Chapter Seven
Was that her heart beating rapidly in her ears, or just the sound of the horse’s hooves pounding into the damp ground? If it was her heart, Rose could only hope the sound was drowned out by the rain and wind. What would Lord Norcliffe think if he knew how affected she was by his strong arms around her, the commanding ease with which he directed his horse?
He said not a word as they rode, rain pouring down around them. Despite the speed at which they raced across the countryside, his hold on her was tight and she felt no fear.
A small, stone cottage came into view, nestled between two chestnut trees. Lord Norcliffe pulled his mount to a stop and dismounted, splashing into the mud. Rose shivered. She hadn’t realized how warm he had been against her, shielding her from the wind. She unclenched her hands from the saddle and looked down at the ground in apprehension. But again, the baron did not stop to ask for permission. He reached up and took her by the waist, his movements effortless as he slid her to the ground.
He took the horse’s reins. “Come,” he called through the deluge. She hurried after him, following the horse up onto a wide, covered porch. He tied his mount’s reins to a beam, patted the horse’s flank apologetically, and then ushered Rose inside the front door.
She moved into the cottage, clutching her arms about herself as she shivered. The space was dark and dank; the windows were boarded up, letting in hints of light. Water dripped from the roof, which clearly had not been repaired in years.
Lord Norcliffe stepped in behind her. She turned and then froze, her eyes fixed on him as he removed his hat. His light hair was darkened by the rain, dripping and splayed across his forehead, his sharp jawline emphasized by the color in his face, from the cold or the exercise, she couldn’t say. And his eyes were vibrant, alive. She ought to look demurely away, but found it quite impossible.
“I wish I could offer better accommodations,” he said.
It is fine, her mind told her to say. A roof is enough.
Instead, in some mad fit of humor, her mouth let loose a short laugh. She clasped a hand to her lips, but the perplexed look on his face only made her laugh again, harder and without any restraint.
“I … am—” She stopped, laughter still bubbling up inside. “I am sorry,” she finally managed, her mouth unable to stop smiling. “I don’t mean to imply this is humorous at all.”
“Your laughter would indicate otherwise.” His words were reproachful, and yet, to her astonishment, one corner of his mouth twitched.
“I don’t mean to laugh.” She reached up and untied her bonnet, shaking the rain from its brim. She hoped it would dry properly. “It’s just that this seems like an incident from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, a handsome baron rescuing a damsel from the rain.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Handsome?”
Heat flamed across her face and she stared at him with wide eyes. “I mean—that is I meant—that the heroes in her novels are always handsome—”
“So you don’t find me handsome then?”
She took a deep breath, thoughts tumbling through her mind. What possible answer could she give to that?
But then he grinned, a crooked smile that was entirely at odds with their interactions so far. His eyes were alight with mischief.
“You should not tease me so,” she scolded. “I am in no position to know whether you are in earnest or not.”
He crossed his arms. “It hardly matters since you speak candidly regardless of the situation.”
She was a bit outspoken. “I am sorry. I will try harder to be more reserved in the future.”
“And why would I wish that?” he asked, squinting at her in the dim light.
“A servant is not employed for her opinions.” Speaking the word servant reminded her how absurd this situation was. In all the turmoil of the storm, she’d almost forgotten who she was—who he was. Her hands went to the mess that was her hair, smoothing back her drenched curls.
“No, but I do tire of the bowing and scraping. A bit of straightforwardness is refreshing.” He paused. “And I admit I have difficulty thinking of you as a servant.”
Was that good or bad? He looked at her through narrowed eyes, though not in anger or irritation. Rather as though he was trying to remember a time he had seen her before, but could not place it.
The look was gone in the next moment. He turned, inspecting the interior of the cottage. “I imagine we’ll be caught here for a while yet.”
“Then it is good you do not seem to mind my loose tongue.”
His mouth twitched. “Indeed. The afternoon would pass terribly slow if you were too frightened to speak to me.”
