The Wyndham Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  Before she would have been silent as a tombstone. But now she giggled and bent back his thumb until he yelped.

  “You become physical again. But my thumb, Duchess? Would you like me to give you pleasure?”

  “No. Be quiet, Marcus. My head hurts.”

  He laughed. “Ah, the excuse of wives for centuries, or so my father told me. However, in your case, it just might be the truth. As I recall, my mother hit his arm when he said it. Good night, my dear.”

  “Did you go to the abbey ruins?”

  “Yes. Trevor and James were there poking around, the damned sods. Even Ursula arrived shortly to do her own poking. It was a merry family, all wanting to find anything at all and keep it from the others. I don’t like any of this, Duchess.”

  “Except for Ursula. She would run to you with anything she found. She idolizes you, both she and Fanny. You’ll grow abominably conceited with all this guileless female attention.”

  “No, I won’t accept that. Believe me, Fanny’s infatuation is quite enough. One young girl fluttering her eyelashes at my poor self is unnerving enough. And here my wife is lying in her bed unable to protect me. And now you would protect me, wouldn’t you? Or would you perceive that I was a bounder despite my innocence, and come after me with another weapon?”

  “I would try to be fair. Now, you can rest easy. Ursula is very fond of me, so she wouldn’t dream of trying to take you away from me.”

  “A relief. A right bloody relief.”

  The relief lasted for a full day and a half. She rested and mended and the lump behind her left ear disappeared. Maggie even washed her hair, removing all the oily salve Badger had made for the lump and Spears had remorselessly rubbed in three times that first day. On the second night, Marcus came into her bedchamber wearing only his dressing gown and she knew he was naked beneath it, but then again, why shouldn’t he be?

  She remembered how she’d left her bedchamber because she’d not wanted to face him. Well, she wouldn’t ever leave again. Let him do his worst. She grinned at that. Just let him try to treat her like a vessel again, a vessel that he scorned.

  “Hello, Marcus,” she called out to him. “I am quite well tonight. Do you intend to exercise your marital rights? Will you heave over me? When you’ve had enough of me will you leave again and spill yourself on my belly?” She saw him clearly in her mind’s eye, lifting himself over her, saw the intense determination on his face, saw him spilling his seed on her belly, not inside her, no, never there because he hated his uncle so much for his betrayal.

  He paused, staring at her. She’d startled him yet again. He shook his head. He doubted he would ever get used to this new side of her.

  She changed then before his eyes, now she was serious, dead serious, saying as he came to stand beside her bed, “You must have an heir, Marcus. Your pride mustn’t get in the way of providing a male child for the next generation of Wyndhams. Why don’t you just forget my father and what he did. It isn’t important. It doesn’t touch us.”

  “Oh yes, it does and it always will.” Then he smiled at her. She wouldn’t control him, no matter how her mind shifted and played and danced around him. He said easily, “Once you and your damned cohorts forced me to wed with you, you removed many of my options, Duchess. But not all. Let’s get that nightgown off you. I’m tired of waiting.”

  In that moment, something deep inside her uncoiled and began to fill her. She felt herself growing cold and colder still, all of it inside her, deep inside.

  “Very well,” she said, and all that coldness she felt was in her voice, in her eyes as she stared up at him.

  She said nothing more to him. Besides, he didn’t want to talk, he wanted his pleasure and hers as well because she’d come to realize that it gratified his male vanity to make her cry out despite herself. He was gentle and insistent at first, then his mouth was on her mouth, then on her breasts and her belly, until finally he was caressing her, pushing her to pleasure. But there wasn’t any. She lay there, and this time she did suffer him. She hadn’t realized how very empty this lovemaking could be when she was not part of it, not part of him. But there he was, isolated from her, and she saw his growing passion mix with his frustration because he couldn’t arouse her, and she didn’t care. She just lay there, her arms beside her flat on the bed. She didn’t even feel anger, just a numbness, just a waiting for him to finish.

