And where was she, anyway?
“Valentine?”
Ellen’s voice came from the yard behind him, and as his eyes scanned the darkening tree line, he saw a pale patch that hadn’t been there previously. He crossed the gardens, the flowery fragrances teasing at his nose, until he could make out a hammock slung between two sturdy hemlocks.
“Good evening.” He gazed down at her lying in her hammock and realized she had already changed into her bedclothes.
“Is there room for two in that hammock?” he asked, still not quite sure of his welcome.
“I don’t know, but let’s try it, and if we end up on the ground, we’ll know there isn’t.”
Not exactly a rousing cheer, but the boys had said she was in a mood today. Val hopped around, pulling off his boots and stockings, and surveyed the challenge before him. “You roll up that way and hold to the edge, and I’ll climb aboard.”
The hammock dipped significantly, and it took some nimbleness on Val’s part, but he was soon ensconced wonderfully close to Ellen, the hammock pitching them together by design.
“We need a rope,” Val murmured into Ellen’s ear, “attached to one of the trees, so I can set this thing to swinging for you.”
“There’s a breeze tonight.” She turned so her cheek rested on Val’s arm. “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Val nuzzled her hair, loving the scent and softness of it. “Because the boys are still making a racket at the pond?”
“I hoped it was our boys and not those other rotten little brats. You shoo them away, and they’re like flies. They just come buzzing back.”
“Are they truly rotten?” He worked an arm under her neck, drawing her closer. “I was a boy once. I hesitate to think all regarded me as an insect merely on the strength of my puerile status.”
“You were a good boy.” Ellen’s voice held the first hint of a smile. “They are not good boys. They are little thugs and worse. I’ve been trying to think up a name for your estate, and I keep thinking it should have to do with the lilies of the field.”
“The lilies of the field?” Val cast back over his dim command of scripture.
“It’s about what seems useless to us being worth the Almighty’s most tender regard.”
“I thought it was about flowers being pretty,” Val said, nuzzling at Ellen’s ear. “Roll over on your side. I would like to cuddle up with someone who is exceedingly pretty and worth some tender regard.”
“So I might be inspired to whisper confidences to you?” Ellen asked, shifting carefully in the hammock. Val waited for her to get situated then rolled to his side and began stroking his hand over her shoulders, neck, and back.
“The boys said you were not your most sanguine today.” Val felt the tension particularly across her shoulders, exactly where his own usually ached when he’d finished a good round of Beethoven. “Have you confidences to share?”
“I do not. You will put me to sleep if you keep that up.”
“Then you can dream of me, and I will dream of you—and vegetables.”
“Vegetables?” Ellen quirked a glance at him over her shoulder.
“Green beans, tomatoes, peppers, you know the kind.” Val kissed her nape. “Fruit helps, but I am beside myself with longing for vegetables. I could write a little rhapsody to the buttered green bean, so great is my torment.”
“I understand this torment.” Ellen rolled her shoulders. “By the end of June, I am practically sleeping in my vegetable patch, so desperately do I want that first bowl of crisp, ripe beans. Mine are almost ready.”
“And what about you?” Val kissed her nape again. “Are you ready?”
His cock had risen in his breeches to subtly nudge at her derriere, and she didn’t pretend to misunderstand the question. Rather than answer him, she reached behind her and tugged his hand around her middle.
“I’ll take that for a maybe,” Val whispered in her ear then rested his cheek over hers. “Are you afraid of something, Ellen? Afraid I’ll hurt you?”
“Hurt me?” She scooted around a little. “Of course you’ll hurt me.”
“Blazes.” Val went still behind her. “That answer doesn’t encourage a fellow, love. Whatever do you mean?”
“You will offer me the sort of oblivion widows can discreetly enjoy, Valentine, and some sweet memories, but we both know nothing can come of it. When you are no longer interested, or you sell the property, you’ll move along with your life, selling your furniture, maybe restoring another estate, and I’ll still be here weeding my bed. My beds.”
He was silent, letting the slip of the tongue pass and considering himself responsible for her conclusion that nothing could come of their dealings. He’d all but assured her such was the case, and as his left hand throbbed mercilessly, he couldn’t really rescind his statement. He was aware, though, some part of him was unhappy with her brutal evaluation of the situation.
“Would you want more if I could offer it?” he asked, stroking his hand up to brush over her breast.
“I cannot want more.” She closed her hand over his and pressed his fingers more snugly around her breast.
It wasn’t an answer, but Val was too absorbed with the balance needed to shift her body over his in the swaying hammock to argue with her. When she was straddling him, he levered up to brush a kiss over her mouth.
“Your mood is distant. Where have you gone, Ellen?”
“Hold me.” She twined her arms around his neck and pressed her face to his shoulder. He complied, cradling her head in his palm, resting his cheek against her temple, but wondering how a woman could be clinging to him so tightly and yet be so far away at the same time.
“Are you looking forward to visiting Candlewick this weekend?” Val asked, his hands stroking slowly over her back. “I think Day and Phil are counting the hours.”
“I worked them without mercy at market yesterday.” Ellen tucked her nose against Val’s throat. “How is it you smell so good when you’ve been working all day?”
“We towel off in the springhouse before every meal,” Val replied, content to let Ellen’s conversation hop around like a pair of breeding hares at sunset. “Dare and I do. Day and Phil are becoming otters, and if Axel hasn’t a pond for swimming, he’d better dig one soon.”
“He does. Abby and I went for a stroll, and she showed it to me.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Are you looking forward to the weekend?” Val purposely maintained the easy rhythm of his caresses, but he felt Ellen’s breathing pause nonetheless.
“I am and I’m not.”
“Tell me.”
“I am because they are dear people and very gracious to their guests. I gather they’ve been through a lot, and it has made them sensible, easy to be with.”
“But?”
“But they are so happy with each other,” Ellen said softly. “It destroys some of my illusions, and that is hard.”
“Which illusions, love?”
“I have several illusions,” she said, shifting so she more closely straddled his hips. “I tell myself I was happy with Francis, and I was.”
“But Axel and Abby are happier,” Val guessed. “They were each married before, and it makes them appreciate each other.”
“Maybe.” Ellen’s tone was skeptical. “Francis was married before, and he didn’t look at me or touch me or talk about me the way Axel Belmont regards his Abby.”
“So you and Francis were miserable? What a relief to know he wasn’t actually canonized in the pantheon of saintly husbands.”
“We weren’t miserable.” Ellen found his nipple and bit him through the fabric of his shirt. “But we weren’t
