Donna Fletcher Read online

  Billie felt the thrill of his thoughtful words race through her. She took the flowers, inhaled their fragrance and then hugged the plain white pot to her chest. “Thank you so much,” she said and, without conscious thought, kissed his cheek.

  She saw that her unconventional actions made him nervous and she grabbed his hand. “Come with me.” She towed him behind her until they entered the kitchen.

  “Sit. You must try a bowl of my fish chowder. It is one of my best recipes.” She talked while she placed the bright buds on the table and rushed to collect dishes and such.

  John remained standing in the doorway, watching her hurry about. “I have never met a lady of a manor that cooked.”

  No one but Matilda could understand her need to tend to daily chores. She was raised with the necessary skills to make a man a good wife. She enjoyed polishing wood to a brilliant shine, washing linens clean, stitching a fine garment and cooking a meal that would please a husband. She was proud of her talents and found it difficult to allow other people to do for her when she could do for herself. She was a strong, proud American.

  “Please sit,” she repeated, removing the cups and plates left from Claudia’s visit.

  John obliged her. “I realize the cultural change must be difficult for you.”

  Billie took soup bowls from the corner cupboard. “Very difficult.” She ladled steaming chowder into each bowl. “But I promised myself that once every so often I would do the things I so enjoyed doing in Nantucket. Cooking was one of them.”

  John watched her slice thick black bread, place it on a plate that she added to the serving tray set with soup bowls and carry it to the table.

  He stood to assist her.

  “Please,” she said, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Let me do this for you.” She wanted him to understand that it was her way of showing her appreciation for his thoughtfulness, and because she cared for him. She wanted to share the intimacy of a couple sharing a meal. It was strange, but she recalled when she was little how pleasant it was to watch her mother and father talk and laugh at the table. They had shared something special. She wanted to share that closeness with John.

  John studied her a moment, patted her hand, took his seat and with a sheepish grin said, “I really can’t wait to taste it. It smells heavenly.”

  Billie beamed with pride. “My chowder is known as the best throughout all of Nantucket.”

  He waited for her to join him at the table and then he folded his hands in prayer. She did the same. He said a simple yet generous grace and they ate.

  They talked eagerly, John complimenting her profusely on her chowder. He soon had her talking about her life in Nantucket and when she mentioned a marriage proposal, he casually interrupted.

  “Why didn’t you accept this Jeremy Ulster’s proposal?”

  Her answer came fast. “I didn’t love him.”

  “Love sometimes grows with time,” he suggested in a soft tone that confirmed his preaching skills.

  “I agree that love can grow, but only if two people care for and respect each other. If there is no emotion involved, there is nothing to build on.”

  “You could not marry without love?”

  Billie put her spoon down and cupped her chin in her hands, her elbows braced on the edge of the table. She gave his question thought. “I always dreamed that I would meet a man and instantly fall madly in love with him. My mother called it a childhood fantasy.”

  “And is it still a dream?”

  She laughed and threw her hands up in the air. “I’m all grown up now.”

  “Grown-ups dream, too.”

  Lately her dreams had been of ghosts haunting her with unforgettable kisses. And emotions she didn’t quite understand. What did she feel for the ghostly lord? Love? Or pure passion?

  “Love is important to me,” she responded as if reminding herself. “I was raised in a family that gave of it freely and generously. I wish the same sense of emotional security when I marry and have children. What about you?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t have much to offer a future wife.”

  “Of course you do,” she disagreed.

  “My yearly vicar’s stipend is small—”

  “Nonsense,” Billie interrupted. “You yourself have much to offer a wife.”

  He shook his head firmly and voiced his opinion just as firmly. “I am not what a woman looks for in a husband.”

  “You are,” she insisted and proceeded to detail why. “You are kind and considerate. You care deeply.” She smiled and placed her hand over his. “And you listen to me speak of ghosts, yet you don’t judge me. I trust you, John. I know if the need arose I could turn to you and you would be there for me. You are a special man.”

  John reached out and gently ran his finger down the side of her face. “You are very special, too.”

  His voice was whisper-soft, his touch gentle as a breeze and her reaction instantaneous. Her insides quivered.

  Hesitantly, he brought his face nearer to hers, giving her a chance to deny his advances. To his surprise and pleasure she inched her face closer to his and when their lips met their reaction was mutual.

  He kissed her with the sweetness of a man introducing a woman to the first steps of pleasure. Tenderly his lips passed over hers inviting her to enjoy and partake.

  She did, tasting him and wanting more. She parted her lips in invitation and he slowly slipped in. His tongue teased hers playfully and she found herself responding, her desire budding in the most intimate places.

  Raised, squabbling voices broke them abruptly apart and had the vicar moving an appropriate distance away from Billie.

  Matilda and Pembrooke burst through the kitchen door.

  “You are a stubborn fool too set in his ways to see that—” Matilda ended her scolding immediately upon seeing the vicar and Billie seated at the table.

  Pembrooke’s mouth dropped open and he glared at Billie, obviously appalled that she entertained the vicar in the kitchen.

  John addressed the situation to the relief of everyone. “Billie cooks the most wonderful fish chowder. I simply couldn’t eat enough of it.”

