Candle in the Snow Page 3

  “So was I, once upon a time.”

  “He would have supported me properly.”

  “He would have acquired an unpaid assistant.”

  The perception stung. “Our betrothal was a mutually satisfactory arrangement,” she snapped. “And speaking of his work, I can’t recall you ever showing such an interest in birds before. Must you practice your charm on every person you meet?”

  “An Irishman always knows which side of the bread to butter.” He made a grand gesture with her parcel, and went on softly, “Were I the bashful sort, wood sprite, I’d never have danced with you the night we met. And I’d never have asked you to marry me.”

  Swallowing a knot of nostalgia, she yanked on her gloves. “I shouldn’t have been so naive as to believe you could actually see your commitment through. This is one person who’s had enough of your blarney to last a lifetime. Now give me my package.”

  She tried to grab it from him. The vivid blue of his eyes snared her as he clasped the parcel against his coat. “I’ll carry it for you, m’ love. I won’t have you thinking me any less than one of your fancy gentlemen.”

  “On the contrary, I don’t think of you at all.”

  His sigh condensed on the frosty air. “Faith, Chelsea, ‘tis sorry I am that today has been such a trial for you. I know how you must have relished the prospect of spending your life dusting feathers and polishing glass eyeballs.”

  A twinkle lurked in his gaze. She’d never admit that all those dead creatures gave her the shivers. “I wasn’t going to be a maid. I was going to be a titled lady. Much more than you ever offered me.”

  “Ah, but I have something greater than riches. Love.”

  She repressed the leap of joy in her chest. Skirts swishing, she stomped down the graveled drive. “You’ve a peculiar way of showing that.”

  With easy strides, he kept pace with her. “I’m the first to admit I made a mistake in leaving you.”

  “You made another mistake in going to see Sir Basil. Six years ago you forfeited all right to meddle in my life.”

  “Ah, but I feared the devil might tempt you not to tell his lordship about me. ‘Twould be simple indeed to let the unwanted husband slip quietly back to America. No one need ever learn he’s still alive and hale.”

  Her cheeks burned. “Of course I meant to break the truth—more gently than you did, I might add. I’m a woman of honor. Why else do you suppose I came straight here?”

  She tossed Sean a challenging glare. All mockery vanished from his face; he gazed at her with an expression as bleak as the December scenery. “Ah, Chelsea,” he murmured. “Can you truly love him, then?”

  The agonized undertone caught at her heart. The most ridiculous urge to caress the cleft in his chin swept over her. Clenching her fingers into fists at her sides, she concentrated on walking through the shorn hay field.

  “Tell me, Chelsea. I’ll have no secrets between us.”

  She stumbled over a root and he reached out to steady her, his grip firm on her arm. Again she found her attention trapped by his sober sapphire eyes. When he looked at her like that, somehow she could not bring herself to lie.

  “I was... am fond of Sir Basil.”

  “Fond of him or his pedigree?”

  “Him, of course.” The words sounded hollow, weaker than she’d intended.

  “And did your fondness make you burn to share his bed? To let him kiss that glorious beauty mark on your hip? Did you fancy he could carry you up to the stars?”

  “Stop it!” She pulled her arm free and stalked onward. “There’s more to marriage than pretty words and a romp in bed.”

  “Aye,” he conceded, falling in beside her. “There’s devotion. A wife willing to follow her husband to the ends of the earth.”

  “And dependability. A husband who’d never abandon his wife.”

  He scowled. “Faith, woman, we’ve strayed from the subject. You know how much pleasure a wife can reap from making love with her husband. Would you deny yourself such happiness?”

  She did remember. Too well, too poignantly. Even now, in the brisk icy air, she felt flushed with the memory of Sean caressing her beneath the quilts, his warm mouth suckling her bare breasts, his clever fingers stroking the moist heat between her legs until she writhed with unrestrained bliss...

  “I don’t deny that one can enjoy the marital embrace. But not with a husband who’d desert me.”

  “We were both young and prideful. Give me half a chance, love. Half a chance to show you I’ve changed.”

