Chapter Twenty-Four
Only a few gray tendrils of smoke drifted up into the late spring air. Still, they were visible against the brilliant blue sky above. Cat stepped over charred wood, over ash waving in the slight breeze.
So much loss—so much fear for her tenants and laborers. Would there be enough to feed them? She had walked over the Ashdown lands yesterday. Dreamed of fire in the night. Walked again in the late morning light. But she still had no answers.
The only solution seemed to be marriage. If she married, the Abbey was hers, as were the expenses. As were the tragedies.
She breathed in, choked on the stench of smoke and burnt wood. Standing in the midst of the rubble, avoiding the spots still steaming and emitting an occasional flame, Cat could only mourn the loss of her people’s security.
Then she saw them, beneath fallen beams but just far enough away from the flames they might have survived—burlap bags.
They would be filled with grain. At least three bags lay in that triangle of charred wood and earth—sideways, fallen, but unburnt. Water marks marred one bag, but not the others. How much good grain might there be hiding in that unplanned cave?
Feet moved without thought, half-boots crunching on scorched timber. She scrambled over beams, tripped over partially burnt thatching. Yet she could not stop her feet from running, her hands from windmilling as she moved.
Hope lodged beneath her breastbone, compelling her feet.
The fallen beam lay over the bags, driving them into the ground so the once round shapes were now oblong. Grasping the nearest bit of burlap with ungloved hands, she tugged, pulled. But there was no movement. Nothing. That semi-wet sacking was lodged beneath a joist wider than her own body. But that didn’t mean a few inches wouldn’t make a difference.
She crouched, uncaring whether the pretty sleeve of her lavender gown would be salvageable or her skirts were dusted with ash. All that mattered was the grain.
She set a hand to the timber, then her shoulder, and shoved.
She hissed out a breath. Rough, partially burned wood scraped against her arm through the thin capped sleeve of her gown. Digging her feet into the rubble, she pushed harder. Teeth gritted, muscles straining, elation shot through her as the beam shifted.
Releasing her muscles, Cat stood, let out the breath she’d been holding. After a moment to recover, she crouched again, planted her feet in ash and set her shoulder once more to the wood.
“Here. Let me.”
The beam moved with a sudden jerk as someone with more strength shoved at it. She nearly lost her balance, but she dug in, centered herself, and pushed again—knowing without looking that Jones was working behind her.
The beam shifted, groaned, then fell into the rest of the burned wreckage with a splintering sound. Ash and blackened remains exploded, shooting into the air. Small projectiles rained down, rattling against their brothers, leaving only light ash still floating.
“Oh!” The sound escaped her lips without permission. She straightened, puffed her cheeks, and let out another heavy breath. Waving away the ash, she took in the unburned bags of grain.
But it was Jones she wanted to see now.
Black streaked over the shoulder of his coat. Bits of gray dust clung to his sleeve, dancing merrily in the breeze as if they weren’t part of the destruction. Cat reached out and brushed them away, keeping her gaze averted from Jones’s face.
She didn’t know what she would see there. The last time she had spoken to him, it had been in the dark. She had kissed him, held his hand as she waited for death.
But she did have to look.
What she saw there was all the fierce gentleness she’d felt from him that night. It burned from those deep brown eyes, needy but restrained. He stood away from her, head angled up as if he could not look at her directly, either.
Or would not.
They stood there, not looking. Breathing.
Then his deep eyes met hers. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t need to. The heat in his eyes flared, and she felt the answer in her own body. Desire, lust even. She felt it now—that delicious sense of awareness, the warmth between her legs, the tightening of every muscle.
He turned away. Drew in a ragged breath. She never heard the exhale, as either pride or fear sent her reaching for the burlap.
“The grain.” The words were awkward to her own ears.
Coarse threads brushed against her skin. She gripped the nearest bag, tugged. It loosened, but did not come out. She stepped around, angled her body, tugged again. It came free and a pair of large, competent hands were there to relieve her of her burden.
“How many bags are there?” His words were no less awkward than hers had been, accompanied by a choked sound that might have been a grunt as he hefted the bag onto his shoulder.
