The Bridegroom

by Joan Johnston

  The last thing Clay wanted was to be in an enclosed space with his wife, who was looking more desirable every day he was denied her bed. He suspected, from the way she kept her distance, that she felt the same tension in his presence that he felt in hers. “Is it really necessary for me to be there with you?”

  “I would appreciate having your opinion,” she said.

  Their eyes met, and she quickly looked away. Yes. She felt it, too. “Very well,” he said. “I—”

  He was interrupted by the nearly deaf butler, Simms, who entered the dining room, came to rigid attention, and shouted, “She’s hanging, milady. In the library.”

  Clay leapt to his feet. “Who’s hanging?”

  “Banging? Yes, milord. A great deal of it, trying to get her up there,” Simms shouted.

  “Bloody hell! I said, who’s hanging—” Clay cut himself off. By the time he got a word of sense from the senile old man, whoever was hanging in the library would be dead. He raced from the dining room and sprinted down the hall to the library, his coattails flying, leaving stunned and slack-jawed servants in his wake.

  “Clay! Wait!” Reggie cried as she ran after him.

  Clay slammed open the library door and stood stunned at what he found. A grotesque-faced man—the servant who had been scarred by fire—was balanced on a ladder near the fireplace. But there was no noose around his neck. Nor was there anyone else in the room in imminent peril.

  “What the devil are you doing up there?” Clay demanded, his heart still hammering in his chest.

  “Hanging the lady’s portrait,” the man replied in a painfully raspy voice. The burned man leaned away, and for the first time, Clay saw the gold-framed painting beyond the ladder.

  “I found it in the attic,” Reggie said as she stepped into the room beside him. “One of the maids said it was your mother. I thought you might like to have it hung in here. I’m sorry if Simms—”

  “I had forgotten how beautiful she was,” he said, staring at the painting.

  The woman in the portrait had large, dark eyes and black hair that she had obviously passed on to her son. It was equally clear that Clay could only have inherited his sharp nose and square chin from his father.

  The scarred man tipped the portrait one more time, until it was precisely square with the ceiling, then made his way awkwardly down the ladder.

  “Thank you, Terrence,” Reggie said. “You can come back later to remove the ladder.”

  “Very well, milady,” Terrence said in his raspy voice.

  Clay struggled not to wince when the disfigured servant turned to make his bow. He knew from his experiences with fire as a pirate that Terrence was lucky to have survived such severe burns, but he did not envy the man a lifetime of horrified looks and hidden revulsion.

  Once the servant was gone, Reggie said, “I found a portrait of you and your brother as well. Is there someplace you would like me to hang it?”

  “Hang it anywhere you like,” he said. He could not afford to care. This was not a home. It was a hovel.

  He glanced around the library and realized the description no longer fit. The leather books had all been wiped with a clove-scented oil to kill the mildew. The fireplace was cleaned of soot, and a new leg had been fashioned for the sofa. The mahogany secretaire had been polished to a glossy shine, and a selection of his father’s pipes stood in a wooden stand on one corner, while an inkwell and quill pen occupied the other.

  He could almost imagine himself sitting there, quill in hand, the French doors open wide, the smell of his pipe smoke at war with the delicious scent of roses wafting inside.

  Something was missing from the picture, and his imagination conjured the sound of children laughing. On the lawn beyond the rose garden he could almost see Reggie cavorting with twin, black-headed boys.

  “Shall we return to the dining room and finish our breakfasts?” Reggie asked.

  Clay was shocked out of his reverie. To accept the fantasy was to deny the pain of the past. He would never live in this house. And any child he and Reggie had together would not know his mother.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said brusquely.

  “Shall we go up to the attic, then?”

  “You go,” Clay said. “I will meet you later.” He was no longer so anxious to unearth the memories of the past. They were far more poignant, more powerful, than he had ever imagined. “I have some estate business that must be handled first.”

  She hesitated, started to say something, then stopped herself, before she finally turned and left him alone.

  Clay crossed to close the library door behind her, but paused when he encountered the burned man waiting just outside the door.

  “May I collect the ladder, milord?” he rasped.

  Clay realized it would only take a moment and stepped back to allow the scarred servant to enter. The ladder was tall enough to be awkward for one man to handle alone, and Clay reached out to help angle it from a vertical to a horizontal position.

  “Thank you, milord,” Terrence said. “Your mother would be proud to see the improvements you are making to the castle.”

  Clay started. “You knew my mother?” Clay believed he would have remembered a servant as scarred as this one was.

  “It was a long time ago, and my circumstances were not what they are now.”

  Clay wondered what disaster had befallen the man. He started to ask, but realized it was none of his business. “Can you manage?” he asked as Terrence headed for the door, ladder in hand.

  “Yes, thank you, milord,” the servant said as he carried the ladder out the door and headed down the hall.

  Clay sat at his desk and tried to work, but his gaze kept returning to the portrait of his mother over the fireplace. He almost believed he could smell the lavender water she had used. He could hear her burbling laughter as his father teased her about the youthful bows she insisted on wearing in her hair.

