Lady Anne 03 - Curse of the Gypsy

by Donna Lea Simpson

She could not help feeling that she was self-indulgent and weak when she awoke to find that life had gone on without her, and much was already resolved. Lydia, even, was quiet and calm toward her when she visited her in her room, insisting on sitting with her and calmly chatting. Lydia was looking forward to her and John’s sojourn in Bath in a few weeks, she said, and hoped Anne still intended to visit Bath at the same time.

  The very thought of Bath made Anne nervous. If she decided to marry Darkefell, that visit would be a good time to tell her mother and grandmother. It was not any objection on their part she worried over, but their too enthusiastic agreement, and all that would follow. They would want to see Darkefell and fawn over him, introduce him to all the viscountess’s aged Bath society. They would insist on planning an elaborate London wedding, and all that attended such an event, breakfasts, fetes, opening the earl’s London house. It would be insupportable for such a man as Darkefell.

  Late in the afternoon, he sent a message up to her by Mary, who smiled and said, with an arch expression, that his lordship the marquess wished to see her. Anne gratefully descended to the great hall of Ivy Lodge and he strode to her, pulling her into his arms. They stood thus, neither caring if they scandalized the servants. She felt his heartbeat against her cheek, the thump sending waves of comfort through her body. I love you, she thought over and over. I love you. I want you. I’m frightened. Who was he? She still wasn’t sure she knew.

  “Will you walk with me for a while? Outside.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, grateful for his perspicacity. “I need to get out of this place for an hour. I love Lydia like a sister and she has been surprisingly sensible, but her company is wearing after a time.”

  “Let’s walk. We’ll be gone quite a while. No one will expect you back, I’ve made sure.”

  A shiver trilled down her spine at the caressing tone in his rich voice. With her shawl over her shoulders, dressed in her most comfortable gown, a simple morning gown with no pretensions to fashion, they set out a side door into the garden. Anne walked in wonder along a path, gazing at the new rockery that Lady Darkefell had just been beginning when Anne was there in April. It was already completed, clumps of ferns nestled in shady spots, and mounds of pink and mauve flowers alternated with spikes of brilliant blue. Natural Yorkshire rock provided a gray counterpoint to the tapestry of color. Though Anne didn’t know enough to identify the species, even to an untutored eye it was clear that the marchioness was an artist with flowers. It was her saving grace, Anne now knew, helping her escape the dark moods that plagued her.

  “How beautiful,” Anne said, gazing at the staggered terraces filled with species of plants she had never seen.

  “Yes,” Darkefell said, staring at her.

  She caught him looking down at her. “Now, Tony, don’t begin to lie to me,” she said, blushing, “or I shall think you a complete fraud.”

  “Anne, stop!” he said, turning her and taking her shoulders in his big hands. He shook her slightly. “Enough. You may not think you’re beautiful, the world may even agree, but you and the world are fools. My opinion differs and I can no longer hold back. You are beautiful, Anne, and my heart aches when I look at you, I love you so much. There is not a more beautiful sight in the world to me than your eyes.”

  Her heart pounded but he stopped there and let go of her, then took her arm, pulled her close to his body and strolled with her along the crushed gravel paths his mother had created. The trail wound upward, beyond the rockery and toward the wooded glade above the lodge. It was a warm day, not always the case in Yorkshire in June, and the shade was a refreshing respite from the steady beam of the sun.

  A path was cut through the glade and pine needles covered the ground so it was dry and fragrant. After some conversation, both Anne and Darkefell fell silent. He had told her all he had to tell her of his activities that day. He had ensured that all in Hornethwaite and beyond knew of Grover’s culpability in the deaths of Cecilia Wainwright and Fanny Allengate, and Spottiswode’s confession of guilt in the case of Tilly Landers. He and Julius were congratulated on the freeing of Julius from suspicion and his recovery from “death.” He and Julius had visited Richard Allengate again, repeating more clearly what they thought had happened and how they had made sure all his neighbors knew Fanny had not taken her own life. There was such relief for the young man, mingled with the sadness of his innocent sister’s fate at the hands of a monster. At least Fanny would no longer be maligned as a suicide.

