The Taste of Innocence

  He meant the house, the grounds, the estate. His home. But she wanted to be mistress of so much more.

  She searched his eyes, their regard unwavering. Inwardly she quivered in reaction to his tone, and to his question. The answer rang clearly in her mind, but how to voice it?

  “Yes.” Lifting her head, she stiffened her resistance against the temptation being this close to him posed. “But…that’s not enough.”

  He frowned. “What—”

  “What I want…” She blinked, suddenly seeing a way to explain. “Consider—when you invest, you require both the risky and challenging as well as the safe and secure to feel satisfied, to feel fulfilled. When it comes to marriage, I want the same.” She held his gaze. “Not just the conventional, the mundane—the safe and sure—but…”

  She ran out of words, had no words, not ones that would do the concept justice. In the end, she simply said, “I want the excitement, the thrills, to take the risk and grasp the satisfaction. I want to experience the glory.”

  Thanks to years of maintaining an unreadable expression while engaged in business dealings, Charlie kept all trace of surprise from his face. She was an innocent twenty-three, untouched; he knew that to his bones. Yet unless his ears had failed him, she’d just stipulated that were she to marry him, in order for her to be satisfied, their marriage would need to be a passionate one.

  And, by extension, if that point was influencing her decision, then presumably part of her “getting to know him better” involved assessing whether a liaison between them would spark such passion, resulting in the glory she sought.

  He hadn’t been expecting such a tack, but he certainly wasn’t about to argue. He let his lips curve. “I see no impediment in that.”

  She frowned. “You don’t?”

  He assumed the question derived from lack of self-confidence, from lack of conviction that she—her fair self—could fire his passions in that way.

  Given his reputation, all of it entirely deserved, that wasn’t, perhaps, such a nonsensical uncertainty.

  It was, however, as he was perfectly—indeed painfully—aware, entirely groundless.

  He reached for her, careful not to seize, not to give her nerves reason to leap too much; sliding his hands around her waist, he encouraged her nearer.

  She came, hesitantly. What he sensed in her…his instincts saw her as wild, skittish, untamed—unused to a man’s hand. Untouched in the truest sense. And he wanted her, desired her with a passion remarkable in its sharpness, unique in its strength.

  Ruthlessly he held it down, concealed it, suppressed it. He held her gaze. “What ever you want in that regard, I’m willing to give you.”

  She searched his eyes. Moistened her lips. “I—”

  “But of course you want to ascertain the prospect before you agree.” He had to fight to keep his gaze from fixing on her sheening lips.

  Her eyes widened; relief slid through them. “Yes.”

  Smiling, he lowered his head. “As I said before, I see no impediment in that. None at all.” He breathed the last words over her lips.

  Her lids fluttered, then fell. He brushed her lips with his, lightly, tantalizingly, then swooped and took them in a long, easy, unthreatening kiss, a caress specifically designed to ease her trepidations, to calm any maidenly fears. To gently, so gently she wouldn’t notice it, sweep her away.

  He tempted, lured, and she came, hesitant but willing, following his lead as fraction by tiniest fraction he deepened the caress. Her lips were as pliant, as delicate as he remembered; he held his breath as with the tip of his tongue he traced the lower, then gently probed…her lips parted on a sigh and she let him in.

  Let him slide his tongue into the warm haven of her mouth, find hers and stroke.

  Tantalized, fascinated, enthralled.

  Her, yes, but him, too; despite his experience he wasn’t immune to the moment. Wasn’t above feeling a shiver of excitement as she oh-so-tentatively returned the caress.

  Sarah’s head was spinning, her wits waltzing to a luxurious, decadent beat, one built on plea sure. It swelled and burgeoned and grew more demanding as the kiss lengthened, deepened, as he and his seductive magic slid under her skin and stroked.

  Her senses purred.

  The taste of him spread through her, intoxicatingly male, dangerous yet tempting. Her lips felt warm as she returned his kisses, increasingly bold, increasingly sure.

  Increasingly convinced that through this, she would find her answer.

  She was hovering on the brink of stretching her arms up, twining them about his neck and stepping into him, wanting to touch, oddly urgent to feel the hard length of him against her, when he broke the kiss.

