Snowed in with a Rogue, page 29
“Immature, you mean.”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes, suffering through another spasm which suspended their talk.
Wearily, Lettice said, “Yes. She strikes me that way, too.”
“You’re not immature, though,” he said, holding the cup of cider to her lips. “I lumped you both into the same category, and by doing so, I wronged you, Lettice. I’m sorry.”
Her lashes fluttered.
She drank deeply then patted her mouth dry. “Thank you. Put that way, it explains a lot. I understand better why you were so worried about the difference in our ages.”
“Even at Gables’ plantation, I underestimated you.”
Closing her eyes, she patted his hand. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
She opened her eyes, astonished at his savage reply.
“By underestimating you, I didn’t fully see you. Too stupid to appreciate your strength and intelligence.” His mouth made a bitter twist. “Too stupid to realize I’d already fallen in love with you, even when you shied away from me in Stephen’s hut.”
“Kwasi!”
“That first time we...on the Albion...I knew you were special to me then.”
He stood, turning away from her and pacing the floor once more. “In London, I tried so very hard to impress you that I was some genius steward, I ended up ignoring you.”
“No, no.”
“When we came to Exminster House, I swore it’d be different, that I’d be different, but I still hadn’t realized your worth.” He glanced up, an arrested expression on his face. “I had no idea that you’d learned to read and write. Did you do that for me?”
Unable to withstand his searching look, she cast her gaze toward the counterpane again and mumbled, “Yes.”
“Nobody has ever loved me as well as you have, Lettice.”
She nodded, fighting off another tense wave, irritated to be distracted by the agony when she desperately wanted to hear what Kwasi had to say.
When the pain passed, she opened her eyes to find Kwasi sitting on the bed.
“Will you allow me to love you, Lettice? As fully as you deserve to be loved? For the rest of my life?”
Boggling at him seemed so undignified, but she truly had no idea what to say.
“There’s no need to marry me, Kwasi. You can help raise this baby. You’re such a good fath—”
“Let’s get one thing straight. Yes, I hope I’m a good father, and you’re a good mother.”
She nodded.
“This marriage has nothing to do with Nuru or this baby. We’ve already proven we can raise a child together, living separately. It’s just that I don’t want to live apart from you.”
“Oof.” She curled into herself, unable to lie still while the tightening wracked her lower body. Huffing, she concentrated on his words, praying the pain would ease.
“Good?”
She nodded, and he continued, “Lettice, you’re as vital to me as my next breath. I love you. These past months without you, not hugging or kissing you—well, it’s no way for me to live. I don’t want to be like that. Please tell me I don’t have to. Say you’ll marry me. Please.”
Panting, she didn’t know how to respond. Her body trembled with the force of the contraction, something she was utterly powerless to stop.
When her breathing steadied, he gathered her to him. “Yes or no, my little love?”
“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, please.”
He kissed her so very tenderly. When they pulled apart tears streamed down her face and glimmered in his eyes.
“I love you, Kwasi.” She nuzzled the palm that cupped her cheek.
He drew an unsteady breath. “In the future, when we will fight, you mustn’t shut me out. It crucified me.”
Glimpsing the pain in his warm, dark eyes, Lettice pleaded for understanding. “I’m sorry. I was convinced you couldn’t love me. To hear you admit it...well, that was a risk I couldn’t take. Not while I was with child.”
The fist tightened, squeezing the very breath from her. Blindly, she searched for his hand, needing something to cling to during this agony.
“I love you.”
“It’s near constant—” She grimaced, unable to catch her breath before the next tightening occurred.
Quickly, she said, “I love you, too. Kwasi, I felt something move.”
He kissed her then scrambled to the foot of the bed. Lifting the covers, he peered beneath then popped his head out. “I can see the baby’s head!”
She reached for him then grunted in pain.
Kwasi folded a sheet then placed it beneath her bottom. “Keep breathing. Push it out, Lettice. Keep pushing.”
In the half-hour which followed, Lettice did as Kwasi told her, trusting him implicitly. Calmly he spoke to her, ordering her to rest or push. In between the snatches of advice, he spoke of moving his belongings in so their little family would be under one roof and having the banns read.
