Chapter 23
The church bells had pealed wildly some hours ago. Nicola remembered from her Welcome Packet that there was a system to alert the villagers in cases of emergency. A certain alarm for fire, for example, the bells rung in a particular order. She could only assume what she’d heard meant that Jack had been found and everyone could go home and defrost.
The lantern lights had disappeared from Honeywell Lane, but not the small cottage pie which had been intended for her supper. She had been too anxious to eat it. Instead, she’d drunk endless cups of tea, worrying over Jack’s fate.
And her own. When she’d thought he was missing, possibly even—she couldn’t say the word inside her head for shaking—she realized that she was in love with Jack Haskell Whoever. What she felt was not simple infatuation or lust. He meant too much to her.
And she couldn’t tell him the truth.
For something to do before she put herself to bed, she studied the card with all the hand signals. She might as well have been looking at a foreign alphabet with those odd dots and squiggles over vowels. Nothing made much sense to her, and she despaired she’d ever learn enough to communicate with Jack without her trusty notebook and choice of colored pencil. She wondered if she should be “reading” the hands facing her or away, and tried both positions.
It was truly all Greek to her.
She was close to falling asleep on the couch again, and that would never do. Nicola needed a good night’s rest—today had been a Russian Mountains ride, not that she’d ever experienced such a thing, or even gone to an amusement park. Normal train travel was frightening enough for her now.
How would she get back to Bath? Go to London to see Frannie and the boys? One more seemingly insurmountable obstacle to overcome.
Nicola locked the front door, after waiting longer than she should have to see if Jack would somehow find a way to come to her. She was halfway up the stairs when she changed her mind, going down to unfasten the bolt just in case he was foolish enough to break more rules. It was not as if thievery was rampant in Puddling—Nicola had never seen such well-fed, well-clothed, well-shod, prosperous people. She knew they all shared in the Foundation’s profits. If she moved here full-time, would she as well? That wouldn’t seem right somehow. Her presence would be evidence of Puddling’s rare failure.
She undressed for bed, washed, and murmured her nightly prayers in her head. Her requests were simple and repetitious—health and safety for her family, especially her precious nephews, and the restoration of her voice. If push came to shove and she had to choose, she’d pick the first over the second.
Jack couldn’t be expecting her tonight after the to-do today, could he? It was her turn, but she didn’t know what she’d find. For all she knew, he was under house arrest. Maybe that Mr. Sykes with his grim countenance and fearsome eyebrows was stationed across the threshold of Tulip Cottage, armed with a blunderbuss. The image made her smile.
Mr. Sykes had looked entirely different on the day he’d married. Nicola had played the organ for the wedding, and a handsomer couple than Lady Sarah Marchmain and Mr. Tristan Sykes would be hard to find.
Weddings. Lilies and orange blossoms and veils and satin trains. Spoken vows—see, she’d never pass muster. Nicola wouldn’t allow herself to think of any of them. She tucked the coverlet under her chin and shut her eyes. The counting of sheep, white and the occasional black ones, did not produce the sought-after results. She tried heartbeats, although they were so rapid she was unable to record them all.
Too much tea; that was it. She’d nearly drowned in the stuff this evening, anxiously awaiting word of Jack’s circumstances. It had enervated instead of relaxed her, and now sleep was beyond reach, no matter how gritty her eyes were.
Nicola was not fond of warm milk but was desperate enough to drink a whole gallon of it. As she’d brushed and braided her hair earlier, she’d noted the shadows beneath her eyes. It wouldn’t be helpful for her to alarm kindly old Dr. Oakley. She was supposed to be getting better here, not worse.
Of course, any time spent with Jack was well worth some bags under her eyes.
Down the stairs she went and into the warm kitchen. She lit a lamp, poured a generous splash of milk from the bottle in the ice chest into a pan and set it on the hob. Perhaps a sprinkle of cinnamon would make it go down easier, so she opened the pantry door where the spices were kept.
And caught Jack red-handed and shame-faced in the dark with a jar of peaches.
Nicola felt she might scream. Almost.
He put a hand out to her. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t know if it was you or that dragon of a housekeeper come to spend the night to keep you company. Or protect you from my depredations. I was about to peek out the door and offer myself up to the gallows.”
He would be the death of her, popping up when he was least expected.
“I came to see you as soon as the lecturing was done and the coast was clear, but you’d gone up to bed,” Jack continued. “And I thought, as long as I’m in the cottage, why don’t I have a little midnight snack? Though I must say I’m getting tired of your peaches. Familiarity must indeed breed contempt. But there was nothing edible for me to eat at home after my inquisition, despite assertions to the contrary. Mrs. Feather must have tried extra-hard to punish me. Beans. Faugh! Green. Broad. Yellow. And some speckled variety I’ve never seen before, as if variety made up for the lack of taste. They were all mixed up together in a gray broth with a bit of stringy meat. Don’t ask me what kind of meat—I couldn’t identify it if my life depended on it. Goat? Rhinoceros? I suppose anything is possible.”
Nicola wished she could laugh; he really was amusing in his umbrage.
