The Sins of Viscount Sutherland

by Samantha James

  He couldn’t forget what it felt like to lay naked with her. Each day brought renewed memories. If he were to reach out and touch, he knew her flesh would be warm. The scent of lilac—the scent of her—lingered in the air. It remained long after she’d left the room. He felt like a lovesick fool. He tried to freeze his heart against his beautiful bride. It rankled that she appeared oblivious to his state.

  If he didn’t know better, he’d have called himself smitten.

  A foolish notion, he decided with a twist of his heart.

  Gray spent his days seeing to estate business. They saw each other at mealtimes, each of them polite and reserved. Claire usually retired shortly afterward.

  Gray went in search of her one morning when she wasn’t present for luncheon. One of the maids told him she’d last seen the mistress upstairs near the master suite.

  He found her in the room next to her own. He stepped inside—

  And swore.

  “Claire! What the devil are you doing standing on that chair?”

  Claire stayed where she was, tugging at one of the draperies. “Dr. Kennedy said—”

  “I’m sure the good doctor did not intend for you to be clambering up and down like a monkey. Come down here this instant.”

  His jaw tight, he reached up and plucked her from her perch, swinging her around so quickly she clutched at his shoulders.

  His hands steadied her. “There, you see?” He frowned. “Must I secure a companion to watch over you?”

  Her soft lips were compressed. “I thought I’d move the nursery to this room. It’s close to mine, and the sunlight in the morning is wonderfully bright and cheery. What do you think?”

  “Whatever you wish, Claire.”

  “There’s also a cradle in the attic. I thought perhaps we could paint it white. May I have your permission to—”

  “Claire, I thought it was understood. You may decorate as you please.”

  She tipped her chin up. “Pray don’t treat me like a child playing with her dolls, Gray. This is—”

  She broke off. An odd expression flitted across her face.

  “What is it?”

  She bit her lip. “I’m not sure.” Her hand had strayed to the swell of her belly. Her eyes widened. She was half stunned, half frightened . . . and then filled with delight, the purest delight she’d ever known.

  A sound that was half laugh, half cry escaped. “I think it’s the baby. It’s just as Dr. Kennedy said—like the wings of a butterfly.” She laughed, her eyes shining. She didn’t realize she’d caught at his hand, placing it on her belly. “There! That’s it. Do you feel it?”

  “I’m not certain.” Gray withdrew his hand quickly, then cursed himself mightily. Claire looked like a wounded doe.

  He couldn’t explain what came over him. A voice warred within. This was his child. The mother of this child. But it was like a fist knotted in his breast.

  It reminded him of Lily. Of William. And it was as if a sword cleaved him keenly in two, a pain so acute he wanted to scream aloud.

  Claire faced him, her eyes flashing. “Sometimes I think you wish me and this child dead!”

  For the space of a heartbeat Gray was very still. Then he snatched her up against him, utterly fierce. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever, ever say that.”

  Claire wrenched away. “Go back to London!” she cried. “I don’t want you here. Do you hear me? Go back to London!”

  His mouth twisted. “As you wish then. I bid you good-bye.”

  Claire was shattered, her joy bled dry. The first time her baby moved inside her, she thought bitterly . . . Despite all that had gone between them, she wanted to share it with someone—with Gray! Her husband. Her baby’s father.

  She cried herself to sleep that night. And when morning came, a deep-seated resolve came with it.

  This was the last time she would shed a tear over him.

  She continued to redecorate the nursery. But in the days that followed, her plight weighed heavy on her mind. What would happen when this child was born?

  This was his responsibility as well as hers. It was Gray’s duty to provide for her and their child, and by heaven, she would not allow him to shirk it. Certainly she couldn’t imagine that they would live together as husband, wife, and child.

  To that end, she took it upon herself to make the choice.

  She wrote to Gray one afternoon. She was blunt and to the point.

  Gray,

  I have come to a decision I believe you should be aware of. I have decided it would be best if I returned to Wildewood. I’m sure you will agree, it’s best if we live apart. If you wish, I will remain until the child is born. It is my belief, though, that there is little point to be gained in me remaining here at Brightwood. Of course I will inform you when the child is born. Should you wish to see him, or her, of course you may visit from time to time as you wish.

  With regard to our marriage, I’m sure you are aware that since we will have a child, it cannot be annulled. Perhaps that is the penance we must pay for both of us. Dr. Kennedy tells me he anticipates no problems with my lying-in. I continue to be in excellent health.

  I await word from you on this matter.

  Claire

  She had sorely underestimated her husband’s response.

  In London, Gray reared up behind his desk.

  “Dawes!” he shouted. “My horse!”

  Within minutes he was riding hard toward Brightwood.

  Claire had just moved to a wing chair in the small sitting area in her room when Gray stormed inside. He pointed at the startled maid who had delivered the tray.

  “Out!” he bellowed.

  Claire raised a brow, casting him an arched look. “Is it possible,” she said in as icy a tone as he’d ever heard, “for you to be civil to the servants? They needn’t endure the beastly moods of their master.”

  Gray ignored the remark. He pulled the letter from his pocket and shook it in his fist.

