The Bargain

by Mary J. Putney

  Hastily she released him, kneading his back and shoulders as he kissed her ears and throat and mouth again and again. She could barely separate the torrent of sensations, until the heat in her loins became an annihilating fire. Nothing existed but the touch of his knowing fingers and the fever of her response. She was falling, falling . . .

  She bit into his shoulder, shuddering as convulsions racked her body. She would have been terrified, except for the secure haven of his embrace, and his richly satisfied whisper, “Yes. Yes. . . .”

  She clung to him, shaking, until she could say dizzily, “So this is the lesson in passion you wanted me to learn.”

  “Oh, my dear girl, it’s only the first step in an endless exploration.” He moved between her slack legs, positioning himself at the entrance to her body.

  She tensed, wary of invasion, but he was in no hurry, tracing her lips with his tongue, drawing her into another kiss, as if they had all the time in the world. She relaxed and soon desire began flowing through her again. She moved her hips against him in a shy invitation. Pressure and friction created new sensations, aching emptiness and a yearning for completion.

  As their tongues twined in an erotic dance, his hand came between them, finding a place of such exquisite sensitivity that her breath caught in her throat. Coiled heat formed around his touch, spiraling tighter and tighter, a promise of madness, but whenever she approached the cliff she had plunged off before, his hand became still, until she thought that desire would consume her very bones.

  When she could bear it no longer, she choked out, “What . . . what now, my lord?” as she instinctively arched her hips upward in wordless demand.

  He met her movement with a powerful thrust, sliding deep within her. There was a moment of sharp discomfort, which gradually faded as she felt the heated throbbing where they were joined. This was the closeness she had yearned for, the archetypal fusion of male and female that was the ancient ritual of the night.

  She rocked against him. He began to move, slowly at first, then faster, until his frayed control abruptly shattered.

  “Oh, God, Jocelyn . . .” With a groan, he buried his face in the angle of her throat, spilling himself into her. She cried out his name, ravished by a passion beyond anything she had ever imagined, yet which carried a core of gentleness and caring that made her want to weep with gratitude.

  Scoured by emotions beyond her ken, she might have wept, but he cradled her exhausted body against his, smoothing her hair tenderly, as if she was the most precious creature in the world. Soon he slept, but she lay drowsily awake, wishing that the morning would never come. For these few hours, her mind was beyond questions and doubts, and she feared that such peace might never come again.

  He woke after moonset and rolled onto his back, bringing her with him so that she sprawled along the length of his body, as at the picnic in the orchard. But this time they lay skin to skin, with nothing to separate them. Sensual strokes and languid sighs led to slow, profoundly satisfying lovemaking as she set the rhythm of their joining.

  Finally, her head cradled on David’s shoulder, Jocelyn slept with the utter exhaustion of a child.

  David awoke very early. The room was shadowy in the half-light, and outside the birds sang their dawn chorus. He felt an absurd desire to join them from his own sense of exhilaration. Jocelyn lay curled under his arm, looking more like a girl of seventeen than a worldly woman of twenty-five.

  He kissed her lightly on the forehead, and she turned against him with a soft exhalation. She looked delectable with her auburn hair spread around her, but also hauntingly vulnerable.

  He resisted the temptation to wake her. Despite the magic of the night just past, he suspected that by daylight she would feel a certain awkwardness. It would take time for the cool, collected lady to fully accept the passionate moon maiden who was her secret self. It was just as well that he had to go to Hereford for the Assizes. His absence would give Jocelyn time to adjust to the change in their relationship, perhaps to start planning for their life together.

  He slipped quietly out of the bed, tenderly pulling the covers around her shoulders. She was still sleeping soundly, so he restricted himself to the lightest of kisses before returning to his own room and dressing for the day.

  After leaving a message for her to find upon waking, he set off for Hereford, impatient for the long hours to pass until he could see her again.

  Jocelyn awoke slowly, her body a combination of delicious languor and unexpected soreness. Her cheek felt raw, as if it had been scraped by something bristly. Absently she touched it, and memory flooded through her. David’s face against hers, his urgent words in her ear. Passion, submission, and fulfillment beyond her most vivid imaginings.

