Читать книгу The Liberation Of Miss Finch - Diane Gaston, Diane Gaston - Страница 9

Lancashire, England, 1828

At one time Claude thought Lancashire to be the very ends of the earth. It had seemed so eleven years ago, when he’d tracked Edwin Tranville to Rappard Hall and procured employment as a stable worker there. Claude never intended to return, but time and distance and a great deal of life made returning a matter of some importance.

It was not easy. Lancashire held memories difficult to face. Memories of failure and loss and shame.

His horse crested the hill, dotted with sheep just as he remembered it. Claude gazed into the valley where the stream still meandered through shrubbery and trees, its blue water sparkling in the sun.

More pleasant memories came to mind, of peaceful hours spent at the water’s edge, moments when he’d felt almost happy. What harm to detour for a few moments, refresh the horses where he’d done so before? He left the road and made his way across the field, riding one horse and leading the other.

When he came to a familiar break in the trees, he halted.

She was there! Dancing in the stream like some sprite, barefooted, skirts held up to her knees, scattering the water into glittering crystals.

He shook his head. No. Impossible. Impossible to find her again in this same spot. His unlikely friend, his unspoken infatuation, and in some ways his salvation.

She turned and caught sight of him. A look of wonder filled her face.

He dismounted.

“Claude?” Her voice was tentative, as if she, too, could not believe her eyes.

“Louisa,” he rasped.

She dropped her skirts into the water and closed the distance between them, rushing into his arms. “Claude! I thought I had imagined you! I did not hear your approach. Suddenly you were just there!”

He’d held her only twice before, once to comfort her, once upon their parting. After all, a French stable worker was not permitted to embrace an aristocratic English lady. In truth, he should not be touching Miss Louisa Finch now, but in the moment, he did not care.

Her scent was as intoxicating as he remembered, and his body reacted as it had before, as if his senses only came alive by holding her. He never wanted to release her.

She pulled out of the embrace, but kept her hands on his arms, gazing at him at arm’s length. “You look wonderful, Claude. Taller…and…and…more manly.”

It pleased him perhaps too much that she noticed he was no longer a youth of eighteen. “I suppose I have changed after all this time.”

She also had changed, although her brown eyes were still as warm as a cup of coffee on a cold morning. Her face was leaner, her chin and cheekbones more prominent, more refined, as if a master sculptor had envisioned a way to make his creation even more beautiful.

Their gazes held and his yearning grew, a yearning he’d never dared to admit, even to himself.

“What are you doing here, Claude?” she finally asked, breaking the spell between them.

“A visit to my mother,” he managed, through a throat thick with emotion.

He had not seen his mother these same ten years, not since she married a British soldier, the man whose life had been so entwined with theirs.

Louisa blinked. “Yes, of course, I assumed you came to see your mother, but I meant, why did you come here, to this place?”

“I thought of you,” he said simply. “I remembered our rides and I remembered this stream.”

Her gaze caught his again and held.

The horses snorted, bringing him back to reality. He led them to the water’s edge to drink, and turned back to her. “I could afford to delay my arrival a trifle.”

He appreciated the delay, in fact, uncertain of his welcome at his mother’s house.

Louisa followed him to the stream and ran her hand down one of the horse’s necks. “They are beautiful, these horses. Are they yours?”

He swelled with pride at her words. “Yes.”

A love of horses had bonded him with her all those years ago. Made them kindred spirits.

“Where is Pomona?” He looked around for the horse she’d loved since childhood.

Her smile fled. “Dead these last three years.”

He reached out and touched her arm. “I am sorry for it.”

Pomona had been her link to her childhood in Newmarket, before her parents died and she was sent to Rappard Hall to live as a poor relation. “Where is the horse you rode here, then?”

“I walked.” She smiled, as if determined not to be sad. “Come. Might we sit here like we used to? Do you have a little time to tell me where you have been and what you have been doing? The last I spoke with your mother, you were in America. Is that why your accent is different? Are you speaking like an American now instead of a Frenchman?”

There was nothing he wanted more than to sit with her. “I cannot say about my accent, but I did lately live in America in a place called Tennessee.”