  What else from his past life was left in the attic? he wondered. A sudden, urgent curiosity propelled Clay from the room and up the stairs to the attic. The cramped space was frigidly cold, and the rain drummed loudly on the slate roof, drowning out the rest of the world.

  He was surprised to find Reggie alone, bent over an open trunk, her hair bound in a scarf like the most menial servant, her long-sleeved gray wool dress covered with an apron that gave evidence of the amount of dirt she had encountered that morning.

  “We have an army of servants,” he said. “Where are they?”

  She jerked upright, her hand to her heart. “You frightened me, my lord.”

  He weaved his way over to her through a maze of boxes, trunks, and furniture. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I imagine they are having their luncheon.”

  He raised a brow. “And you are not hungry?”

  She smiled. “I was enjoying myself too much to quit.”

  “What has you so intrigued that you’re willing to give up Cook’s blackberry tarts?”

  She closed the trunk lid and stepped in front of it. “Nothing that would interest you.”

  “Let me see.”

  Reluctantly, she stepped aside.

  He lifted the lid and barely suppressed a gasp. The trunk was filled with baby clothes, with rattles and teething rings and toys. He shot her a questioning look. To beget children, they would have to couple. Was she ready to ask him to come back to her bed? He was willing, his eyes said, whenever she was.

  He could feel her need as palpably as his own, but he felt certain that if he reached for her now, she would keep her promise to resist him. So instead, he bent down and picked up an embroidered, lace-trimmed satin gown so tiny across the shoulders that it was barely wider than his hand. “Are babies really this small?” he asked.

  “My niece was,” she replied. “Though Lily has grown so big in three years, it is hard to remember she was ever so tiny.” She took the gown from him and held it by the shoulders. “I believe this was your christening gown.”

/>   “I wore that?” Clay asked incredulously.

  Reggie laughed as she held the gown up close to his chest, measuring the difference in the child and the man. “You have grown a little since then, my lord.”

  Their eyes caught again. And held again.

  “I want a child, Clay,” she said at last. “But you can see it would be wrong to bring any child into a household where its parents were at war.”

  “My war is not with you.” He tugged the christening gown from her hand and dropped it back into the open trunk. Then his arm circled her waist, and he drew her close and lowered his mouth to cover hers.

  He had not expected to feel so much. He had not expected to need so much. He had not expected her hands to clasp so ardently around his neck or her body to cleave so closely to his own. His arms tightened around her, holding her as though he would never let her go.

  He tasted the flesh beneath her ear, then bit her earlobe. She made a coarse sound deep in her throat that caused his body to draw up tight in anticipation. He wanted to feel the shape of her and slid his hands from her waist up along her ribs to cup her soft breasts, which filled his palms to overflowing.

  He felt her stiffen, felt the beginning of resistance, and whispered, “Let me love you, Reggie.”

  She took a gasping breath as his thumbs found her nipples beneath the wool. Her hands grasped his wrists, but she did not push him away. Her blue eyes looked dazed as she searched his face for further explanation of the words he had uttered.

  He did not give her time to think. His mouth found hers, and he kissed her deeply, hungrily, thoroughly. There was not a part of her mouth he did not taste with his tongue. He nibbled at her lips until they were swollen and then sought other pleasures, sucking hard on the flesh at her throat in response to the raw, feral sounds she made to urge him on.

  Her dress had a high, square neck that left only the base of her throat exposed to his kisses. It was not enough. He tore his hands from her breasts in order to unbutton the dress enough to pull it down off her shoulders, leaving her wearing a simple cotton chemise.

  He paused to stare at what he had. Her breasts were full and high, and the dark rose nipples had visibly peaked beneath the fabric. He lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth, sucking on it through the cotton.

  He felt her fingernails digging into his shoulders, felt his body clench and swell and harden at the sound of her moans as she clutched at his hair and kissed any part of him she could reach. At last she tugged his head away and sought out his mouth with her own. His tongue thrust deep, and he pressed his hips against hers, mimicking the action of his mouth.

  Something cold and hard hit the bridge of his nose.

  He jerked backward and reached up to see what it was. His fingers came away wet.

  “Clay … What …?” Reggie said breathlessly.

  A drop of icy rainwater plopped on her cheek. It might as well have been a bucket of cold water. Her eyes shot open in alarm, and she took a startled step backward.

  She stared at him as though he were a perfect stranger, and he had no doubt he had the look of someone dark and dangerous. Her eyes followed the direction of his, until she focused on the wet stain where he had suckled her, which revealed her rosy nipple through the white cotton.

  He watched the myriad emotions—need, shame, then need again, before shame won out, and she grabbed frantically at her dress and pulled it up over her shoulders, in a vain attempt to recover some shred of composure. She scrabbled awkwardly to redo the buttons, but she was too distressed to make much headway.

  He did not ask permission to help her. She would not have given it. He merely grasped her shoulders, turned her around, and finished buttoning the dress.

  When he dropped his hands, she turned slowly to face him, her color high, her eyes wary. “You should not expect a repeat of this lapse,” she said, her chin angled so high he thought it might strain her neck. “I was caught off guard by—”

  A plop of rainwater landed on her cheek, cutting her off.

