“He didn’t,” Rosalie cried, tears in her eyes as she choked on her laughter.
“Aye, he did,” Tom replied, reining his mount to a walk. “Three days underway and he made us turn around for a bloody parrot. We arrive back in port and there the damn thing was, perched on the shoulder of the dock master.”
She laughed again, tipping her head back. “And was your captain relieved?”
“He paid the man a gold sovereign for his trouble, and we took right back to sea, parrot safely aboard.”
“He must have been quite the animal,” she mused.
“He was disgusting,” Tom replied with a grimace. “Loud and mean, it only liked the captain. The damn thing bit me twice.” He held up his gloved finger, sure he still had a scar on the tip.
They both laughed, giving their horses pats as the animals huffed. The weather was glorious, the heath was in its full autumnal glory, and Rosalie proved to have a more than adequate seat on a horse. For the past hour they’d been racing over hills and through the weaving glen trails. In between bouts of galloping, they slowed to a walk and Tom shared stories from his travels.
Rosalie was curious, but not pushy in her questions, letting Tom lead the conversation. He appreciated this, and it made him more willing to share. People were often enamored with the idea of navy life, but they weren’t always tactful in the way they asked questions. Some sailors may like to talk about tense skirmishes or storms at sea—anything to excite their audience—but Tom had always preferred to keep those memories private.
What lady seated next to him at dinner really wanted to hear the truths held in his soul? Shall he admit to his fear in the moment of battle, the way his hands shook, the way he was sick after? Shall he detail the sounds etched in his memory— the boom echoing across the water, the blood-curdling screams of a man cleaved by cannon blast?
No, that was not polite conversation. And yet the ignorant few had the audacity to believe themselves entitled to his worst memories for the sake of a thrilling story hour.
“Renley…are you well?”
He blinked, turning his gaze on Rosalie. Her fashionable pink riding habit brought out the rosy color in her cheeks. A jaunty hat sat perched on her head, with a little veil that swept down over one eye. He cleared his throat. “Well and recovered,” he replied, gathering his reins. “Shall we race beyond to the next hill?”
She glanced over her shoulder with a pained look. “It is getting darker now…and I believe a storm is coming in…”
Tom had noticed too. Heavy clouds were rolling in fast. It would certainly rain tonight. He should turn them around and get her safely back to the house before the heavens opened. But he wasn’t ready to go back. He wasn’t ready for this moment with her to end. Whenever they found themselves alone, it was like Tom could suddenly breathe easier. He’d noticed it from that first morning at Alcott Hall when they met at the top of the stairs. He’d come upon her inspecting a vase of flowers. He could close his eyes and see her standing there. She turned with surprise, those brows arched high and her dark eyes wide. Her lips parted as she took him in, her eye tracing him from head to toe…then he exhaled.
That’s what Rosalie Harrow was for him: a breath of fresh air.
As soon as the words were thought, he felt a tightening in his chest.
Goddamn it…James was right.
Tom was as bad as Burke. Worse. Two hopeless romantics pining after the same woman…a woman who defied convention. A woman who’d made it clear she wanted no ties to bind her. But this attraction he felt wasn’t going away. There was no moving past it or ignoring it. In fact, each moment spent in her presence only sank the feeling deeper into his very bones.
Holding her last night, their naked skin pressed together…God, it was heavenly. He couldn’t remember a night of better sleep. He wasn’t jealous hearing her with Burke…well…maybe a little.
Fine, perhaps more than a little.
Okay, he was miserable. Aching all over. His cock had been so hard. It was torture to lie there and do nothing, hearing her soft moans through the closed door. His body had moved on its own, pulling him from his bed, drawing him across the hall into her arms. He wasn’t sure how his intrusion would be received, but he simply couldn’t stay away. Then she’d kissed him with such warmth of feeling. She trusted him, wanted him, found comfort in his arms.
And he wanted more. Christ, he needed it. That moment in the storage room was seared in his memory. He wanted another taste of her, he wanted all of her. And he wanted to see that look on her face, the calm adoration that told him without words that she breathed easier in his arms too.
He looked away from her, fumbling again with his reins. Anything to keep himself from saying or doing something they’d both regret. For, as much as he felt ready to declare himself, she’d been clear from the beginning.
Be my friend, she said. Be my friend…or nothing.
He grimaced. The word ‘friend’ tasted like bile in his mouth. When he thought of her soft kisses, the sweep of her hands over his bare shoulders, the taste of her on his tongue…
Friends, indeed.
It was his own fault. All his nonsense with Marianne clouded the air between them. Rosalie may be attracted to him, but she didn’t trust him. She wasn’t ready to believe him when he said Marianne meant nothing. And could Tom blame her? What had he done to convince her otherwise? Most of their private conversations over the last month had centered on her offering him advice about Marianne.
He had to right this ship. He had to find a way to convince Rosalie that Marianne was in the past. Even more important, he had to explain his changing goals for the future. She still thought he was committed to the ludicrous idea of marrying solely to advance his career. Tom wanted to make captain, but he wanted to do it on his terms. There would be no marriages of convenience.
“Shall we turn back?” Rosalie called, already turning her mount around.
Tom took a deep breath, trying to find the words to begin. “Rose, I—”
“Race you towards the tree line,” she called with a laugh, urging her little chestnut mare into a canter.
Thunder rumbled softly in the distance as the storm clouds rolled in. Tom’s mount danced in place, eager to join the race. Tom squeezed with his heels and the horse took off, tearing over the grass on pounding hooves, chasing after that blur of laughing pink.
They didn’t make it two hundred yards before the heavens opened. Rosalie let out a soft squeal as the first drops fell. In moments, they were both wet, urging their mounts towards the head of a forest trail that wove along the edge of the heath. The back gardens of Corbin House were still a good fifteen minutes away. Tom kicked himself for having let them ride out so far.
“I’m soaked through,” she cried, slowing her mount to a trot as they neared the trees.
“I’m so sorry, Rose,” he called over the rain, his mount coming level with hers.
She turned with a wide grin on her face. It lit her up from the inside, making his own chest feel warm. She was soaking wet, but she was happy. She was laughing and free. He would probably earn a mouthful from Mrs. Robbins when they returned, but he didn’t care. It was worth it to see this smile on her face.
A crack of lightning split the sky and Rosalie’s horse shied. She settled the little mare with a few soothing words. “It’s really coming down,” she called over her shoulder, a hint of anxiety in her tone.
“Swing left!” Tom knew this heath well and knew where they might find shelter.
Coming to a fork in the path, Rosalie urged her horse left. The path was wide enough that there was little coverage from the trees overhead to soften the rain. It pounded down on Tom’s head and shoulders, water dripping off his hat brim. In front of him, Rosalie’s bright pink skirts were now almost purple with the combination of the dampness.
They rode a few more minutes down the path until Tom spied his quarry. “Let’s take cover and wait for the worst of this to pass,” he called, reining his horse even with hers to point out the small Grecian temple tucked into the trees. It was a simple thing, hardly more than a garden ornament, but it was large enough to fit them both.
She nodded, angling her mount towards it.
He swung out of his saddle first, boots squelching in the wet grass as he looped his reins in his arms and stomped over to Rosalie, offering up both hands. “Hop down.”
She unhooked her leg from the sidesaddle and dropped down at his side.
“Give me your reins and run for cover,” he said with a laugh, taking hold of the chestnut mare.
Rosalie didn’t wait to be told twice before spinning on her heel and running for safety as another fork of lightning sparked in the sky.
