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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

W hat had she meant, she could not lie any longer? Had she meant she would not lie with him? They’d already shared pleasure—God, just the memory of holding her, touching her, made Hew’s legs weak. His thoughts kept veering back to Anne in his arms like iron filings clinging to a magnetic stone.

Or was there something else she was deceiving him about?

The kitchen of St. Sefin’s smelled of crushed greenery and damp poultry. Vicar Stanley sat at the heavy wooden table with one of the black-clad widows, drinking tea.

“Captain Vaughn,” Stanley said with his friendly smile. “I’m to start reading those banns, I hear?”

How he wished. Three weeks, and then he could say the words that would bind Anne to him, and he could have one thing sure.

“You’re a son of Sir Lambert’s, you are,” said the older woman, a dark, glaring eye fixed on Hew.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. The eldest, Mother.” He spoke in Welsh, as she had, and she dipped her chin as if confirming something to herself.

“Where’s the other gone to? Your brother.”

Hew shook his head. “I wish I could say. Is Anne—Miss Sutton about? I saw the horse and cart in the yard.” She’d driven alone, unhitched Cadfael alone, and taken care of the animal alone. The cob greeted Hew’s mare amicably when he’d put his own mount in the paddock.

“She’s making the rounds with Mrs. Lambe.

” Stanley leaned back in his chair, a man at his ease.

“I called to speak with Mrs. Bernstein and was engaged in the pursuit of a chicken. Fortunately, it was recovered and peace has been restored. The children are outside with it now, gathering nettles or so they say, and your Miss Sutton and Mrs. Lambe are in the mothers’ ward. ”

“This Mrs. Lambe.” Hew waved away the offer of tea from the widow. “What do you know of her?” Anne had been spending an awful lot of time in her company, and the woman was an unknown entity. She could be coarse, unprincipled, manipulative, and Anne was too sweet to?—

“Why not ask her yourself?”

Mrs. Lambe appeared in the doorway leading to an inner hall, holding a handful of dirty rags in her hands. Anne came up beside her, holding a basin and cup.

Anne looked as delicious as usual, her gown plain but tidy, a patterned Welsh shawl slung around her waist, her hair primly tucked beneath a dashing little cap.

Her eyes widened when she spotted Hew, her delicate lips parting, and it took all his self-control not to cross the room and pull her against him like a besotted bridegroom.

“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Lambe spoke, directing her words at Stanley. Hew wondered why she sounded strained, her words harsh. The vicar scrambled to his feet, recalling he was in the presence of ladies.

“Taking tea with Mother Morris.” He reached up to remove the hat he’d already laid on the side table, and the man’s face fell as he realized how ridiculous he looked with his hands groping through the air above his head.

Hew sympathized. He did the same thing with Anne—missed every chance to impress her, took every opportunity to act a clodpole and not the refined, gallant gentleman who deserved her hand.

She found pleasure with him—he was good enough at that , at least—but for the rest?

He’d seen last evening her graceful ease with his mother’s guests, the way she’d commanded the room with her performance.

She was bred a lady in her bones and every inch of her manner.

He was a broken soldier, a scarred man who had failed his family, his commander, his father, and the friend who had saved his life.

He didn’t deserve her. Hew’s skin prickled at the acknowledgement. But he was her best of a miserable set of options, and with that, he might lure her. Trick her. Trap her, just like she’d said. That was why he was here.

“And you.” Mrs. Lambe’s gaze moved to Hew. He’d thought she had blue eyes, but they’d turned a stormy gray-green. He could tell from this distance, so piercing was her stare. Hew’s eyes did the same.

This woman, too, had Sir Lambert’s eyes. How could that be?

“I am here for Anne,” Hew said, looking to her for rescue from this strange, challenging woman.

“Is ought amiss?” Anne moved forward with her trained grace and set the basin and cup on the table. Then, as naturally as if she were the lady of the house and its hostess, she took the teapot and poured into the widow’s cup, then the vicar’s. The widow patted Anne’s hand in approval.

“Not Saes after all,” Mother said in her rough voice. “And neither’s he, for all that he fought for them.” She nodded toward Hew. “Hero of Acre, is it?”

Anne, who didn’t understand the Welsh, gave her a perplexed smile.

Hew answered in English, certain the woman spoke it.

“A hero to some, until the court-martial comes through.” Might as well say it, through the burn of shame along his back, the place where he was supposed to feel nothing. “Time will tell.”

