Page 16 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

Fourteen

JULIA

W hat was Julia to think? What should she do with this frustrating man?

On the one hand, Cornelius surely did trust her, for he had come to her for help, sought her out most pointedly, to the exclusion of everybody else, and allowed her to tend to his wounds and injuries without any concerns.

On the other hand, he still would not confide in her about whatever was going on that had caused these injuries in the first place.

For it seemed quite unlikely that slipping in the dark on a hillside path would leave such a collection of cuts and bruises.

The scratched cheek, she might accept, or the wrenched shoulder or aching knee, which she had not seen.

But the black eye had been caused by another man’s fist, and the cuts and swelling on his own hand could only be fashioned by him returning the blow.

He had been in a fight, and nobody could tell her otherwise. She knew the signs from those days, back when she was young and helped Mrs Gerling tend to the lads from the village after one too many pints of ale on a long winter’s night.

And this was more confusing still. For no matter how frustrating and passionate he was, Cornelius did not seem to her to be a violent man.

Nothing close! Not once, even when he had put his arm about her and pulled her towards him under the moonlight sky, had she been the first bit uneasy around him.

Not like?—

No, Cornelius was nothing like that other, dreadful person.

He was a creator, a lover of nature and of beauty, a gentle man, with an open soul. He was more the sort to spout poetry than to land a punch. What, then, had happened?

Half of her wanted to slap some sense into that handsome, art-filled head and send him into the corner to think about his poor behaviour, and the other half wanted to hold him in her arms and tell him she would fix all his problems.

But first, she needed to know what these problems were. Once again, she had to urge him to confess to her.

“Trust me, Cornelius. I will try to help you, but I must know what we are up against.”

He just stared at her, a stricken look on his face.

“Why can Mr Derriscott not be told?”

“No!” The word burst from him. Then, with less panic, “I cannot tell you. Not now. Please, do not ask.”

“You were attacked, Cornelius. I can see that. Should not Mr Derriscott know that there are brigands about his estate? It is a matter of safety for the family, for his tenants. Could the house itself be in danger? What about the children?” The more she spoke, the more alarmed Julia became.

There might be peril in the neighbourhood. “I must tell him!”

“You cannot.” Cornelius reached out to grab her arm, pulling himself half-upright with the effort. His wide eyes were full of pain, and more than alarmed. “The house is safe, the children are in no danger, believe me. But you must not say a word. Promise me this. Julia, it is imperative.”

She bit her lips, but agreed with a nod.

“I promise. For now.”

Cornelius fell back onto the bed, still gripping her arm, his eyes closed. Without opening them, he began to speak.

“Very well. I ought not to do this, but I must tell you something. I cannot continue like this. Yes, I was attacked. I was with a companion—an associate, you might call him, someone I know from London. We met in the village some days past, and I wished to show him…” he winced and took a deep breath, “to show him something of the landscape I had found. We were set upon by two men who were stumbling around, clearly having had more ale than was good for them. They were in their cups and quite ineffectual.”

Julia tutted. “Ineffectual? You hardly walked away unscathed.”

“No, but I walked away. I did slip. Most of the damage was from that.”

“And what of the drunkards who assaulted you?”

“They fled. I imagine they feel worse than I do this morning, for they sported equal injuries, if not worse, as well as having sore heads from all the drink.”

This story did not ring entirely true to Julia, but she would get no more out of him.

“I have a basket of food, when you are recovered enough to eat. Is there a kettle? I shall make some tea and then you can tell me about the cliffs at night and the beauty of the moon.”

Julia returned to the cottage the following morning, with as much food as she could abscond with without arousing too much suspicion.

She made a point of rising early and telling Cook that she wished for a roll and some fruit to enjoy on her morning walk, and when nobody was watching, she slipped another roll and a piece of cheese into the sack she had hidden under her cloak, as well as a small pouch of tea to brew at the cottage.

The iron stove in that little kitchen would do well enough, although there would be no milk or sugar.

It was an imperfect solution, but it allowed Cornelius to have breakfast.

Arranging for his evening meal was more challenging, but nobody kept close watch on last night’s pie, and the pile of apples in the pantry was high enough that one or two missing would go quite unnoticed.

Her path took her to the cottage once more, and she tapped at the door before pushing it. It swung open at her touch, and she entered, announcing herself as she did so.

Cornelius was much improved. His eye sported a collection of colours that would outshine his most dramatic sunset, but he seemed to be walking more easily, and his scratches and cuts were healing well.

He claimed his hands were quite recovered, and he had even discarded the sling he had used to support his wrenched shoulder. He demonstrated his regained dexterity by handily consuming the meal that Julia had managed to secrete away from the house.

“There, I am perfectly well.” Cornelius flourished his wrist through the air. “Scarcely a twinge. You need no longer fret about me.” He cast her a saucy grin that both vexed and unsettled her. He was far too charming.

“Will you take breakfast at the house tomorrow?” she asked. “I cannot continue stealing food for you.”