  “What the devil is behind this?”

  Claire lifted her chin. “This? I assume you mean my recent letter to you.”

  “I bloody well do, and I cannot help but wonder at the reason why! Have you seen Lawrence?”

  His eyes impaled her.

  Her lips parted. “What?”

  Gray swore, a blistering, vivid curse that made her ears burn. “You have, haven’t you?” Anger fed the accusation. “Did you think I’d let you run off to him with my child?”

  “Gray . . . I received a note from him once, several weeks ago . . . It was brief . . . He merely inquired as to my well-being”—her chin climbed aloft—“an inquiry I’ve not had from you, dear husband.”

  “You gave me no reason to believe you wanted it. But I tell you here and now that I won’t let you run off with my child. I refuse to allow Lawrence to be father to my child. You will not live with him as husband and wife!”

  “And I won’t allow you to take my child from me!”

  His jaw thrust out. There was no give in his voice. “Is that what you think I want?”

  “I don’t know what to think!” The one thing she did know was that she would not yield to this cold, hard man.

  Three steps brought him before her. He snatched the cloth she’d been stitching and flung it to the floor. The air between them was charged with emotion.

  At the sight of the tiny little gown at her feet—sewn in love for the impending birth—a dam broke inside her. Against all reason, against all expectation, Claire did the one thing she swore would never happen again.

  She dissolved into tears. Helplessly. Uncontrollably. In sheer despair.

  Stunned, shocked, shaken to the depth of his being, Gray could only stare. Her expression squeezed his chest. Finally he pulled her up. His arms closed slowly around her; he gave her no chance to deny him. Somehow he’d never thought of her as vulnerable.

  He felt the shudder that racked her body. Tired and exhausted, she offered no resistance when he sat on the chaise, leaning back and p
ulling her against him.

  He had brought her to this state.

  His hand hovered above her hair. “Claire. Claire, please stop.”

  With his thumb, he guided her face to his. His gaze scoured hers. “This cannot be good for your health, Claire.”

  Her throat clogged tight. “Dr. Ken—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m well aware of his opinion. I begin to wish I’d never let the man near you! It pains me to see you like this, Claire. It pains me to know that I have made you weep. You are right. I have a ghastly temper.”

  She swallowed. “I cannot bear to live like this, with such strain between us.” Her fingers curled and released in the front of his shirt.

  “I only stayed in London because I thought you wanted me to,” he confided. “I am the man who killed Oliver. I am the man who brought you into these circumstances. You have every reason to hate me.”

  Claire didn’t know what she wanted these days. But she did know she didn’t hate him. Far from it.

  His arms tightened. She was shaking, he realized. His gaze didn’t waver.

  His thumb beneath her chin, he guided her eyes to his. “Claire,” he whispered. “Please stop.”

  He nuzzled the soft skin of her temple.

  Her tears were wet between their cheeks. Gray didn’t care. Unable to stop himself, his mouth closed over hers.

  She didn’t stop him. “God,” he muttered when he drew back. “I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.”

  “Gray—”

  He heard the uncertainty in her voice. Her eyes were locked with his.

  “This feeling between us,” he said tautly. “Deny it, Claire, but it’s there. I know you feel it, too.”

  He kissed her again, a kiss that caught fire. Locked in the moment, locked in her, his hand slipped inside her bodice. He could feel the difference from the time they had made love. He remembered everything. Her breasts were rounder. Fuller. He toyed with her nipple, his palm grazing back and forth, feeling it tighten against his palm.

  He dragged his mouth away. Desire ruled. In his head, in his heart, in his body. The need for fulfillment pounded in his rod. It strained to be free. He ached with the need to release himself into her hand. He wanted to be against her, inside her. He was a breath away from loosening his breeches . . . lifting and settling her over his rod.

  She raised her face to his. Her hands splayed over his chest. “I haven’t seen Lawrence, Gray. I haven’t. His letter—”

  His knuckles skimmed her cheek. “Shhh. It’s all right.”

  Her eyes clung to his. “Do you believe me?”

  His embrace tightened. “Yes. Forgive me, Claire. I’m as beastly as you say.”

  Forgive me. The words tumbled through her mind. A frisson of guilt nagged at her. Not until then did Claire realize that her thoughts of Oliver had grown fewer. And now the mere sight of her husband made her heart leap as nothing before.

  He spoke quietly, his gaze direct. “I believe we need a truce, Claire. Is that agreeable to you?”

  She nodded, her eyes clinging to his.

  “Excellent.” Gray moved her gently away from him and rose.

  “Are you going back to London?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

  He shook his head. “I shall stay.”

  Her heart was glad of it. Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet.

  “As long as I am here,” he said, “I’d like to visit a neighbor. I’m thinking of purchasing several horses for my stable. It’s not far. Will you ride with me this afternoon?”

  Her eyes widened. “Ride?”

  “On a cart.” One corner of his mouth turned upward. “I think you’re some months away from being able to ride again.”

  It struck Claire that this was the first time she’d ever truly seen him smile. An odd little tremor went through her. Impossible though it seemed, he was even more handsome than the last time she’d seen him.