“Time always tells,” the widow said in Welsh.

“Time always tells,” the vicar said in English, not knowing he repeated the sentiment. “And Captain Vaughn’s a hero.”

“In your eyes.” Mrs. Lambe still trapped him with her accusing stare. “Is that why he is free to judge us?”

“Not judge,” Hew said. “Only ask. You are new to the area. I am lately returned. I am curious.”

She held his challenging stare for a moment, then turned with a sharp move and stalked toward the scullery, head held high. “I run a pie shop,” she said.

The vicar attempted a smile. “And rather more, I’d say, considering all your help to those in need.” He waved a hand through the air again, a gesture encompassing their environs.

His reassurance meant little to Mrs. Lambe. She was already in the scullery. Mother Morris snorted and sipped her tea.

Anne watched her friend’s retreat, then glanced at Hew, curiosity in her gaze, before she started tidying the countertop.

She held her shoulders back, her chin lifted, but her movements were easy, natural.

She was at home here in a way she wasn’t at Greenfield, where she wore that guarded look, always.

Hew wanted her to feel at ease at Greenfield. He wanted her to feel at ease with him.

“Will you drive with me?”

“Where you to?” She raised her high, arched brows, then a smile broke across her face. “Listen to me—I am becoming a Welsh woman.”

“All the better for it,” Mother Morris cackled.

“ Ta, Mother, thank you.” Anne seemed to understand the Welsh this time; she was learning the language. She smoothed her hands along the plaid shawl she was wearing for an apron, then untied it from her waist. “I will go with you, Captain.”

Finally . She was moving toward him, not away.

She stepped close to gather her pelisse from the peg, and her scent rippled through Hew’s head.

She smelled lush and flowery and rinsed clean.

She was too good for him, too pure. He wanted to put her on a pedestal beyond his reach and fall on his knees in adoration.

He wanted to draw her to him and caress her body in every way he knew how, until she was once again limp and sated in his arms, ready to surrender her soul.

But then she’d be marked with all the sweat and grief and pain of his muddy world, and once the vows were said, she could never be free of him.

Unless he could make her want him, despite all.

She helped him hitch up the pony cart, calling the gelding to her with a cluck of the tongue, and Cadfael came obedient to her hand, just as Hew would if she ever summoned him.

Ready to submit his neck to the yoke in return for her strokes of approval.

He helped her into the cart, noting the green juice staining her gloves.

She smiled as she caught his notice. “Nettle juice.”

“Are you learning teas and tisanes? Cures and remedies? They say that Mrs. Lambe is a cunning woman.”

“If by it they mean the women with knowledge of midwifery and plants that poison as well as heal, then yes, Eilian seems to know those things.” Anne twitched her skirts so they fell about her half boots.

“But very often that term seems used in aspersion, not approbation. I think the male physics and surgeons want everyone to believe their medicine is the better way, or the only way.”

“Is that what you learned from Hawkins and Allard last night?”

He sounded jealous. He averted his face as he tied his mare to the back of the cart. Fool . He couldn’t chide her for looking out for a better chance for herself. What if one of those men could offer her more than Hew could?

Then he’d find a way to spike the man’s wheels and ensure he was her only choice, Hew decided. Proof through and through he wasn’t a gentleman.

“I learned their approaches to surgery and to use of forceps in giving birth.” She made a face. “Men seem terribly fond of their tools.”

Hew bit back a snort of derision and hauled himself onto the seat beside her. At once, her scent reached out and coiled about him. “I can explain to you about grades of artillery, if you would rather.”

Stupid—that would not win her. One needed to speak with a lady about subjects pleasant to her if he wished to woo. Hew knew that much about the business, at least.

She twisted slightly and observed the saddlebags he’d deposited in the back of the cart. “Where are you taking me?”

“Through Newport, first. Do you know what your brother is about these days?”

He should not have asked so bluntly. She drew back, her guard up, her face somber. “He has not confided in me. Do you know something?”

“He’s been seen again in the company of Rafael Darch. Their association began well before I returned, I’m told. It seems Darch has been training your brother up to his business, or attempting to.”

“Free trading.” Her voice was quiet but not surprised. Everyone knew of the open defiance of customs law that took place along the shores of southern England and western Wales. And the reputation of smugglers of being ruthless to anyone who crossed their purposes.