When Sparks Fly Page 9

  “Wait!” Percy cried. “We’re not done!”

  “Yes you are,” he shot back. “I have to go, and I’m not leaving you lot here alone with a burning bowl of brandy.”

  “Where are you going?” Tim asked. “Can we come?”

  “Certainly not,” Martin growled as he donned his coat.

  “It’s nearly ten o’clock, sir,” Huggett pointed out. “Surely it’s much too dangerous to be riding out on icy roads—”

  “I’m not riding anywhere.” Martin stalked for the door. “Make sure they don’t light up the brandy again, Huggett.” He was halfway out the door when he halted, whirled around, and returned to where she stood gaping at him.

  Before she knew his intent, he caught her hand and pressed a hard kiss into the palm. “Thank you,” he said fervently, his eyes regarding her with such hot intensity that a blush rose to her cheeks. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

  “I certainly don’t,” she shot back, but by the time the words were out of her mouth, he was already heading for the door again.

  After he’d gone, Percy shook his head. “He’s an odd fellow, isn’t he, Ellie?”

  Odd wasn’t the word she would have used. Impassioned was more like it.

  Her hand still burned, and not from the hot raisins. She stared down to where he’d kissed it, then curled her fingers into the palm, wishing kisses could somehow be saved. Because just that touch of his lips on her bare skin had brought all her wanton feelings from that morning rushing back.

  So much for being cordial and aloof.

  “What are you going to do with the lucky raisin?” Charlie asked her.

  She opened her other hand to stare at the gold button. “I don’t know.”

  “You could ask Tim to stop being such a nodcock,” Percy said, elbowing his younger brother.

  “Or ask Percy to grow a brain,” Tim countered, elbowing back.

  “Stop that, both of you,” she said without looking up. “I’m going to save it until I decide.”

  But what was there to decide? Only one person could grant her what she wanted, and it wasn’t her cousins. Because what she wanted was a night of passion with Martin.

  Her heart leaped in her chest. It wasn’t too horribly outrageous an idea, was it? If she meant never to marry anyway, did it matter if she lost her innocence? What she contemplated might go against every principle Mrs. Harris had taught her, but such principles hadn’t suited her very well of late.

  She much preferred Nicolas Chamfort’s principle, that “when a man and a woman have an overwhelming passion for each other . . . in spite of such obstacles dividing them . . . they belong to each other in the name of Nature, and are lovers by Divine right, in spite of human convention or the laws.”

  Of course, Chamfort was French. Still, how could she live out her life without experiencing passion for herself with the only man she’d ever loved? She might not have Martin’s love in return, but she could have his passion.

  She would have his passion, at least for one night. He owed her a boon. And she was going to make sure he granted it, no matter what the consequences.

  Chapter Eight

  Dear Cousin,

  I am not haughty, but cautious. I can understand how a man might mistake caution for arrogance, but I assure you no woman would. On the whole, women are far more aware of the world’s dangers than men will allow.

  Your terribly cautious relation,

  Charlotte

  Christmas Eve dawned cold and clear, but Martin scarcely noticed. He had passed the night in his barn, working in a frenzy of excitement on his new idea for a fuse consisting of rope impregnated with black powder, and now he was on his third rendition. Each one had worked successively better in his limited tests. He figured that by midday he’d have a version worth testing more reliably at the mine.

  Why hadn’t he thought of using rope before?

  Because he hadn’t had Ellie around before. Ellie, with her penchant for braiding things . . . Ellie, with her encouraging glances . . . Ellie, who apparently approved of any Christmas tradition that involved setting fires.

  Reckless little fool. He’d nearly lost ten years of his life when her hair had caught fire. And she hadn’t even flinched! She’d blithely teased him about finding that idiotic button, as if she hadn’t just risked going up in flames.

  The wench was a bit mad, as were her cousins. The sooner the lot of them went on to Sheffield, the better. Then his life would return to how it had been before. Predictable. Safe. . . . Lonely.

  With a scowl, he bent over the table, cutting strands of jute to wind around the core of gunpowder he’d developed. How had he adapted so quickly to the pleasure of having a cozy group around the dinner table? To evenings filled with books and music? Granted, the boys were rascals, but little Meg had an endearing way of thrusting her thumb in her mouth whenever she was upset, and Ellie . . .

  Oh, God, Ellie. Once she returned to London, she’d surely find a husband who wasn’t liable to blow her up by accident. He’d be a respectable gentleman with a good name, who would dance with her at balls and dine with her at home and retire with her at night to their intimate marriage bed—

  The penknife cut into his forefinger. “Hell and blazes,” he muttered to himself, “that damned woman will be the death of me yet.”

  He couldn’t stand to think of her in another man’s bed. He hated the idea of some other man kissing that plump little mouth, entwining himself in that curtain of hair, fondling every inch of her lush, warm flesh.

  You just have to give it time. You’ll forget her when she leaves. The memory will fade, and your life will go back to normal.

  Then why did the image of her not fade from his mind as his experiments continued throughout the morning? Why was it that when Huggett called to him from outside to come eat something, he was disappointed to find, when he went in briefly for food, that Ellie and the boys were upstairs with Mrs. Metcalf? He had to restrain himself from going up for just a glimpse of her smile.