  He stopped finally, coming up to look down at her. He’d left the candlelight so he could see her face and her body, for both pleased him, he had told her several times before, then he would speak softly to her, going into vast detail and laughing softly when she would flush at the shocking words, words surely too intimate, and then he would carry his words into action.

  This time he said nothing. And now he was looking down at her, studying her face, looking at her breasts and her belly. His face was flushed, his breath coming deep and heavy. He was swelled and ready for her. He started to speak, then shook his head at himself. Suddenly, he pulled her open to him and, lifting her in his big hands, went into her deep and hard.

  She gasped at the feel of him but he didn’t hurt her for he’d softened her, she couldn’t deny that, but still she felt him deep inside her with none of the pleasure, just his differentness, the hardness of him, and his heaving over her, and she hated it, this separateness from him. She simply waited, not moving.

  Then, just as suddenly as the first time, he pulled out of her and pressed himself against her belly.

  And when he was done, he went back onto his heels between her legs.

  She said, cold as the North Sea during winter solstice, “Are you now through with me? Ah, certainly you are. May I have a handkerchief, Marcus? I dislike your seed sprayed on me. No, don’t worry, there are no weapons for me about to take to you though you deserve to be beaten quite thoroughly. No, just give me a handkerchief and take yourself off.”

  She’d begun sounding as unemotional as a stick and he wanted to yell at her. But now she was mocking him, laughing at him, and he didn’t know what he wanted to do. She’d been utterly still beneath him. He’d wanted desperately to bring her to him but she hadn’t responded. He hated it. He looked down at his seed on her belly. So she hated his seed on her, did she? He looked to her face. She looked utterly composed, no, more than that, she looked bloody amused now, but it was cold, that amusement of hers. She looked as if she didn’t give a good damn. She looked indifferent. She could castrate him with her indifference. He hated her at that moment, hated her for being as passionate as he was before, hated her for making him as wild as a young boy, all the while lying there, thinking about nothing in particular, perhaps even wondering about characters in the novel she’d been reading that afternoon, or perhaps about Esmee, but not thinking of him, just lying there, enduring him, waiting for him to finish with her. He rocked back on his heels with rage, striking his fist on his thigh.

  “I don’t believe this. I’d rather have you shrieking at me like you did in the tack room. You lost complete control. You’ve good strong lungs. The good Lord knows I never wanted you for a wife and believe me, Duchess, I will use you only until I return to London. Then you won’t have to suffer me further.”

  He was off her bed in moments, jerked up his dressing gown and was gone from her room, slamming the adjoining door behind him.

  She rose and washed him off herself. She slowly pulled her nightgown over her head and smoothed it down. She tied the ribbons at her shoulders. When she was back in her bed, she moved to the far edge, for she fancied she could still feel the heat of him. And she was cold, for the deep rage was banked. Perhaps she should fetch one of her father’s dueling pistols from the estate room. Perhaps she should simply be prepared. She could never outguess Marcus. Yes, she would be wise to be prepared.

  The Duchess climbed over the low fence, careful not to rip her riding skirt. She looked about her, studying the details of the landscape. The Fenlow moor was off to the west, rugged and barren even in the lush warmth of summ
er. To the east was a dense copse of trees, firs and beeches, mostly. But directly in front of her were farms, spread out like richly embroidered squares, rich with growing crops under the summer sun, one after another, their boundaries stone fences or lines of carefully planted trees. There were small hillocks dotting here and there and trees and several small streams. It was a beautiful prospect, but she didn’t care. It was a puzzle. These were just pieces and she didn’t yet know which pieces fit where.

  She just wanted to find that ancient gnarled oak tree, and thus she’d walked from a different direction today. She stopped and studied the stone fences slashing gray and thick across the horizon, most of them well maintained by the farmers, but some falling into disrepair.

  She shook out her skirts and walked forward. Where the devil was that oak tree?