“We’ll be married by Christmas,” he assured her.
Still amazed at his single-mindedness, Lettice reconciled herself to it, knowing she’d have him no other way. It was nice for her, knowing Kwasi couldn’t be swayed from his purpose. Apparently, his purpose in life was to treasure her.
Before the clock brought a new day, Lettice brought forward a new life.
The sound of the newborn’s cry broke through the hushed silence, causing both parents to sigh in relief. Turning red in the face, its features screwed into an angry knot to alert them to its displeasure.
“A daughter!” Kwasi exclaimed, wiping the baby then swaddling her. He brought the bundle close to his heart then kissed her dusky cheeks. His eyes brimmed with tears as he placed the baby on Lettice’s chest and watched her suckle.
Lettice traced a fingertip over the baby’s dark brow. She felt her beloved’s indulgent gaze upon them. Stretching out her hand to him, she said in a voice filled with emotion, “How lucky we are!”
“Yes, my love.” He kissed her palm.
She transferred the babe to the other breast, silently marveling at her tiny fingers and toes. “Look! She’s grabbed my finger.”
Once their daughter had her fill, her lashes fluttered then closed. Kwasi took the babe and cradled her in his arms.
Snuggling against the pillows, Lettice suddenly felt tired. Drowsily, she said, “Oh, I wish it were morning, so Chastity could see her!”
“After breakfast, we’ll send Nuru to the main house with the good news. I’m sure Chastity and Stephen—”
“And Mary, Victoria, Mrs. Lautner, and Grigsby.” She yawned.
He nodded. “I’m sure they’ll pay our daughter a visit.”
Her sleepy grin lasted only a scant few seconds before falling. She jackknifed into a full sitting position. “Oh, but darling, how will they be able to travel through a blizzard? I doubt the gig or carriage could make it through eighteen inches of snow. Kwasi Hawksley, are you blushing? What is it?”
He rose, holding the small baby with one arm and threw back the heavy drapes with the other. Outside the cottage, the night sky was dark, filled with a few twinkling stars, and a light dusting of snow.
“That’s hardly a blizzard! Why would you—”
“I didn’t want you to throw me out, so I fibbed, making it sound impossible for me to leave.” He shrugged, grazing the baby’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. “I thought if we were housebound, we could work out our differences.”
She stared at him, completely gobsmacked. Finally, her cheeks heated. “That was my fault. I was too stubborn for my own good.”
“No,” he said, gently sitting on the edge of the mattress next to her. Kwasi’s arm came around Lettice, his embrace encircling the females he loved. “I was too proud to force you to listen.”
Lettice’s gaze swiveled from the infant to Kwasi then back again. Kissing her button-like nose, she whispered, “You have a rogue for a father, little one, but he’s the smartest rogue in Devon.”
A deep rumble of laughter shook Kwasi.
“Your mother is as brave as the moon, sweetie, chasing the sun across the night sky.”
“What shall we name her, darling?” She snuggled into the hollow of his shoulder.
Quickly, Kwasi kissed the top of her head. “How about Luna?”
“I like that. Luna Hawksley.”
Gazing adoringly at one another, they hardly noticed the sound of the clock striking midnight. Chimney smoke rose from the new cottage, its trail drifting skyward in a joyful dance. Like the cottage’s inhabitants, it too was free from all earthly fetters.
As a special gift, we now give you an excerpt of Tracy’s next release, His Sunshine Girl
HIS SUNSHINE GIRL
(The Reluctant Union Series)
By Tracy Edingfield
Chapter 1
MARCH 13, 1809, OUTSIDE KINGSTON, JAMAICA~
The plantation’s sugar cane stood taller than Stephen Hawksley’s head. Gently it moved in the breeze, which whistled along the island’s leeward side. Stephen walked through the cane, cutting samples of foot-long lengths and stowing them in the sweat-stained pouch slung across his chest. Next planting season he’d integrate these grafts with other sugar cane to produce a hybrid, one more resistant to beetles.
“Nuru!” He motioned for the water boy.