  Matilda joined in his praise of Billie. “M’lady is a wonderful cook. Her biscuits are light and tasty, melting in your mouth.”

  Pembrooke stared at his wife as though she had just sprouted three heads.

  Matilda ignored him and proceeded to salvage the situation. “M’lady, you must be tired from your busy day. Allow me to serve you and the vicar tea in the receiving parlor.”

  John stood. “I must be going, but I am certain a bit of rest wouldn’t hurt Billie.”

  Outnumbered, Billie wasn’t about to protest. “I’ll see you to the door, John.”

  A disgruntled cough from Pembrooke alerted her to her error.

  “Pembrooke will see you to the door, John,” she corrected with a sweet smile.

  John bid her a pleasant evening and followed a stiff Pembrooke to the front door.

  “Tea, m’lady?” Matilda asked, cleaning off the table.

  “I’ve had my fill,” Billie said and stifled a yawn. “I think I’ll rest some. Will you wake me before nightfall?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Once in her room Billie stripped down to her white linen chemise, freed her hair to spill over her shoulders and slipped between the bedcovers. Her busy day and the rain rhythmically tapping at the windowpane combined to lull her into a gentle slumber.

  She dreamed of John, his gentle kisses, his tender touches, his caring ways and his mild temperament. He would love his wife with compassion and warmth, never raising his voice to her.

  She snuggled deeper beneath the covers, fantasies of love, happiness and forever after filling her head. Forgotten was the thought of love at first sight, racing heartbeats, quickened breath and unforgettable kisses, until . . .

  A warm whisper teased her ear. “You forgot passion.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  His fingers breezed across
her nipples; the faint touch puckered them to life. His lips paid homage to her neck with faint kisses while he whispered a litany of erotic promises.

  Billie drifted on the verge of wakefulness, too tempted by passionate pleasure to leave her to dream. He haunted her with intimate touches, excited her with spirited kisses and tempted her with the devil’s own tongue.

  “Touch me, Billie,” he urged, taking her hand and slipping her trembling fingers inside his shirt. “I need you to touch me.”

  She moaned as her hand connected with his warm, hard chest and then she explored, her fingers inching ever so slowly over him. His nipple puckered as the palm of her hand brushed over it and she rested there a moment, rubbing the orb to a hardening madness.

  “Enough,” he groaned in her ear and nipped at her lobe before proceeding down along her chin to her lips.

  Empty and aching, her mouth greeted him, devouring him with a hungry passion. Reason and sanity escaped her. She wanted nothing more than for this maddening moment to never end.

  His hand raced along her body over her linen chemise, touching, teasing, torturing. She arched against his hand when he cupped her between her legs and they groaned together.

  He moved over her, his hands rushing to capture her face, deepening their kiss while his body moved in an erotic rhythm that brought her unspeakable pleasure. She could feel him nestling against her, hot and heavy, even through the clothes that barely separated them.

  “I want you, Billie. I want you,” he repeated over and over between kisses that left her writhing.

  A gentle knock and a soft, distant voice calling m’lady, m’lady, intruded on Billie’s dream, but before she fully woke, she distinctly remembered her hand brushing him intimately.

  He was no ghost, she thought, shaking herself awake. He was built too powerfully, too large, too hard to be anything but a man of flesh and blood.

  o0o

  Those thoughts haunted her over the next few days as did he. He stole kisses, tender caresses and stared at her with eyes filled with such heated passion that Billie thought he would melt her.

  She turned quiet, her thoughts troubling her. If he was no ghost then he would eventually reclaim the manor—but when? What did he hope to gain by this charade?

  She wished there was someone she could talk to about her problem, but she couldn’t turn to John with such intimate details and Claudia was out of the question. She had become friendly with Matilda, but the woman continued to remind her of the differences between common people and gentry and how she must tread lightly along that line.

  Maximillian, however, saw no problem in crossing the line. He wanted her and, from her response, she wanted him, though no words of love were spoken between them. After all, she was a fisherman’s daughter and he a nobleman playing at being a ghost. What future was there for her in such a bizarre relationship?

  She sighed, rubbing her head. Even the completion of the dining salon hadn’t helped ease her worry.

  “What the bloody hell have you done to this room?”

  Billie’s eyes popped opened and she took a step back, bumping into a dining table chair. She grabbed the back so it wouldn’t topple over and so that she would have support while her racing heart calmed down. He had scared the wits out of her. She had thought by now she would be accustomed to him popping in and out of rooms.

  That, she thought, was her next project: discovering how he managed to enter rooms as if from out of thin air.

  “Answer me,” he bellowed again.

  She continued holding on to the chair; the sight of his tall, powerful form outfitted in shades of gray that reminded one of a brewing storm was much too intimidating.

  She finally spoke up though her voice didn’t project the volume she had intended. “I gave it life.” And with her courage returned, she added, “Something you know nothing about.”

  That definitely stung him. He marched further into the room and pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You’ve made this room—”

  She finished for him, her smile generous. “Stunning.”