“Which is no small thing, since you seem quite determined to frighten everyone away.”
The humor in his eyes slipped. “Pardon?”
She caught her breath; she should not have said that. But her tongue had run wild, drawn into this conversation without any thought. She could not take back her words, so she took a steadying breath and pressed on. “I simply cannot take your measure, my lord. One moment you are generous, offering me a position, and the next—”
“I am shouting at you.”
“Well, yes.” She swallowed. “And I cannot decide which side of you is the true side, though I have little doubt you wish everyone to believe you are nothing more than an irritable man not to be crossed.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and did not respond. Was he angry? She could not tell from his impassive expression. She dropped her gaze, tugging anxiously on her damp gown. “I apologize, my lord. I mean no offense.”
There was a long minute of silence, and she dared not look up. His voice was gruff when he spoke next.
“I’ve had far too many people attempt to manipulate me for my wealth and title.” He shook his head. “Since my parents’ deaths, I find keeping the world at arm’s length the best way to avoid them, and being ‘irritable,’ as you say, helps me achieve the peace that I want.”
Rose examined him, his eyes distant. “That sounds rather lonesome to me.”
He gave a sharp laugh. “Better to be lonely than used.”
Used? There must be more to this story than he was telling her, but she could hardly force it out of him. “Perhaps you simply are not friends with the right sort of people. The world is not so terrible as all that.”
He squinted at her. “I do not know how you can believe that, considering your lot in life.”
She lifted one shoulder. “I’ve learned that although I have no influence over the decisions of others, I can choose how I respond. Bitterness will not help, and I am determined not to waste my time with it.”
He stared at her. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Miss Sinclair.”
“I am your servant,” she reminded him. “You may call me Rose.”
His eyes lingered on her face, and a shiver ran across her skin, though she was certain it was not because of the cold. “Again, I have quite the difficulty thinking of you as a servant.”
Her stomach fluttered. What did he think of her then? She turned away, going to sit upon the ledge beside the window. “That is likely because I am not terribly good at being a servant. I am far too frank and far too slow, as you are well aware.”
He followed her lead, though he sat on the window ledge across the cottage, far enough to allow the appearance of propriety, but still close enough to speak. “And were you much better at being a shopkeeper’s daughter?”
“Oh, I was excellent at it,” she said firmly. “I loved it, really. Papa allowed me the run of the shop, and I organized it to my heart’s content. I could tell you where any book was at any time. I managed our finances the same way. I knew where every penny of our money went.”
“How—” His voice broke off. He seemed not to know how to phrase his question.
“How did my father lose all our money without my knowing?” she offered.
He nodded and she sighed. “Papa began gambling after my mother’s death. But I had no idea the problem had grown to this extent.” She shook her head. “We had been planning to expand into a circulating library for years. I was saving for it, little by little. He did not tell me he was seeking investors, and whatever loans he received he used to pay his growing gambling debts. Eventually his creditors caught up to him.” The image of Papa being taken away was forever branded into her memory.
She brushed a hand over her damp skirt, smoothing the wrinkles that creased the fabric. “He acted foolishly, I have no false ideas of that. But he is still my father.”
“You have forgiven him?” There was no lack of skepticism in his question.
“Of course,” she said. “I love him.”
Lord Norcliffe was watching her again, brow furrowed. “I cannot say I find forgiveness to be as simple as you do.”
She bit her lip, considering his words. “It depends entirely on the situation, I’m afraid. I can be quite stubborn as well.”
“I’d not noticed,” he said dryly.
Rose grinned. She rather liked Lord Norcliffe—at least when he wasn’t yelling at her. Their conversation flowed easily, and she could not help her growing curiosity. He was determined to keep himself secluded from the world, and yet the way he spoke so freely with her made her think he was lonelier than he would ever admit.
Perhaps isolation was not truly what he wanted. Perhaps what he needed was a friend.