by Joan Vincent
Maddie moaned a protest, “Quentin, please—” Her hands tried to pull his buttocks down against her, closer.
Whispering in her ear, “I’m sorry for this, love,” Quentin drove deep. At her sharp intake of breath, he halted, holding himself very still, ignored every instinct to do anything else.
“That is all the pain there is, and only this first time,” he reassured her, smoothed back her hair, dropped kisses across her face, then touched her lips with his own and teased her tongue. The fingers of one hand moved back to where their bodies were now joined, stroked her. Feeling her relax, he withdrew, then pushed forward.
Maddie licked her lips, threaded her fingers through his hair, joined them behind his head. “Do that again,” she whispered.
Moving with excruciating slowness he withdrew from her, then entered again going as deep as he could. He held still, let her once more begin their movement. Complete joy flowed when she did.
“I had no idea,” she whispered, “no idea at all,” Maddie said, surging against him again and again matching his strokes and marvelled at the resulting vibrating pleasure.
Quentin shivered with restraint. “The best is yet to come.” Her soft chuckle delighted him, urged him on.
Maddie circled her hips, moved her hands to his shoulders, tightening her grip on him, pressing against him with increasing urgency.
“Wench,” he said, intensifying the pace. He groaned his pleasure when Maddie raised her legs and fastened them about him. He teased her breasts until she whimpered in return then captured her lips, his plunging tongue matching the primal drive. With ripples of her contractions, her cry of pleasure, he thrust deeply over and over, taking her cries of pleasure into his mouth, driving until an explosive satisfaction that made everything but Maddie and their joining disappear.
Breathless, gasping, savouring the slowing ebbing circles of pure joy, Maddie pressed her cheek against her husband’s damp chest and listened to the tattoo of his heartbeat. She turned her head, kissed the skin over his heart; raised a hand and smoothed his sweat-dampened hair back from his forehead. She kissed him back with the same lingering happiness he offered, amazed at the sensation of him still inside her, of the magic he had taught and shared with her.
Quentin nuzzled her ear, ran his hands down her back and across the sides of her buttocks. He pressed into her, amazed at her passion, at the strength of the response she had triggered.
“I love you so,” Maddie whispered.
“Do you now?” he asked, stroking her hair, kissing her.
His reply puzzled and sent a frisson of disappointment through her. She waited hoping to hear the same words from him. When none came, she listened to his breathing, telling herself it was harder for men to speak of their love. That he had shown how much he loved her. Feathering a caress along his arm, she noted, “There was never even a hint of this miracle in Jamey’s kiss.”
Quentin tensed above her. “What is wrong?”
Feeling his resistance, Maddie teased him with her tongue until he kissed her back with a rising passion. Closing her eyes, she sighed and arched against him. “I love you so,” she sighed. Safe and secure in his arms, in his love, she was on the cusp of falling asleep when she felt him withdraw. “No,” she groaned, stirring.
“Sleep, love,” Quentin told her with a kiss. “When we awake we will enjoy one another again.”
Maddie answered with a long slow kiss then nestled her head in the hollow of his arm and draped an arm across his chest, slowly falling asleep.
Quentin held her, but his mind had gone far away to Spain, to a wretched hut. The pledge, I always pay my debts, echoed over and over. He considered waking Maddie and telling her how he had come to find her, telling her about that bundle of letters. Vacillating between hope that she would understand and the fear that she would not, he grew to fear the worse.
* * *
The first pale light of dawn penetrated the bed curtain and awakened Maddie. She pressed her cheek into the broad chest she was lying against. Recalling all that had taken place between them during the magical hours of the night, she turned her head and began trailing kisses down his abdomen.
At her touch, Quentin, who had been dreaming of Spain, reared up and straddled her, held her wrists in a bruising grip above her head before she knew what had happened, Maddie’s fear-filled gasp slapped his senses awake.
Maddie saw the dark angry light fade from his eyes. Abject regret replaced it.
