Stormswept

by Sabrina Jeffries

  The reminder of how he used to slip onto the grounds, how he used to love her, roused her temper. “Oh yes, you were very good at sneaking into places.”

  “As I recall, I was invited.”

  She remembered how quick she’d been to welcome him into her bedchamber. He’d probably thought her the worst of wantons.

  Was this to be her punishment? A constant litany of her faults? If so, she had a surprise for him. She couldn’t do anything about his misreading of the past and her character, but she could refuse him the satisfaction of rousing her anger every time he sought to wound her.

  Tense and silent, they reached the gates, which the gatekeeper opened as he saw her approach. No doubt the news had traveled through the household like wildfire. It was all she could do to face down the curious gatekeeper.

  The carriage that awaited them was surprisingly fashionable. A liveried coachman sat on the perch, and the horses were a pair of matched bays. Apparently, Rhys hadn’t lied about his improved circumstances.

  That only deepened her despair. While he’d been amassing a fortune, nursing his unfounded distrust of her, she’d been mourning him. And all he could see was betrayal.

  Still hurt by that, she refused his help when he reached to hand her up, even though it meant clambering into the carriage in a most unladylike manner.

  As she settled herself on the plush seat, he took the one opposite her. “If you think to annoy me with your petty shows of resistance, Juliana, you might as well give up. Nothing you invent can compare with the many ‘annoyances’ the captain of the HMS Nightmark invented for impressed landsmen.”

  She merely stared out the window as the carriage rumbled away from Northcliffe.

  “And ignoring me won’t work, either,” he drawled.

  Her gaze shot to him, and she winced at his gloating smile, which showed he thought he’d had the last laugh.

  But her temper must have shown in her face, for his smile cooled. “Tell me, cariad, did you ever look at your betrothed that way?”

  He spoke the Welsh endearment with an absolute contempt meant to wound. With as much cool nonchalance as she could muster, she said, “Unlike you, Stephen never deserved my anger. He was always sweet to me. I never even had to raise my voice to him, for he, at least, was a gentleman.”

  “A rich, powerful gentleman. A pity he never saw your true self until today. He might have saved himself some grief. But with all that money and position hanging in the balance, you had to hide your true self.”

  She searched for some retort that would stop him dead. “Just as you did when you courted me, speaking lies and giving me gifts. With your estate hanging in the balance, you had to hide your true self.”

  When his smile faded completely, she felt a moment’s satisfaction.

  He leaned forward to glower at her. “You know I was unaware that Llynwydd belonged to you. That had nothing to do with why I married you, no matter what you thought.”

  “That’s not what Darcy said. And of course, he always speaks the truth.” Hah! Wriggle out of that one!

  “And you believed every word he said.”

  She leveled a solemn gaze on him. “No. Because I knew in my heart what you were. ’Tis why I waited so long for you.”

  “So long?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Yes, you waited at least until a marquess came sniffing after you.” His eyes shimmered in the dim light. “How long did you wait before you let him court you, before you went hunting for a husband?”

  She hid her hurt. He had a right to ask it, she supposed. “Surely you heard what Darcy said. Stephen came to court me only a year ago. I didn’t encourage his overtures until Darcy’s investigator told me you were dead.”

  “Which was a lie.”

  “Yes, but I believed it—or I wouldn’t have let Stephen court me at all.”

  “And the little matter of your previous marriage didn’t come up. I wonder, how did you plan to deal with your Stephen on your wedding night?”

  She couldn’t prevent the guilty flush that spread over her face. “I was hoping he wouldn’t notice.”

  “Or perhaps that wasn’t even an issue.” His voice grew more cutting. “Perhaps he’d already sampled your delights and knew he was getting damaged goods. I daresay any man who’d had you wouldn’t have cared about your lack of innocence. Not once he’d discovered what a wanton you are in bed.”