  While he and Anne walked, the sun disappeared, dark clouds scudding overhead to create a ceiling of slate gray. The wind freshened and she pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders, happy she had brought it even though the day had begun so warm. Rain was coming; she could smell it on the breeze. Anne had a sense Darkefell was leading her somewhere. They came to a bend in the path and there was a small cabin she remembered from her first visit to Yorkshire. She stiffened, for she had imagined it as the spot to which he took lovers so he did not need to explain the women to his staff.

  She looked up at him.

  “I wanted to tell you, Anne,” he said, turning her in his arms. “I never did meet Tilly Landers here. I want you to know that. I thought there might be some … misunderstanding. I only ever met her in the village.”

  “Tony, don’t—” she began.

  He cut her off with a raised hand. “No, Anne, hear me out. I regret many things in my life, but I’m not perfect, never have been. I have been with women. Many women, some ladies, most not even close.”

  She colored and looked away. It was absurd to feel a tinge of jealousy over his past. Those other women had nothing to do with her, nor with what she and Darkefell did together.

  “I have been with other women,” he repeated. “But,” he said, turning her face toward him with a finger under her chin, “I have never felt as I did when I made love with you. It’s a revelation.”

  She watched his eyes and they held only truth; she had nothing to fear in his past. “I’m being foolish, Tony,” she said finally. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It doesn’t matter, even if you had been with … with poor Tilly in this cabin. That has nothing to do with us.”

  “But what happened day before yesterday does,” he said, watching her eyes.

  She shivered and reached up, touching the bruising along his jawline, the mark left by the man who would have freed Hiram Grover. “You looked like a different person, Tony, honestly. When you were beating that man, your eyes, your expression … I felt as though I’d never seen you before. Do I know you?” she asked, staring up into his eyes. “Do I know you at all? Two months, Tony. We’ve only known each other two months, and in that time we’ve been apart more than together.”

  “Many couples do not meet until just before their wedding.”

  “And can you name one of those couples that is happy, or at least happy together?”

  “I can’t promise anything, Anne. I only know I don’t want to go on without you and I would rather we are married than not.”

  She smiled at the simple truth, but then asked, staring up at him in the shadow of the cabin, “Why? Tony, why did you keep beating the man, rather than just … sending him away, or … or censuring him strongly.”

  He laughed out loud, throwing his head back. “Perhaps the ideal gentleman would have done just that, but I wanted him to remember me, to remember what happened when he crossed me.” His dark eyes flashed with remembered anger. “He’ll never cross me again.” He took in a long breath and let it out slowly, then folded her in his arms, holding her tightly. “I cannot continue like this, wanting you and not knowing if you will ever … please, Anne,” he said. “Tell me what you feel for me, honestly. I shall go mad if you don’t.”

  Her heart pounded and she leaned back and stared up into his dark eyes, but he said not another word. She glanced over at the cabin, then pulled away from him, took his hand, and led him to the door. Once there, she put her arms around him and turned her face u
p to his. He kissed her and warmth flooded her body.

  Let go, a tiny voice inside her murmured. Let go! There will never be another moment like this one. Just let go.

  She took his hand again and led him inside the cabin, closing the door behind them.

  Twenty-four

  It was as she remembered it from her one late-night viewing, a tiny one-room cabin with a table—on which a vase of fresh flowers stood—a few chairs, a fireplace and … an enormous bed. A bed that was made up with fresh linens. She paced around the room then turned to him.

  He smiled, a slight turning up of his gorgeous lips. He was so handsome it was daunting, but a stern voice in her inner heart warned her not to focus on his appearance. That wasn’t what mattered, and even now she was becoming so accustomed to his handsome face and form that what she looked for was in his eyes. It was his strength and heart that mattered, and she had fallen in love with him for his sterling character, not his beautiful face.