“Five, total.” The next bag was there, the others past it and still under rubble. She scrabbled with fingers already black with soot, pivoted her body for a better position.
A quick glance showed the swing of Jones’s brown jacket as he carted the grain away from the burned area. Only his back was visible, the breadth of it. No muscle could be seen through his coat, but it was there beneath cloth and skin.
A hitch in her lungs, another in her belly. She turned away and gripped the bag in front of her to drag it from what was left of the smoking granaries.
“Wait!”
She reeled, lost her footing, regained it, and looked up—Jones sprinted toward her. He peeled his coat off as he ran, leaving nothing but the cotton shirt moving over his body.
“Jones. What—?”
The coat rose high in the air above her, whipped down again as he swept past her. She spun, choking back air and words. Coat smacked against wood, through fresh smoke and flames leaping up from the beam they’d moved. She stumbled away—from the fire, from the swiftly moving coat as Jones worked to smother the flames.
The flames moved with her.
Her gown.
Shock scored her throat as flares of yellow and gold rode the cotton hem. The scent of burning cloth rose into the air, riding on curls of light, nearly white smoke.
With no weapon, no coat, she fought with her hands. Smacking at the flames, shaking the fabric. The burn on her palms and fingers made her breath hitch, but it was less than the burn of panic rising in her.
Tumbling to the ground, she tried to stomp on her gown and petticoats. A cry ripped from her throat. “Jones!”
He was there, throwing his coat over her feet, enveloping her legs in simple brown wool. Face grim, he spoke not a word. He only wrapped and bundled, gloveless hands working fast. Beneath the wool, beneath the cotton and muslin, the muscles of her thighs trembled with the need to run.
Yet running would only be worse.
When he pulled the coat away stray twists of smoke still rose, but the brilliant gold flames had disappeared. Every muscle of her body wanted to go limp, but waves of terror still rolled through her.
“Get out of this wreck.” Jones stood, moving toward the still smoking beam. His foot lashed out, spreading embers and coals apart. “To the grass.”
“I need to help.” She scrambled to her feet, stepped forward. Half-boots crunched on the rubble, and she looked down, searching for flame.
“Your skirt—” He stopped, glanced once at the blackened hem. Brows lowered, mouth tipped down. He went back to spreading embers, smothering flame. “It is too likely to catch flame. I can’t save you and the grain. Take your pick, my lady.”
She did, scrambling out of the wreck of granaries and to the brown, dead grass ringing it. Part of her wanted to reenter, to pull the burlap bags free. Instead, she watched as Jones hefted each one to his shoulder, hurrying to bring them out to the safe, grassy area.
Five burlap bags of grain. One by one, they landed at her feet.
As if they were a gift.
When he was finished, Jones bent over, hands on knees. His breath heaved in and out, but he did not hang his head to regain the rhythm. Instead, he watched the smoking beam, the embers.
“It happens,” he murmured. “The heat deep in the wood catches flame once it meets the air.”
“Yes.” She knew, and stared at the broken sections he’d spread so they would cool. The faint glow of red still burst to life in places.
“Your hands?” He turned his head, his focus on her now.
“Tender, but no lasting damage.” The vague sting of her hands didn’t matter just now. “Jones.”
He straightened, tall and sure, but those deep, clear brown eyes did not leave her face. “I thought—” Throat working, he swallowed hard. “My lady.”
“Don’t. Not anymore.”
“I beg your pardon?” The faint lines on his face became more prominent as he frowned.
“Please. Call me Cat.” It was everything to ask. He would not know it, but everything inside her opened just to ask.
Cat.” He breathed in once, a long, slow breath. “Why Cat?”
She was still for a moment, very still and silent, her gaze searching his face. Finally, carefully, to keep that open place from being unhurt, she said, “Mary Elizabeth Frances Ashdown was the first Baroness Worthington. Every firstborn daughter is named the same, in deference and in tradition. But my mother gave me another name, so I wouldn’t forget I am me before I am the baroness. Mary Elizabeth Frances Catherine Ashdown. I’m Cat.”