Releasing her wrists, Quentin began to move off her, but Maddie clasped her arms about him and held on. “I’m sorry, love,” he said hollowly. “For a minute I forgot I wasn’t in—”
“I know,” she whispered and releasing her hold, clasped her hands on either side of his head and pulled it down to hers.
A long while later, their passion once again spent, they cradled each other. Maddie was about to fall back to sleep when her mind returned to the puzzle of her husband’s not telling her both that he was Jamey’s commanding officer and that he carried her letters to her cousin.
“Why was I wrong to speak of Jamey?” she asked.
Quentin’s hand paused in its trail up her back. He decided to plunge ahead. “He was under my command. We bivouacked together. Your cousin James, Danbury, Merristorm, Goodchurch, and I. They are the best and the bravest, and surely the best friends I have ever had, even though the most foolish at times.”
“You are the bravest of the 15th Hussars,” she said kissing his ear.
Quentin traced a pattern up and down her back. “Vincouer was.”
“Jamey?” she said snuggling closer.
“I will tell you about it another time.”
Coward, his conscience twitted. Explain it, why don’t you? Get the letters and give them to her.
Maddie raised her head and looked at him. “You cannot say so little and leave it,” she teased. She trailed her hand down his stomach.
“No.” He grabbed her hand. “Maddie, I am sorry. It has been so—”
“Your side bothers you?” she asked. She pulled her hand free and touched his newest scar.
“No, nor the sabre cut.” He kissed her hair.
A light but steady tap came at their bedchamber door. “Aren’t you coming to church,” Jessamine called from the other side. “The earl said we will leave without you if you do not come soon. Please come, Maddie,” the little girl begged.
Maddie scowled in the direction of the door. “We’ll come down in a few minutes, Jessie. Go tell everyone to wait for us.” She turned back to her husband.
“Why can’t you tell me about Jamey now?”
Quentin met her hurt look. His heart sank. I always pay my debts, belled in his mind, sent a painful dart through his heart.
“Do you know what happened to Jamey?” Maddie asked sitting up. “Is there something you wish to tell me? What is wrong, Quentin?”
“Nothing,” he said sharply, rolled over and got out of the bed.
“There is something,” Maddie began, then paused at the agonized look on her husband’s face. “What is it, Quentin? What do you know?” Before she could say more he strode into the dressing room. Maddie heard him rummaging in a drawer. She started to draw back the cover when he strode out of the dressing room and halted near the bed.
“Here,” he said and thrust out his hand.
Maddie stared at the neatly tied packet of letters and then looked up. “What?” she began in puzzlement.
“Just look at them,” Quentin said and pressed then into her hands.
Seeing him nervously rub his ear Maddie swallowed hard. She let her gaze fall on the packet and saw a snippet of writing. Memory swooped back—the sabretache under the bed. With a gasp she fumbled with the string before tugging it free and casting it aside. Maddie stared at the writing on the first letter. It was, as she knew it would be, in her own hand. A chill ran through her. Why had he waited so long to share them? All her fears rushed back. “Why do you have my letters to Jamey?”
&nb
sp; “I meant to give them—”
Anger flared swift and hot. “You have known about Jamey all along?” Maddie asked through clenched teeth. He had known, she was certain, and had left her on tenterhooks the entire time.
“I knew he had gone missing in Spain but—”
“You didn’t tell me. You—” Maddie bit off her words and thrust the covers aside. Memory of all her worry fed her ire. “How could you have known and not told me?”
“Maddie, please, there never was a time, what with everything and then Jessamine and Malcolm gone missing,” he said lamely. “Why don’t you think on it? You’ll see I’m right. We’ll talk it through after services.”
Spluttering Maddie leapt from the bed and grabbed his dressing robe from the floor. She jerked it on. “I told Jessamine I was going to church and I will. I am going to dress now.”
Guilt stung him. “Maddie,” he cajoled following her.
Maddie slammed the door in his face.