  That afternoon he went to the mine, bearing his three experimental fuses. They performed spectacularly. Though he could see that improvements would be needed, the men were impressed with the possibilities, and he knew without a doubt that he’d finally stumbled upon the solution he’d been striving for.

  Yet despite the congratulations, despite the drinking in celebration of Christmas Eve at the mine, he chafed to be back at the manor. He told himself it was only because he wanted to tell Ellie about his “safe fuse,” that he wanted to give credit where credit was due since she’d sparked the idea in his mind. It wasn’t because he yearned to see her face bloom in a smile, to hear her praise his accomplishment, to steal a kiss. No, indeed.

  Yet instead of drinking into the wee hours of the morning with his miners as on past Christmas Eves, he begged off early. After a quick washup, he rode back to the manor around nine o’clock, praying that Ellie hadn’t yet retired.

  She hadn’t. He found her sitting alone in the great hall, near the hearth that held a monstrously large piece of timber. “I suppose I missed the lighting of the Yule log,” he murmured as he came up to where she sat reading before the fire.

  She looked up, a smile of welcome flashing over her lips. “Yes. And dinner, too, though I believe Mr. Huggett put a tray of something in your study. He said that was where you generally eat.”

  “It is, indeed.” He suddenly realized he’d had nothing but ale since midday, and not much of that, either. He held out his hand to her. “Will you come sit with me while I eat? I have much to tell you.”

  “Certainly.” Taking his hand, she rose, leaving her book on the chair. As they headed off together, with her hand nestled in the crook of his arm, she added, “You look tired.”

  “I am. Tired and famished. I only slept in snatches last night, and it’s beginning to catch up with me.
”

  “The children were disappointed that you weren’t here for the Christmas Eve festivities,” she said in a tone of forced nonchalance.

  “Only the children?” he said, unable to stop himself.

  “Certainly not.” Her gaze shot to his, an arch smile playing over her lips. “Mr. Huggett was positively devastated by your absence.”

  He laughed. “The rascal probably had the time of his life with those boys running around setting fire to Yule candles while I wasn’t here to put a damper on things.” He covered her hand with his. “But I wasn’t trying to avoid any of you. I was working out my new invention.”

  They’d reached the study, where a tray of cold ham, bread, and cheese awaited him. She sat down across the desk from him as he began to eat, describing the safety fuse between bites of his meal. Some of the excitement still beating in his chest must have conveyed itself to her, for her expression soon grew as animated as he felt, even though she probably didn’t understand half of what he babbled about blends of chemicals and the proper winding of the jute.

  Until now, he’d never realized how much he craved having someone share his successes. She even seemed to understand his enthusiasm. Not even his father had ever done that, and it touched him deeply.

  Shoving his tray aside, he leaned forward on the desk. “It’s all because of you, you know. Your braid gave me the idea.”

  “You mean, setting fire to my braid gave you the idea,” she teased. “Seems to me that since I risked my life for your cause, I ought to receive at least half the proceeds of your safe fuse.”

  He chuckled. “I do owe you,” he said, matching her light tone. “I owe you double, as a matter of fact—unless you’ve already demanded that one of the others give you your lucky raisin ‘boon.’ ”

  Mention of the “boon” inexplicably banished the smile from her lips. She smoothed her skirts and fidgeted a moment, then abruptly rose and went to where the door stood open. “Actually I . . . um . . . kept the fulfillment of the boon for you. In fact, I was hoping you’d do it tonight.”

  She glanced out, then closed the door, and he frowned. Whatever she wanted of him must be very secret indeed. Something for her aunt, perhaps?

  But then she stowed her spectacles in her pocket, and he knew this was no ordinary favor. She returned to the desk, looking decidedly nervous. “I . . . um . . . well . . . I’ve been thinking, and I was hoping . . . that is . . .”

  “For God’s sake, Ellie, tell me what you want. I’ll be happy to give you—”

  “I want a night of passion,” she blurted out.

  The coals that had been smoldering inside him ever since yesterday in the barn leaped instantly into flame. It took all his will to tamp them down. “What in blazes do you mean?” he said, praying he’d misunderstood her.

  She set her shoulders as her gaze met his. “I mean I want you to make love to me. Tonight, i-­if you’re not too tired.”

  Too tired? He could leap over mountains right now if it meant a chance of bedding her. But that didn’t mean it was wise. He rose from the desk so abruptly, his chair fell over. “Are you daft?”

  “No!” Her chin began to tremble. “I-­I just thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me what I want since you . . . seemed to desire me, at least a little.”

  “Of course I desire you, and more than a little,” he bit out, not sure how to handle this. “But that’s not the point. You’re an untried maiden. Someday you’ll marry, and your husband will expect—”

  “I shall never marry,” she said stoutly. “So given the choice between a spinsterhood without ever knowing passion and a single night with you, I’d just as soon have the night with you. If you don’t mind.”

  His blood pounded in his veins. Mind? He minded quite a lot. His control was already stretched to the breaking point, and he didn’t know how much farther it would hold, now that she’d roused images of her and him together in his head.