Did he see her? Her throat was tight, her heart racing beneath the confines of her stays. No one had seen Cat since her parents died.
That she wanted this spy, this Jones, to understand her, was something she could not think of now. So she pushed it away and concentrated on today. Just today, right now, in the bright light of a sunny morning.
Today, she wanted Jones to see Cat.
“Catherine.” He whispered it, the word barely a sigh on the air. His hand came up, blunt fingers reaching for her face, then falling away before he made contact.
“My parents only used Catherine for important occasions. When it was just us, it was always Cat.” She rubbed her hands on her skirt, however filthy it might be.
He was suddenly close to her, his lips just there. So very close she could barely breathe. “Yes, I can see Cat in there.”
She flew at him, at the arms already open for her. At the lips pressing against hers before she could think. Around her swirled the scent of burnt wood and grass, but inside her heart there was only Jones.
Need, sweet and painful. Sorrow, because they could never be. Gratitude, for all that he was. They rose and swamped her, as much as his arms enclosed her and his mouth consumed her.
Through all of that was relief and the vision of her blackened skirts.
“I am not kissing you because you saved me.” She said it against his mouth, pressing him closer as she rose to her booted toes. “I am kissing you because I want you.”
“Cat.” His single word was lighter than a growl, darker than a whisper.
…
His legs gave way.
She didn’t know what her words did to him. Couldn’t know.
She could not feel the heat and pain and bloom of love that stirred in him.
Jones released her and staggered, righted himself, and faced Cat. Her chin was set, the stunning butterfly-blue eyes trained on him. The flush kissing her cheekbones was as alluring as her reddened lips.
But she was not his.
He spun away and walked through fire-browned grass, eyes intent on the bags of grain. He could not look at her now, or he would forget the choice that must be made. Yet some part of him was left behind, pulled from his body as he brushed past her. A piece of him he could not name or see, but would always be missing from his heart and residing in her.
The burlap grew large as he came close, yet the slumped shape and textured fabric blurred in his vision. Just for a moment. As if a bit of rain had obscured his vision.
He blinked. The rain ceased, leaving his vision clear and vivid.
“Jones.” The ragged whisper flew on the air, piercing his heart. “Do you not want me?”
“Not want you?” Pivoting, every muscle of his body fighting him, Jones wheeled on her. “I can’t breathe when I look into your eyes. I can’t think.”
Suddenly he was in front of her again, hands cupping her cheeks. Her skin was warm, smooth. Everything a young lady’s skin should be.
Everything his rough hands were not.
He stepped back, tried not to kiss the lips parted on a deep breath.
“Go to the Abbey, Cat. Or the cottages. Bring someone back to retrieve the grain. I’ll wait until I see you coming back—but I can’t stay to assist.” He raised a hand, palm up. “Wycomb.”
“Yes. Of course.” She wasn’t trembling, but vibrating. Rage, lust, fear—any and all of them might have coursed through her. He could not know which, based on the bright light in her eyes. “I’ll bring someone to retrieve the grain.”
“Good.” There was a tree beside them, and he found he needed the substance of it to support him. “Good.”
She didn’t move.
“Wycomb has signed the marriage contracts.” Everything about her was suddenly bleak. Eyes, mouth, shoulders, body. “Hedgewood.”
A knife had been plunged into his heart. A second time in his belly. It was the only explanation for the pain that ripped through him.
She reached toward him, let her hands fall again. “I feel as if I should never see you again, and yet cannot do without you.”
“I feel the same, Cat.” He laughed, though it was mirthless to his own ears. “But you are Hedgewood’s.”
“I belong only to myself, and I don’t understand love. I don’t.” She shook her head, then stared straight at him with iridescent eyes that arrowed into his soul. “But if I did, it might be you.”
He couldn’t speak. He could only kiss her with everything in him, all of the heat and pain and love that swirled in a rioting mass he could not control.
Soft skin met his palms as he cupped her face. Ripe, ready lips pressed against his and turned his heart inside out. He breathed in and his body shuddered as her scent—violets and vanilla and lily—crowded his mind.
