Tessa Dare - [Spindle Cove 03.5] (3 page)

More beautiful than ever.

Between her intoxicating looks and the fact that he was on his third whiskey, he was addled. He didn’t know what she was doing here, but so long as she was sitting next to him, he was going to stare. He propped his elbow on the bar and drank in every detail of her rain-misted face, savoring.

Her gaze fell to his tumbler of whiskey. “You’re having a drink?”

“Yes.”

She picked up the tumbler and stared into it. “Is it brandy?”

“Actually, it’s—”

Before he could get the words out, she’d lifted the glass to her lips and tossed back half the contents in one swallow.

“ . . . whiskey.”

She set it down. Stared at it, wide-eyed. Coughed. “Oh. So it is. Goodness.”

After a moment’s pause, she lifted the tumbler again.

This time, he acted. He grasped her slender wrist, cutting her draught short. “Miss Highwood, you shouldn’t.”

“Oh, I think I should. I think this is exactly what I need.”

“But your health.”

“You mean my asthma?” She set the tumbler down, and he released her wrist. “My asthma hasn’t troubled me in years.”

“Of course it has. That’s why you’re here in Spindle Cove.”

She shook her head slowly. “I haven’t had a breathing crisis since the one you witnessed here in this tavern. That was two summers ago. Susanna consulted with physicians in London, and she thinks I’ve outgrown it. People do, she said. Apparently, I’m . . . I’m cured.”

She was cured? Aaron was confused. This didn’t make any sense. Her breathing troubles were the reason the Highwoods had moved to this village—the sea air was beneficial to her lungs.

She fidgeted with the necklace he’d mended just that day—the one with the vial of precious tincture dangling from the chain. “I don’t even need it anymore. I know in my soul, I don’t. I only wear it out of habit.” Her blue eyes met his. “And because you made it.”

Her confession was like a punch to the jaw. It came out of nowhere and set his head spinning.

The whiskey was starting to hit her, too. He could tell from the glassy sheen in her eyes and the unsteady motions of her hands. But mostly, by the ridiculous words spouting from her lips.

He tossed a few coins on the bar and stood, putting a hand under her elbow to help her to her feet, too. “Come. I’ll walk you back to the rooming house.”

He didn’t give her a chance to object, tucking her arm through his in a way that he hoped wouldn’t look improper to anyone who might happen to see.

“You were right today,” she confessed. “I’m not clumsy.”

No sooner had she said it than she stumbled over the doorstep.

“Not usually.” She giggled.

Giggled
? He didn’t remember ever hearing Diana Highwood giggle.

“I broke the necklace on purpose, just so you’d have to mend it. So I could watch you mend it.” She shook her head. “That’s dishonest of me, isn’t it? Why would I do that? Lie to you, lie to myself.”

He herded her across the lane and onto the village green. It was muddy, but the shortest route. Getting her home as quickly as possible seemed his best strategy.

“Miss Highwood, you need to rest.”

“I don’t need to rest. I’m cured. I’m perfectly well.”

“Nevertheless, it’s late. And wet. You need to be getting back to the rooming house before your mother and sister worry.”

“No.” She lifted a hand to her temple. “No, I don’t want to go back to the rooming house. I want . . .” Her face scrunched up, and her speech gained in rapidity what it lost in coherence. “Oh, I don’t know what I want. That’s the problem. All my life, I’ve been discouraged from wanting anything. I couldn’t risk Minerva’s love of debate, or Charlotte’s exuberance, or even Mama’s nerves. I had to be calm. Delicate, cool, serene Diana. That’s been me, always. No wild passions. No adventurous dreams. It seemed silly to plan for the future. For all I knew, I wouldn’t live to see it.”

He didn’t like this talk of her dying. “But you said you’re cured now.”

“And then tonight . . .” Her voice broke as she gestured at the Queen’s Ruby. “Tonight, my sister asked me, Don’t I want to start living? And I realized I don’t even know what I want from life. I know what my mother wants for me. I know what everyone else expects. But what do
I
truly desire?”

Excellent question. Aaron waited for the answer.

Her hand pressed to her chest. “Do I want to have a season in London and marry a lord? Do I want to stay here in the village and become a permanent spinster? Do I want to join a circus? I don’t know, Mr. Dawes. I don’t know, and it terrifies me. All those years of setting aside my emotions. My lungs are healed, but at what cost? I am a stranger to my own heart.”