Making his way across dark brown loam, a painfully thin boy traveled as fast as his spindly legs allowed. Water sloshed from Nuru’s wooden bucket, causing the corners of Stephen’s mouth to lift. Pride shone in the small boy’s face, and when he gave a toothy grin, Stephen answered in kind.
Nuru plunked down the bucket. Water slopped over the rim.
Resting his palm on the boy’s wiry, close-cropped hair, he cautioned, “Easy, my friend.”
The seven-year old boy waved off all his worries. Nuru pressed his thumb to his puffed-out chest then boasted, “I’m getting stronger every day, boss!”
Stephen’s gaze took in Nuru’s skinny legs, the widest part being the knee caps. The boy was a veritable bag of chocolate-dipped bones.
“You have a ways to go.”
“I’ll get there.”
Stephen Hawksley didn’t hold many people in high regard, and even fewer in affection. Nuru was the exception.
Chuckling, the boy offered up the ladle.
Stephen drank deeply then re-dipped and dribbled water over the back of his neck.
“Say, boss, look what I got!” After digging into his pocket, Nuru brought forth a grubby fist. Slowly, his fingers spread to reveal the treasure which rested in his palm—a few mangled rose petals. The boy sniffed them, closing his eyes to better savor their scent. With a grin, Nuru brought his palm toward Stephen, offering him a whiff.
Years dropped by the wayside, transporting him across time and an ocean. Stephen returned to Devon, nineteen and bloody, lying face-down in the dirt behind the Penhaven stables. Badly beaten, he’d struggled to stand. He pulled himself up by grasping a vine of climbing roses. Thorns ripped his flesh, which he didn’t discover until hours later. In that moment he was conscious only of the roses’ heavy scent and Priscilla’s cruel laughter.
“Boss?”
With a speed which was unsettling, Stephen returned to Jamaica, Gables’ plantation. He looked down into the face of the master’s by-blow, trying to focus on Nuru.
“Smells good, eh?”
“Not to me, sport. Can’t stand the smell of roses.” Stephen flicked his wrist, and Nuru shoved the petals into his pocket.
“Good one,” the boy chuckled, thinking he was being teased.
Stephen had meant what he said, but let it pass.
Pointing across the field, Nuru said, “Master must be busy. Kwasi would never come out here, otherwise.”
Master Gables was always busy, rutting one of the slave girls, damn his blackened soul. Stephen braced himself to receive terrible news. What else would drive Kwasi to the remote sugar cane fields? He’d have to deal with this latest emergency. The overseer knew better than to attempt to pry the master from a woman’s thighs. Gables would thrash Stephen before he thanked him.
A pit lodged in Stephen’s belly as he saw the lanky form of Kwasi, a house slave, wave a pack of papers. Kwasi’s white teeth flashed in a broad grin spread over his narrow, angular face.
“Letters from England, Stephen! From a fancy lord!”
The pit grew heavier and sunk deeper. It had to be his uncle who corresponded with him. The house slave placed the packet of letters into Stephen’s outstretched palm as carefully as if he were handing over a newborn babe, and just as delighted.
Slowly, Stephen’s glance flickered over the top envelope. It was battered, yellowed, and sent by Lord Kempner. His uncle, an earl. Hoping the tremor of his hands went unnoticed, Stephen tucked the packet under his cotton shirt, next to his skin.
Kwasi’s jaw dropped. “You’re not going to read it?”
“No. Now isn’t the time to catch up on correspond—”
“Are you mad, boss?” Nuru asked, both hands riding his bony hips.
“I’ve waited four years.”
Stephen’s voice was harder than flint, and he made no effort to soften it.
“I can wait a little while yet. Get back to work before Master Gables spots us. Off with you!”
The rest of the afternoon, Stephen continued cutting cane lengths, ignoring the heavy packet so close to his heart.
After the sun set, Stephen sat alone in his humble abode and stared at it. Hefting the bulk in his hand, he scanned his environs.
Less cottage than hut, his dwelling boasted a rickety table, a wooden chair, and a lumpy bed. He’d stacked books along the walls, (that being the only place for them) which served the additional purpose of insulating his home and plugging the gaps in the wattle structure. Oilcloths draped over the books to keep them dry and prevent rats from eating the pages.