They sat on the bank and Claude talked at length about his travels on the Continent and his life in Tennessee, a place with much interest in horse racing. He told her about working on a prosperous horse farm and how he had learned a great deal about training and breeding racehorses. He did not tell her of other experiences in Tennessee, however.

She gestured to the two steeds now nibbling on grass. “Are these lovely creatures American racehorses?”

He shook his head. “They do not have the speed. My…my employer was disappointed in them, but they have stamina. I think they are excellent riding horses.” They were, in fact, the fruits of his labor of which he was most proud. “They will be my gift to my mother and Mr. Deane.”

His attempt at atonement, as well.

“Will be?” Louisa straightened. “Oh, my gracious! You have not been to your mother’s house yet?” She stood. “I must not detain you any longer.”

Louisa hurried over to Claude’s horses and he followed, not so eager to complete his journey.

She petted the horses as she waited for him to catch up. “Your mother will be so happy to see you.”

“I expect so.”

His mother would welcome him, he was certain, but what of her husband? Would Captain Deane forgive him? Claude had tried his best to keep his mother from marrying the British officer, and he had never made any secret of his resentment of the man. Not that Deane had ever been anything but good to Claude, indeed, saving his life at Waterloo and again that last night at Rappard Hall.

In those days Claude had been consumed with hatred, despising all things British.

Except Louisa.

He joined her at the horses. “Would you allow me to escort you back?”

“Yes!” Her face flushed with pleasure.

He lifted her onto his horse’s back, savouring the feel of her in his hands and remembering touching her in the same way eleven years ago. He gathered the reins to the other horse, which carried his meager belongings, and mounted behind her.

“What is this lovely chestnut’s name?” she asked him, leaning forward to stroke the horse’s mane.

“Gallatin. And the dun is Clover. I named them after American racetracks.” Those racetracks had provided him enough funds to leave Tennessee and forge a new life, wherever that might be.

With Louisa perched in front of him, his nostrils filled with her scent. It took him back to the days when they first rode together, when it was forbidden for him, a mere stable worker, to touch her. He remembered the feel of her against his body the two times they defied that rule.

His arms encircled her again, and her body rubbed against his with each step the horse took. His senses had matured as well as his body, and his body craved her as a man only craves a woman.

They rode to Rappard Hall. It meant backtracking for Claude, but he did not mind spending more time with his arms around her.

They reached the top of the hill and looked down on the red sandstone mansion below. Its tower once looked to Claude as if stacked there like a child’s set of blocks. He’d once searched the windows to find which room was occupied by Edwin Tranville.

Louisa said, “I had better part with you here, Claude. Before we are seen together.”

For all the money in his pocket, she was still taboo. No matter how many stables he managed, in English society—nay, wherever he traveled—Claude would be considered little more than a stable worker. She would always be a lady.

Still, he did not wish to free her from his arms. She felt too good. Releasing her would be like waking from a beautiful dream.

The dream could not end here. He must see her again, learn about her life since they’d parted. Why had she remained at Rappard Hall? Why had she not married?

He slid off the horse and helped her down, holding her firmly by the waist. When her feet touched the ground, he did not release her.

“Meet me here tomorrow,” he implored, his hands glorying in the intimate contact. “I will bring the horses. Dress for riding and we can gallop over the hills again.”

She returned his gaze, intense with emotion. “I will come,” she breathed. “At noon?”

“At noon.” He was already aroused at the prospect.

Her gaze softened, and she reached up to touch his cheek, a touch so gentle he was surprised it radiated throughout his body.

Before he could wish her farewell, she turned and hurried down the hill.

Claude watched her until she was a small speck rushing towards the country house that had been the scene of their last moments together.

The violence and drama of that night rushed back, shaming him all over again. How much did she know of the darkness that had consumed him at that time? Of what sort of person he’d been? She’d shown no hint.

Louisa was all that was good, the ideal he despaired of striving for in himself. Before he deserved her companionship again, he must tell her the truth about himself.

About how he’d used her to plan a murder.