A Lady Most Lovely Page 13

  They were soaked by the time they reached the cottage. As soon as Tom brought the horse to a stop, Margaret loosened her grip and slid to the ground, running the last few steps to the cottage door. It opened easily, and in a moment she was inside.

  Tom dismounted and led Castor to a small open-sided shed. He tied the horse securely, giving it room to move but not enough leverage to break the ropes. “Easy, boy,” he said, patting the horse once more. “You’ll be fine.” Castor eyed him as if to say he was not at all sure about that. Tom said a quick prayer as he ran across the small yard to the cottage.

  Margaret had been observing his actions through a small window. “Will your horse be all right, do you think?” she asked anxiously. “I heard terrible stories about what he was like aboard the ship from Australia.”

  “The voyage was rough,” Tom acknowledged. “Horses have a long memory when it comes to bad experiences. But I trust to the Lord to keep him safe.”

  Margaret made a small noise that seemed to indicate derision or disbelief, but said nothing. She was hugging herself tightly. Water slid down her face in tiny rivulets and dripped from the hem of her dress. He would gladly have tried to warm her by wrapping his arms around her again. It would have been a delicious feeling, but now that they were here, alone in a cabin, he did not want to appear to press his advantage. He contented himself by gently wiping away the raindrops on her cheek. He felt her shiver, but whether from the cold or his touch, he could not be sure. “We must get you dry,” he murmured, “or you will catch a chill.”

  He did a quick survey of the cabin. It was empty except for a large plank table and a bench. But there was also a small stack of firewood. Sending up a silent prayer of thanksgiving, Tom knelt before the hearth and set about arranging a fire.

  He could feel her eyes on his back, watching him as he worked. It took him no time at all to arrange the wood; building fires came as naturally to him now as breathing.

  “We have no way to light it,” Margaret said.

  “Ah, but we do.” Tom pulled a knife and a small piece of flint from his coat pocket, and within a few minutes he had coaxed a nice little blaze. “There you go,” he said, standing back and motioning her to the hearth. “Cozy as you please.”

  *

  The fire seemed to immediately fill the little cabin with light and warmth. Margaret’s sodden dress clung to her, cold and heavy, and she put out her hands gratefully to catch the heat from the flames. She sent a sidelong glance at Tom, who remained close by, admiring his handiwork. “Do you always carry fire-starting devices with you?” she asked.

  “Had to be self-sufficient in Australia.” He smiled and shrugged. “I suppose some habits are hard to break.”

  Something in his smile caught and tugged at her, unaccountably lifting her spirits. He pushed back a lock of hair from his forehead with unconscious grace. He has no pretense, no guile, she thought. In all his actions, he is as he seems. What would it be like to live that way? A flash of envy raced through her. Embarrassed at this sudden rush of feeling, she turned her gaze back to the flames.

  Tom pulled the bench to the hearth. “For you, my lady,” he said with a small bow.

  She took a seat at one end of the bench, wondering if he would join her, and half-wishing that he would. Tom began to shrug out of his coat but then paused in mid motion. “May I?” he said deferentially. “I believe I shall dry faster without this on.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak and unable to turn her gaze away as he stripped off his coat and laid it across the table. His damp shirt clung to his broad chest and muscular arms, and suddenly the tiny cottage felt too cozy, too intimate. Tom gave the fire a poke with a bit of unused firewood, releasing a fresh burst of flames and heat. He looked around the little room with satisfaction. “I like it here,” he said.

  “You do?”

  “It’s welcoming and simple. Not like those enormous mansions in London, where a person can get lost between the front door and the parlor.”

  It was an apt description, and Margaret couldn’t help but laugh. “I see that wealth hasn’t turned your head.”

  “No,” he said. “I hope it never does.”

  Watching as Tom set more wood on the fire, Margaret was struck by how he filled this humble space with dignity. The firelight played along his square jaw and strong hands. He certainly was not like any gentleman she’d known, but neither was he merely some rough laborer. He fell into a category she could not define. What sort of a man was it who could survive shipwrecks, love his family tenderly, and profess himself a Christian and yet have no qualms about getting into physical fights when threatened? Could one man truly be all those things? It was a rare mixture, to be sure.

  “What happened to the people who lived here?” Tom asked.

  His question drew her thoughts back to the troubles at hand. She sighed. “They’re off to the factories, like so many others. It’s just as well the railway company wants to buy it. No one wants to farm the land anymore.”

  The rain pounded against the roof. In the far corner of the room, water began to drip from the ceiling and form a tiny pool on the floor. It seemed a metaphor for her life. No matter how hard she tried to shore up against the storms, they had a way of battering through her last defenses. The futility of it echoed in her heart, louder than the deluge on the roof.

  She clenched her fists, fighting to keep from showing her bitter frustration. She had learned long ago never to show her true feelings. To bare one’s heart was to give someone else the upper hand, to open oneself to even worse trouble and ultimately to regret it.

  Tom came over and sat next to her on the bench, gently loosening her fist with his touch. “Margaret, do not sell your land.”