Chapter Twenty-five
Hart Cottage June 4th Sunday Evening
Margonaut rested his gaze on his son then glanced at the clock once again. It was after eleven and still Quentin had made no move to join his wife. How curious, the earl thought, considering I did not believe we were going to ever see them out of their bedchamber in time to leave for services this morn.
The various reasons for such an abrupt about face were few. He decided Miss Benton’s suggestion, offered while they walked in the early afternoon, was best, but did not know how to broach it.
“Pardon me, my lords,” Jenks spoke to both, but cast a defiant look at Broyal. “Are you certain you won’t need my services again this evening, sir, errr, my lord?”
Quentin slapped shut the book in his lap. “Jenks, I’ll not tell you again that you are on leave until that hand heals.” He glared at his batman. “My quarters here were not built with a valet in mind. Go to bed before I forget myself and dismiss you.”
Margonaut remained silent until the door closed behind the batman. “I think it would be a good idea, Quentin, if Jenks went to Bellum. In fact, Miss Benton and I have decided to take the ladies and the children there.”
“What nonsense is this?” Quentin asked. “Remove Miss Benton, Agatha Vincouer, and all the children to Bellum?” He watched as his father looked up at the clock and then back at him.
Margonaut sighed when he noted the faint colour rise above his son’s collar. He saw Quentin’s eyes narrow. “Just for two weeks,” he explained. “Miss Benton is bang up the mark, if you’ll pardon a rather vulgar phrase Malcolm taught me.” He omitted that he looked forward to furthering his acquaintance with that lady.
“You can mend your fences here. Do not tell me you don’t have any to mend.” He beetled his brows. “Maddie was happy enough at first and will be so again. Make it clear to her that she’ll be a fine countess if that is what put her in a taking.” The earl studied his son’s black look.
“I can already imagine Jessie and Helene chasing each other through the halls at Bellum,” Margonaut noted with a pleased smile.
“Jessie will have a great time sliding on the tile in the solarium. You had better watch that Helene doesn’t entice her into trying to slide down the grand staircase’s banister,” Quentin warned, consenting to the plan.
“They are a terror together,” Margonaut chuckled, then his thoughts turned toward his children’s antics, of Thomas. He stood.
Quentin saw the shadow in his father’s eyes and joined him. “My lord,” he said, then waited for the earl to meet his gaze before he continued. “I deeply regret my ... my attitude and my actions when I learned of Thomas’ death.”
Margonaut turned away with a wave of his hand but Quentin took hold of his arm.
“Do not, Quentin.” He refused to meet his son’s gaze. “I have been the worst fool. A foolish old man. When your mother died I lost my heart—”
“No,” Quentin cut across his father’s words. “My actions were headstrong and unreasonable. I couldn’t face it.”
The earl turned toward him. “That you would have to step into my shoes?”
“That too,” he admitted. “My life was the cavalry. I couldn’t see leaving it and exchanging those responsibilities for Bellum’s.” He dropped his hand. “I had even told Thomas he would not live to see you and me reconciled. I am sorry—”
“No. I am,” Margonaut told him. He passed a hand before his eyes. “I do not know what happened to me when Thomas died. It was so unexpected—such a shock. I could not believe the physicians couldn’t save him.”
Quentin nodded and remembered that long ago cold interview in the library. “Yet I recovered again and again.”
Margonaut grabbed a hold of his son’s shoulders. “Thank God you did. I could not bear the thought of losing another son. Neither from illness nor because of my hard headedness—because of my—grief.”
An intense love Quentin had never before seen, shone in his father’s eyes.
“I won’t deny I loved Thomas but I have also always loved you,” Margonaut told him. “You will do well when your time comes.” He shook his head at his son’s denial.
“It is much like the cavalry, and in truth,” he said sternly, “you are more like me than Thomas ever was.” He nodded, blinked back tears, and then hugged his son before stepping back. Turning away he coughed, and cleared his throat.
“Never be fool enough not to admit when you are wrong. The only thing you gain when you do not is pain. Yours and others.”