“We cannot stay here.” The words tore from his throat, but he did not move. “If anyone sees us—”
“I know. My uncle.” She turned her head so that her cheek lay against his heart. She would hear it beating, hear the frantic need in him. “I know you are a spy, Jones. But why are you spying on Wycomb?”
She lifted her head and set those eyes on him.
“He is a spy as well.” He didn’t hesitate. Trusting was idiocy for a spy—a fact he knew well. Yet this was her. Cat. Trust had slipped through cracks before he could stop them up. “I will not say more about it, but know your uncle has fought well for this country. He has also—” Jones stopped.
“I don’t need to be told.” She stepped away from him, the arms that had pulled him in falling away. “He has done horrible things as well. I know Wycomb.”
He couldn’t speak. If she thought Wycomb had committed horrible deeds, what would she think of him? He had committed unspeakable acts himself. Jones stepped away, hoping she would not think of his actions.
She had. He saw it clearly in her eyes.
“I do not judge, Jones.” Lashes fluttered over blue irises. “I cannot know what is required of either of you. But I know your heart, and I know Wycomb’s. I see your actions, and I see his. There is no comparison.”
“You cannot possibly understand, my lady.”
“I know you, Jones.” A small, ungloved, filthy hand gripped his shoulder. “And bloody hell. Call me Cat. I didn’t kiss you so you could revert to ‘my lady.’”
He laughed, because there was little else to do. She brought the laughter in life, even when it was hard. He dipped his head, kissed lips that were waiting for his. “We are stupid to linger. I cannot stay here to ensure the flames are out and still take the grain somewhere dry.”
“No. Others will move the grain if I call for them.” She stopped and stared into his face. “Once they do, you will be gone to me again, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well.” She laughed, though the sound was pained. “Do not mince words.”
“My lady. Cat.” He wondered if he could ever say “Cat” without feeling as if he were an interloper. “I must always remember my country. Before family, friends, heart, and home, my country must come first.”
“You realize your country encompasses family, friends, heart, and home, yes?” She shook her head, a small half smile lifting a corner of lips that were perfect for kissing. “Go, Jones. I will procure the men needed to move the grain and extinguish whatever flames are hiding beneath the ash.”
…
Jones could not leave the shadows.
It stung, hiding this way. Removed from the men shouldering the bags of grain, from the smoldering wood once again being spread out and doused with water for safety.
Removed from Cat.
Wycomb stood at the edge of the wreckage, polished boots embedded firmly in the heat-deadened grass. Arms clasped behind his back. The specks of silver in his dark brown hair glinted under the mottled sky above.
Jones dared not move.
“Thank you, Mr. Hopwood, for having your boys cart the bags to the village.” Cat’s voice floated to him. A small hand, still covered with soot and without a glove, lay softly on the sleeve of a wizened old man.
“’Tis our pleasure, m’lady.” The man scrubbed a hand over his face. The next words slipped away in the wind.
Whatever they were, Cat’s smile bloomed in response.
His heart seized. Hands gripped rough bark. He could not step into the open and bask in that glow, could not assist Hopwood’s broad-shouldered sons haul the grain to the cart.
Wycomb stood just there, straightening his cuffs and standing at the edge of the scene as if it were his property.
Rookeries. What was he involved in?
“Mary Elizabeth.” Wycomb’s sharp words carried above the wind and activity. “Come.”
Her head turned toward him, her shoulders tensed. But Cat did not move. Instead, she spoke again to Mr. Hopwood, gesturing toward the cart now swarming with large boys situating bags of grain.
Jones smiled at her refusal to heed Wycomb’s instruction, his light laugh fluttering the fern inches from his face. It died again as Wycomb gripped her arm and tugged her to the horses they’d arrived on. She didn’t fight, but her chin lifted—and the long fingers curling around her upper arm pressed sharply enough that she winced.
Jones swiveled, set his back against the tree. He could not watch. His body strained with the need to wrest her from those biting fingers, every muscle vibrating.
He could not show himself.
Fisting his hand, he pressed it into his thigh. Hard. Harder. Pain would be his reminder to focus.
If Wycomb saw him here, in the wilds of Oxfordshire, he would know he was under investigation.