  Warmth radiated from his body, so close to hers, tempting her to draw closer as he kept caressing her hand. His gaze, too, was warm with compassion. But his words had sparked what little pride she had left. She must make her own decisions, and fight her own battles. She drew her hand back. “I don’t see that it is any of your concern.”

  “But it is my concern. You would be selling the land to repay me. Don’t do it.”

  “It is my land,” Margaret said stoutly. “I shall do what I think best.”

  “Margaret, listen to me.” He took hold of her shoulders. “If you sell your best farmland, it will only hurt you in the long run. Your gain will be only temporary; you’ll lose the future profits from harvests and rents. In a few years you may find yourself even worse off than you are now. I have a better solution.”

  His words, though meant to be kind, only grated her already raw emotions. She shook herself free and stood up. She had to put distance between them. She could not afford to be lured into his way of thinking. He was a man who could always snatch victory from even the most dire of circumstances. Naturally he would assume he could solve her problems. But he was wrong. Perhaps his life had been blessed, but hers had taken a decidedly different tack. One that she must navigate alone. “Oh?” Margaret said scornfully, her heart gripped with pain. “And just what, exactly, would you have me do?”

  “Marry me,” he said.

  Chapter 14

  Gauging by her expression, Margaret found his second proposal as unpalatable as the first. And yet, Tom saw confusion in her eyes, too, and this he welcomed. It was evidence that he had put at least a tiny crack into her fortress walls.

  He got up from the bench and closed the gap between them. “I can help you, Margaret.”

  She held up her hands as if to ward him off. “Mr. Poole, this is neither the time nor the place—”

  “I mean really help you,” he said, cutting off her protest. She was trying to retreat again behind her pride, and Tom was determined not to let her do it. He took her hands and drew her toward him, willing her to meet his eyes. “We are no longer talking about some short loan just to get creditors out of your hair. There is far, far more at stake now.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. Her silence spar
ked Tom’s hope. But then she dropped her gaze. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” she said, her voice strained.

  “I’m asking you to marry me,” Tom insisted. The memory of her involuntary sigh as she had leaned against him on Castor returned to his mind, giving him confidence that she could find a way to love him, if only she would give her heart the chance. Gently he tilted her chin up. “Believe me on this, Margaret. Together, we can make Moreton Hall prosperous again.”

  She shook her head. “Too much depends on circumstances beyond our control. Crop failures, drought, the economy. No one knows what the future holds.”

  “You’re wrong about that.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Are you a fortune-teller, then? Some kind of prophet?”

  “I’m not talking about me. The Lord holds tomorrow. We must allow Him to work, and trust His ways.”

  “God?” she said with a scoff.

  “Haven’t you ever wondered if the Lord had some plan in mind for you—some special purpose for your life?”

  She walked over to the window, staring out at the streaming rain. “I haven’t had time for philosophical questions. I’ve been too busy running this estate and digging out from under the mountain of debt my father left behind. Not to mention keeping pretenders at bay.”

  “Pretenders?” Tom said curiously. “You make it sound like the throne of a kingdom.”

  “The problem is the same,” Margaret declared. “Moreton Hall was entailed, as these things often are, to firstborn sons. When it became clear that I would be my father’s only child, my grandfather moved heaven and earth—and the necessary parliamentary powers—to break the entail so that I could inherit. If he had not done so, the estate would have passed to my cousin when my father died.”

  “You called him a ‘pretender.’ Does that mean he still feels entitled to this inheritance?”

  She clenched her fists. “Richard Spencer will never, ever, own this estate,” she said fiercely. “I will do whatever it takes to prevent it.”

  Tom now understood why Margaret was so dead set on keeping Moreton Hall at all costs. She was in the middle of a family feud, and she was determined to win it. “So you do have a purpose in life,” he pointed out drily.

  Her eyes flashed. “You may call it what you like. I call it fighting for my family honor. And what about you?” she challenged. “What is your purpose in life?”

  What drive and determination she had, Tom thought. What strength and resourcefulness. Yet somehow she did not see the obvious solution to her problems, although it was right here, right in front of her. It was time to show her.

  *

  Tom swiftly crossed the room. Margaret was so taken by surprise that she did not think to resist as he took her into his arms. He drew her close, and she was met with the intoxicating scent of rain and soap and starched linen. She found herself inhaling, remaining in his arms, feeling the heat of his chest through his still-damp shirt. “There is one thing that I am very sure I must do,” he murmured in her ear. He cradled her face with one hand and brought his lips to hers.

  He kissed intently, as though wanting to draw Margaret out of herself and into him. And suddenly, she found she wanted to go there, wanted to lose herself in the heady emotions he was arousing. She delighted in the feel of being pressed against his broad chest as his strong arms wrapped tightly around her. He seemed to radiate more heat than the fire. He kept kissing her, exploring her mouth with confident sensuality.

  At last he moved to kiss her cheek, to nuzzle her neck. He murmured something very softly, so low Margaret could hardly make out the words. Then she realized he was not talking to her. “Thank you, Lord,” he whispered.