  Chelsea couldn’t resist slanting a look at him from beneath her bonnet brim. Sunshine cast his rakish features into sharp relief. Panic surged in her as the low stone wall surrounding the school property loomed in the distance. The desperate need to escape him beat against her ribs.

  “You gave up your right to second chances a long time ago,” she said. “Why are you following me, anyway? I told you I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  “Aye, but we need to talk.”

  “I’ve nothing more to say to you.”

  “Then ‘tis I who’ll do the speaking and you the listening.”

  She blew out a breath. “What will it take to convince you, Sean? Our marriage is over, in my heart if not by law. Now give me my package and go away.”

  She tried to snatch it from him. He held the square of brown paper out of her reach. “Faith, you’re more protective of this parcel than a mother cat of her kittens. What might be in here?”

  “Nothing of interest to you.”

  “More secrets, Chelsea love?”

  His chiding tone grated on her nerves, like chalk dragged across a slate. “All right,” she said. “I’ll show you, since you’re so keen on knowing.”

  Black brows quirked, he handed her the parcel. The paper crackled as she tore it off to reveal an Audubon watercolor of a kingfisher. Mournfully she regarded the crack in the glass and the gilt frame that hung askew.

  “I must have broken it when I hit you,” she said. “But it’s the least of the damage you’ve done, I suppose. It was to be my Christmas gift to Sir Basil.”

  Sean’s face softened. Before she could draw back, his hand brushed her cheek in a quicksilver stroke that threatened her precarious equilibrium. “ ‘Tis grieved I am to have caused you distress. But our marriage is true in the eyes of Our Lord. I’ll not give up until I’ve had m’ say.”

  “I’ll meet you tomorrow, then. On the old stone bridge at Bradford-on-Avon.”

  “Oh, nay, I’m not fool enough to travel five miles away, just so you can keep me your own dark secret. We’ll meet now, right there.”

  He nodded toward the gray stone bulk of the academy. By his steadfast expression, she knew with sickening frustration that he would follow her inside if necessary.

  The cupola clock crowning the front entrance chimed the hour of four. No one strolled the side garden; the girls must already be gathering for pantomime practice. Gritting her teeth, Chelsea decided it might be safe to sneak him into her private apartment, let him say his piece of blarney, then spirit him out again while everyone assembled for dinner.

  “All right, then,” she said. “But you must promise to stay out of sight. The girls aren’t used to men wandering the halls.”

  “I’ll be as good as California gold.” With a flourish, he pushed open the gate. “After you, love.”

  She rewrapped the parcel and started up the carriage drive. How casually he spoke of love, she reflected bitterly. He had abandoned her once; now he seemed intent on wreaking havoc with her life again. If anyone saw them...

  Nervousness quickened her steps as she led him behind the main classroom building. Here, several smaller structures formed a quadrangle: refectory, dormitory, library, and chapel. In the central square, chestnut trees spread barren limbs over the empty flower beds. A squirrel scampered along the brown grass. The wrought-iron benches, which provided a fine place to sit in balmy weather, now looked cold and forlorn.

  “ Tis
most impressive,” Sean said, slowing to study the stately Georgian architecture. “Imagine, m’ wife a respected teacher. How many colleens study here?”

  The pride on his face oddly gratified her. “Seventy-six in all. Come this way.” She started toward the dormitory.

  Yet he lingered, hands in his pockets, as he continued his leisurely survey of the school. “And how old might they be?”

  “Between the ages of twelve and seventeen.” Prickles crept down her spine. Did anyone peep at them from the mullioned windows? “Do come along.”

  Grinning, he saluted her. “Aye, Mrs. Devlin.”

  With relief, she entered a doorway at the end of the dormitory and mounted a steep flight of stairs. At the top, she turned left and opened a plain wooden door.

  “Please, come in,” she said, politely standing back.

  Her formal manner made Sean feel a twist of dismay. Faith, but his wife had honed the noble talent of gazing straight through a man. He prayed her touch-me-not air was but a shield to guard against further hurt. He ached to turn back time, to kiss her again, to unpin the prim blonde coil of her hair, to see her gray eyes go misty with love.

