Page 40 of The Dravenhearst Brides
It certainly won’t.That smile of his alone would be her demise. Godless, adulterous, a liar…oh, the list of his accolades went on and on. Yet here she was, a dog ravenous for any scrap of his philandering attention.
“We should go,” Margot said quietly, casting her lashes downward. It was easier, perhaps, if she just didn’t look at him.
But before they set out, her husband did something altogether unexpected. Something that made her traitorous, sinful heart somersault in exaltation.
Merrick leaned in and pressed his lips to her temple. “For what it’s worth,” he murmured against her skin, “I think you look quite beautiful this morning.”
She started. Evidently, sleepwalking, hauntings, and a bit of morning madness agreed with her.
“Undone”—he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear—“suits you.”
Nervous energy bubbled to her surface, releasing yet another giggle. Oh, how she loathed herself. “You’ve gone mad, like Alice’s hatter in Wonderland.”
“A high compliment if I’ve ever heard one. Can you keep a secret, love?” He brushed her ear with his knuckle as he quoted, “‘We’re all mad here.’”
Well, wasn’t that the truth? A truth from which Margot—busy turning to vapor from the mere whisper of his touch—couldn’t even pretend to be exempt. The riotous explosion of butterflies in her stomach and his iron-hot brand on her ear were evidence enough.
Love,he’d taken to calling her…
She shivered.
He isn’t the mad one,she realized.It’s me. I grow madder and madder here by the day.
Margot spent Sunday afternoon on her knees in the dirt.
When they returned from Mass, Merrick turned tail for the rickhouses. Margot let out a lengthy sigh, taking a long look at the manor. Her stomach soured at the thought of walking through the doors. Her noosed wedding gown was in there, waiting for her. Pulsing in a trunk upstairs, like Poe’s tell-tale heart beneath the floorboards.
Margot stared at the house, and it stared back. Its mullioned windows were like the paned mosaic of dragonfly wings, glinting in the midday sun. Winking at her, drawing her in.
She crossed her arms, trying very hard not to feel silly.Don’t be a ninny.
Evangeline walked by. She wore a pair of dirt-stained dungarees and wellington boots, her arms laden with gardening supplies. She followed Margot’s uneasy gaze to the house before wordlessly offering a shovel.
Margot needed nothing more. She followed Evangeline down the hill to a plot of freshly tilled soil near the stables.
“Turnips, radish, collards, and pumpkin…fall harvest begins with midsummer planting,” Evangeline explained, handing off packets of seeds. “An inch deep, all in a row down this line.”
And that was that. Margot dropped to her knees and set to work, reveling in the feel of soft dirt beneath her fingers, sunshine on her face, and a quiet, focused mind.
As she worked her way down the line, Evangeline followed, running her hands atop the fresh soil. Eyes closed, lips moving. Halfway through the planting, she noticed Margot staring.
“They can’t talk back yet”—Evangeline nodded toward the ground—“but even seedlings can listen. What we exhale, nature inhales.”
A bead of sweat dripped down Margot’s nose, falling into the dirt. Evangeline smiled, pleased, then closed her eyes and resumed her benediction.
It wasn’t until the sun began to fade that Margot rocked back on her heels and wiped sweat from her brow. She shifted in the dirt to look at thehouse atop the hill. With the sinking sun behind the building, the manor cast a long shadow. The two towers stretched toward her like greedy fingers, eager to repossess their quarry.
She sighed and rose to her feet, her gaze perusing the pasture. Julian was out there, holding the reins of a palomino. Beyond him, on the outskirts, Margot spied two men at the pasture fence, deep in discussion. Merrick was closer to her, his profile clearly visible. At first glance, his posture was relaxed, leaning forward over the rail. Casual confidence and power. But the longer she looked, the less comfortable she became. His broad shoulders were taut, stretching the planes of his white shirt to their limits, pulling at seams. And though his right hand dangled freely over open air, the fingers of his left were curled tightly around the pasture rail.
She recognized the stature of his silver-grayed companion.
Alastair Pendry.
What is he doing here?Her heart fluttered.
Alastair was speaking…ranting, more like. He gesticulated wildly over the fence at the grazing horses.
Julian turned, stretching the palomino’s reins as he angled closer. Listening.