“Let me tell you, the Spanish Inquisition had nothing on the Puddling governors. I thought I’d never get away, and almost expected them to haul out a rack from the vicarage basement in their efforts to intimidate me. I’m very fond of my limbs just the way and where they are.”
Nicola’s notebook and pencil were upstairs. She made a rolling motion with her hand so he would tell her more.
“All right. Let me finish these first. Would you like any?” He held the glass jar out to her.
Nicola declined and tugged Jack to the kitchen table, where she could keep an eye on her milk. He sat down and finished off the last peach, drinking up the juice as if it were wine. So much for being too bored with peaches.
“So, here’s my adventure. I left the church and bumped into a search party. Tom—from the roof at Primrose Cottage, do you remember him?—frogmarched me to the Fitzmartins and some other fellows yanked the church bell ropes for all they were worth to let the village know I’d been found. I expect you heard that—one would have to be deaf or dead not to. My ears are still ringing, I think. Anyway, there was a little welcoming committee for me at the vicarage, some old ladies and then more people hustled in once they were notified of my capture.
“Your friend Mr. Sykes accused me of treason or sedition or some such. Apparently I upended all of Puddling with my thoughtlessness. The only one to speak in my favor was the vicar, who was pleased I sought sanctuary in his church.
“Don’t give me that look. I did, didn’t I? For at least ten minutes. And then I was frogmarched home again, told not to leave the premises until tomorrow morning upon pain of death and or dismemberment, and here I am, unrepentant and unredeemed.” He gave her a boyish grin that she couldn’t help being smitten by.
“I know I shouldn’t have come,” Jack continued. “But I thought you’d be worried. I was going to leave you a note on your pillow. You are worried, aren’t you? You couldn’t sleep.” He pointed to the milk that was bubbling away.
Oops. Nicola got up and moved it from the heat.
“I’m glad you were concerned about me.” The grin was gone now. “Very glad.” He reached for her hand and pulled her down to his lap.
Nicola searched his face. His brown eyes were focused on her. Serious. There was a silent pledge there, something spoken words could not express. He valued her, yet was unsure of himself. He thought himself a bad bargain.
For all his good-natured bravado, she preferred this vulnerability.
What could she do but lift her lips to his? She tasted peaches and desire and Jack, a heady combination. The kiss was riveting, as per usual, sweeping her up in rapture. Her blood sang with the joy of it, and her previously erratic heart actually steadied.
She was safe in Jack’s arms. Home. Where she needed to be.
Better yet to be in her bed upstairs.
Could she drag him there? He’d been resistant at Christmas, but that was before his brush with death and dismemberment.
Nicola drew away, regretting the loss of his lips immediately. She rose and took both his hands in hers, her meaning clear.
Jack shook his head. “I cannot, Nicola. I still have some honor left.”
She was sure they could do something without infringing upon his ridiculous honor. He’d done it before, and this time she wanted to see him. She blew out the lamp.
“Sweetheart, I—oh, what’s the use? I don’t believe I can resist you altogether after being below you all day. I wondered what you were doing, what you were thinking when I was down in the cellar freezing my ar—um, being cold. What you were dreaming when I woke to find you on the couch—I watched you for a short while this morning, you know, before your wretched housekeeper arrived and I hightailed it. I’d like to watch you all night long.”
He was behind her now on the stairs, giving this very satisfactory speech. Nicola’s nightgown and robe were as heavy and hot as fur, and it was difficult not to tear them off and toss them down the steps.
She was determined to learn something tonight—to be alive and aware of every precious moment. All right, fine, he wouldn’t take her inconvenient virginity just yet. That didn’t mean they still couldn’t do some exploration.
Nicola was hesitant to put that idea in writing. So far her notebook was filled with innocent sentences, and those that were at all questionable had been torn out or marked over in multiple colors so no one could divine their original intent. One never knew with Mrs. Grace, although the notebook was usually never far from Nicola’s pocket. She wasn’t as restricted as the other Puddling Guests, didn’t feel spied upon on a regular basis.
Mr. Sykes had given her a rather penetrating look this afternoon, though. She and Jack would have to be careful.
Nicola’s room was just as she’d left it, a moderate fire in the grate, the bed turned down neatly despite her tossing and turning. A single candle burned, casting shadows on the wall.
She would like to light every lamp in the room, but that would arouse suspicion for sure if one of her neighbors was equally sleepless. She picked up her notebook.
What would your note have said?
“That I was safe. Safer than I am now,” he muttered.
I won’t bite.
“I should hope not. Although the occasional nip might be warranted every now and then. Christ, what am I saying? Really, Nicola, I should go. I took too much of a risk to come here. We’ve been lucky so far—”
Whatever else Jack had planned to say stopped when Nicola kissed him. Feeling feisty, she half tackled him and brought them both down on the bed. The springs squeaked like badly played violins, but Nicola didn’t care. She’d never been so forward, so physical, in her life, and it felt marvelous.
“I warn you, I did some Greco-Roman wrestling at Oxford,” Jack gasped. “You are not going to have your wicked way with me.”
We’ll just see about that.