Certain of his solitude, he took a deep breath, withdrew the first letter from the pack and turned it over in his hand. It was written in his aunt’s hand.
Aunt Edwina, the woman who had reluctantly raised Stephen and his siblings.
His ears pricked. Raindrops splattered on his plantain-leaf roof, tumbling through holes and into his hut. Sighing, he stood and leaned his straw mattress against the wall. He tucked his blanket in the corner where it was driest.
English rain, if he remembered correctly, was gentle, a short step above misting, whereas the rains in the Caribbean? He made a humorless guffaw. Zeus must hate Jamaica. Missiles of water pelted the island.
Regaining his seat, he recalled the last time he’d seen Aunt Edwina. She’d pounded the desk while she hollered that Priscilla Penhaven was no better than she ought to be.
He read her letter then re-read it.
Stephen,
It is my sad duty to inform you the earl has passed. The earldom requires your immediate presence. Enclosed is his signet ring, which belongs to you now. Kempner’s Last Will & Testament is in the solicitor’s separate letter. I have instructed Mr. Jones to include a goodly sum to see you speedily home.
The children are safe. Victoria remains with me. The twins are at Harrow.
Edwina Kempner
A raindrop, perhaps a tear, splattered onto his aunt’s letter, bringing Stephen back to an awareness of his surroundings. It would be nothing short of maudlin sentimentality to shed any tears for his uncle.
He lifted the oilcloth and pressed the letter between the pages of a horticulture book. Next, he unstopped the cork to his sole bottle of rum and drank as he read the solicitor’s letter. Fixing his gaze upon Mr. Jones’ report, Stephen commended the gentleman’s concise statement of estate assets and liabilities. His uncle had been a good steward of the earldom, leaving behind a robust balance sheet. Mr. Jones had also provided a separate accounting of Stephen’s father’s assets, which were still held in trust until his twenty-fifth birthday.
He’d have to invest them wisely for Victoria’s dowry and the twins’ education. Although he was not certain Leslie and Andrew placed a premium on their studies; not if Victoria’s assessment were accurate. Perhaps his brothers would wish to purchase colors. England was forever at war somewhere in the world. It’d be just like the twins to join up and wreak havoc on foreign shores.
After he’d gone through every page, he wiped his hand over his face, beyond weary.
For his uncle, Stephen’s grief was superficial as he hardly knew the man. His uncle and aunt had lived apart, barely civil on the few occasions they were together. Edwina lived in the country, happy to act as Lady Bountiful while the earl lived in London, enjoying a long string of mistresses. Stephen couldn’t be sure, but he thought his own parents had love and respect in their marriage; at least, he liked to believe they did.
It was toxic growing up with the absent earl and his embittered countess.
For himself, Stephen was happy to be summoned home. He’d have gone next year, anyway, once he’d saved enough of his salary to pay for the voyage. Stephen missed his siblings, hating that he hadn’t been there for them. That knowledge ate at him like acid. Victoria had been twelve when he left. In two years she would make her debut in London. A rare smile curved his lips as he thought of his bluestocking sister.
He’d have to squire her about London for her Season, although Victoria would probably find the libraries and book sellers more interesting than soirees and balls.
“Stephen! Open up, it’s Kwasi.”
“Go away.”
“Hawksley, I need your help.”
Quickly, Stephen padded across the dirt floor, and moved the curtain, which served as a door.
“What is it?” He asked before pulling the curtain completely back. “Lettice? What are you doing here? What’s happened?”
“He beat her,” Kwasi said curtly.
It wasn’t necessary to specify who the ‘he’ was—only one person on this plantation engaged in such heinous acts, and that was Master Gables.
Pivoting soundlessly, Stephen bid them into his hut, noting as he did so that Lettice’s shapeless gown was torn at the shoulder seam. Droplets of blood smeared over her skirt. She choked, catching a sob in her throat. Her face lifted, showing bruises, a cut lip, and tear tracks in the flickering candlelight. Her cheek bone was already swelling.
