He did not really fit into England with its gentle rhythms and thin watery sun.
And he was hers. For a lifetime. This man whom she did not understand, but wanted to, this man whose body called to her own in a way no others ever had before him. She felt humbled by his confession of the Woodruff trust, humble enough to offer him money and condolences for his lack of property
‘Fairley Manor is a large estate. You should want for nothing with my dowry.’
‘I would never challenge your right to Fairley, Lilly. I swear it. If you wanted, I could have my lawyer draw up a document to say just that.’
Lillian was speechless at his sincerity. How often in her life had she been pursued by swains who measured the value of the Davenport lands before the worth of taking her as a bride? Yet here was a man with little who would give it all back?
‘Fairley is your heritage and, just as Hope and Charity need a home, so do you.’
The understanding in his answer was exactly what she needed and the awareness between them heightened.
Touch me! she longed to ask. Reach out first and touch me, for she could not do it, not after the words she had given him of squandering and patience and anger.
But he only swiped away a winged insect that dived down and laughed as she jumped back.
‘It likes the light in your hair. How long is it when you wear it down?’
‘My hair?’ She blushed beetroot red. ‘Too long, probably. I should cut it, but-’
‘No.’ A frown crossed his forehead, emotion skewered by his need for caution.
In answer she simply undid the net that held her chignon in place, enjoying the feel of curls unravelling down her back, the length reflected by the greed in his eyes.
‘It was patience I asked for,’ she whispered softly, ‘not distance.’
‘Ah, Lilly,’ he replied in return, ‘have caution with what you think a husband might take from such an offer.’
Still he did not move.
‘Perhaps a little?’ Her tongue licked around the sudden dryness of her lips.
‘A little?’ His voice was husky as he reached forwards and brought him to her, not gently either, but moulded along the full front of each other so that she felt the hard angles of his body and the heat of his breath.
‘Is this a little?’ he asked as his lips came down upon her own, opening her mouth and plundering, one hand sliding up from her waist to fist in her hair and the other cupping her chin as though daring her to pull away.
She didn’t, the taste of him exactly how she had remembered it in countless dreams, an invitation for more, his tongue laving against hers, the rocking of his body restless and every breath shared.
Heady delight in the fold of an ancient mountain and the wind playing with her hair, the shards of need swelling want in her belly, in her breasts, in the place between her legs that no man had ever touched.
She could not feel where she ended and he began, could not in truth stop him from doing anything that he wanted, the brutal slam of lust as desperate in her as she could feel it was in him. Just pleasure, on the edge of delight, just the boneless floating relief of what it was to be a woman, and at twenty-five it had been a long time coming.
When he finally broke off the kiss she pressed in, but he held her still, his breathing ragged and his voice hoarse.
‘The rain is near and a little is never enough.’
His heart beat in the same rhythm as hers, matching exactly as her hands bunched at the material in his jacket, trembling with what had just happened, no control and no regrets either, the core of her being alive with the rightness of it.
This had nothing to do with the expectation of others, for no external thing could touch a freeing blazing truth that held all the other more normal concerns at a distance.
What if she had not constrained him with ‘a little’, what if she had just let him do what it was he seemed so very good at, up here on the high mountain with no one around them for miles?
Always a limit, the boundaries of her life reflected even in her loving. The thought made her frown as she tied up her hair, feeling a little like a fairytale princess who had been let out of a story for just a moment.
Except a mother, and the rigid morals of her father the touchstone to his affection.
She took in a deep breath and moved away, not meeting the gaze of her husband, though his smile she could not fail to miss even from the corner of her eyes.
‘For a woman who has barely been kissed in her life you have made remarkable progress.’
Not a criticism, then. With her confidence bolstered she faced him. ‘I have had a good teacher.’
‘And one with a lot more to show you yet.’
His laughter caught on the wind and the cloak she wore billowed as if even her clothes sought closer contact, both the strength and mystery in him evident in the way he watched her, as if ‘just a little’ would never be enough.
Chapter Sixteen
Lucas was not at breakfast at all the next morning, a fact that Lillian found strange; by the middle of the afternoon she was beginning to wonder just exactly where he was, for he had left in the early evening of the previous day and had been more than a little distracted. She had been glad when he had come to tell her of his need to leave Woodruff for a few hours because the kiss of the afternoon lingered still, clouding every reasonable argument she thought of that might stop her going further.
Her daydreams were vivid and passion-filled. No constraint on imagination after what had happened yesterday. Now her mind followed other paths, unbridled and giddy paths that had no mind for limits and no time for a marriage convened in name only.
The dress she wore today seemed to mirror all her thoughts, the lace trimming it barely covering places that she had always kept well shielded. She had put it on in hope that Lucas would be back to see it, but by midday had given up on that hope and had begun instead to explore Woodruff Abbey.
After a good half an hour she found a room off a conservatory at one end of the house containing a library whose shelves gave the impression of having never being culled since the first literate member of the family had begun to call the Abbey home. Sitting in a chair, she was looking at a book with various lithographs of Bath when she became aware of a rustling behind her, the quick order of quiet that came after it telling her that it was the children that she had met two nights back.
Hope and Charity.
Whilst wondering what mother in her right mind would saddle her children with such names, a small white winter rose hit her on the arm. And then another one.
Playing the game, she rose and picked them up, cradling them in her hand.
‘Why, it is flower snow…’
The whispering stopped to be replaced by silence.
‘Fairies send this to earth to remind children of their manners.’ She looked around, making an effort not to glance in the direction of an old table that she knew them to be behind.
A small giggle could be heard.
‘But this does not sound like a fairy laugh…?’ She moved forwards meaning to take the game further, but Hope’s face poked out before she could.
‘It is us,’ she said simply, like a child who did not have a great knowledge of how to play at make-believe and pretend. ‘We picked the flowers from the garden yesterday before the rain,’ she qualified, looking out of the windows that graced the whole wall of this wide room. Drops distorted the glass, the heavy greyness outside making everything colder within.
Charity came out from behind her, both children dressed in identical matching aprons.
‘You have been doing your lessons?’