  She took a long trembling breath and went to him, framing his face in her hands. The faint green light that filtered through the trees and window cast a highlight that just touched his cheekbones and square jaw, one side purpled with a bruise. One stubborn stray lock of hair drooped over his broad forehead, and she swept it back, staring into his eyes. Standing on tiptoe, she touched his lips with hers, closing her eyes and feeling the muffled explosion of breath as he caught her to him, his strong arms around her, lifting her from the floor.

  Waves of yearning love shuddered through her from his body and in one movement he swung her up into his arms, holding her close, bundled to him, every part of her body connected to him. He carried her to the bed and gently put her down, shedding his jacket, twisting it into a ball and tossing it across the room, then pulling off his boots, dancing around while he worked himself out of them and tossed them aside. She chuckled at the performance. Then he crawled across the bed, pulled her into his arms and kissed her with hungry force until she gasped in protest.

  “Gently, Tony, gently!” she murmured against his mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” he said on a shaky laugh, moving slightly to rest on his elbow, stretched out beside her. “But this journey north has been torture. And then day before yesterday … I saw the fear in your eyes, the doubt. I thought I’d lost you forever and nearly went mad.” With trembling hands he undid the pins in her hair and it tumbled around her shoulders in riotous abandon.

  She sighed and chuckled, feeling a feminine gush of pleasure at his craving for her, but the smile died as he began kissing her neck and running his hand down her body. Trepidation threaded through her. As much as she had enjoyed the sexual experiences with him, it was dangerous, and she knew it. Each sexual contact with him could leave her with child, if she wasn’t already pregnant. But her thoughts hazed as his kisses became warmer and her resolution faltered. They were playing with fire.

  Playing with fire.

  Fire. She was aflame with the heat of need.

  He was kissing her again and had worked his way down from her neck to her bosom. Quickly, with fumbling fingers, he unlaced her simple gown and pushed it off her shoulders. She protested, “Tony, that is most uncomfortable, the fabric bunched up like that under my shoulders.

  “Then take it off, my lady, take it off!”

  As they made love, she gazed up at him, staring, taking in her fill of his rapturous expression, release making him younger, wilder, a more lovable version of the hard, impatient, brutal man he could often be. He relaxed and sank down on her, his full weight pushing her into the feather mattress. It was a comforting weight, that of protection and adoration and togetherness. Adrift in love, she felt the awful events of the day before fade away, to be replaced by a sensation of the world slipping into place and her life becoming what she wanted. She was loved and she knew it.

  A few hours disappeared in slumber.

  Darkefell awoke, his eyes gritty from deep sleep, the kind of restful slumber he had heard of but seldom experienced. And then he understood why he was so rested, so blissfully fulfilled. Anne was at his side: he heard her soft breathing, felt the warmth of her near-naked body. He roused and raised himself on one elbow, watching her. The angularity of her face had a pleasing symmetry he could only study while she slept. She was self-conscious when he examined her too closely, as if her appearance had any possibility of depreciating his adoration of her. His love continued to deepen until now he could not imagine a life apart from her. She must marry him, and if he had to beg, plead, she would agree. Her kindness would not withstand the appeal he was ready to lay at her feet, for she held in her hands every hope of future happiness he could ever imagine.

  As she slept he lit the fire in the fireplace, for it was beginning to get a little chilly in the cabin as the sun sank to its rest, then he washed himself thoroughly. He was glad that he had told the others at Ivy Lodge that Anne would be dining with him at the castle. No one expected her, not even her maid. This was their time and he had planned for it carefully. He had stocked the cabin with his own two hands, not trusting any wretched telltale servant. If Osei had been there, he could have trusted his secret intentions with that steadfast friend, but other than that, not a soul, not even Julius. He would not risk arch references and his twin’s often ill-timed playfulness and teasing.