  Drawn by the vision, he leaned toward her, his hand brushing her elegant face. “Chelsea,” he murmured.

  She flinched, then marched inside. Quelling his frustration, he shut the door and looked around. The bed- sitting-room was small but cozy. In the corner, behind a chintz-covered screen, he glimpsed a narrow bed covered by a painstakingly tidy blue counterpane. The lack of luxury struck straight into his heart. Had her lot been hard? Or had she changed? Did she no longer need expensive trappings to make her happy?

  Yet she’d wanted to marry a titled man. Jealousy still burned in Sean’s heart, along with an alien uncertainty. He and Chelsea had both changed in subtle ways. He glanced at the multi-paned window. No longer did she keep a candle on the sill, lighted in hope for an errant husband’s return...

  Her movements bore a familiar grace as she set down the parcel, hung the bonnet and mantle on a hook, then wrapped herself in a gray woolen shawl. Shrugging off his overcoat, he wandered around, running a hand over the striped armchair, then the matching chaise longue. Several books lay on a side table. Was she content to curl up by the fire on a cold night, with only a book for company? Yearning pressed at his throat, the need to absorb every detail of her life, to unravel the mystery of the woman his wife had be-come.

  At the modest dressing table, he fingered the set of silver hairbrushes, the only extravagance in the room. The brushes had been a wedding gift from Lady Quincy. He winced to remember himself insisting Chelsea return the costly present. Back then, he’d had too bloody much pride and was too ignorant to know the difference between a gift and charity. Their heated argument had ignited a blaze of passion that dissolved into a night of lusty love...

  Chelsea cleared her throat. “At least we have a private place to meet. I spent my first five years here chaperoning the girls downstairs in the dormitory. Only last autumn did I gain my own apartment.”

  She stood near the door, hands clutching the fringe of her shawl. She looked poised yet uneasy, a wood sprite on the verge of flight. Softly he asked, “Are you truly happy here, love?”

  “Yes. I have everything I could ever want.”

  Her certainty blasted more doubts into the bedrock of his confidence. Picking up the poker, Sean stirred the glowing embers in the fireplace. Sparks danced like a shower of tiny stars. Needing time to think, he added coals, the shovel scraping the grate. He’d understood Chelsea as a wistful girl. But her leap into womanhood left him baffled. Only the memory of her initial reaction to seeing him again, the naked joy that shone in her eyes and the unguarded eagerness of her kiss, could rekindle his spirits.

  “All these years,” he said, “I fancied you living in a noble house, tutoring little Lord Edward. What happened, Chelsea? Did Lady Lucille refuse to hire you?”

  “I never even went to see her. I... decided to make a clean break from the past.”

  “Aye, I’d wondered. When I arrived in England a fortnight ago, I thought to find you through Lady Quincy. I had the very devil of a time getting in to see her.” He paused, remembering her chilly reception. “ ‘Twas she who gave me your address. Yet she said she scarce knew what had become of you, that you rarely bothered to write, let alone pay an old woman a visit.”

  Sadness tugged at Chelsea’s lovely mouth; then the brief gentling firmed into a bitter line. “Speaking of not writing, Sean, surely you could have found someone to pen a letter to me, if only to let me know you were still alive.”

  “Have you forgotten our last quarrel? ‘Twas you who said you never wished to see me again.”

  “We’d had arguments before, but you never stormed out.” Her expression wavered again, softening with grief, as if she could no longer restrain her emotions. “Why, Sean? Why did you stay away so long? Why didn’t you come back until it was too late?”

  He stared, riveted by the misery on her face. Had their separation been no more than a colossal blunder? Had his hotheaded pride cost them years of happiness?

  He took a halting step toward her. “Faith, you told me you regretted marrying me,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I thought if I went away and never returned, you needn’t be held back by a low-class husband. You could become a governess. You could live in one of the fine houses of the gentry. ‘Tis what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  Her gaze fell. “Yes, but I like what I’m doing now. So you needn’t trouble yourself.”

  The sadness about her gnawed at Sean. He walked nearer, until he stood close enough to catch her elusive violet scent. “I meant only to do right by you, love. I swear by all the saints, I never meant to hurt you.”