  She reached the ruins of St. Swale’s Abbey after a brisk twenty-minute walk. She’d been here every day now for a week and a half, looking through the rubble, searching, for what, she had no idea.

  As to who had struck her down and taken the book, she didn’t know that either. Nor did Marcus. Nor did Spears or Badger or Maggie, who refused to let her out of their collective sight. Even Mr. Crittaker and Sampson had joined their ranks. She was never alone in the house, never. Now her guard believed her to be resting as they believed her to have been resting for the past week and a half at this particular time. And that was why she was on foot. The stable lads were loyal to Marcus. Lambkin would have a fit if he saw her near the stables. If she took Birdie out, Marcus would know it within ten minutes.

  She was on her knees in what she was certain had been a monk’s cell, studying a small etched drawing low on one of the stones in the wall when suddenly from behind her, he said, furious, “What the devil are you doing here? Damn you, Duchess, you’re supposed to be resting.”

  She turned slowly, unaware that there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek and that her hair was coming down, a thick plait curling over her shoulder. “Marcus,” she said only.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking around.” She shrugged. “Come look at this etching. It’s very faint, but I can still make out the lines. This is a monk’s cell, I’m sure of that. Come on your knees and look.”

  He didn’t. He grabbed her arm and hauled her upright. “You have bloody lied to everyone, haven’t you?” He shook her. “You haven’t been the feminine little lady reclining on her bed napping, have you? No, you’ve been here, digging about and wandering around alone, damn you.” He shook her again for good measure. “Say something, anything. Shriek at me or yell. Yowl like Esmee when she’s in a snit.”

  Suddenly, she turned perfectly white. “Marcus,” she said, utterly disbelieving, “let me go. I’m going to be ill.”

  He was so surprised, he released her immediately. He watched as she fell to her knees and wretched. Soon she was dry heaving, for she hadn’t eaten much. He knelt beside her, pulling back her hair, steadying her, for she was trembling now from the effort, weak from vomiting. He felt a shaft of guilt, sharp as an arrow. “I told you that you should be resting. Look what comes of it. Damnation, you’re still ill from that blow. No wonder you didn’t yell at me, or flail at me with your shrew’s tongue, you were too busy swallowing your bile, and you failed.”

  He took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. She wiped her mouth, then crumpled it in her hand when her body shook with more heaves that left her sweating and shaky.

  He cursed even as he lifted her into his arms. He was silent as a midnight moon as he managed to mount Stanley with her in his arms. He settled her in the crook of his arm, then kicked Stanley in his fat sides. To her surprise, he didn’t ride back to the Park. Instead, after some minutes, he halted his stallion beside a slender thread of a stream bordered with thick water reeds.

  He lifted her down and eased her onto her knees. He cupped the water in his hands and let her wash out her mouth. She then swallowed some of the water, clear and so cold that it made her lips blue. The water hit her belly and nausea struck her again. She moaned, clutching her arms around herself.

  He ripped off the hem of her petticoat, wet it, and wiped her face. He carried her to the shade of a maple tree, eased down and pulled her back against him, settling her between his legs. “Hold still. Is your belly settling now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You feel weak and shaky. It’s understandable. Just lie against me and keep quiet for a while. I’m tired of your damned protestations.”

  She didn’t remember protesting anything. She closed her eyes.

  He felt her ease, heard her breathing slow and deepen. He stared over the top of her head to the stream then beyond it, realized he wasn’t seeing anything at all, and tightened his hold around her, leaning his head back against the trunk of the tree. It was warm. Bees buzzed about. He could hear larks singing.

  He heard a cow mooing in the distance. Stanley was eating water reeds not many feet away, chewing noisily. He closed his eyes. When he awoke, the sun had moved a goodly distance toward the west. He must have twitched upon awakening, for she was now awake too.

  “Don’t move. First tell me how you feel.”

  “I’m fine now, truly. Thank you for helping me, Marcus.”

  “I saw you leaving the house and I followed you. Why the devil didn’t you at least ride Birdie?”