  She shot up in her seat. “How dare you! Stephen would never have—”

  “Did you tell him about that convenient tree outside your window, so he could enter your bedroom at night and take you at his whim?” He leaned forward, breathing heavily. “Did you cry out every time he thrust deep into you, as you did with me? Did you—”

  “Stop it! ” Sobs welled up in her throat. “Stop saying such awful things! You’re the only man who’s ever touched me that way, and you know it! ”

  He fell back against his seat, panting hard, like a savage beast that had just run its poor prey to ground.

  She fixed him with an accusing gaze. “I meant it when I promised to be faithful to you.”

  “Obviously your definition of faithfulness differs vastly from mine.”

  “What did you expect? That I’d languish away forever, believing you dead? You never sent any word. If I’d known you still lived, no power on earth would have kept me from awaiting your return. But I didn’t know, don’t you see?”

  “So you say,” he bit out.

  She forced herself to be strong, to fight him with his own weapons. “And you? Were you faithful to me, as you promised on your wedding night?”

  He stared at her. “Are you asking if I bedded other women?”

  She nodded, unable to speak the words. She shouldn’t have brought it up. She’d already spent her years at Llynwydd remembering their wedding night, knowing that he’d bedded one of the dairymaids. Many a time she’d tortured herself, wondering which of the buxom women was the one who’d known him intimately.

  He hesitated, as if uncertain whether to tell her. Then his jaw tightened. “What do you think? In America there were plenty of willing wenches who wanted to bed a war hero and didn’t mind being loose with their reputations. Do you think I threw them out of my bedchamber?”

  Each word was designed to cut deeply. And he certainly drew blood.

  Still, she fixed him with a steady gaze as the coach shuddered to a halt outside a town house. “I think you’re a two-faced devil with one set of standards for himself, and another for his wife.”

  For a long moment, he simply glared at her. Then he thrust the coach door open and pointed to the town house door. “Get inside! Now! ”

  With all the dignity she could muster, she stepped down from the coach and walked primly up the entrance steps, scarcely noticing the expensive Palladian home with its marble columns and sashed windows. All she could think of was how to get out of this mad marriage with Rhys. She couldn’t continue in it when he sought to destroy her at every turn.

  She heard him behind her and hastened her steps to avoid his touch. She needn’t have worried. He kept a marked distance from her as the doors opened before them, manned by servants who’d been watching from the windows.

  A portly man stepped forward and bowed to Rhys. “All the rooms are in readiness as you instructed, sir.”

  “The master bedroom is finished?”

  “Yes, sir. We had a time getting it ready in only a week, but it’s done.”

  “Good,” Rhys said, staring absently about him.

  Juliana followed his gaze. Everything looked newly furbished. Too late, she remembered gossip among the tradesmen about the eccentric American who’d bought the old Webberley town house. Dear heaven, if she’d only realized . . .

  Then the implications of that sank in. Instead of coming to speak rationally to her the minute he’d arrived in town, Rhys had sneaked into her engagement party like a thief, then aired his grievances before all of society.

  “Will that be all, sir?” the servant asked.


  Rhys nodded. “We leave for Llynwydd in the morning. In future, I’ll notify you in plenty of time whenever we plan to be in residence.” He cast her an enigmatic glance. “For tonight, you and the other servants are dismissed. We don’t wish to be disturbed.”

  Her gaze flew to his. There was an ominous meaning behind his words. “I shall require a maid to help me undress—”

  “We do not wish to be disturbed,” he repeated.

  The servant wisely disappeared through a door off the downstairs hall.

  “Come, my dear wife,” Rhys said, “let me show you the master bedchamber.”

  “I’d rather just go to my own,” she said as they ascended the stairs. “I’m sure I can find it myself.”

  “Oh, no.” He clasped her arm, making it clear he wouldn’t tolerate resistance. “I fully intend to accompany you to your room. And to bed. I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

  Good Lord. They’d reached the top of the stairs already, and the master bedroom proved to be the first door on the hallway. Frantically, she sought some delaying tactic, but before she could find one, he’d opened the door and urged her inside.