  Darkefell had brought several bottles of wine, cheese, crusty bread, Greek olives, and sweets for his love. He was not anxious for her to awaken, so everything he did, he did quietly. She needed more sleep even after slumbering as long as she did through the previous night. She was far more sensitive in the heart of her than she ever let on, this he knew. She needed to be strong for her father and for her brother, but not for him. He would be strong for her.

  Naked, he stood and gazed out the window to the darkening woods, relishing the shadows and soft greenness of early evening, but relishing more the thought that he had all the time in the world to make her love him as much as he loved her. A twitch between his shoulder blades made him shrug and turn. She was staring at him. Lazily, he watched her eyes scan his body. His heart pounded and blood coursed through him at her intimate gaze. “What are you thinking?” he asked, strolling across the room to her, then standing above where she lay on her side, her head propped on one hand that was tangled in her long silky hair.

  “I don’t think I’m capable of thought this minute,” she said, her voice husky. They came together once more, making love slowly, passion spiraling deeper into their twined bodies until the thread tied them together irrevocably. At rest, finally, they lay tangled together with the sheets as the warmth of the fire bathed their naked bodies. “I love you,” he whispered against her neck. “Anne, I love you so.”

  “Are you ever going to ask me again, Tony?” she murmured against his shoulder.

  He started up, wondering if he had heard right.

  She smiled weakly, running her hands up his arms to his shoulders. “Or given that I have refused you twice, perhaps I should ask you? Tony, will you marry me?”

  His body jolted, for he had desperately seized this lovemaking, aware that as determined as he was to marry her, he had no control over her. She had been terribly shocked by the fight she had witnessed and it struck him then that she could go home and leave him forever if it was her wish. After dizzying relief flooded him, he groaned, “Leave it up to you to take that little crumb away from me, the male prerogative to ask the one necessary question.”

  “Did I do wrong?” she cried, her eyes widening and her hands gripping his shoulder muscles. “I’m sorry, Tony, but you were distracted, and I thought you may not have heard me, so I thought I may as well …”

  He closed his mouth over hers and kissed her deeply, feeling her naked flesh melded to his as if they melted together in a puddle of amorous warmth. “Yes, my lady,” he said, releasing her mouth, “I accept your proposal.”

  “Oh, good, because …”

  He kissed her again.

  “Are you going to keep shutting me up this
w—”

  He kissed her again, but then let her come up for air. “Just to sate my curiosity,” he said, gazing down at her, her tumbled dark hair spilled across the snowy pillow like dark silk ribbons, “which, if not as violently active as your own, does have its lively side, what made you decide for connubial bliss at my side?”

  Anne, feeling exposed, pulled a cover up over her and wondered if she ought to be honest. Would he be insulted or pleased? She gazed up at his dear handsome face and put her palm against his cheek, feeling the incipient bristles that had sprouted in the hours they had been in the cabin.

  Evening had come, and with it a storm. Wind rose then wailed, sweeping in a great wash of rain, howling over the cottage, battering the walls and rattling the windows. Then the rain settled in, drumming steadily on the roof, enclosing them in a cocoon of warmth in the middle of a storm. Like their life together would be. No matter what, the cocoon of their love would protect them from the storm of life. Peace stole through her and she had no desire to know what anyone else was doing, or if they missed her, or if she was wanted anywhere else. They would all manage without her for a while.

  “Well?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow and gazing at her, distracting her terribly by slipping his hand under the covers and caressing her breast, letting his hands drift down to her stomach. “You’re not answering, and I fear I must demand an answer to such an important question.”

  “Stop!” she cried, grabbing his hand. “Tony, if you really want any kind of coherent answer, you must stop.”

  “All right, but just for a moment. Tell me, then,” he said, putting his hand above the covers and watching her eyes. “Why now?”

  “It was something you said yesterday,” she admitted. She examined his eyes, the dark shading underneath, the thick fringe of lashes. “You told me that there are many people around today who will remember me forever. By marrying you and losing my name I thought I would be erasing myself from the pages of history, losing everything about myself.”