Raindrops spotted her face, like dew on petals. Damn, this was torture. He wanted to comfort or guard her, but he didn’t know how. She wasn’t his to tend.

He pulled her under the branches of a chestnut tree. The least he could do was shield her from the rain.

“There’s only one thing I feel absolutely certain of,” she said.

“Tell me.”

Whatever it was, he vowed that she would have it.

At last she’d shaken off the manacles clapped on her—the restraints of illness and her mother’s expectations. Good. Good for her. She deserved to have the things she desired.

“This afternoon.” She drew close. “I wanted you to kiss me. I wanted it more than I can remember wanting anything in my life.”

With that, she tilted her face to his.

And closed her eyes.

Aaron stared down at her, watching the white puffs of her breath as it left her lips. He could taste them. Little clouds of whiskey.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Didn’t . . . didn’t you want to kiss me, too?”

“I did.”

“Then why don’t you? We’re alone. No one ever has to know.”

He snorted at that last. “It’s impossible to keep a secret in this village.”

“No, it’s not. I’ve been keeping all sorts of secrets for years. For example, sometimes I think, very hard, about how you’d look without your shirt. You never would have guessed that, would you? No one would.”

He couldn’t help his startled laugh.

“And I gaze at your hair.” She lifted a hand, and her ungloved fingers caught a lock of his hair. “It gets long sometimes, all the way to your collar. And then one day, it will be short again. I always wonder who you’ve been to see.”

She was half drunk, more than a little overwrought . . . but her words tapped a deep well of curiosity. He’d always known there was more to her than the pretty face everyone admired. He’d known her to possess courage and a good heart. But now, he caught glimmers of other qualities. Sensuality. Jealousy. A sly sense of humor.

This was an entirely new Diana Highwood. A
real
one. And she was with him, right now, in the rain and dark.

“Won’t you kiss me?” she whispered, sidling close. “Just the once?”

“The thing is, Miss Highwood, I’m not interested in kissing you just the once.”

“Oh.” Her face fell.

He propped one finger under her chin, tilting her face back up. “If I were to kiss you, once wouldn’t be enough. I’d want to kiss you many times. In lots of places.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Oh. I . . . I see.”

He doubted she did see. She couldn’t even imagine. A few fingers of whiskey couldn’t provide that much education. The carnal images in his mind could shock the silk from her stockings.

“Listen,” he said, “I know you’ve been living in some sort of cage. And tonight, it seems you learned you’ve been holding the key all along. You deserve a bit of rebellion, but I can’t be it. I can’t be the man you wake up regretting.”

“Then make the kiss good. So I won’t have regrets.” Smiling, she slid her arms around his neck. Her weight pitched forward.

Jesus.
She could barely stay on her feet. Which, of course, meant her body was all pressed up against his. Fortunately, her woolen cloak was as thick as a horse blanket.

“Miss Highwood . . .”

“Call me Diana.” She let her head fall forward, nestling into his coat.

“Diana.” Until he spoke the name aloud, he hadn’t known how deeply he’d wanted to call her that.
Diana, Diana.

“You’re so strong,” she murmured. “And warm. You smell like soap.”

“Diana, I know you. We’ve lived in the same small village for almost two years, and we’ve come through a few trials together. Let’s just say I’ve paid attention. I won’t deny I’ve wanted this, but not this way. You’re confused, upset, and more than a little drunk. This”—he put an arm about her, steadying her—“can’t happen tonight.”

She clung to him, her face stubbornly buried in his coat. He embraced her, trying to keep out the chill. Not entirely selfless valiance on his part. He loved the feel of her in his arms.

He bent his head and murmured in her ear. “I’ll take you home now.”

She made a whimper of protest.

“No, Diana. It has to be now. Else I’ll be tempted to bring you home with me instead, and then you’d be stuck. All those choices you’ve glimpsed tonight would disappear. Ruined, and forced to marry a craftsman? You don’t want that.”

She didn’t answer. Just hugged him tight.

“You don’t want that,” he repeated more firmly.

Or
did
she?

She was silent for a few moments, which his heart stretched into hopeful lifetimes.

And then she gave her answer—a soft, unmistakable snore.

