Page 26 of Hearts at Home

5

F or the rest of that week, Jack spent every day at the Hughes’ cottage, arriving after breakfast and walking back to Adam’s place in the dusk. On Saturday, though, when he mentioned the next day, she said, “No need, Jack. Tomorrow is Sunday. I don’t work on a Sunday.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if he could come anyway; perhaps escort her to church. Chapel, rather. She and her father were dissenters, following the religion of the Welsh valleys as Mr. Hughes’ father had before them. Which was fine with him, for he had been raised by a family of Puritans whose flavour of dissenting was all their own. If he had any religion at all, it was that of his childhood, and not the Church of England to which an officer had to pay lip service in order to progress in the ranks.

Before he could ask, she said, “Father and I will have a quiet day, just the two of us. Take the day to yourself, Jack, for I mean to be selfish and ask you to come back on Monday, if you are not bored with us. If you can spare the time.”

That was progress, for it had always been he who offered, not she who asked. He arrived on Monday with a hopeful heart.

This week was even busier than the last. He only saw Gwen in bits and pieces, as she rushed from one job to another, managing a rush of clients and a mix of work.

“Harvest time is always busy,” she said. “The gentry are preparing for the hunting season, too.”

As a cavalry man, Jack knew just how important a farrier was, managing not just the essential shoeing and hoof care, but also equine illnesses and injuries. Gwen was clearly much in demand. Too much, in Jack’s opinion. At least he could take some of the burden by looking after Griffith Hughes and making sure to have a hot meal ready for her when she arrived home.

Twice more, Adam had warned him to be careful of Gwen’s reputation and his own heart. The latter was lost already. Perhaps it had been when he first saw her facing down Ghastly Gussie.

With that in mind, he kept reminding her of his irregular origins, with stories about the orphanage and about his years as a drummer boy and then a trooper. And every time she accepted his story without a blush or a criticism, he tumbled deeper in love.

Two days before the Harvest Festival Jack had been hearing about since he arrived in the town, Gwen joined them for the midday meal as usual. After, she announced that she was going to spend the afternoon in her still room, replenishing her medicinals. Jack would have enjoyed more time with her, but was kept busy with Griffith, who was having a testy day. I’m a bit cross myself, Griffith. There she is, the darling, just on the other side of the wall, and here I am chasing you around the cottage .

Well. There was no use being upset with the old man. Jack sometimes thought the worst days were the ones when Griffith was most aware of the holes where most of his memories and his old skills should be.

“He won’t help with the chores or settle to spillikins or cards,” he reported to Gwen when she emerged from her stillroom. “He refuses to sing, and he makes loud screeches when I try to tell him a story. If you don’t mind, Gwen, I’ll hire a pair of riding horses and take him out for a ride. I can keep him on a leading rein.”

“I’ll come along, if you can make it three horses,” Gwen said. “I am almost done here, and I’ve earned the rest of the day off. Go and fetch the horses, Jack, and I’ll watch Father while I make us some food to take with us.”

Some things, it seemed, Griffith remembered. He easily mounted the steady horse Jack had hired—a large placid cob that the stable master at the inn recommended. Gwen might think she had kept her father’s condition secret, but the stable master knew. Adam’s housekeeper knew. Jack wondered how many other people were aware. If so, they should be ashamed for leaving his poor darling to try to manage father, house, and business on her own.

He hastened to mount his own horse. Griffith was anxious to be off, and was becoming frustrated when his horse refused to obey his commands. It wouldn’t ignore the lead reins that tethered it to Gwen’s horse and Jack’s.

“This was a wonderful idea,” Gwen said half an hour later. She had taken them to an idyllic spot by the river. As soon as Jack spread the blanket for their al fresco meal, Griffith had commandeered it to wrap himself in and had gone to sleep. Jack put his coat down for Gwen to use instead.

She sat on one side, her knees and ankles decorously together, her sensible half boots off the edge of the coat. “There’s room, Jack,” she said. “Come and share.”

Jack shook his head. “Not a good idea, Gwen. I cannot sit that close to you and keep my hands to myself.”

She looked puzzled. “Do you mean that you want to touch me? As if…? Jack, what do you mean?”

