Part 14 (2/2)
”Several. I've already cleaned them.”
”Yes, but can you cook them?” Elizabeth countered with a grin.
His lips twitched. ”Yes.”
”That's a relief, I must say.”
Drawing up one leg, Ian rested his wrist on his knee and turned to regard her with frank curiosity. ”Since when do debutantes include rooting around in the dirt among their preferred entertainments?”
”I am no longer a debutante,” Elizabeth replied. When she realized he intended to continue waiting for some sort of explanation, she said quietly, ”I'm told my grandfather on my mother's side was an amateur horticulturist, and perhaps I inherited my love of plants and flowers from him. The gardens at Havenhurst were his work. I've enlarged them and added some new species since.”
Her face softened, and her magnificent eyes glowed like bright green jewels at the mention of Havenhurst. Against his better judgment Ian kept her talking about a subject that obviously meant something special to her. ”What is Havenhurst?”
”My home,” she said with a soft smile. ”It's been in our family for seven centuries. The original earl built a castle on it, and it was so beautiful that fourteen different aggressors coveted it and laid siege to it, but no one could take it. The castle was razed centuries later by another ancestor who wished to build a mansion in the cla.s.sic Greek style. Then the next six earls enhanced and enlarged and modernized it until it became the place it now is. Sometimes,” she admitted, ”it's a little overwhelming to know it's up to me to see that it is preserved.”
”I'd think that responsibility falls to your uncle or your brother, not you.”
”No, it's mine.”
”How can it be yours?” he asked, curious that she would speak of the place as if it was everything in the world that mattered to her.
”Under the entailment Havenhurst must pa.s.s to the oldest SOD. If there is no son, it pa.s.ses to the daughter, and through her, to her children. My uncle cannot inherit because he was younger than my father. I suppose that's why he never cared a snap for it and resents so bitterly the cost of its upkeep now.”
”But you have a brother,” Ian pointed out.
”Robert is my half-brother,” Elizabeth said, so soothed by the view and by having come to grips with what had happened two years ago that she spoke to him quite freely. ”My mother was widowed when she was but twenty-one, and Robert was a babe. She married my father after Robert was born. My father formally adopted him, but it doesn't change the entailment. Under the terms of the entailment the heir can sell the property outright, but owners.h.i.+p cannot be transferred to any relative. That was done to safeguard against one member or branch of the family coveting the property and exerting undue force on the heir to relinquish it. Something like that happened to one of my grandmothers in the fifteenth century, and that amendment was added to the entailment at her insistence many years later. Her daughter fell in love with a Welshman who was a blackguard,” Elizabeth continued with a smile, ”who coveted Havenhurst, not the daughter, and to keep him from getting it her parents had a final codicil added to the entailment.”
”What was that?” Ian asked, drawn into the history she related with such entertaining skill.
”It states that if the heir is female, she cannot wed against her guardian's wishes. In theory it was to stop the females from falling prey to another obvious blackguard. It isn't always easy for a woman to hold her own property, you see.”
Ian saw only that the beautiful girl who had daringly come to his defense in a roomful of men, who had kissed him with tender pa.s.sion, now seemed to be pa.s.sionately attached not to any man, but to a pile of stones instead. Two years ago he'd been furious when he discovered she was a countess, a shallow little debutante already betrothed-to some bloodless fop, no doubt-and merely looking about for someone more exciting to warm her bed. Now, however, he felt oddly uneasy that she hadn't married her fop. It was on the tip of his tongue to bluntly ask her why she had never married when she spoke again. ”Scotland is different than I imagined it would be.”
”In what way?” ”More wild, more primitive. I know gentlemen keep hunting boxes here, but I rather thought they'd have the usual conveniences and servants. What was your home like?”
”Wild and primitive,” Ian replied. While Elizabeth looked on in surprised confusion, he gathered up the remains of their snack and rolled to his feet with lithe agility. ”You're in it,” he added in a mocking voice.
”In what?” Elizabeth stood up, too.
”My home.” Hot, embarra.s.sed color stained Elizabeth's smooth cheeks as they faced each other. He stood there with his dark lair blowing in the breeze, his sternly handsome face tamped with n.o.bility and pride, his muscular body emanating raw power, and she thought he seemed as rugged and vulnerable as the cliffs of his homeland. She opened her mouth, intending to apologize; instead, she inadvertently poke her private thoughts: ”It suits you,” she said softly. Beneath his impa.s.sive gaze Elizabeth stood perfectly still, refusing to blush or look away, her delicately beautiful face framed by a halo of golden hair tossing in the restless breeze-a dainty image of fragility standing before a man who dwarfed her. Light and darkness, fragility and strength, stubborn pride and iron resolve-two opposites in almost every way. Once their differences had drawn them together; now they separated them. They were both older, wiser and convinced they were strong enough to withstand and ignore the slow heat building between them on that gra.s.sy edge. ”It doesn't suit you, however,” he remarked mildly. His words pulled Elizabeth from the strange spell that had seemed to enclose them. ”No,” she agreed without rancor, knowing what a hothouse flower she must seem with her impractical gowns and fragile slippers. Bending down, Elizabeth folded the blanket while Ian vent into the house and began gathering the guns so that he could clean and check them before hunting tomorrow. Elizabeth watched him removing the guns from the rack above the mantel, and she glanced at the letter she'd begun to Alexandra. There was no way to post it until she went home, so there was no reason to finish it quickly. On the other hand, there was little else to do, so she sat down and began writing. In the midst of her letter a gun exploded outside, and she half rose in nervous surprise. Wondering what he'd shot so close to the house, she walked to the open door and looked outside, watching as he loaded the pistol that had been lying In the table yesterday. He raised it, aiming at some unknown target, and fired. Again he loaded and fired, until curiosity made her step outside, squinting to see what, if anything, he had hit.