  Clay looked up. Another drop hit him right in the eye. He swore as the drop became a deluge. Squinting at Reggie, he asked, “Have you got a bucket?”

  “What?”

  “A bucket? Do you have one?”

  She seemed to welcome the chance to put some distance between them. “I saw one here somewhere.” She hurried from trunk to trunk lifting lids and slamming them with a bang, before she pulled out what looked like a child’s tin sand pail, painted with a picture of a blue and yellow sailboat.

  “That’s it?” he asked when she handed it to him.

  “You’re welcome to look for yourself, if you think you can do better,” she retorted.

  Clay decided he was better off accepting what she’d brought him. He gauged where the drips were landing and set the pail on the wooden floor. Each drop made a tinny sound as it hit the metal pail, but he could see the floor was still getting wet. He leaned over to adjust the pail slightly. When he stood again, he realized Reggie had stepped back completely beyond his reach.

  “Am I so fearsome?” he asked with a smile he hoped would both allay her suspicion and cloak his disappointment.

  A breath shuddered out of her, and he knew she had not yet recovered from their recent encounter any more than he had. His blood still thrummed. His heart still hammered. He still wanted her more fiercely than it was decent for a husband to want his own wife.

  But despite her arousal, he could see in her eyes that she no longer welcomed his advances. If he pursued her further, he would have to force her. And this time she would fight, despite the fact she was obviously still as choked with desire as he was. If he chose to take her now, he might regret it forever.

  “What happened was a mistake in judgment,” she said, inserting reason where emotion was too dangerous to indulge. And then reason fell away, and she pleaded, “I need more time, Clay. We need more time.”

  “For what?” he said.

  “To find our way.”

  “I chose my direction a long time ago,” he said. His course was set, and there was no turning aside. Not for anyone. Most especially not for her. “I won’t change my mind, Reggie. And I won’t back down.”

  Her eyes looked sad as she replied, “Neither will I.”

  Chapter 15

  Becky stood at the open door to the library at Blackthorne Hall, quiet as a mouse, and peered inside. Her father sat hunched over his desk, studying the document before him. His head rested on his palm, while he pensively brushed the feather of a quill pen against his pursed lips.

  She could remember a time when Papa would have sat ramrod straight in his chair, when he would have greeted her with cold eyes and a stern voice, when something as human as a hug would have been unthinkable. Thankfully, those days were long past. Papa had come to Scotland and found her stepmother Kitt, and Kitt had taught him how to love.

  “Papa?”

  He sat up and looked at her with surprise. “Becky! What are you doing here?”

  Before she could answer, he had crossed the entire distance of the room and grabbed her up in a tight hug. “I’ve missed you,” he said in a gruff voice.

  She clung to his neck, feeling the sting in her nose, feeling the tears pool in her eyes until they blurred, and she could no longer see the wall of books behind him. When he tried to step back, she held on, until she felt his arms once more tighten around her.

  “What’s wrong?” he murmured in her ear. “How can I help?”

  “Oh, Papa,” she wailed. “Oh, Papa, everything is wrong. And no one can help!”

  A moment later she found herself sitting in her father’s lap like a child, her hands still grasping his neck, her face hidden against his throat. He had retreated to the sofa near the fireplace and sat holding her, saying nothing, waiting for her to speak.

  Becky was grateful for the warmth of both the fire and her father’s greeting in light of the chill inside and out that had plagued her the whole trip north. She could hea
r the steady beat of her father’s heart, or thought she could. “I have tried to be as strong as Reggie, Papa, truly I have,” she said. “But I am not.”

  “No one expects you to be like Reggie,” her father said. “You have your own strengths, Becky.”

  Becky lifted her tear-streaked face from his shoulder and said, “Name one, Papa.”

  “There is not a gentler soul in all of England and Scotland combined,” her father replied. “You have the patience of Job, and the cleverness of Machiavelli, without any of his cruel intent.”

  “What good is all of that, when I am a coward?” Becky asked.

  Her father tenderly brushed a stray curl from her forehead. “You don’t lack courage, my girl. It took courage to come here and confess you are in trouble. Will you tell me what is wrong?”

  Becky laughed through her tears. “I love you, Papa. No one but you could make my hasty retreat from London, like some hound with its tail between its legs, sound like a courageous act.”

  “You still have not told me what calamity has sent you haring off to Scotland.”

  She could feel the tension in his legs beneath her thighs, in his shoulders beneath her hands. More difficult to bear were the questions she saw in his worried gray eyes. Her throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow, making it impossible to speak. Stifling a sob, she laid her head back on his shoulder, clasped her hands around his neck, and begged, silently, for a little more time. Soon enough she would have to tell him the awful truth.

  Though she was ultimately grateful to be free of an oppressive marriage, Penrith’s rejection had left her feeling savaged, like some poor beast torn to pieces by hungry winter wolves. And because she was essentially a peaceful person, she had no experience dealing with the suddenly unbottled rage that threatened to erupt and spill over onto everyone around her.

  But her father had never been a patient man. “Are you ill?” he asked, when she did not speak.

  She shook her head.

  “Is something wrong with Lily?”

  “No,” she croaked.

  “Has some disaster befallen Penrith?”