  Not as if he wished to; when she lifted her strangely weighted lids, she sensed as much as saw his sudden alertness as he looked over her head out of the window.

  Then his lovely, mobile lips tightened. Under his breath, he swore.

  He looked at her, met her eyes. “Our sisters.”

  Disgust dripped from the words. She glanced toward the lake, and grimaced, her emotions matching his. Having circumnavigated the lake, the three girls were marching steadily nearer—heading for the terrace alongside the library. Any minute one of them would look ahead…

  “Come.” Charlie lowered his arms.

  She felt oddly bereft.

  His hand at her elbow, he turned her deeper into the library. “We’ll have to go back.”

  He guided her to the door to the corridor; for one instant she considered suggesting they adjourn to some less visible room, but…she sighed. “You’re right. If we don’t, they’ll come searching.”

  3

  Neatly garbed in her apple-green riding habit, Sarah trotted down the manor drive on the back of her chestnut, Blacktail, so named because of the glorious appendage that swished in expectation as she passed through the gates and turned north along the road.

  The day was fine, the sun shining weakly, the air cool but still. She was about to urge Blacktail into a canter when the sound of hoofbeats approaching from the south reached her.

  Along with a hail. “Sarah!”

  Reining in, she turned in the saddle; she smiled as Charlie cantered up. He was once again on his raking gray hunter; the horse’s deep chest and heavy hindquarters made Blacktail, an average-sized hack, look delicate. As always, Charlie managed the powerful gray with absentminded ease; he drew up alongside her.

  His gaze swept her face, lingered on her lips for an instant, then rose to her eyes. “Perfect—I was thinking of riding to the bridge over the falls. I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

  To spend some time alone with me. Sarah understood his intention; the bridge over the falls that spilled from Will’s Neck, the highest point in the Quantocks, was a local lookout. She grimaced ruefully. “I can ride with you a little way, but Monday’s the day I spend at the orphanage. I’m on my way there. We have a committee meeting at ten o’clock that I have to attend.”

  She tapped her heel to Blacktail’s side. He started to walk. Charlie’s gray kept pace while his master frowned.

  “The orphange above Crowcombe?” Charlie recalled the discussion he’d overheard between Mrs. Duncliffe and Sarah outside the church. He dragged the name from his memory. “Quilley Farm.” He glanced at Sarah. “Is that the one?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I own it—the farm house and the land.”

  Inwardly he frowned harder. He should have paid more attention to local happenings over the years. “I thought…wasn’t it Lady Cricklade’s?”

  Sarah’s lips curved. “Yes. She was my godmother. She died three years ago and left the orphanage, house and land, as well as some funds, to me, along with the responsibility of keeping it functioning as she’d intended it should.” She shook her reins. “I’ll need to ride on or I’ll be late.”

  Charlie set Storm to pace her chestnut as they shifted into a canter. “Do you mind if I come, too?” He glanced at Sarah, trying to read her face.
“I should learn about the orphanage.”

  She threw him an assessing, rather measuring look, then nodded. “If you wish.” Facing forward, she increased the pace.

  He went with her, Storm matching the chestnut’s stride easily. “So who else is on this committee?”

  “Aside from myself and my mother—she doesn’t always attend—there’s Mr. Skeggs, the solicitor from Crowcombe, and Mrs. Duncliffe. Skeggs, Mrs. Duncliffe, and I are the core committee—we oversee things week to week. Mr. Handley, the mayor of Watchet, and Mr. Kempset, the town clerk of Taunton, attend once, at the end of each year, or if we summon them.”

  Charlie nodded. “How large is the orphanage?”

  “We’ve thirty-one children at present, ranging from babes to a few thirteen-year-olds. Once they reach fourteen, we find employment for them in Watchet or Taunton.” Sarah glanced at him. “Most come from one or the other of those towns. There’s so many factories in Taunton these days, and therefore more accidents, leaving children without fathers and too often their mothers starve, or fall ill and die, too. And from Watchet and the coast, we get those left when fishermen and sailors are lost at sea.”