  He was about to shout at her again when she lifted her butternut wool dress just above her black pumps and marched over to him with the determination of a soldier heading into battle.

  She stopped a few inches in front of him and poked him in the chest. “Stop your meaningless blustering and take a good look. This room is filled with rich, soft colors that invite guests to relax and enjoy their visit.”

  He grumbled and cast a quick, unobservant glance around the room. He was prepared to deliver another reprimand when he caught sight of his mother’s favorite crystal pieces artfully displayed in the built-in corner cupboards that were painted a soft apricot color.

  His eyes studied the room further. Wallpaper with gentle white birds, apricot-colored flowers and deep green vines against an ecru-colored background covered the walls while the apricot color continued along the wood trim. The deep green and ecru colors were carried over onto the dining chairs’ velvet cushions, and the pattern of wide green stripes followed by a paper-thin ecru stripe repeated itself on the velvet curtains at the windows.

  The beautifully embroidered table scarf that his mother had labored over for so many months when he was a young boy was draped over the middle of the dark wood table and a large, shining crystal bowl filled with a mixture of fragrant dried herbs sat in the center. The sideboard glistened with two crystal candle holders and a three-tiered crystal fruit server.

  Maximillian remained speechless, his thoughts on how Billie had lovingly and considerately displayed and put into use so many items his mother had loved so dearly.

  Billie, as if reading his thoughts, broke the silence. “I discovered so many beautiful and useful treasures stored away that I just had to find places for them. Wait until you see what I do to the receiving parlor, the main parlor, the conservatory, the bedchamber—” She stopped. “Did I forget any rooms?” And with a wide grin directed at Max she added, “The study.”

  He glared at her. “I think not.”

  She had no intention of disturbing his study; she loved it just the way it was, but he needn’t know that. She shot back. “We’ll see.”

  “Belinda, if you wish to alter a few rooms to keep yourself occupied I have no objections—”

  “You like the room,” she interrupted.

  “It is—” His glance fell on his mother’s table scarf. “It is lovely. But,” he added more firmly, “you will not touch my study.”

  She tapped her finger against her cheek and sighed dramatically. “Lord Radborne, you do remember that you are a ghost?”

  “What difference does that make? I am still lord of this manor.” And before she could open her mouth he said, “And don’t remind me that I am a deceased lord again.”

  “Then if you are d—” She paused, not repeating the word. “What difference does it make if I change the manor?”

  “The manor belongs to me.”

  She shook her head. “No, it belongs to me now.”

  Maximillian attempted to hold his temper. “I still occupy the manor.”

  “Only until I can settle your restless spirit and send you on your way,” she corrected.

  “And if my spirit never rests?”

  She knew he challenged her and enjoyed it, but then so did she. “I am alive, therefore, as lady of the manor I give the orders and people obey. You are a ghost; no one will listen to you, you would just frighten them away.” She dusted her hands as if the matter was settled. “So, I’ll do as I please.”

  Maximillian stared at her with eyes the color of a raging sea after a mighty storm. He issued his words slowly and with a firmness that made her pay close attention. “If you were my wife, you would obey me without question.”

  Her voice was just as firm and so was the poking finger she jabbed at his chest. “If I was your wife, I would do as I please and you, my lord—” She paused and ran her poking finger slowly down his chest, “—would like it.”

 
; She deposited a quick kiss to his cheek and hurried out of the room, her light laughter trailing her.

  He cursed soundly and rushed after her. He was brought to an abrupt halt by voices in the foyer and he turned in the opposite direction and slipped away.

  Pembrooke handed Billie the note that had just been delivered. She read it and asked, “Who brought this?”

  “A boy from the village.”

  “Please get my cloak and bonnet, Pembrooke, I need to go out.”

  Pembrooke nodded. “Will you be needing the carriage, my lady?”

  “No, I’ll walk,” she answered and within minutes was tugging on her gloves and rushing out the door.

  o0o

  The Cox Crow Inn was empty. The fire held a bubbling cauldron of seasoned lamb stew and several loaves of fresh hearth bread sat cooling on a nearby table.

  Billie surveyed the empty room just as she had done upon her first night in St. Clair only this time there was no sea of faces judging her; only Bessie, red-cheeked and smiling as she hurried over to greet her.

  “Come, m’lady, and sit,” she urged. “We only have a short time before this place will start filling up and I have news for you.”

  Billie took a seat and Bessie joined her after insisting on getting Billie a cup of hot tea.

  “Your note said you found the person I’m looking for?”

  Bessie nodded her head. “That I did, though he hasn’t been heard from in quite some time. Many thought him dead, but news is he was away—hiding from the law some say. Heard he’s a bad one, fast to use his fists and his knife. Found out that he’s over in St. Simon at the Cove Inn most nights, bragging into the wee hours to whoever will listen. But talk has it that he’ll be leaving by week’s end, possibly for good.”

  Billie had no time to hire a man to handle this matter. She couldn’t let Derry Jones just slip away. She needed to observe him in his own environment and if she listened, she was bound to learn something if the man bragged.

  “Are you familiar with the Cove Inn?”

  “It’s no place for a lady,” Bessie warned.

  Billie’s disappointment was evident.