  Mouth dry, she entered and glanced around. The room shouted masculinity. The dark woods, the rich blue velvet curtains and bed drapings made her feel like a trespasser. A pair of man’s boots, newly polished, sat at the foot of the bed. His. This was his. All of it was his.

  She faced him warily. He’d come in behind her, and now made a point of locking the door and putting the key in his pocket.

  When he stared at her as a hungry man stares at a succulent hen, then sat down to remove his shoes, she sucked in a harsh breath. I’faith, he planned to bed her. Now. Tonight.

  Was this to be her punishment? Did he truly think she’d let him take her, as if years hadn’t passed between them? If so, he was in for a surprise.

  He stood and strode to a table against a window where a crystal decanter of bloodred liquid sat. With slow, deliberate movements, he poured two glasses. “Wine?”

  She shook her head. If his plan was to seduce her, she would soon disabuse him of that notion. She was no longer the untried, foolish girl he’d enticed with poems and gifts. She knew her own mind now, and he was not simply going to pick up where they’d left off. Not after all the lies he’d believed about her.

  As he sipped from his glass, his gaze raked her with the insolence of a horse trader picking a prize mare. “I can’t believe I’d forgotten how truly beautiful you are.”

  When she said nothing to that, he set the wine aside and rounded the bed toward her. Curious to see what he would do, she stayed still as he approached. He stopped mere inches away, reaching up to draw a jeweled pin from her hair.

  A cursed trembling began in her body as he removed the pins until her hair tumbled down about her shoulders. He was so close she could touch him, could brush her fingers over the clean-shaven chin and the thin blade of a nose if she wanted. His wine-scented breath feathered over her face, summoning up long-buried memories—of the way his mouth once covered hers, teasing, possessing.

  She fought the memories. This wasn’t the Rhys who’d taken her with care on their wedding night. This was the Rhys who believed her a schemer and a liar. And as long as he did, she wouldn’t let him seduce her.

  He lifted her hair, letting it fall over his hands, then rubbing the strands between his fingers. His eyes glittered as he stared at it in the candlelight. “I’d also forgotten how soft your hair is.” As she held her breath, her emotions rioting, he stroked the mass over her shoulder.

  Suddenly he stiffened and jerked his hand back, pivoting away. He crossed the room, his expression grim as he picked up his wine again, not looking at her.

  “Take off your clothes.” He gulped some wine, then set the glass down hard on the table.

  “Not until you leave.”

  He faced her, eyes wild. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear earlier. You’re my wife now, and I’m never leaving again.” He trailed his gaze over her body. “When I said I intended to take you and my estate back, I meant in every way. And if you’re wise, you’ll try to appease my anger instead of playing the innocent.”

  The words drove deep. “I’m not playing at being innocent.”

  “One day you’ll admit the truth. But in the meantime, I expect you to obey my commands as you promised to do when you spoke your vows so frivolously. So take off your clothes. Now! ”

  That was his plan? To take her by force?

  She thrust her chin out at him. “Make me.”

  He started. “I will, you know. I’ll tear the clothes off you myself. And I’d hate to ruin such a lovely and expensive gown.”

  Yet he made no move toward her. And when she didn’t take off her clothes, he growled, “Fine. I’ll go first.” He removed his neckcloth, then his cutaway and waistcoat. “Your turn.”

  “I won’t. You can’t force me to.”

  He stepped toward her, fists clenched. “Take your damned clothes off! I wish to see what I paid in blood for! ”

  The frustration in his face gave her pause. Perhaps she should attempt a different tactic. If this wasn’t just about punishing her by humiliating her, if he still actually desired her, then somewhere inside him was the Rhys she’d married—the one who’d actually been in love with her.

  There was only one way to be sure.

  So she unfastened her stomacher, then her bodice, skirt, hoop, and petticoats. And as she bared her arms and shrugged out of her armor, she was rewarded by his gaze darkening and his face growing taut with undisguised hunger.