  “So you’ve been involved with the orphanage for the last three years?”

  “For longer than that. Lady Cricklade was one of Mama’s closest friends. Her husband died soon after they were married, and she had no children. She and Mama set up the orphanage many years ago. Lady Cricklade always intended to leave Quilley Farm to me, so she and Mama made sure I knew all about it—I’ve been going to Quilley Farm almost every Monday for as long as I can recall.”

  The roofs of Crowcombe appeared ahead. The lane leading up to Quilley Farm joined the road just before the first house. They turned up the lane; it was wide enough for them to ride side by side as it climbed steadily, until eventually it gave onto the plateau that was Quilley Farm.

  “How big is the farm?” Charlie asked.

  Now on flat ground, they trotted toward the farm house that rose before them. Built of local red sandstone worn pink with the years, its long front façade was planted squarely east, facing the Quantocks across the valley. It boasted two stories in stone, with the attics above half-timbered. The roof was gray slate, common in those parts. The structure looked old but strong, secure, as if over the years its foundations had settled into the earth under the weight of the thick stone walls. A wide cleared space, lightly graveled, lay before the house. Fields stretched to either side.

  “To the south, the farm extends to that stream.” Sarah pointed down a long slope to where a line of trees marked the banks of a small brook. “But to the north not so far, just to Squire Mack’s fields two fences over.”

  She waved over the roof to the rocky hillside looming behind the house—a part of the western end of the Brendon Hills. “At the back, there are three wings, unfortunately not as solid as the main house. Beyond them, we’ve only got space for kitchen gardens and a narrow patch for animals before the hill rises too steeply even for grazing.”

  Sheltered by a shallow porch, the front door stood dead center in the long façade, with wooden-shuttered windows in perfect symmetry on either side. Sarah and Charlie dismounted and tied their reins to the rail set beside the porch. A gig with a placid mare dozing between the shafts was tied up at one side of the forecourt; Sarah nodded toward it. “Mrs. Duncliffe’s already here.”

  Stripping off her gloves, she headed for the door. Charlie glanced back and around, at the village of Crowcombe nestling some hundred feet below, then at the rising face of the Quantocks. From this elevation with the valley hidden in the dip between, the hills appeared closer.

  Sarah lifted the door latch. Turning, Charlie followed her through the door—into bedlam.

  Or so it seemed. Eight small children, boys and girls both, had been traversing the front hall in a more or less orderly file, but the instant they saw Sarah, all order deserted them. Bright smiles lit their faces; as one they detoured to mill about her.

  They all talked at once.

  It took Charlie, also trapped in the knee-high melee, a minute to attune his ears to the high-pitched babble, but Sarah reacted with aplomb. She patted two heads, asked one boy if he’d lost his tooth yet—the answer was yes as he promptly demonstrated with a gap-toothed smile—then she waved her arms and effectively herded the gaggle back into the clutches of a thin woman who’d been following in the children’s wake.

  The woman smiled at Sarah; her eyes widened as she took in Charlie, but then she turned and shooed her charges down a corridor. “The others are in the office waiting,” she said to Sarah as she passed.

  “Thank you, Jeannie.” Sarah waved to the last of the children, then made for a door to the right. Reaching for the latch, she glanced at Charlie. “Would you like to sit in on the meeting, or”—she nodded in the children’s wake—“look around?”

  Charlie held her gaze. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to listen to the discussions. I can look around later.”

  She smiled. “I don’t mind.” Her lips quirked. “You might even learn something.”

  As he followed her into the room, he wondered how he should take that comment, but the truth was he did feel compelled to learn more about the orphanage. Although it lay beyond his boundaries, he was nevertheless the senior nobleman in the area; in certain respects it fell within his purlieu, yet he knew very little of it—how the orphanage ran, under whose auspices, where their funding came from, and so on. All were things he ought to know, but didn’t.

  That the orphanage was legally Sarah’s, and she involved herself in the running of it, made his continued ignorance even less acceptable.

  The room was a well-furnished office with two desks, one large, one small, and various chairs and cabinets. In the center stood a round table at which Mrs. Duncliffe and Mr. Skeggs sat; as Sarah entered they broke off what had plainly been a social conversation to smile in welcome.