From the comer of his eye Ian glimpsed a slight flash of peach gown and turned.
”Did you hit the target?” she asked, a little self-conscious at being caught watching him.
”Yes.” Since she was stranded in the country and obviously knew how to load a gun, Ian realized good manners required that he at least offer her a little diversion. ”Care to try your skill?”
”That depends on the size of the target,” she answered. but Elizabeth was already walking forward, absurdly happy to have something to do besides write letters. She did not stop to consider-would never have let herself contemplate -that she enjoyed his company inordinately when he was pleasant.
”Who taught you to shoot?” he asked when she was standing beside him.
”Our coachman.”
”Better the coachman than your brother,” Ian mocked. handing her the loaded gun. ”The target's that bare twig over there-the one with the leaf hanging off the middle of it.”
Elizabeth flinched at his sarcastic reference to his duel with Robert. ”I'm truly sorry about that duel,” she said, then she concentrated all her attention for the moment on the small twig.
Propping his shoulder against the tree trunk, Ian watched with amus.e.m.e.nt as she grasped the heavy gun in both her hands and raised it, biting her lip in concentration. ”Your brother was a very poor shot,” he remarked.
She fired, nicking the leaf at its stem.
”I'm not,” she said with a jaunty sidewise smile. And then, because the duel was finally out in the open and he seemed to want to joke about it, she tried to follow suit: ”If I'd been there, I daresay I would have-”
His brows lifted. ”Waited for the call to fire, I hope?” ”Well, that, too,” she said, her smile fading as she waited for him to reject her words.
And at that moment Ian rather believed she would have waited. Despite everything he knew her to be, when he looked at her he saw spirit and youthful courage. She handed the gun back to him, and he handed her another one he'd already loaded. ”The last shot wasn't bad,” he said, dropping the subject of the duel. ”However, the target is the twig, not the leaves. The end of the twig,” he added.
”You must have missed the twig yourself,” she pointed out, lifting the gun and aiming it carefully, ”since it's still there.”
”True, but it's shorter than it was when I started.” Elizabeth momentarily forgot what she was doing as she stared at him in disbelief and amazement. ”Do you mean you've been clipping the end off it?”
”A bit at a time,” he said, concentrating on her next shot. She hit another leaf on the twig and handed the gun back to him. ”You're not bad,” he complimented. She was an outstanding shot, and his smile said he knew it as he handed her a freshly loaded gun. Elizabeth shook her head. ”I'd rather see you try it.”
”You doubt my word?” ”Let's merely say I'm a little skeptical.” Taking the gun, Ian raised it in a swift arc, and without pausing to aim, he fired. Two inches of twig spun away and fell to the ground. Elizabeth was so impressed she laughed aloud. ”Do you know,” she exclaimed with an admiring smile, ”I didn't entirely believe until this moment that you really meant to shoot the ta.s.sel off Robert's boot!”
He sent her an amused glance as he reloaded and handed her the gun. ”At the time I was sorely tempted to aim for something more vulnerable.”
”You wouldn't have, though,” she reminded him, taking the gun and turning toward the twig.
”What makes you so certain?” ”You told me yourself you didn't believe in killing people over disagreements.” She raised the gun, aimed, and fired, missing the target completely. ”I have a very good memory.”
Ian picked up the other gun. ”I'm surprised to hear it,” he drawled, turning to the target, ”inasmuch as when we met Elizabeth had been reloading a gun, and she paused imperceptibly, then returned to the task. His casual question proved she'd been right in her earlier reflections. Flirtations were obviously not taken seriously by those mature enough to indulge in them. Afterward, like now, it was apparently accepted procedure to tease one another about them. While Ian loaded the other two guns Elizabeth considered how much nicer it was to joke openly about it than to lie awake in the dark, consumed with confusion and bitterness, as she had done. How foolish she'd been. How foolish she'd seem now if she didn't treat the matter openly and lightly. It did seem, however, a little strange-and rather funny-to discuss it while blasting away with guns. She was smiling about that very thing when he handed her a gun. ”Viscount Mondevale was anything but a 'fop',” she said, turning to aim.
He looked surprised, but his voice was bland. ”Mondevale, was it?”
”Mmmm.” Elizabeth blasted the end off the twig and laughed with delight. ”I hit it! That's three for you and one for me.” ”That's six for me,” he pointed out drolly.
”In any case, I'm catching up, so beware!” He handed gun to her, and Elizabeth squinted, taking careful aim.
”Why did you cry off?” She stiffened in surprise; then, trying to match his light, mocking tone, she said, ”Viscount Mondevale proved to be a trifle high in the instep about things like his fiance cavorting about in cottages and greenhouses with you.” She fired and missed.
”How many contenders are there this Season?” he asked conversationally as he turned to the target, pausing to wipe the gun.
She knew he meant contenders for her hand, and pride absolutely would not allow her to say there were none, nor had there been for a long time. ”Well. . .” she said, suppressing a grimace as she thought of her stout suitor with a houseful of cherubs. Counting on the fact that he didn't move in the inner circles of the ton, she a.s.sumed he wouldn't know much about either suitor. He raised the gun as she said, ”There's Sir Francis Belhaven, for one.”
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