  “Ellie,” he said, attempting a soothing tone as he approached her, “of course you’ll be marrying. Why wouldn’t you?”

  Anger flared in her eyes. “If you’re going to be condescending about it, forget what I said.”

  What did she mean—he was just stating facts!

  She turned for the door, but he caught her arm to stay her. “I didn’t mean to be condescending. All I was trying to say—badly, it appears—is that some respectable man is sure to offer for you.” God rot the lucky bastard.

  “Some respectable fortune hunter, you mean.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean at all!”

  “Because that’s the only type who will ever offer for me,” she went on in a tortured voice, her arm trembling in his grasp. “I can’t take another season of their insincere smiles and their polite conversation while they follow my friend Lucy with their eyes. I’d rather die than marry a man who doesn’t care for me.”

  Pulling free of his grip, she faced him. Her eyes held so much pain that it shocked him. “I understand why you don’t want to marry me, either. Sadly enough for me, you’re a man of character, and like most men of character, you can’t be tempted by a mere fortune. I can even”— her voice caught on a sob before she steadied herself—“accept that. But I don’t see why that should prevent you from showing me what passion is.”

  He was still trying to follow her skewed reasoning when she added in a heart-­wrenching voice, “I . . . I know I’m not pretty enough to marry . . .” She was crying now. “But surely you find me . . . desirable enough . . . to share your bed . . . for just one . . . night.”

  “Ellie, my God,” he whispered as it finally dawned on him what notion she’d taken into her head. Catching her face in his hands, he forced her to look at him. “Pretty enough to marry! Are you mad? I’ve spent the past few days in a torment trying to keep my hands off you. I can’t sleep for dreaming of what it would be like to have you in my bed.”

  “Then why won’t you make love to me?” she choked out. “I promise no one will ever know. It will be only the one night—”

  “One night would never be enough,” he said fiercely. “Hell and blazes, don’t you understand? You’re everything I dream of in a wife. You have a heart as big as the world. You’re honest, and clever, and you make my blood run hot whenever I see you.” He brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “And yes, you are pretty. To me, you’re as pretty as a woman can be. I don’t know what those idiots in London have been telling you, but they’re wrong.”

  She dropped her gaze. “You’re just s-­saying that to be kind.”

  “When have I ever been kind before?” he said, desperate to relieve her pain. “I’m saying it because it’s true, love. I swear I would marry you in an instant if not for—”

  “If not for what?” She lifted her lovely, innocent gaze to meet his. “And don’t say it has anything to do with the gossip, because you know I don’t care about that. Besides, none of it could hurt me nearly as much as marrying a man who doesn’t love me. Or remaining a spinster. Because if you don’t want me, that’s what will happen. I’ll live with Papa and never know the passion of the marriage bed—”

  “At least you’d be alive!” he cried, the words torn from him. But he couldn’t let her think that he didn’t want her; that would be cruel.

  Her face was incredulous. “That’s what this is about? You won’t marry me because you’re worried about my safety?”

  “Don’t you see? I couldn’t bear it if anything ever happened to you.” He had to make her understand. “I won’t marry you at the risk to your life. I can’t.”

  Chapter Nine

  Dear Charlotte,

  Men don’t believe that women are cautious because we witness their recklessness time and again. Even you must admit you let your emotions lead you into trouble.

  Your cool-­headed cousin,

  Michael

 
Ellie laughed, giddy at the thought that he really did want her, incredulous at his willingness to let fear for her safety come between them. Here she’d spent the entire day feeling sure that he didn’t care for her, and that was what worried him?

  “I mean it, blast you!” Martin said angrily, stepping back from her. “It’s too dangerous here at Thorncliff.” From the look on his face, he really believed what he was saying. “What I do has risks.”

  Ellie sobered as he began to pace his study in quick, jerky steps. “I realize that. And I’m not asking you to give up what’s important to you. But your servants live here safely while you perform your experiments.”

  “Notice that none of them are women. That’s done on purpose.”

  “Because women catch fire more easily than men?” she quipped, incredulous that this was his reasoning.

  A scowl knit his brow. “Mock me if you want, but my male servants accept the risks. No female can be expected to do so. It’s bad enough that I require some staff, but the idea of a poor maid dying because she passed the barn at the wrong moment—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I could never bear the thought.”

  “Yet you could bear the thought of a male servant dying in an accident?”

  “No!” He swore under his breath. “You don’t understand. I keep my staff small to lower the risks. But a wife needs more servants—maids and footmen and a nanny for the children . . .” He cast her a horrified look. “Children. God help me! Can you imagine? You’ve already seen how hard it is to control them.”

  “If you don’t tantalize them with warnings about the mysterious barn, and if you teach them from the beginning to be cautious, they can be controlled as well as anybody. So can servants.” She thrust out her chin. “And a wife. There’s no reason people can’t follow reasonable precautions if they know the purpose.”

  “The way you followed reasonable precautions last night?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, that could have happened to any of us! Besides, you put out the fire before it half began, and I would have done so if you hadn’t.”