  “Meet me downstairs at half past the hour.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dressed in her warmest cloak, scarf and galoshes, Claire met Gray promptly in the entrance hall.

  He tucked a lap blanket around her knees. The weather had warmed throughout the week, though the nights remained cold. Snow had begun to melt during the day, making the track rutted and rather mushy. The cart jostled along. She was acutely conscious of the way his long stretch of muscular thigh nudged hers—and felt hers against his. Her shoulder bumped his as well. There was no avoiding his closeness.

  Her emotions were scattered in all directions. The memory of his kiss was still fresh. Did he regret it? She couldn’t control the bend of her mind.

  His attention was occupied with controlling the cart. His hands were gloved, but her gaze kept straying to them. The kiss rushed back in vivid remembrance—she had to wrench her mind away from it.

  And he was going to stay. She cringed inside. Why, she had practically begged him to! But how long would he be here? How long before he returned to London? Had he resumed his old life when he was there? How many women had lain with him? Heaven help her, was she jealous? All at once her mind seemed barraged with uncertainty.

  As Gray had said, it wasn’t far. Despite the cold, it was a beautiful day. The sky was brilliantly blue. They passed a stand of maple trees, branches bare and naked. The sun’s warmth had begun to melt the snow and ice from the branches; it was as if the world glittered with silver pinwheels.

  They neared a long, white-fenced pasture. Gray pointed out the roan he was interested in purchasing. “A beauty, isn’t she?”

  Claire echoed the sentiment. She was unaware of his scrutiny moving over her profile.

  When they rolled up to the Bennett home, Edgar and his wife Rosetta came out to greet them. This was the first time Gray had introduced her as his wife. Claire felt her face heat. It seemed odd to think of herself as Claire Sutherland.

  Edgar was a robust man with ruddy cheeks. Rosetta took her inside for tea, while the men conducted their business. Claire said good-bye with genuine reluctance. Though she and Penelope corresponded often, she hadn’t seen her friend for months, and it made her realize how much she missed female companionship.

  The shadows had begun to deepen before they departed for home. They were perhaps a mile away when Claire pointed through the trees toward snow glistening in the sun like crystal.

  “Oh, how beautiful. Is it a pond? What a wonderful place to skate in the winter.”

  “It’s a lake. And it’s deep. Not a good place at all.”

  His abruptness caught her off guard. “Well, doubtless it’s a good place for fishing. And you’ll recall,” she teased, “I caught a good many more fish than you. My father and Oliver—”

  She broke off. An awkward silence descended. To cover it, Claire asked if she could see another arm of the lake that stretched to the east.

  Gray jumped down to adjust the horse’s bridle, so Claire walked down the path toward the lake. It would indeed be a lovely spot to pass a warm, lazy day, she decided. But her pleasure was bittersweet.

  She didn’t know where she would be come summer—here or home at Wildewood.

  The day had warmed enough that the path was slushy with snow and mud. Wanting to see the shore, she moved down an embankment, picking her way carefully. Frowning, she peered over the edge. She didn’t realize she stood in the shadow of a large boulder where the ground had yet to thaw. She turned—

  Her legs went out beneath her and then she was plunging through the ice.

  A frenzied scream tore from her throat. Darkness was everywhere. It was cold beyond comprehension. She could not see. She could not breathe. The water sucked at her, as if to bring her down . . . down.

  Terror iced her veins. She opened her mouth to scream again. Water filled her mouth; it was as if her lungs turned to frost.

  Then she knew no more.

  Gray gave an affectionate slap to the horse’s rump. He glanced in the direction of the lake, then up at the sky. Night’s h
aze had begun to fall. They should be on their way.

  In the midst of that thought came a shattering scream.

  He bolted down the path.

  Never in his life would he forget the sight of ice and water closing over Claire’s head. There was a glimpse of slender arms raised high, as if in pleading.

  Wild panic surged. A desperate fear that plunged him back . . . All he could think was that he had to save her.

  He had to save her.

  He scrambled across the icy surface, praying as never before. Her cloak was dragging her down, he realized. A frantic dive and he grabbed hold of the hem.

  He broke free of the surface, one arm around her chest. He heaved her from the water. Would the ice hold her? It did.

  “Claire! Claire!” he shouted then, while pulling her to the bank. Her eyes were closed, her body limp and unmoving, her lips the color of wax.

  Dread surged high in his chest. “Claire,” he muttered hoarsely. She gave a heaving cough. A wheezing breath racked her body. Her lids fluttered open.

  Gray was never as thankful as he was in that moment. Relief rushed through his veins. He wrapped his arms around her.

  He had saved her.

  He had saved her.

  They were both soaked to the skin. Gray grabbed the lap blanket in the cart. He quickly wrapped it around Claire, then carried her to the cart.

  Moments later, back at the house, he yelled for help. Rosalie came running.

  Claire had thought she was going to die.

  Minutes later, trembling violently, she stood while Rosalie and Gray pulled her clothes off. Gray settled another blanket over her while the bath was filled. Another servant came in to build a roaring fire.