You're so kind, Dunford, but I probably will never have children."

"Why not?"

She giggled even beneath her tears. "Oh, Dunford, one's got to have a husband to have children, and who is going to want me?"

In any other woman he would have thought that statement an obvious lure for compliments, but he knew Henry didn't have a devious, conniving bone in her body. He could see in her clear, gray eyes that she truly didn't believe any man would ever want to marry her. He wanted to wipe away the resigned pain he saw on her face. He wanted to shake her and say that she was foolish, utterly foolish. But most of all he wanted to make her feel better.

And he told himself that that was the only reason he swayed toward her, his face drawing ever nearer to hers. "Don't be silly, Henry," he whispered. "A man would have to be a fool not to want you."

She stared at him, unblinking. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, which had suddenly gone dry. Unfamiliar with the highly charged tension that now surrounded her, she tried to resort to levity, but her voice came out shaky and sad. "Then there are many, many fools in Cornwall, for no one has ever looked twice at me."

He leaned in closer. "Provincial idiots."