  A flash of lightning lit up the cottage, followed by a crack of thunder so deafening they both jumped. Margaret was grateful for the interruption. This was not right; she could not be falling for this man. She went to the fireplace, feigning a need to warm her hands, although she would have done better to step outside and allow the pelting rain to cool her body, which was alive with the flames of desire.

  “That,” said Tom from behind her, “was what the etiquette books call a frightful breach of protocol.” But he spoke without a trace of remorse. In fact, Margaret thought with hot embarrassment, he sounded rather pleased with himself. She kept her eyes glued to the crackling hearth, trying to still her wildly beating heart.

  He came up behind her, and she could feel him standing just inches away. His mere presence called out for her to turn and melt back into his arms. “Come now, Maggie,” he whispered. “Didn’t you like that just a little?”

  Grabbing on to what presence of mind she had left, she turned to face him. “My name is Margaret,” she said, dredging up all the chilly authority she could muster.

  He laughed, not the least bit put off by her rebuff. “I think Maggie suits you much better.”

  He had to be toying with her. No one had ever called her anything but Margaret, not even members of her family. Coming from Tom it sounded too tantalizingly familiar, like the memory of his kiss that still burned on her lips.

  “How beautiful you are,” Tom observed. “You have such a lovely blush on your face just now.”

  His words only fueled the flame in her cheeks. “It is from anger!” she protested. “You took ungentlemanly advantage.” Thunder shook the house once more. “Hah!” she said disparagingly. “Perhaps God does not approve either.”

  But nothing she said rattled him. He only laughed again. “Why do people think thunderstorms are a sign that God is angry? Perhaps, Maggie, it means He is up in the heavens jumping up and down and shouting for joy.”

  He seemed determined to keep her off-balance. “Why would God be jumping for joy because you kissed me? And I told you, my name is—”

  “Hear me out,” he interrupted. “And let us consider the question logically.”

  His dark eyes regarded her steadily from under full brows. The firelight played on the late-day growth of stubble on his jaw, illuminating the roughness she had felt against her cheeks just moments ago. She ought to step away, tell him to leave at once. And yet her feet refused to move, even as her eyes refused to quit his gaze. “What can possibly be logical about this?” she said, her voice a small gasp. Even now, she was embarrassed at her reactions to his kiss, and how easily she had lost control.

  “It’s simple, really,” Tom said. “You are in need of money. I have money.”

  “Money is not the only issue,” she protested.

  “I realize that,” he said doggedly. “You are concerned about your family honor. You think I am beneath you, perhaps. I don’t have some lofty lineage that goes back to William the Conqueror.” There was an edge to his voice now. “But allow me to remind you of one very important fact, Maggie: you were about to marry into such a family, but you would have been forever bound to a man who is a liar and a cheat.”

  Tom’s words struck home. His unvarnished honesty sliced through her objections like a knife, but they cut her bitterly in the process. Margaret looked away, chafing at his words but unable to refute them.

  “Now let’s talk about my family,” Tom continued. “Lord Somerville is one of the most respected men in the House of Lords. Lizzie is the kindest and truest soul, and the venerable Thornboroughs have accepted her without hesitation. You could do far worse than to marry into such a family.”

  Margaret still did not answer. She refused to accept the rosy picture that Tom was painting. There had been no bastards in Paul’s family tree—no scandal at all, only staid respectability. If only he had lived up to his honorable heritage! Then Margaret would not be forced to stand here, alone in this cottage, having a soul-baring conversation with a man who would not leave her in peace.

  When at last she spared him a glance, she saw that he was watching her intently. “Have you thought beyond your own lifetime?” he asked. “You fight to keep your inheritance intact, but who will inherit if you don’t have children?”

  “Enough!” she cried,
pushed to her limit by his unrelenting arguments. “It is no reason to rush into marriage. I am young; I have time.”

  “I would not delay even a year,” he said. “The land won’t wait.”

  His insistent urging kept pushing her to places she didn’t want to go. “What can you possibly know about it?” she accused. “What makes you such an expert?”

  “Was Paul an expert?” he shot back.

  Margaret gasped. “Paul was a gentleman!” she sputtered. “Naturally he would leave the day-to-day management to a land steward, but—”

  “I know farming,” Tom cut in. “I’m also an expert with the care and training of horses, and—unlike some men—I’ve proved I can properly handle great sums of money.” It was a dig at Paul, and by implication everything Margaret had tried to do on her own. He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was calm and gentle. “But there’s something even more important than all of those things, Maggie. I will be a good husband to you. And how much is that worth?”

  Margret trembled as he ran a light hand across her cheek, sending shock waves of unwanted pleasure through her. The vision he painted was so enticing. How easy it would be to give in, to believe he could make good on all his promises. But she had already learned the hard way that when something sounded too good to be true, it was. She fought to clear her mind of the fog that seemed to envelop it. She couldn’t think straight when he was near. He threw every one of her emotions into disarray. Did she really want to place herself under the power of such a man? No. She was on the verge of losing all she held dear; she could not add the risk of losing the deepest part of her heart as well.