Perhaps he’d be off to hell in a hand basket, but he could not resist just once telling her how he felt. He would regret it if she sent him packing, as she should, but just once, he wanted her to know.

“I want to touch you.” It was a ravenous growl. “I want to kiss you until you don’t remember anything but my name. I want to devour you, Gwen, and if you have the least sense of self-preservation, you’ll let me sit over here while you sit over there.”

Was that a flare of interest in her eyes? Heaven help them both if it was, for her father was no sort of chaperone at all, being sound asleep.

Then she floored him. “You don’t have to pretend to desire me, Jack,” she said. “I know I am too tall, too old, and too manly. Believe me, Jack, I know what they think. The only man who has ever kissed me told me to my face that I was a fool to think he was truly interested.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why he pretended. And I am much older now.”

For a moment, Jack couldn’t think of a word to say, then he strode over to where she sat and lowered himself to sit beside her, so close that his thigh touched hers all the way to her bent knee. “Let me prove it to you,” he said. “May I kiss you, Gwen? Please?”

She stared at him, and her eyes gave him hope. Definitely interest. Curiosity, too, if he was not mistaken, and a touch of longing. She nodded.

His muscles quivered with the effort he made to restrain himself. “I cannot touch you without your permission. Words, Gwen. Yes or No?”

“Yes.” It was a whisper, and did not satisfy her, for she repeated it louder. “Yes, please, Jack.”

He started carefully, his hand cupping her face, his lips gently covering hers, moving to caress and stroke. She must have been kissed before, because she responded instantly, and opened her mouth to trace his lips with her tongue.

He deepened the kiss. She had not been kissed very well, or perhaps it had been a long time, for her every response was hesitant and then enthusiastic. She was proving to be a fast learner. As Jack’s hands found her luscious curves and her own hands stroked his back, he was in sore danger of losing all control.

He drew back, panting. “We have to stop, my love, before I cannot.”

She looked as dazed as he felt, but she squeezed her eyes shut and then gave her head a quick shake. “You do not have to address endearments to me, Jack,” she said, opening her eyes again. The haze of passion was gone, and a bleakness remained. “I know what people think of me.”

Jack’s voice was sharp. “Look at me, Gwen.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Jack Wrath,” she snapped back.

It was his turn to shut his eyes. He took a deep breath and gazed into her eyes. “I apologize. I am not angry with you. I am furious at all the fools who have made you feel this way about yourself. You call yourself too tall. You are the perfect height for me. If we were standing, I could kiss you without my neck and back complaining for hours after. If we danced, I would not be afraid of crushing you.” Danced was not the first activity that had come to mind.

“You are eleven years younger than me,” he continued. “I am too old for you, I know. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the use of my arm. I have been at war for twenty-five years and have nightmares about the things I’ve seen and the things I’ve done. Heaven help you, Gwen, for I’ve decided I’m not going to let that stop me from trying to win you. I won’t blame you if you turn down this broken old man, but you? Too old? What rubbish. You are still in your twenties. You are a young woman.”

She was staring at him, wide eyed, as if he was speaking in a foreign language of which she knew only a few words, and she was not sure he was saying what she thought she was hearing.

“As for manly,” he scoffed, “I have felt your curves, remember. Yes, and seen them, too, when you bend over to shoe a horse.”

She frowned at that. “It’s not my shape that I mean. I assume from the times I’ve been accosted it is well enough. Jack, you must have seen that I don’t behave like a woman. I run the farriery. I bargain with my customers and the merchants I buy from. I do business like a man, and I do not let any man tell me what to do.”

“You are a strong determined woman. It is one of the reasons I’ve fallen in love with you. You can hold your own in a man’s world, and you do. I respect you more than I can say. I like you, too. We have become friends, have we not? We work well together, and we never run out of things to say to one another. We laugh at the same jokes. I want to be with you forever, Gwen.”

She frowned, more in bewilderment than rejection, he hoped. “You are suggesting marriage because we are friends?”

His irritation took over for a moment, and he grabbed her hand and put it on the fall of his trousers, behind which his cock was an obvious and insistent presence. “Does that feel as if I just want a friendship?” he growled, then let go of her hand, his cheeks heating. “I beg your pardon. I should not have done that.”