Quentin stood rooted to the spot at these too apt words. “Thank you,” he said as the earl reached the door. “Thank you, Father.”
“Thank me with grandchildren,” Margonaut said without looking back from the doorway. “I shall take everyone away Tuesday morning,” he added, and strode out of the parlour.
* * *
Hart Cottage June 6th Tuesday Morning
Jessamine and Helene danced among the workers who loaded trunks, bandboxes, and portmanteaus into the large coach in front of Hart Cottage. Inside, Miss Benton made a last inspection of everyone’s room and demanded they take down what needed to be placed in the coach. She sent Maddie, who had been hovering close all morning to the rose garden while the coach was loaded.
Broyal surveyed the rear of the garden. A red-coated figure stood out against the hedge behind the rose beds. Beside the man in uniform stood a neat figure in lavender. The bruise on her face had faded. Agatha Vincouer was looking very well.
“Is it promising, do you think?” Maddie asked, gazing at the couple.
“A flirtation,” he replied.
“It has done a world of good for Agatha,” she observed. “What do you mean to do for her?”
He threw Maddie a startled look. Their gazes held a moment. Quentin turned back to the pair by the hedge. “What do I mean to do, indeed.”
“I think you should shame Sanford into providing her with a portion,” Maddie said.
“Really?”
“All you would have to do is flex your arm. Raise a fist,” she remarked with a grin.
He chuckled then grew serious. “Malcolm has asked me what will happen to his family. I assured him we would discuss it together after we joined them at Bellum. I would like to keep the children with us. Lundin will do fine here with the estate until Malcolm is of age.
“How would you feel about spending a month here every summer so the children remain familiar with it?” he asked.
Maddie met his gaze then looked away. “That is very good of you, my lord.”
Quentin hated the coolness between them and knew, his wife’s stubbornness discounted, that it was his fault. He gathered his resolution, but before he could utter another word, a flurry of hoofbeats and a loud “halloo” sounded in front of the house.
The captain and Agatha heard it also and joined them. Together they walked out of the garden and around to the front where another halloo greeted them.
“André,” Quentin said, and raised his hand in salu
te.
Jumping to the ground when he reached them, the baron motioned at the coach piled high with luggage. “What is all this?” he asked laughing. He shook hands with Broyal and the captain. He brushed swift kisses on each of Maddie’s cheeks.
“’Tis only the French way,” he said grinning at Quentin’s frown. “Are you completely restored, my lady?”
A blush rose to Maddie’s cheeks at his formal address. “I am Maddie to you, my lord,” she reproved him.
“Only if I am ‘André.’” He held a hand up to forestall Quentin. “Not another syllable of gratitude, if you please.” Raising the quizzing glass hanging from a fob on his waistcoat to his eye, he peered through it. “I am fatigued by the very thought of it.”
Relaxing his pose, he transformed into a serious young man. “I do have news. Let us go inside.”
* * *
The baron paced to the fireplace and back. He lowered the quizzing glass he fingered. He was still so angry with Castlereagh for concealing that Hadleigh had been captured that he could not speak of it. With all the lies, he was uncertain what he would find in Lewes. A part of him feared Hadleigh had not survived. “You and my friend share an acquaintance among the French.”
“Petit?”
“Oui, madame. He was seen in the area to which we believe Hadleigh Tarrant was taken. It may indicate that the mysterious M. Porteur is connected somehow with Squire George.”
André shifted his gaze to Quentin. “Castlereagh received your report about Captain Medworth very well. He is recommending a promotion for the man.”
The captain threw a startled look at Broyal.
“He wished, of course, that we had recovered more than half of the gold but, overall, he was pleased,” André told him. “’Haps you might think further than the Preventive Services?” Without waiting for an answer he continued, “But I am curious—did you ever learn why Lieutenant Topken aided Porteur?”
Medworth’s lips tightened. “He gambled deep—so deep that he lost the family estate to Porteur. That scoundrel promised to return it if the lieutenant did a favour or two.”