C
HAPTER
3

T
he next morning, Diana woke with all sorts of regrets. They were stabbing her straight through the eyes, those regrets. Her pounding head felt like . . .

Like a blacksmith’s anvil.

She groaned, putting a hand to her eyes. She had a hazy memory of coming in through the rooming house door, waving a brief good night to her mother and sister, then stumbling up to her bed. Unfortunately, her memories of throwing herself at Aaron Dawes were all too clear.

Oh, the humiliation. What he must think of her.

She pulled the coverlet up over her head, turning to bury her face in the pillow. A mistake. She couldn’t hide from the memory here. As she pressed her face to the mattress, recollections of last night’s embrace assailed her. His warmth, his solid strength. His honorable treatment of her when she’d cast all her good breeding in the mud at his feet.

Her head throbbed. The rest of her ached with a fierce, hopeless yearning.

“Diana?” Charlotte rapped on the door. “Are you well?”

No. No, I’m not well. I am very poorly in the head. And in the heart. Kindly go away.

“The rain’s let up,” Charlotte said, opening the door a crack. “Mama wants to pay a call at Summerfield. Will you join us?”

Diana was tempted to stay abed and plead headache. She wouldn’t even need to exaggerate. But if there was one thing she was proud of doing last night, it was deciding that she wouldn’t be defined by “delicate health” any longer.

She threw back the coverlet. “I’ll join you.”

She rose from bed, dressed, choked down a bit of tea and toast, and donned her sturdiest shoes. Perhaps if she walked far enough, she would leave this feeling of mortification behind.

T
he walk to Summerfield did loosen some of the knots in her stomach. And they all enjoyed their brief visit with Sir Lewis Finch, who told them the latest news of his granddaughter. By the time they began their walk home, the sky had lightened noticeably. Diana could almost forget the embarrassment of last night.

Almost.

“How did it go last night?” Charlotte asked.

Diana stumbled over a rock. “What do you mean?”

“Your thimble. Did you find it at the Bull and Blossom?”

The thimble.
Diana shook her head. “It wasn’t there.”

“That’s so odd.”

“Not really. It’s just a thimble. Thimbles go missing.”

“But just this morning, Mrs. Nichols was missing her ink bottle, too. It’s a mystery.”

Diana smiled. Charlotte’s imagination always led her to see more excitement than was truly there. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”

“It’s a tragedy,” Mama exclaimed, stopping in the lane. “Oh, this cannot be borne.”

“The disappearance of my thimble, a tragedy? I think I can survive it.”

“No, look.” Mama gestured toward the sky, where the thick blanket of clouds had parted to reveal a patch of blue—and within it, the bright, cheery face of the sun. “The sun is out. Oh, this is dreadful.”

“Dreadful?” Charlotte laughed. “It’s our first sunshine in a fortnight. It’s marvelous.”

“It is dreadful. Because your sister left the rooming house with only her cloak and no proper bonnet.” She hurried to Diana’s side. “Ten minutes of this, and she will freckle. Oh, and less than a week before our invitation to Ambervale. What will Lord Drewe think?”

“If he notices—which I doubt he will—he will think I’ve been in the sun.”

“Exactly!” She tugged at the hood of Diana’s cloak, drawing it up as far as it would go. “Keep your head down, Diana. Just look at your feet.”

Diana lifted her head, letting her hood fall back. “But then how will I see where I’m going? I might fall on my face. I should think Lord Drewe would take more notice of bruises than he would freckles.”

“Head down, I say.” Mama yanked the hood up again.

“
No.
” Diana thrust it back. “Mama, you’re being ridiculous. This is a beautiful morning. I mean to enjoy it.”

She braced herself for another round of Tug-o’-Hood, but Mama didn’t care to play. She was distracted by the sounds of hoofbeats and carriage wheels and turned to peer down the lane.

“There is Mr. Keane with his curricle. He will save you.”

“Save me? I survived years of asthma. I don’t believe freckles are a terminal condition.”

“Head down,” she snapped. As the curricle drew near, she lifted one arm and waved to him with her handkerchief, like a drowning sailor in need of a rope. “Mr. Keane! Oh, Mr. Keane, do help!”

“Please don’t trouble him.”

“He is the vicar. He ought to do a good deed.”

