Devil's Own

Page 18

“Do you not like poetry?” she asked, sounding fretful.
“I like poetry just fine.” He forced a jaunty smile.
“Though, generally, the verses one hears aboard ship or in the fields aren’t suitable for a lady.”
“I’d be curious to hear those.” A strange tremor energized her voice, but she turned her back to him so quickly, for an instant, he doubted he’d heard correctly.
Heat shot into his groin, and he adjusted himself, leaning forward, elbows on knees. It seemed this Elspeth might indeed enjoy having a bit of wickedness whispered in her ears. “What a strange girl you are.”
She stilled. “Did I do something wrong?”
He studied the line of her back, the long neck, straight shoulders, and slender torso that tapered down to a small waist. He’d thought she was a scrawny bird, but given this opportunity to stare unabashedly, he discerned curves hidden under her layers of linen. She was simply taut from her labors, leaner than the plush bodies he’d known in the Indies. “No, luvvie, I find you do things very right.”
He watched, mesmerized, as she began to drag a stool beneath a high shelf. Realizing what she was about, he hopped up to assist her.
“Have a care.” He came up from behind, catching her around the waist just as she scrambled atop the rickety stool. “It appears I must remember your penchant for climbing.”
“Oh, I do this all the time.” She held still a moment, waiting for the stool’s three legs to steady.
He shook his head. “If ever I get you on board ship, I’ll have to remain on my guard.”
She looked down at him, wide-eyed. “Why?”
“I fear you’d catch sight of the crow’s nest, and be up the mast in a jiff.” He laughed, partly because of her innocence, and partly because her waist felt so good in his hands. Standing so close, the scent of her filled him, like grass and soap and bread. Like home.
“How I’d adore climbing high into the sails,” she said with a sigh.
“I believe you would.” He’d give his last coin to see such a thing.
She stared dreamily into space, a look of bliss on her face. Was that how she’d look after a kiss?
His own thought startled him, but then he let himself sit with the notion. His eyes lingered on her mouth. There was a gentle curve to her lips that struck him as eminently kissable. She was so gentle, would she rouse to a man’s touch? Would her awkwardness dissolve in passion?
She was lean in his hands, but not angular, and there was something pleasant in the feel of her—her figure speaking to work and vitality, rather than the artful layers of skirts and adornment of the plantation women. Surely he wasn’t the only man in Aberdeenshire to see her charms.
Had Elspeth ever been courted? But she was such a shy piece, and even if she weren’t, what man was in her life even to provide an opportunity? Angus, the neighboring farmer, came to mind.
At the picture of the brawny, silent bachelor, Aidan bristled. He told himself it wasn’t jealousy that made his chest clench so.
He cleared his throat, in an effort to clear his mind, and nodded to the shelves. “Are you meaning to fetch something, or shall we do our lessons from here?” Giving her waist a squeeze, he added, “Because I find I’m enjoying this particular vantage.”
Her cheeks went pink, and he sidled unnecessarily closer. He was becoming quite fond of those blushes.
Reaching high, she plucked a tin from the top shelf. Her body shifted in his hands, and the slide of fabric over firm flesh roused him.
He swallowed a curse. What kind of base rogue was he that he grew excited over a woman reaching for a tin of flour?
He guided her as she stepped down from the stool, her tin in hand. “Wait,” he said, coming back to himself. “Flour? I thought we were reading.”
“It’s where I keep my book.” Something wicked glimmered in her eyes, making him wonder again what sort of thoughts might be dancing through her mind.
There were, it seemed, many mysteries surrounding the quiet Elspeth. He glanced at the lump of cloth in her hand. “You store your books in flour?”
“No, just my sonnets.” She patted the fabric, sending a cloud of flour in the air. “It’d do no good for my father to find them.”
“You provocative little thing,” he said, raising a brow. “Poems that you keep secret from your father? That’s not a book of sailors’ verse, is it?”
“Shakespeare.” She unfolded the cloth, revealing a tiny leather-bound book, trying—and failing—to subdue a proud grin.
They went to sit in their usual spots, and she opened the book at once, flipping through to a particular spot. “I thought … this sonnet … Sonnet 29 … put me in mind of you.”
“Of me?” He gave her a wink. “Is it a love poem?”
