Barnett hesitated, then shook his head. “I’ll not sully our friendship by falling out over a woman.”
Spencer fought down disgust. “If you loved her, truly loved her, you’d strike me down for even daring to suggest I wanted her, and then you’d leap over my body and rush to her. You don’t love her, do you? Not with all your heart.”
Barnett shrugged. “Well, I’m fond of the gel, naturally.”
“Fond is not what I’d feel, deep inside my soul, for the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.” Spencer slapped his palm to his chest. “Release her, Barnett. Or love her, madly, passionately. She merits no less than that.”
Spencer seized his white ball and spun it across the table. It caromed off one edge, two, three, and then struck the red ball with a crack like a gunshot and plunged into a pocket.
“Add up my points,” Spencer said. “If you will not tell Lady Jane what is truly in your heart, I will.”
He strode from the room, his heart pounding, his blood hot. The captain is a volatile man, he’d heard his commanders say of him, Once he sets his mind on a thing, step out of his way.
Behind him, Barnett called plaintively, “What about the game? I’ll have to consider it a forfeit, you know.”
A forfeit, indeed.
Spencer went down the stairs to the main hall and asked the nearest footman to direct him to Lady Jane.
CHAPTER 4
The gardens were covered with snow, the fountains empty and silent, but they suited Jane’s mood. She ought to be in the house entertaining guests, or helping her mother, or looking after Grandfather, but she could not behave as though nothing had shaken her life to its foundations.
She should be glad John was home, feel tender happiness as the reward for waiting for his return.
All she could think of was Spencer Ingram’s gray eyes sparkling in the firelight after he’d kissed her. Could think only of the heat of his lips on hers, the fiery touch of his tongue. It was as though John Barnett did not exist.
Was she so fickle? So featherheaded that the moment another man crossed her path, she eagerly turned to follow him?
Or was there more than that? John had more or less ignored her since he’d arrived. Instead of resenting his indifference, Jane had been relieved.
Relieved. What was the matter with her?
A pair of statues at the far end of the garden marked the edge of her father’s park. Both statues were of Hercules—the one the right battling the Nemean lion; on the left, the hydra. Beyond these guardians lay pastureland rolling to far hills, today covered with a few inches of snow.
Jane contemplated the uneven land beyond the statues and reluctantly turned to tramp back.
A man in a blue uniform with greatcoat and black boots strode around the fountains and empty flower beds toward her. He was alone, and his trajectory would make him intersect Jane’s path. No one else wandered the garden, few bold enough to risk the ice-cold January morning.
Running would look foolish, not to mention Jane had nowhere to go. The fields, cut by a frozen brook, offered hazardous footing. Plus she was cold and ready to return to the house. Why should she flee her own father’s garden?
Jane continued resolutely toward Captain Ingram, nodding at him as they neared each other. “Good morning,” she said neutrally.
“Good morning,” he echoed, halting before her. “Is it good?”
Jane curled her fingers inside her fur muff. “The weather is fair, the sun shining. The guests are enjoying themselves. The New Year’s holiday is always pleasant.”
Ingram’s eyes narrowed. “Pleasant. Enjoying themselves.” His voice held a bite of anger. “What about you, Lady Jane? Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Of course. I like to see everyone home. If my brother and his wife could come, that would be even more splendid.”
“Liar.”
Jane started, her heart beating faster, but she kept her tone light. “I beg your pardon? I truly do long to see my brother.”
“You are miserable and cannot wait for the morning Major Barnett and I ride away.”
Jane lost her forced smile. “You are rude.”
“I am. Many say this of me. But I am a plain speaker and truthful.” His gray eyes glinted as he fixed an unrelenting gaze on her. “Tell me why the devil you are tying yourself to Barnett.”
Why? There was every reason why—Jane simply had never thought the reasons through. “I have known him a very long time …”
Spencer stepped closer to her. “If you were madly in love with him, you’d have slapped me silly when I tried to kiss you, last night. Instead you joined me.”
Jane rested her muff against her chest, as though it would shield her. “Are you casting my folly up to me? Not very gentlemanly of you.”
To her surprise, Spencer smiled, his anger transforming to heat. It was a feral smile, the fierceness in his eyes making her tremble.
“I am the fool for kissing you,” he said in a hard voice. “I couldn’t help myself. I think no less of you for kissing me back. In fact, I have been rejoicing all night and morning that you did. Haven’t slept a bloody wink.”
Jane swallowed. “Neither have I, as a matter of fact.”
“Then you give me hope. Much hope.”
He took another step to her, and Jane feared he would kiss her again.
Feared? Or desired it?
She pulled back, but not because he frightened her. She stepped away because she wanted very much to kiss him, properly this time. She’d fling her arms around him and drag him close, enjoying the warmth of him against her.
She touched the muff to her lips, the fur tickling.
Spencer laughed. “You are beautiful, Lady Jane. And enchanting. A wild spirit barely tamed by a respectable dress and winter coat.”
“Hardly a wild spirit.” Jane moved the muff to speak. “I embroider—not well, I admit—paint watercolors rather better, and help my mother keep house.”
“Your grandfather told me stories of himself and your grandmother last night. You are much like her.”
Jane wanted to think so. Maggie MacDonald, what Jane remembered of her, had been a laughing, happy woman, given to telling frightening stories of ghosts that haunted the Highlands or playing games with her grandchildren. She also loved to dance. Jane had a memory of her donning a man’s kilt and performing a sword dance as gracefully and adeptly as any warrior. Grandfather had watched her with love in his eyes.
“She was a grand woman,” Jane said softly. “I can’t begin to compare to her.”
“She is in your blood.” Spencer took another step, pushing the muff downward. “I saw that when we were at the fire. You were free, happy. I will stand here until you admit it.”
“I was.” Jane could not lie, even to herself. “Last night, I was happy.”
“But this morning, you have convinced yourself you must be this other Jane. Dutiful. Tethered. Unhappy.”
Jane ducked from him and started toward the statues at the end of the garden. She had no idea why she did not rush to the house instead—Hercules was far too busy with his own struggles to help her.
Unhappy. Yes, she was. But that was hardly his business.