  “The stable lads would have told you immediately. Lambkin would probably have refused to saddle her.”

  “You have done this before today?”

  “Yes, for over a week now. I want to find that oak tree with the well beneath it. It should be near the abbey, but I couldn’t find it. But it must be around here, Marcus, someplace close. I’ve been so frustrated.”

  Very slowly, he lifted her onto his thighs and turned her to face him. “Listen to me. Hasn’t it occurred to you that the person who struck you down in the library just might be interested in striking you down again?”

  “Why? The person saw that book and I was in the way. I was struck only because of the book, Marcus.”

  “You can’t possibly know that. Now, we’re going back to the Park. No, don’t try to move yourself. I’ll carry you.”

  As he walked to Stanley, who was chewing vigorously, and ignored them, he said, “Are you still having headaches as well as belly nausea?”

  “No, and I haven’t felt ill before today, I promise you. It is odd.”

  “You will climb into your bed when we get home. No, don’t stiffen up like a frightened virgin or draw in your breath to scream at me for my interference like a Milanese soprano. I have no intention of climbing into your bed beside you. I will come to you tonight though, so don’t go haring off to another bedchamber. If you do, I’ll search you out and I won’t be pleased with you. Another thing, there will be no more lying there, wishing me dead or impotent, which would be worse.”

  “Why don’t you just go back to London? To Celeste? Or you could have Lisette come to you here.”

  “Yes, I could, couldn’t I?”

  “You could try it,” she said, chin up, eyes lighting for battle, for the nausea was gone now, thank God. “I wonder if you would be so stupid.”

  His eyes glinted and he was slavering to goad her but good, saying in a drawl that could match Trevor’s, it was so slow and taunting in its slowness, “Do I take it that you are threatening me, woman? Are you saying that you would gullet me if I touch another woman?”

  “Right now I am saying that you would be very sorry if you brought one of your women here. If you touched another woman—I will think about that and let you know. I believe a man should understand his options.”

  She said not another word, but she was smiling, curse those mysterious eyes of hers. He insisted on carrying her through the entrance hall for all to see, then upstairs to her bedchamber, where he made a grand production of seeing to her care.

  21

  “I WISH YOU WOULD lose all your hair.”

  “Huh? What did you say?�
� His hold around her tightened.

  “I said,” the Duchess said sweetly, smiling at him, “that I wished you would call for a chair. Surely you’re uncomfortable just standing there like that.”

  He grinned down at her. “That wasn’t bad, but you’re no competition for Aunt Wilhelmina. Perhaps you simply haven’t any talent for well-turned rhymes.”

  “Enough talent so I didn’t starve!” She stared at him, clamping her hand over her mouth. She was a fool. It was the first time in her life he’d goaded her into unwise speech. In the past two weeks, he’d not goaded her in anything. She’d said just what she’d wanted, but now. She wanted to bite her tongue off.

  But he didn’t understand, at least he didn’t realize what she’d just let slip. “So, we’re back to the mythical man who supported you at Pipwell Cottage again.”

  “No, we’re not. But just perhaps I was lying, as all Wyndhams lie, so you’ve told me. So perhaps there was a man. What do you think, Marcus?”

  If he’d been a dog, he would have growled, but he got a hold on himself immediately, saying in that easy way of his that made her want to strike him and kiss him at the same time, “Well, I know he wasn’t your protector. If you convinced some fool to give you money with no return with your favors, who am I to cavil? No, come on now, Duchess, I wasn’t really serious.” He gave her an unrepentant grin. “Shall I undress you? Where are your nightgowns?”

  “I’ll see to her, my lord,” Maggie said, coming into the room like a queen ready to fire off her troops. “You just leave the Duchess be. Look how flushed she is. You’ve been scolding her, haven’t you, or teasing her? That can’t be good for her, though, I, like everyone else, saw you bringing her in. We all believed you to be resting, Duchess. It wasn’t well done of you to go off by yourself. That monster who struck you down just might have done it again.”