  When they saw him behind Sarah, surprise entered their eyes, but the welcome remained.

  He knew them both; they exchanged greetings, shook hands, then he held a chair for Sarah. Once she’d sat, he lifted another chair and set it beside hers, a little back from the table. He smiled at Skeggs and Mrs. Duncliffe. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to get some idea of how the orphanage is run.”

  Both assured him they had no objection to his presence; while Mrs. Duncliffe certainly wondered over his motivation, Skeggs was almost touchingly delighted.

  “The more locals of standing who associate themselves with our effort, the better.” The anemic solicitor beamed. He straightened a small stack of papers before him and adjusted the pince-nez balanced on his thin nose. “Now…”

  Charlie sat back and listened as the three discussed various aspects of the day-to-day running of the orphanage. He learned that they bought most of their perishables in Watchet, with vegetables, grains, meat, and fish brought in by cart twice a week. For manufactured goods they turned to Taunton; Sarah consulted a list and declared there was nothing urgent enough to warrant sending the cart south just yet.

  As the meeting progressed, dealing with the children’s requirements—clothes, shoes, books, and so on—Charlie detected no funding constraints over such matters, but when it came to the fabric of the orphanage, a different sort of limitation emerged.

  “Now,” Sarah said, “Kennett has had a look at the leaks in the south wing. He says the thatch is worn. We’ll have to get the thatchers to come and fix it.” She grimaced.

  Mrs. Duncliffe sighed. “I do wish we could get the wings better roofed. This is the third time we’ve had to bring the thatchers in over the past year, and that thatch is not getting any younger.”

  Glancing at Charlie, Sarah caught his eye. “All three wings are thatched. We’ve had Hendricks, the local builder, in to look at replacing the thatch with slate, but he said that we’d need to replace the whole roof—all the timbers and joists—in order to support the weight of the slate, but then the walls won’t
hold the additional weight. The walls in the wings are mostly lath and plaster—only their foundations are stone.”

  Charlie nodded. “That’s why so many thatched cottages remain thatched. No way to replace the roof without replacing the walls and lintels—which amounts to replacing the entire building.”

  Skeggs grunted. “So.” He made a note. “I’ll send for the thatchers.”

  “Meanwhile,” Sarah said, “let’s pray it doesn’t rain.”

  The meeting continued; Charlie listened and learned. By the time the committee adjourned, he had a basic knowledge of the workings of the orphanage. He rose and followed the committee members from the room. Sarah farewelled the others in the front hall; with a nod to him, Mrs. Duncliffe and Skeggs left, Mrs. Duncliffe to drive the tall thin solicitor down to his office in Crowcombe before heading south to the vicarage at Combe Florey.

  Closing the front door behind them, Sarah turned to Charlie. “It’s almost time for luncheon. I usually stay for the rest of the day—there’s always plenty to do, and it gives me a chance to catch up with the staff, and the children, too.”

  She tried to read his face but, as usual, his expression gave her no hint as to his thoughts. In the dim hall, his eyes were shadowed; she could, however, feel his gaze on her face.

  “Would you mind if I stayed, too?” There was a touch of diffidence in his tone, as if he feared she might think the request too encroaching.

  Instead, the evidence of sensitivity reassured her. She smiled. “If you’re willing to endure luncheon with a tribe of noisy children, then by all means stay. But there’s various things I must do later—it’ll be hours before I can leave.”

  He shrugged, lips curving. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find something to fill the hours.” His smile deepened as they turned to the corridor leading to the dining room. The sound of the children filing in was already swelling to a cacophony. “Besides,” he murmured as they neared the open door, “I’ll have the ride home with you—alone with you—to look forward to.”

  He met her eyes as she glanced up, trapped them; she was suddenly conscious of how close they stood, coming together in the doorway. For one instant, despite the noise assailing her ears, she was more aware of him—of his strength, potent and palpable as with one hand he held back the heavy door, of his maleness, carried in the heat that reached for her as their bodies passed mere inches apart.