She held her feet before her and pointed her wet toes, water dripping back into the pool. “When you came, I was just thinking about Caroline.” She frowned and then kicked the water. “I miss her.”
The words, so simple, held a world of heartbreak. “That’s understandable.”
“She was to be the guardian, you know.” Charlotte reached out and plucked a flower from a nearby clump and tucked it behind her ear. “Now, we don’t know who that’s to be.”
“I don’t understand. She was to be the guardian of what?”
“Nimway Hall is always in the possession and care of a female of the line. My sister was to be the next one.”
He shrugged. “So now it will be you.”
“It can’t be me. I don’t have the mark.”
“What mark?”
She sighed. “You sound just like my aunt.”
He frowned. “I am just asking a normal question.”
She slanted him a measuring look, as if she were deciding how much to tell him. He must have passed muster for she said in a serious tone, “Every Guardian of Nimway is born with a mark on their shoulder, an oval. My sister had that mark.”
“And you do not.”
She shook her head, and another strand of hair fell from her bun.
“Do you wish you did?”
Her brows rose, as if his question surprised her. “I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose . . . yes, I wish I did, although it would mean I’d need to stay nearby. I’m not sure I want that.”
“You’ll have to leave once you marry, anyway,” he pointed out.
She plucked another flower, holding the stem between her palms. She moved her hands slowly, rolling the flower back and forth. “I don’t want to talk about Robert.”
Neither did he, Marco decided. In fact, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to talk about less. Still, he was here. And so was she.
He dived in. “I’ve been here for almost two weeks and I have yet to see this man.”
She didn’t answer.
“But if you’re going to marry this – what did you call him? Roberto?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Robert, not Roberto.”
“Whatever it is. You’ll leave Nimway once you marry him, so it’s for the best you aren’t the guardian.”
She twirled the flower a little faster.
“That is, if he plans on taking you away. Perhaps he will want to live with you and your parents here.”
The flower was almost a blur.
“Where is he now, anyway?”
She stopped twirling the flower and sent him a flat look. “I told you, I’m not going to talk about Robert. After we became engaged, he had business to attend to, and he left to take care of it.”
“Business. What business is that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“He didn’t tell you? What sort of man—”
“For the love of heaven, will you stop talking about him!” She glared at him, the flower a ragged pulp in her clenched hand.
He covered her hand with his, the poor flower now hidden from sight. “Charlotte, if I were engaged to you, I would not leave you alone. When a di Rossi marries, it is for love and it is for life.”
Her eyes widened, her lips parted. “That’s . . . I’m not . . .” She took a deep, shuddering breath, and then she shook her head, as if banishing cobwebs. “You don’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She pulled her hand from his and threw the broken flower into the water. It floated in the quiet pool, swirling with the current.
They were silent, and it seemed that the forest was quiet now, too.
Marco hated that he’d crushed what had been a beautiful moment. What in the hell is wrong with me? I could have sat here in this beautiful grotto with this beautiful woman and talked about all sorts of things that might have pleased her.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He couldn’t afford to please her. He rubbed his knee where it still ached. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking to you about this man. I just . . .” He turned to her. “I don’t understand why you are marrying him. If he doesn’t care enough to stay with you, then he is not worth your efforts.”
She lifted her chin, two more strands of hair falling from her coif to land on her shoulder. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but you’re being annoyingly persistent. I haven’t even told my aunt yet, but—” She gave an irritated sigh. “For your information, I’m not going to marry Robert. I wrote him several days ago and told him so. He should get the letter tomorrow, perhaps the day after, but soon.”
“When did you decide this?”
Her gaze met his. “The kiss we shared.”
“You and I?”
She nodded. “I couldn’t marry Robert after that.”
Marco could have shouted his pride. Ah ha! There. He’d solved her problems and had removed her from an onerous situation, which had bothered him since he’d first heard of it. Try as he would, he couldn’t see this wild spirited girl trapped in a cold, English marriage. “You were too good for him.”
She brushed some of her fallen hair from where it clung to the side of her neck, her lips downturned.
Marco’s smile faded. She didn’t look like a person whose problems had all been solved. If anything, she looked even more unhappy, her eyebrows knit, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.
“It wasn’t that I was too good for him,” she finally said. “He was too good for me. Much too good. I’ve known him since I was a child and he’s always been kind to me.”
“You’re worried you’ve hurt him.”
She nodded.
“You would hurt him more if you married him and it wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Some of the hurt left her face. “It is for the best.”
Marco had to fight the urge to sweep her into his arms for a hard kiss. God, but she was delectable. Right now, she looked like a fluffed kitchen, her hair mussed, her feet bare, and her hackles raised by his questions. Sadly, he was fairly sure that, if he had been so audacious as to try and kiss her, she would have scratched him and bitten him like an angry kitten, too.
He had to settle for a compassionate nod, which seemed weak indeed.
She placed her hands flat on the rock behind her and leaned back, looking up at the trees. “Life is so complicated. All we want is to be happy, but no one knows what that really means.”
“Love is happiness. I know that.” Marco reached past her to pluck a flower. It was cornflower blue, the center a deep purple, the smell indescribably sweet. “In his time, my father painted hundreds of portraits of people, many of them wealthy beyond belief.”