“No!” She turned red as a beet, as he knew she would. Teasing color into her cheeks was becoming a most diverting pastime. “They aren’t love poems. Well, some are love poems, yes. Many. Many are love poems.” She flipped through the pages, looking agitated. “They’re varied.”
“Be easy, Beth.” He put out his hand. “I’m curious to read it.”
He began eagerly, but it was slow going, this sonnet, and by its midpoint, his voice had grown cold, his recitation suspicious. This was the poem that reminded her of him? It seemed a cursed ode to misfortune and envy.
When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate …
He glanced up to challenge her choice, but when he did, he saw that she was listening to him with her eyes shut. She held her head canted at a slight angle, as though attuned to some whispering angel only she could hear.
The picture of her held his stare. Though her skin was luminous and pale as porcelain, that wasn’t what appealed to him. She was always so serene, and now she was doubly so, sitting and savoring her sonnet. After his long years of barbaric captivity, he longed to be near such gentleness, such quiet reserve. It was like entering a warm and tranquil pool after spending an eternity pummeled by hostile tides.
With Elspeth near, his rage abated, leaving him calm to his very soul. He’d always been restless—even as a young lad—but she was so peaceful, her presence was a balm, soothing him, melting his agitation and resentment, leaving peace in its wake.
What contentment a man might find, coming home every night to such a woman. What a loving wife she’d make someone, someday. Would she raise her children with such equanimity, such patience?
She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry … do you need help? Shall I sound a word?”
He tensed. He’d almost forgotten—he was the illiterate outsider. Loving wives and contented homes weren’t in the stars for men like him.
He didn’t answer her, and so she pressed, “Aidan, why did you stop?”
He stopped because it was a damned cruel poem that hit too close to the mark. He stopped because Elspeth had the knack for seeing clear to his blackened heart, when all he’d wanted to do was keep it hidden away forever.
He skimmed ahead, taking in such lyrical nonsense as larks, and daybreak, and love. Sweet poetry wasn’t for one like him. Sweet girls either. He snapped the book shut. “This is foolishness. I’m not sentimental.”
She sat for a time, contemplating him. Just as his discomfort was becoming unbearable, she told him quietly, “On the contrary. I have the feeling you’re quite sentimental.”
Her kindness threw him. He shoved the book at her. “Beweep? Good Lord, woman, is this how you understand me?”
“Please don’t misunderstand.” She opened the book, flipping back to the page. “May I?” she asked gently.
He gave her a brusque shrug.
She reread the sonnet from the beginning, and he heard with chagrin the poet’s wish that he were like other men, with as much hope, as many friends. As much freedom.
Only this time, Elspeth read to the end, in which the poet finds somebody to think on, someone to lift him from melancholy. The final line lingered loudly in the stillness of her cottage. “That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
They sat there in the glaring silence, and he watched her, but she stared only at the page before her, as if she dared not glance elsewhere.
Elspeth. He felt the muscles in his jaw loosen, and knew an ease in his chest. Ever guileless was this Elspeth. He’d misread her skittish nature. Because, in her heart, she was unafraid. And unafraid of him.
For the first time in his life, he could almost imagine how indeed a man might come to forsake a kingdom for love of another.
Chapter 13
A knock on the door startled her. Elspeth blew wisps of hair from her brow, frowning at her rolled-up sleeves and her apron covered in a fine dusting of flour. Visitors were rare, and she glanced from the bread she was kneading to the door, as if that could tell her who stood on the other side.
Because, though it was early yet, she had a wild hope it might be Aidan.
“Come in?” she announced, though it came out sounding more like a question than an invitation.
The door opened, and it was him.
“Aidan,” she said, instantly regretting the oddly chirping sound to her voice. She pasted what she hoped resembled a composed smile on her face.
He stepped inside, filling the cottage as was his wont, making it seem so small in comparison with his powerful frame. He touched a hand to his brow as if tipping an imaginary hat. “Morning.”
Nerves seized her. Aidan never came to see her during the day. Had he decided he was done with their arrangement? Had her father found him and said something horrible? “Is there a problem?”
He scanned the room, and she had the odd thought that he might not know why he was there either. But then he said, “No problem at all, luvvie. I simply find myself…” He got a peculiar look in his eye. Tilting his head, he walked toward her.