“Stealing? It is not stealing, for I would have consumed the same, and more, had I been present. You are merely relocating it for me.”

He ignored her huff, however, and stared out the window into the gathering dusk.

“But no, I cannot be seen there quite yet. I am much recovered, but my bruised eye would elicit too many questions. It is best if they all believe me still tramping about Cornwall. You will keep my secret, will you not, Julia?”

He came to crouch beside her, where she sat in the chair she had used for her portrait.

It felt comfortable, her own particular place in his little world of creativity.

Those bright blue eyes bored into hers and his sandy brows rose on his brow, supplicating and all too appealing.

He reached for her hand again, and she allowed him to take it.

Why was she so very aware of the touch of his skin?

She had spent a great deal of time yesterday, cleaning and tending that same hand, as well as his face, his wrist, even his collar bone, which he claimed was bruised.

Had she felt that same disquieting cognisance then?

Had her fingers all but vibrated with some secret electricity that tingled up her arm?

She told herself she was being a fool, that of course she had sensed nothing of the sort, that she was merely doing what any healer would do, but she could not deny the dreams that had disturbed her sleep.

He was still gazing at her, his eyes locked with hers, calling in some arcane language, and she wrested her glance away. This was madness.

Cornelius let out a resigned sigh.

“I can rely on you. This I know. I believe I shall go to the town for some days, until my eye heals. The tavern has rooms, and at a most reasonable rate, and good food as well. Will you miss me?”

What an impudent man. She huffed at him.

“But if you cannot appear here with your purple eye, how can you do so in Porthawen? They will see you as well as the family, and there are no secrets about these parts. If somebody is curious about your wounds, the whole neighbourhood will be buzzing with it by the time the tea is cool.”

That handsome face creased into a wink.

“In the house, in the schoolroom with the bright light of day and plentiful candles, and with my head bare, I cannot hope to conceal this. But think, Julia. The tavern is a fine and respectable place, but it is not a place to burn more oil than necessary. Imagine me, of an evening, with my cap pulled low and some actor’s greasepaint on the bruise, it will be quite unremarked upon.

Indeed, it will be good to be seen hale and healthy. I need not elaborate.”

No, he need not. The picture she was creating in her mind was of a piece with her previous notions. He had been set upon, by thieves or by the excisemen, she knew not who, and wished to announce that it had not been him.

Why? What was he hiding? Again, no good answers came to her.

He must have sensed her disquiet. “Please, Julia. If Mr Derriscott asks, you have not seen me. But yes, I shall write a message to tell him I wish to paint the harbour and the docks at sundown.”

His hand, still red if no longer swollen, snaked around her cheek and gently cupped her chin, turning her head so her eyes met his once more.

Heavens, she would get lost in those eyes, blue and untamed as the open sea.

Then his eyes flickered down to her mouth, and the tip of his tongue edged past his lips to moisten them, just for a moment.

“You are too beautiful to resist, you know,” he whispered. He was inches away, his eyes still darting from hers to her mouth and back.

Where was the panic? There ought to be panic. Her entire body should be screaming at her to run, to shove him away as forcefully as she possibly could. Her heart ought to be racing in terror, not in… what was this? Anticipation? Desire? It ought to terrify her, but it did not.

She could not push him away, not for all the gold in the world, but remained quite still, her eyes trapped by his, as his handsome face drew nearer and nearer.

Then, with hardly a motion, his finger tilted her chin up and his thumb brushed against her lips.

For a moment, she froze in place, waiting for the panic to set in, waiting for her hands to clench and her whole being to rebel.

But it did not. Instead, her wayward mind took its cue from her heart and whispered, Cornelius will never harm you .

And she felt her lips soften as his own face drew closer and closer, until all she could see were his blue eyes, full of affection and desire.

Still, he was being careful. She knew this, for she had felt otherwise, so long ago, back then?—

With that glimmer of a memory, sense flooded back in a rush.

She pulled back, reluctant but decisive, and caught her breath. Now, surely, he would grow angry at her rejection. Would he force himself on her, or grab her? But no… this was Cornelius. Instead, he gave her a heart-stopping grin from below sleepy eyes.

“Good heavens, you are lovely. Will I, one day, be the luckiest man alive when you grant me your first kiss.” His face grew serious as he stared at her. “Or no, not your first. You look scared. You have been kissed before.”

Swallowing, Julia nodded her head.

“Are you afraid? Not of me, I pray. You do not look at me with the eyes of someone holding a cherished memory of a youthful lover. You have been kissed, but it was not willingly granted, was it? Somebody forced his attentions on you, did he not?”

His eyes widened as he spoke, as he realised what he had discovered. Now he would surely despise her, grow angry and start calling her dreadful names. Slattern, whore, immoral … the words eddied about her, attacking from all sides.

Every bit of panic that had not assailed her before now came rushing to the fore. With a sob that burst forth from deep within her, Julia pushed Cornelius away and leapt to her feet, before turning and dashing from the cottage as quickly as her feet would carry her.

Oh heavens! What had she done?