No Other Love. Candace Camp
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have no need of beauty creams or love potions, obviously. Half the men in Dartmoor must already be at your feet.”
“And you obviously have no need of any charm yourself,” Nicola replied, unable to keep from smiling. “You are already too smooth by half.”
He let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, his black eyes dancing. “Whew. I’m glad to hear ye say so. Me gran’d have me ears if I offended one of her customers.”
“Your gran?” Nicola asked, intrigued. “Do you mean to say she really is your grandmother?”
He nodded. “Me mother’s grandmother.”
“I’m surprised I’ve never seen you before,” Nicola commented.
“I live at the stables, you see, at Tidings. ‘Tis part of me job. I visit Gran every Sunday, on me day off.”
“I see.”
There was a moment’s pause, during which Nicola realized that she had nothing to stand here talking to this young man about. Desperately she searched for something to say to prolong the moment.
“Ma and I lived in Twyndel,” he said suddenly. “But last year, when she died, I moved back to be near Gran. She’s gettin’ on, ye see.”
“I am not from the area, either,” Nicola volunteered. “We are staying with my aunt, Lady Buckminster.”
“Ah.” The grin returned. “We had a right interestin’ talk, Lady Buckminster and me, about her mare.”
“I am sure it was,” Nicola said with a chuckle. “My aunt is not prone to talk of anything else. Had you not taken good enough care of her?”
“You wound me, miss.” He put on a pained air. “She’d injured her fetlock, so Lady Buckminster came to the stables to leave the mare, as we were nearer than Buckminster. I put one of Gran’s salves on it, and the mare was right as rain the next day when she came to see about it. ‘Twas the salve she was wanting to talk about.”
“Oh. Well…” Nicola glanced around. She could think of no reason to linger, yet she wanted very much to stay right here, talking to him. “I suppose I should be leaving.”
Was that a flash of disappointment in his eyes? “Oh. Yes. Of course.”
Nicola began to walk toward her horse, her steps lagging. He strolled along with her.
“Do you…come here often?” he asked casually.
Nicola glanced at him. There was nothing casual about the intense interest in his eyes. “Yes. I am interested in herbs and remedies. Your grandmother has very kindly taught me a great deal. I come here to learn and to purchase supplies from her. She has let me have a corner of her garden for my own.”
He looked at her in surprise. “You are growing them yourself?”
“Why, yes. I dry and grind and mix them, as well,” Nicola responded tartly. “I realize that you think I am a useless, shallow slip of a girl, but I do have interests outside of my dress and my hair.”
He had the grace to redden a little beneath his tan. “Indeed, miss, I did not think you useless and shallow. It is just a little unusual.”
“If you knew me, you would find that I am a little unusual.”
He smiled. “I could already tell that. Not many ladies would stand about chatting with grooms.”
“Mmm. My mother tells me I am deplorably egalitarian,” Nicola agreed lightly.
They had reached her horse, and Nicola turned to him. “Well. Goodbye, then. I—it was nice to see you again.”
“Thank you.” He paused, then said quickly, “I come to visit Gran every Sunday.”
“Do you?” Nicola’s heart began to pound a little harder in her chest. He was telling her that he wanted to see her again, wasn’t he? “I—uh—” She had to pause and clear her throat, which seemed suddenly swollen. “Then perhaps I will see you here again.”
She ended her statement on an upward note, sneaking a glance up at him. To her explosive relief, he grinned.
“Perhaps you will,” he agreed. “Let me help you up.” He nodded toward the horse.
Then, to Nicola’s surprise, instead of cupping his hands to give her a leg up, he placed his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her to her saddle. He stepped back, looking up at her. Nicola took up her reins in trembling fingers. She could feel the imprint of his fingers against her flesh, as if they had burned into her.
“I—I don’t know your name,” she said softly.
“It’s Gil, miss. Gil Martin.”
“Don’t call me ‘miss,’” Nicola said quickly, something in her rebelling against the subservience in this common form of address from servants.
“All right,” he said slowly, watching her. “What should I call you, then?”
“My name is Nicola Falcourt.”
The smile that crept across his face this time held none of its former amusement, only a kind of heat that stirred Nicola’s blood. “All right. Nicola.”
HE WAS THERE AT GRANNY ROSE’S the following Sunday when Nicola arrived. Nicola saw the faint consternation on Granny’s face when she opened the door to find Nicola on the step, as well as the uneasy way she glanced over at her grandson. Though she and Granny talked easily enough together, as equals, she supposed that Granny must be uncertain about her being thrown together with a servant.
Gil rose from his seat at the table, his eyes intent on Nicola’s face. Nicola looked at him, and a wave of heat washed through her, so fierce that she blushed with embarrassment.
She sat down at the table with Gil and Granny Rose, and Granny politely offered her a cup of tea. The three of them sat and drank tea together, their conversation awkward and stilted. But later, he walked her halfway home, strolling along beside her as she led her horse by its reins. They talked about any and everything, from Granny Rose and her home medicines to Nicola’s father to a foal that had been born two days ago at the Tidings stables. Nicola found herself telling him things she had never told anyone before, even her sister Deborah, her innermost feelings and thoughts. When at last they reached the point where he must turn off for Tidings, they hesitated, unwilling to part.
“Will ye be comin’ to the main house this Friday, then?” he asked, glancing at her, then away. “His lordship’s dance, I mean.”
“What?” Nicola was looking at him, watching the play of the sun on his crow-black hair and fighting the sudden urge she felt to reach up and sift her fingers through it. It took a moment for his words to register. “Oh. Yes.”
She grimaced. She no longer had any desire to go to Tidings now that she had found Gil. But she could hardly tell her mother that, so she had had to accept the invitation.
Gil looked away, seemingly studying intently a rock on the ground at his feet. “The others are sayin’ that he’s sweet on ye.”
“Exmoor?”
He nodded. “’Tis common gossip about the house.”
Nicola sighed. “He seems to be.”
“And you?” He looked up abruptly, his dark eyes boring into hers. “What do ye feel for the man?”
“The Earl?” Nicola asked in some astonishment. “Why, nothing. What would I feel?”
“There’s those sayin’ ye’ll be acceptin’ him.”
“Never.”
Gil relaxed a little. “Well, then…that’s all right.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Gil