She watched him, her long lashes shadowing her blue eyes.
“He was in many different homes and saw many different people’s lives. He says that of the houses he visited, he never once witnessed happiness close to the kind he and my mother shared.” Marco dropped the flower in her lap where the petals rested on the folds of her skirts. “Not once.”
She picked up the flower and looked at it. “You’re saying love is rare.”
“Most people will never get so much as a taste of it. But when they have it, they will know it.”
“My parents have that kind of love, too.” She pursed her lips and brushed the flower along her cheek. “You’re right. They do know it, and if you saw them together, you would know it, too.” She sighed, her breath making the flower flutter helplessly. “My parents will be upset when they find out I’ve ended my engagement with Robert.”
“He will tell them?”
“I wrote my mother at the same time I wrote him. I thought it only fair.” She dropped the flower back into her lap. “Mama wanted me to marry Robert. She’s been worried about me since Caroline’s death. I think she thought marriage might anchor me some way.”
“If she thinks you need to be anchored, then she hasn’t seen you when you’re mad. You are a force, then. Even I fear you and I can pick you up
with one arm.”
A reluctant smile touched her lips, but then quickly left. “I can be rather forceful at times, but it has been a while since I felt I could be forceful, or even honest, with my mother. She’s been so sad since Caroline died, that I can’t . . . I couldn’t.” Charlotte kicked one foot high, sending an arc of sparkling crystal water drops across the stream, her skirt sliding back to expose a shapely calf.
She glanced up at the sky and then grimaced. “It’s getting late and I need to get back.”
Blast it. He didn’t want this moment to end. He considered what might happen if he convinced her to stay. He could build a home of some sort in the clearing where Angelica now stood, and they could eat the berries and nuts from the woods. He had no idea which were good and which were poison, but she might know.
It was a ridiculous thought, and yet . . . damn, why couldn’t life be as simple as deciding you don’t want to leave a certain moment.
Sighing, he watched as she collected her riding boots and limped to a nearby tree stump. She sat down and dried her feet with her skirts, and then picked up her stockings. It wasn’t easy, for her voluminous skirts were very much in her way and the stockings stuck to her damp feet, but she managed to tug her stockings back on.
She reached for her boots, her billowing skirts obscuring her view. She tugged the skirts to one side, only to blow out her breath in irritation when they fell back in the way.
“Here. Allow me.” He arose and picked up her boot. He knelt on the one knee that didn’t hurt and held out his hand. “Give me your foot.”
“I can do it.”
“Of course you can do it, but I am trying to be a gentleman, which – as you know – does not come easy to me. Give me your foot.”
“No gentleman has ever offered to assist me with my boots.”
“I’m no gentleman, so I don’t have to follow the rules.”
Her lips flattened into a straight line.
“For the love of—Fine. Fine. I’m not being chivalrous. Instead, you may consider this a payment for the help you are about to give me.”
“What help is that?” She couldn’t have looked more suspicious.
“To be blunt, if you and that monster horse of yours don’t lead me free of these trees, they will find my body in a few days, a thorn vine wrapped around my throat.”
A reluctant chuckle bubbled from her. “Balesboro has been very cruel to you.”
“So make it right. Be kind to me, instead. Save me from this vile forest.” He held her out his hand. “Your left foot, please.”
With a grin, she plopped her stockinged foot into his hand.
“Thank you.” He slipped the boot over her foot, tugging it firmly into place. He lowered her foot to the ground and picked up her other boot. “Now your other foot.”
She was less hesitant this time, so he lingered, admiring the roundness of her calf and the perfect turn of her ankle. The feel of her damp skin through her stockings sent sparks up his arms and into other, more insistent parts. There was something about this auburn-haired waif that piqued his senses, and he had yet to figure out what it was.
He finished settling her boot in place and rocked back on his heels. “There.”
“Thank you.” She stood and went to collect Angelica. “We can both ride her, if you’d like.”
“Thank you, but no. That horse has no love of me. I’ll help you on, and then I’ll lead you. Come.” He stood by the horse and cupped his hands. “I’ll give you a lift.”
Charlotte held her riding skirts to one side, placed a hand on his shoulder, and settled her boot on his laced fingers.
But he had other, better plans. The second her boot settled, he unlaced his fingers, grasped her by the waist, and lifted her into the saddle.
Her lips parted and she blushed, but there was nothing she could say. Her horse, who’d been watching, turned her head back toward the trail as if satisfied all was as it should be.
“There. We’re ready.” He took the reins, making sure he left plenty of loose leather between him and Angelica on the off chance she decided to nip at him. Satisfied she wasn’t already eyeing him like a large apple, he glanced back at Charlotte and smiled. “Which way do we go?”
Chapter 10
Marco returned to his workshop to find Pietro sweeping the floors. The stonemason, unaware that Marco had just spent an enjoyable hour with the woman he shouldn’t have spent an enjoyable hour with, didn’t notice that his master was in a better than normal mood.
But he was. A much better mood, and all because of a beautiful, secret grotto in the heart of Balesboro Wood.