The curricle rolled to a halt in the lane. What with the strong sun and the harsh shadows, it was hard to peer into the covered bench seat—but the driver didn’t seem to be the vicar. This man was rather . . . larger.

“Is there some problem?” he asked in a dark, all-too-familiar baritone.

Oh no. No. It couldn’t be.

What wretched luck. Diana took her mother’s advice. She drew her hood up and stared at her boots.

“Why, Mr. Dawes,” her mother said, her tone wary. “What are you doing with Mr. Keane’s curricle?”

“
Mama,
” Diana hissed. Good Lord, she made it sound as if he’d stolen the thing.

“And good morning to you, Mrs. Highwood,” Mr. Dawes answered patiently. Out of the corner of her eye, Diana saw him tip his cap. “Miss Charlotte. Miss Highwood.”

She felt his gaze on her. Now it didn’t matter if she stayed out of the sun. A blush this furious would surely stain her cheeks for a month.

“Mr. Keane asked me to mend the axle,” he explained. “I’m out for a short drive to test the repair before I return it. Is something wrong?”

As she listened to her mother carry on about the tragedy of sunshine and the need to keep her daughter’s complexion unmarred for Lord Drewe, Diana squirmed with shame.

“Surely you can drive her back to the rooming house,” Mama said. “I know it’s a liberty, as you are a hired man. But I daresay I can grant permission in Mr. Keane’s stead. It’s what he would do, as a gentleman.”

Mother!

In how many ways could she insult him? Mr. Dawes was not a “hired man.” He was a skilled craftsman and artisan, and everyone in the village—Mr. Keane included—respected him.

Diana had to look up now. “Please don’t let us trouble you, Mr. Dawes. I’m perfectly fine walking.”

“Perfectly fine!” her mother squawked. “You’ll be perfectly crisped.”

She caught his gaze and tried to send an apologetic look.
Forgive her. And me.

His expression was impossible to read. “I’d be glad to give Miss Highwood a ride into the village. I’m going there anyway.”

“That is very good of you,” her mother said. “When I see him, I will be sure to speak highly of your service to Mr. Keane. Perhaps there will be a shilling in it for you.”

“Very kind of you, ma’am.”

Mr. Dawes alighted from the curricle, adjusted the folding hood for maximum shade, then offered his hand to help Diana. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, she took a thrill from the feel of his hand dwarfing hers and the easy strength with which he boosted her onto the seat.

When he joined her, she pressed herself all the way to the opposite side.

“We’ll see you back at the Queen’s Ruby,” Mother said. “Don’t fret about me walking. I will be fine. Even at my age.”

“I’m sure you will be,” Diana muttered.

As Mr. Dawes flicked the reins and set the curricle in motion, Diana slunk down in her corner of the seat.

She learned something new as they rattled down the lane.

Awkwardness wasn’t characterized by silence. Oh, no—awkwardness had a symphony all its own. The thump of an erratic heartbeat, contrasting with the steady squelch of hooves on packed mud. The roar of a thousand unspoken words piled up in one’s throat, all clamoring to get loose. The sound of fence posts whooshing past—each one brought them closer to the village, and each one felt like a stinging lash of rebuke. Another opportunity missed.

Frantic emotion built in her chest. She couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

“Mr. Dawes. Please let me apologize. For my mother just now. And for my behavior last night. And yesterday afternoon. I don’t know what—”

He held up a hand, gently shushing her.

“Truly. You must think me the most presumptuous—”

“Nothing of the sort,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m just trying to listen for the axle. I think I heard it creak.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She bit her lip, hard.
Stop talking, ninny.

“Have these for a moment.” He passed her the reins, then bent and twisted away from her, looking over the curricle’s side to observe the axle in motion.

Diana stared down at the leather braids in her hands. Then she looked at the trotting horses and the muddy road flying by beneath them.

“Mr. Dawes,” she whispered, hoarse with fear. “Mr. Dawes, I’ve never—”

He held up that hand again, requesting silence. “Just a moment.”

This couldn’t wait a moment.

“Mr.
Dawes
.”

He straightened and turned to her. “What’s the matter?”

“Kindly take the reins,” she begged. “I don’t know how to drive.”

“You seem to be driving right now.”

“But what if we have to turn? Or slow down? Or stop?” She tightened her grip. “Oh dear. Now they’re going faster.”

