Page 5 of Spellbound
He grinned. The snap in her voice, the flash of fire in her eyes told him that whatever the source of her prickly caution, she was not immune to him. “Then walk with me tomorrow and prove it.”
FOUR
Instantly, Bella realized her mistake. She had backed herself into a corner. But she was not one to give in just because a thing was difficult. Affecting her haughtiest expression, she sniffed dismissively, “That will prove nothing but that I am easily manipulated by spoiled boys who are used to getting their way.”
Her efforts to offend him failed miserably. Indeed, he laughed at them. When his laughter died away, he raised his hand, “First, an invitation is hardly a manipulation.” He lowered one finger.
The movement drew her attention to his hands. They were large, the skin bronzed, his fingers long and well shaped. It was a very masculine hand, and a hand that did not seem to be unacquainted with hard work, which was something of a surprise.
He continued, “Secondly, I am not a boy… And thirdly, Miss Goodwynne, and perhaps most importantly, it is nothing more than a walk. If after tomorrow’s walk you have no wish to see me again, then I vow to make myself absent from wherever you are. I shall not importune you again.”
Bella could feel herself wavering. She was more charmed than he could have ever realized by his bold words and easyconfidence. And at this close distance, he was even more handsome. She could see every fine detail. The slight bit of silver in his hair, the small scar on the crest of his cheek bone. The wicked part of her wondered at the slight shadowing of his beard and what it would feel like against her skin.
She should refuse. But he would be persistent. She knew that. And, somewhat perversely, she wanted him to be. That was the most damnable part of it all. What she ought to do and what she wanted to do were diametrically opposed to one another. It was an impossible situation—craving to be in his company, to learn more about him and to simply feel the warmth of his gaze upon her—while also fearing what would happen should she allow anything more than a passing acquaintance to develop. The most expedient course would be to agree to his terms and then make herself as dull and uninteresting as possible. A wicked thought stirred within her, one born of mischief rather than the attraction that would be so disastrous to act on.
“I will not walk with you. But you may, if you choose, walk with me,” she said. “I will be gathering herbs near Harper’s Meadow tomorrow afternoon—three o’clock. There’s a copse of trees between the meadow and the road where certain mushrooms grow that are renown for their medicinal purposes… An extra pair of hands will be quite useful.”
“Whatever it takes, Miss Goodwynne. Good afternoon.” He bowed gracefully and then turned to leave while she simply stood there staring after him and wondering if she’d made a terrible error in judgement.
“It is too late now,” she murmured to herself. The dye was cast. She’d agreed to spend at least a good portion of the afternoon in his presence. If she were any other woman, a chaperone would be a necessity. But she was already a spinster and if she were not, she was so beset by scandal and gossip that it rendered her completely ineligible. In short, she hadno reputation to ruin. Of course, she would be discreet. The last thing she needed was to add more fuel to the already considerable fire licking at her heels.
In the woodedarea that backed up to Mrs. Frye’s garden, Lynden Stalker watched the interplay between the witch and the polished gentleman from London. When he’d arrived at the church the week before, the widow of Thomas Hollander on his arm, panic had settled inside him. Who had she brought into their midst? And why?
Finding out that he was only her brother had been a relief. Now, he simply needed to determine how long the man intended to stay and what, if anything, his plans were. The people of Highgate-on-Trent were simple. And simple people were easily controlled, easily brought to heel. Desmond Crane would not be. Crane’s obvious infatuation with the temptress was a complication. He wouldn’t leave willingly now. That was apparent from the way he looked at her. So he’d need to be made to leave. Or the threat he posed would need to be eradicated in another way. Because he had a plan for Belladonna Goodwynne, a plan that was well underway.
His hand would not be stayed any longer. Not where she was concerned. Her consortment with the devil would soon be at an end. At least her consortment with him while she remained on this earthly plane. He’d made it his mission to send her back to the Hell from which she’d been spawned. And a lovesick fool might well prove to be a heroic one. Interference would not and could not be permitted. The salvation of every soul in Highgate-on-Trent, himself included, depended upon that.
“’Tis a pity,” he whispered. “Mrs. Hollander will be grief-stricken all over again. But at least her wardrobe needs for full mourning are already met.”
Satisfied with what he had to do, and now having been presented with the perfect opportunity, he would have to act. Surely it was divine providence. It was a sign that he was on , not just the righteous path, but the right path.The chosen path.Were he not doing the Lord’s will, such opportunities would not be presented to him.
FIVE
His afternoon ride led Desmond to Harper’s Meadow. From there, he dismounted and walked into the copse of trees. In the distance, he heard her voice. She was singing softly, the song a haunting melody that had been around forever. But he stopped, stock still, and listened. Even his horse, an impatient beast under the best of circumstances, was soothed by the sound and was positively placid as the lilting notes drifted through the trees.
Suddenly, with no warning, the sound halted. There was a moment of silence and then she called out, “You do not approach quietly, Mr. Crane. But then I think you are not given to being quiet by your very nature.”
That wasn’t fully accurate. He was quiet with those whom he had no interest in. He was reserved with almost of everyone else, whether they be family, friend or of more intimate acquaintance. It was not in his nature to be disingenuous and feign interest and enthusiasm where it did not exist. But with Belladonna Goodwynne, he would never have to worry about that. She did not simply interest him. She fascinated him. Mesmerized him. Drew him like a moth to a flame.
Stepping deeper into the trees, he finally caught sight of her. She knealt beneath a large oak, plucking wildflowers from the base of the tree and depositing them in her basket. “You inspire me to a boldness and to boisterousness, Miss Goodwynne, that are far from typical in my everyday life. What is it that you are collecting there?”
“It’s bleeding heart,” she said. “There are many uses for it… the treatment of bruises and sprains. ’Tis good for the nerves, as well, and sleeplessness. Do you suffer from sleeplessness, Mr. Crane?”
As a general rule, he did not. But the previous night had not been restful—because she had been ever present in his mind. Never, in all of his life—not even as a callow youth—had he suffered such immediate obsession and infatuation for any woman. “On any other day, I would have said no. But having met you, I fear there will be more of those in my future.”
She sat back, resting her hands on her thighs. “What a strange response.”
He smiled, shrugging. “I suppose it is. Have you ever met someone, Miss Goodwynne, and known immediately that they would alter your life—your entire world—irrevocably?”
She didn’t look at him. Instead, she kept her gaze focused straight ahead of her. After the longest moment, she finally gave a slight nod. “I have. It typically has not been for the better.”
“Then I think it is high time that changes.” Desmond held out his hand to her, offering his aid for her to stand. She accepted it reluctantly. “I cannot imagine that meeting you will be anything other than wonderful for me.”
“You are confoundingly optimistic, sir,” she observed.
The sensation of her smaller hand in his, of touching her bare skin, even if it was only in the most innocent of ways, still resonated within him. The rightness of it, the sense of completion that he felt in doing so, was shocking. It was asthough he had found something he had not realized he’d lost. It was surprising, gladdening, and altogether more than he could ever have anticipated. “Only hopeful, Miss Goodwynne.”
His touch wassomething she had not anticipated. Not that he would do so, but that she would respond to it so keenly. How could she have imagined that simply having him help her to her feet would render her breathless? How could she possibly have known that, from every point of contact between them, it would feel like sparks? She’d seen fireworks once. They’d been set off at a fair. Showers of sparks in all different colors raining down from the sky. That was how it felt to have her hand in his. It jolted her, unsettled her, terrified her, and yet she made no move to break the contact.Because it also felt very, very right.