  He did still desire her. That was something, at least.

  “The stockings,” he said hoarsely. “Take off your stockings.”

  Heart pounding, she stepped out of her slippers, then lifted her shift only high enough to untie the garters and draw down her white silk hose. She felt his gaze following the slide of them down her legs. In spite of everything, it sent a thrill through her.

  “Now the corset.” His voice sounded more unsteady.

  “I can’t undo it by myself.”

  Her words seemed to jerk him from some dark prison. With a curt nod, he came to stand behind her. She sucked in a quick breath when she felt his fingers unknotting her laces, brushing her skin as he drew the corset apart. It reminded her of what they’d been like together in that inn room on their wedding night.

  Could they ever be that way again?

  When the corset dropped to the floor, he stepped in front of her, his eyes devouring her. “Now the shift.”

  “Your turn,” she said coolly.

  He tensed, then gave her a tight nod. “Very well. Perhaps you should see what your betrayal wrought.” Jaw clenched, he tore off his shirt. “Have you ever witnessed a man being whipped? Have you any idea what happens to a man after several floggings with a cat-o’-nine-tails?”

  When he pivoted to show her his back, she gasped. She’d expected scars, but the reality was far worse. There were no scars on the upper back at all. It was simply an expanse of mottled skin that looked like healed pulp. There were scars lower down in the small of his back, however, where the cat apparently hadn’t reached as well, leaving a dense mesh of white lines on the skin.

  She’d heard of the horrors men suffered in the navy, but she’d never dreamed anyone could be so cruel to another human being. His beautiful back, so proud and finely shaped, was covered with healed welts. What pain had he endured to have a back like that? And what other pains had he not yet told her of?

  He left nothing to her imagination. “They clean the cat after every stroke, to make sure it doesn’t become so clotted with blood and flesh that it’s ineffective. And when they’re done, they wash the back with brine so it will heal. Men generally pass out from the shock of salt water against torn flesh—if they haven’t passed out already. But the skin does heal. Until the next flogging, of course.”

  Bile rose in her throat. How many such floggings had he suffered? And how ha
d he endured them at all? No wonder he was so furious at her, if this is what he’d thought she’d done to him.

  He whirled to face her. “The law supposedly allows no more than six strokes, but a tyrannical captain may order up to three hundred with impunity. And I had a tyrannical captain . . . a cruel man who hated the Welsh, especially known radicals.” He stared past her at the wall. “He had me flogged for the least infraction, and for some I didn’t commit.”

  Pity welled up in her. “Oh, Rhys, I’m so sorry you suffered.”

  His gaze snapped to hers. “I didn’t tell you so you could pity me. I told you so you’d understand a fraction of what you did to me when you decided marriage didn’t suit you after all.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Enough! ” he thundered. “I don’t want protestations of innocence from you, nor pity, either. I want only one thing from you tonight. So take off your damned shift! ”

  The violence of his words shook her, but she refused to let him cow her. Somewhere inside was the man she’d once loved. She knew it. And perhaps seeing her in the flesh would remind him of how they’d been together, and stop his attempts to torment her.

  As her shift slipped to the floor, he dragged in his breath and scoured her with his gaze, pausing at her breasts, her belly, the juncture of her thighs. She swallowed hard. If he could endure countless floggings, she could endure this. So when his eyes moved slowly back up her body, burning like blue flames as he assessed her every attraction, she made herself stand proud.

  By the time he brought his gaze back to her face, his expression had altered, softened. “Do you know how many times I survived a flogging simply by remembering you? The curve of your hips . . . the full weight of your breasts . . . the silkiness of your skin . . .” He walked up to her, then lifted his hand to run a finger down her throat, over the swell of one breast and then over her belly.

  It was such a sensual gesture, almost sweet, that for a moment she forgot how much he’d changed. For a moment, she half-believed that the old Rhys stood before her, coming to her as she’d dreamed of him doing every night for the past six years. She waited, breath held, for him to kiss her.