He eased closer to her on the seat. His arm pressed against hers. “You’re doing fine. It’s not a busy road, and the horses know their way.” He put his hands over her wrists, shaking lightly. “Just lift the reins a bit and loosen your grip. These are good horses. They’re trained to a soft touch.”

He helped her position the reins, sliding them between her fingers.

“Like this?” she asked, sitting straight.

“That’s just it. You’re doing well.”

His low, gentle voice entranced her and gave her confidence.

He showed her the commands for right and left; how to urge the horses faster and draw them to a halt. The lesson made for welcome distraction. At least they had something to discuss other than the mortifying events of yesterday.

“Every woman should learn to drive,” he said. “I taught my own sisters when they were old enough. I never understood why the Spindle Cove ladies spend all those mornings shooting pistols and muskets, yet never have driving or riding lessons.”

“I suppose the shooting lessons make us feel strong. In control of ourselves and our lives.” At least, that’s what the ladies’ weekly target practice did for Diana.

He shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s bad. But there’s
feeling
powerful, and then there’s actually taking the reins. They are a great many situations a woman might do well to drive away from. Very few where it’s advisable to shoot her way out.”

He was right, Diana thought. Loading and shooting a pistol might give a lady a rush of exhilaration, but this was true power. The freedom to choose her own direction, and harnessing the power to take her there.

“There, now you know how to drive.” He moved back to his side of the seat. “Where do you want to go?”

Diana pulled on the reins, drawing the horses to a lurching halt in the middle of the empty lane. “I want to stop right here and apologize to you. I know you don’t wish to speak of yesterday, but I cannot be easy until I say this. You were very kind to me, and I can’t . . . I heard the way my mother spoke to you just now, and I need you to know I don’t think of you that way. When I came to the tavern last night, I wasn’t just seeking a moment of rebellion. I . . .”

She’d been staring at her hands all this time, but she forced herself to look up. At him.

His handsome features were a mask of confusion. Oh, she was making a hash of this.

“May I be honest with you?” she asked. “I think that’s the best strategy. I’ll just say everything I’ve been keeping to myself. And when it’s out, it will surely sound ridiculous. We’ll have a good laugh, and that will be the end of things. Can you bear it?”

His wide mouth crooked in a smile. “I can bear far worse.”

“I . . .”
Out with it.
“I’ve been infatuated with you for quite some time. It’s terrible.”

“Terrible,” he echoed.

“Not that
you’re
terrible, of course. That ‘s not what I mean. I think you’re remarkable. I’m the terrible one. It all started that night of Finn’s accident. You were so confident and so strong. Just did what needed to be done, and no wavering.”

“That night? Believe me, I was wavering. On the inside, I was wavering.”

“I never would have known it.” She laughed a little. “Of all the places to develop an infatuation. Making eyes at a man over an amputation table. It’s embarrassing, isn’t it?”

“Rather.”

“Hardly a story a woman wants to tell her grandchildren someday.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would be.”

She felt lighter already. “See, I told you this would all sound ridiculous. Oh, and there’s so much more. You already know that I purposely broke things just to have excuses to come by the smithy. When did you start to realize the truth?”

“Just recently.” His mouth tugged in a self-effacing grimace. “I’m not too sharp.”

She waved off his words. “That’s not true. You’re so perceptive. It’s evident in your finer work. I’ve spent hours poring over your jewelry pieces in the All Things shop. I’ve bought five of them.”

“Five?”

“Yes. Five.” She cringed. “I told Sally I was sending them to friends as gifts. A small taste of Spindle Cove, I said. But I never meant to give any of them away. I kept them all for myself. It was so stupid of me, because once I’d said they were gifts, I couldn’t be seen wearing them. And if I kept them in my jewelry box, Charlotte would find them—she’s always going through my things without permission. So I resorted to keeping them in the chest with my trousseau. They’re wrapped up in a tablecloth.”

“You have five of my pieces in your trousseau?”

“Well, only four.”

“Where’s the other one?” he asked.

She shook her head and pressed a hand to her cheek. “Oh, this is where it gets truly mortifying. There was one I couldn’t bear to put away. But I couldn’t gather the courage to wear it, either. So I took it off its chain and sewed little pockets into my frocks. Every morning, I slip it in as I’m dressing, and at night, I tuck it . . .” She buried her face in her hands.