  Her eyes remained stubbornly downcast. He wished he dared tell her the truth about California, but he couldn’t now, not until he was sure of her unconditional love.

  “Come back to America with me,” he cajoled. “ ‘Tis a grand country, a place we can be free. We’ll take walks in the redwood forests, where the air is as hushed as a cathedral. We’ll see the deep gorges and turquoise rivers of the Sierras. We’ll watch the fog rolling in from the Pacific—”

  “No!” Her head shot up, her features set with anger. “Sean, how could you even imagine—” A distant clock tolled the quarter hour, and she gasped. “Oh, sweet heavens. I’m late for practice.”

  She reached for the door; he ensnared her hand on the brass knob. Her fingers felt impossibly dainty, and a river of heat drenched him with the memory of how she had once touched him in love, aroused him with tender devotion. Resolution firmed inside him. He’d accept the fact that she’d never leave here. He’d make a more determined effort to win her back. He’d show her the loving respect she deserved.

  “I’m going with you,” he said.

  She swung around, gray eyes wide with alarm. “You can’t. You must wait here until I return.”

  The old misgivings rose within him to sour his mouth. “Still ashamed of me, Chelsea love?”

  “No! I only...”

  She bit her lip. Saint Brenden save him, he wanted to kiss her until the sorrows of the past melted into the pleasures of an unreasoning present. Instead, he twisted the knob and yanked open the door.

  He stopped in surprise.

  A tall woman stood in the hall. A black net imprisoned her graying hair and her sharp features looked as grim as a banshee’s visage. One thin hand was poised as if to knock.

  Chelsea’s arm brushed him as she took a step back-ward. “Miss Maxwell!”

  Chelsea wished the floor would open and swallow her. She’d be dismissed for entertaining a man in her room! She’d have to start all over again at another school. Like a wren caught between a hunter and a cat, she stood trapped between Sean’s damning presence and Miss Maxwell’s chilling gaze.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the headmistress demanded, folding her arms across the black bombazine of her bodice, in a gesture reserved for recalcitran
t pupils.

  Chelsea swallowed. “I...” Sean would probably blurt out the truth; far better that it should come from her. Shoulders squared, she looked at her employer. “I would like you to meet my husband, Sean Devlin. Sean, this is Miss Maxwell, headmistress of our academy.”

  Miss Maxwell’s taut lips parted. Her gaze darted from Sean to Chelsea. “Husband? What is this nonsense? When I hired you, you presented yourself as a widow.”

  “At the time, Sean had been gone for months. I... I thought—”

  “She thought me dead.” He lay a firm hand on Chelsea’s shoulder, radiating heat over her cold skin. “Through a tragic mistake, she’d heard false word from America, where I’d gone to seek our fortune in the goldfields. Years it’s been that I’ve worked my claim, hoping to strike it rich, so I could give her all the comforts a man dreams of giving his wife. But I realized I’d left my greatest treasure behind.”

  His tender words might melt other feminine hearts, but Chelsea knew him better. Thank heavens, Miss Maxwell wouldn’t fall for such blarney, either.

  “Indeed,” said the headmistress, skepticism arching her brows. “Did it never occur to you to write?”

  He cocked his head in boyish chagrin. “Faith, ‘tis ashamed I am to admit the truth to such a fine, clever lady as yourself.”

  “Admit what truth?”

  “As a wee lad growing up on the streets, I never had the chance to learn m’ letters. I dearly hope you can forgive such a miserable failing. I wouldn’t wish you to think poorly of me—or of m’ own Chelsea.”

  To Chelsea’s dismay, Miss Maxwell’s stern expression eased as she was sucked in by his charm. “Of course not, Mr. Devlin. One cannot help the circumstances of one’s birth.” She wagged a knobby finger. “Yet one can strive to improve oneself.”

  “Oh, aye, ma’am.”

  “You’ve no reason to wither in the darkness of illiteracy when your wife is such a gifted teacher.”

  “A grand notion, to be sure.” His darkly handsome features remained solemn, though his eyes sparkled at