That was why he felt like whistling as he set back to work. Naturally, none of his cheerfulness had to do with the fact Charlotte was no longer marrying–
Marco squinted at the ceiling. What was that man’s name again?
He shrugged. Oh well. No matter. He is gone. Marco angled the chisel and tapped it lightly, a chip flicking off the statue and falling to the floor.
Pietro put away his broom and watched Marco worked. The stonemason grunted his approval. “It goes well.”
Marco, who’d been working on a dimpled elbow, sat back on his heels. “There are two types of statue. One of them will fight you as you try to draw it from the stone. There are chips and broken rock, hard spots that cannot be smoothed, and smooth spots that cannot be carved. The stone and the statue struggle against one another, and the artist is caught between.”
“I know those well. What is the other kind?”
“The statue is strong and the stone knows it is beaten before the fight begins, so it steps aside. It allows the statue to emerge unscathed. These pillars are the second type of statue. I can see the figures so clearly that the rest of the stone is already dust.”
“They will be some of your best work.”
“They will be magnificent. You’ll see.” He went back to work, while Pietro, after stoking the fire, announced he’d been invited by Davis and the other grooms to play cards, but would go only if Marco didn’t need him.
“Go,” Marco said. “I won’t need you any more today.”
“Are you sure—”
“For the love of Zeus, I am positive! Just don’t lose. I’ll not have you returning to Italy as naked as the day you were born because you lost all of your possessions in a card game.”
Pietro grinned. “I promise to cheat as hard as I can and to never wager my final pair of breeches.”
“You are a man of great sense.” Marco waved the servant away. “Enjoy yourself.”
Chuckling, the stonemason left, and Marco continued his work, carefully tapping away at the white marble. Today had been a good day. Of course, he was still angry at that damned owl. The sketch was still gone, and Marco’s hands still scratched, his knee was still stiff, but as painful and humiliating as his foray into the woods had been, it had been worth it to spend an hour in a beautiful grotto with an intriguing and seductive woman.
She was all of that and more, he decided, fitting the chisel to the fold of the caryatid’s inner elbow. He wondered if Charlotte’s elbow would be as dimpled. She didn’t seem the least remorseful that she’d ended her engagement. He smiled. As it should be. He’d been relieved at that.
He paused, the hammer cocked, the chisel in place, and wondered why he cared. Even though Charlotte was no longer engaged, she was still the daughter of his patron, and when her mother learned her daughter was no longer engaged, plans would be made for another marriage.
Another suitor would be found.
And if that didn’t work out, then there would be another.
And another.
And ano—
He slammed the hammer onto the chisel’s head so hard that a loud ring echoed. An awkwardly shaped chunk of marble fell to the floor with a thunk. Cursing, he examined the spot he’d hit, and was relieved to find that although he’d removed more than he’d meant to, his error hadn’t destroyed the lines of the statue.
Good God, he
had to be careful. He turned from the statues and dropped his tools on the table as if they were hot.
Of course, Charlotte would have other suitors. God knew she deserved a swarm of them. And he was well aware that marriage was the goal of well born women. Such was life. The problem was that he couldn’t imagine a man worthy of her. She was a genuinely good person. So funny. So fascinating. So complicated and spirited and—
And not for me. He closed his eyes. He was having too much trouble remembering that.
He gritted his teeth and picked up his hammer and chisel again. Damn all this thinking; I need to work. For the rest of the day, that’s all I’m going to think about.
Soon the tap tap tap of the hammer filled the room, and the chips flew. Dust clung to his clothing and skin. As the hours passed, his hands and shoulders ached with his efforts. It was difficult, but every time thoughts of Charlotte threatened to return, he would mercilessly tap tap tap the thought away, letting the chips drop into a pile at his feet.
Marcus worked through dinner and into the night, pausing only when Pietro came staggering home, coins jingling in his pockets. The stonemason mumbled an incoherent story about an eight of spades, and then fell as he tried to climb into his cot. Pietro ended up on the floor, laughing hysterically, until – finally – with a mumbled oath, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep. Marco stopped long enough to put a pillow under the old man’s head before returning to work.
Hours later, Marco stepped back and examined his work, rolling his shoulders where they’d knotted. The features were now clear, the arms and legs almost done, as were the graceful folds of the toga. Tomorrow, he would leave the chisel and hammer behind, and start smoothing the stone.
His gaze flickered to the faces and he growled under his breath. Soon, my muse, you will have to reveal them to me.
No muse answered, so – tired and aching – he went outside to the well to wash before he stumbled to his bed to sleep.
He awoke late the next morning to a soft rain thrumming on the roof. He sat up and stretched away the familiar stiffness of his arms and shoulders. That done, he arose, put on clean breeches and a fresh shirt, tugged on his boots, and raked his hands through his hair. Stretching mightily, he made his way to his workshop and found the fire freshly stoked, warding off the chill brought by the rain. On his work table sat a plate holding an apple, a wedge of cheese, and some bread. Pietro, however, was nowhere to be seen. No wonder Simmons has decided he dislikes you, old friend. You have taken up permanent residence in the kitchens, and no one likes a distracted cook.