Midnight Quill Trio

June 1763: Part Four

June 1763: Part Four

“It looks like rain. We’d better turn back.”

Rose glanced up at the sky, where clouds had gathered. “Let’s picnic in the folly.” They’d barely reached the lake. She didn’t want to go back to Creed Hall, with its dark paneling and its painful memories. She wanted to stay outside with Will, as she had every afternoon since his return from Falmouth a week ago.

She took the hamper and blanket and climbed the marble steps, while Will tethered the horses. The colonnade was Grecian—slender columns crowned with carved acanthus leaves—but the doors were French, delicate and diamond-paned. The gilded handle yielded to her touch. A breeze gusted up from the lake, tugging her riding habit, sending dust scurrying across the marble floor.

Rose stepped inside. The small, circular room was cool and shadowy and smelled faintly musty. The sole piece of furniture was a marble divan between two of the windows. It had lion-paw feet and scrolled ends and garlands carved along its edges.

She spread the blanket on the divan and went back outside.

Will climbed the steps two at a time and stood with her under the colonnade, watching the rain advance. A whisper of sound swept across the lake. Its surface shivered.

A raindrop struck the marble steps, and then a second drop and a third—and then the sky opened above them. Rain drummed on the pantiled roof and streamed down the marble steps. The lake seethed as if it was boiling.

“Smell that,” Will said, putting his arm around her.

Rose leaned against him and inhaled deeply, smelling wet earth and wet grass. The air was cool and fresh; the rain had swept away the sultry heat.

They stood watching for several minutes, then went inside. Rose removed her riding hat and gloves.

“Hungry?”

Rose shook her head. She sat on the divan, tucking her feet under her. The circular room was dark, the roar of rain loud. She felt as if she was in another world, a thousand miles from Creed Hall.

Will sat alongside her. He touched her cheek, tracing the scratch lightly. “It’s healing well. Shouldn’t scar.”

I wish it would. She had a flash of memory: Henry staring at her, possessive hunger in his eyes—You’re exquisite, my dear—then turning to reach for his whip.

Rose swallowed. She pushed the memory aside. “Please, Will . . . don’t ever tell me I’m beautiful.”

Will lowered his hand. He looked at her for a long moment, frowning, then his lips tightened and he nodded. “I won’t.”

She smiled, relieved that he’d understood why, that she didn’t have to explain. “Thank you.”

Will didn’t smile back. His expression was grim.

Rose tucked her hand into his. “Don’t think about Henry.” And I’ll try not to, too. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his jaw. You are my Sir Galahad.

Some of Will’s tension eased. He turned his head and kissed her gently.

Rose closed her eyes.

Time slowed down, while rain drummed on the roof and a fresh, cool breeze blew in through the open door. Pleasure built inside her. The only things she was aware of were Will’s mouth on hers, his strong, calloused hands cradling her face, the heat of his body pressed against hers.

Finally Will dragged his mouth from hers. “Rose . . .”

Rose opened her eyes and gazed up at him. He looked as dazed as she felt, his eyes dark, his cheeks flushed. She reached up and threaded her fingers through his tousled white-blond hair.

Will dipped his head and kissed along her jaw, pressed his mouth to the pulse beating in her throat, tasted her skin with his tongue. Pleasure shivered through her. Rose’s fingers tightened in his hair. She arched her neck.

Realization came suddenly: they were lying on the divan, Will was half on top of her, his weight pinning her down.

Her pulse gave a panicked kick. Rose shoved away from him and scrambled backwards on the divan.

Will raised his head and stared at her, his expression bewildered—and then understanding flooded his face. He pushed off the divan and stumbled back several paces. “I’m sorry.” His face was stricken. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He swung around and hurried outside with great lurching steps, like a blind man trying to run.

Rose squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Tears choked in her throat. The fear was gone. It had vanished the instant she’d seen Will’s face.

She blew out a shallow, hitching breath.

Will wasn’t Henry. He would never take pleasure from her pain. She knew that. So why was she afraid?

Because Henry had taught her to be afraid.

Rose opened her eyes. Anger kindled in her breast. Damn you, Henry.

She scrambled off the divan and went outside.

Will hadn’t taken shelter under the colonnade—he sat on the lowest step, his head bowed into his hands.

Rose hesitated. Dare I do this?

Yes. She had to. Partly to exorcise Henry, and partly because she wanted to marry Will. Because she needed to know whether she was making the right decision. I need to find out if I can bear it, before it’s irrevocable.

“Will?”

He stiffened, and then climbed to his feet, not meeting her eyes, looking down at the streaming steps. “Countess.”

“You’re getting wet.”

Will hesitated, and stepped up under the colonnade. Not towards her, but away. His white-blond hair was plastered to his skull. Rivulets of water ran down his face.

Rose took hold of her courage. I know he won’t hurt me. But even so, fear was tight in her chest. Her heart hammered against her breastbone. “Will . . . I would like us to . . . to have union with one another.”