  She turned her head and discovered that she was alone in the bed. Shakily she sat up. The left pillow still showed the impression of David’s head, and on it lay a red rose, its stem wrapped with a note. The flower had been plucked at the perfect moment, the petals just beginning to open and a few droplets of dew lying jewel-like against the deep crimson surface. Red for passion. She hesitated before picking it up, warned by deep instinct the message it contained would change the world irrevocably.

  But the world had already changed. After inhaling the delicate fragrance of the rose, she unwrapped the note.

  Jocelyn—To my infinite regret, I must go to Hereford for the Assizes, and will not see you until evening. I love you. David.

  She stared at the note and felt her heart crack into aching pieces. The pain started as small, slow fractures, then splintered in all directions, shattering along the fault lines of terror and loneliness that riddled her spirit.

  Grief overwhelmed her. Shaking with sobs, she buried her face in her hands, the rose clenched desperately in her right fist. She had wanted friendship and passion, not the searing agony of love. Unable to resist, she had played with fire, and now she burned.

  How could she have been fool enough to think that devastation could be avoided? She had destroyed herself, and grievously injured David in the process.

  He couldn’t love her, because he didn’t truly know her. In the white hot clarity of the marriage bed, where nothing could be concealed, he would swiftly see her flaws. When he did, the illusion of love would vanish, replaced by indifference or worse.

  And that she could not bear. She had already fallen into the abyss. Now she must leave, before the final annihilation that would inevitably come.

  She was numbly plotting her flight when Marie entered with her morning tray. “Good morning, milady. It is another fine day.”

  Her cheerfulness vanished when she saw her mistress clearly. “Milady! What is wrong?” Setting the tray on a table, she retrieved the blue silk wrapper from the floor and draped it around Jocelyn’s bare shoulders.

  Jocelyn stared at the spreading scarlet stains on the white sheet, where bright drops of blood were dripping from her thorn-pierced hand. The stem of the rose had snapped in her spasm of misery.

  Becoming aware of the pain helped clear her mind. Shakily she said, “We must leave this morning to return to London.”

  The maid frowned. “But Lord Presteyne will be in Hereford all day.”

  “He is not coming with us. Tell my coachman to prepare the carriage, then pack my things. I want to be gone by midmorning.”

  Marie bit her lip, her astute gaze interpreting the room’s dishevelment. “Milady, are you sure? If there has been some quarrel, would it not be better to wait and discuss it with his lordship?”

  On the verge of breaking, Jocelyn said flatly, “Do as I say.”

  Her tone silenced the maid’s protests. Eyes wide and worried, Marie left to inform the coachman of their imminent departure.

  Thinking of all that must be done, Jocelyn climbed from the bed and tied the wrapper around her waist, then carried her cup of chocolate to the desk. The warmth cleared her mind a little. Fighting a new bout of tears, she started to compose a note to David.

  There would be time
enough for desolation on the journey home.

  Chapter 31

  Within the hour, they were ready to leave. Jocelyn took a last survey of the room. Though she had been here only a brief time, the knowledge that she would never return made her profoundly sad.

  Her musings were interrupted by Marie. “Lady Jocelyn, about Hugh Morgan.”

  Jocelyn turned and saw anxiety on the maid’s face. “Yes?”

  “Does Hugh work for you, or for Lord Presteyne?”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” She frowned. Though she paid the young man’s salary, he was David’s personal servant. “Ask him to come here.”

  When Marie returned with her sweetheart, Jocelyn said, “Morgan, since you are Lord Presteyne’s valet, it seems appropriate for you to continue in his service. He has been very pleased with your work, and I imagine he will wish to retain you.”

  She pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to guess how David would react to her departure. “If Lord Presteyne decides to dismiss you because of your . . . your past association with me, you may return to my household. The same is true for your brother, Rhys, if he prefers to work for me rather than here at Westholme.”

  Hugh stared at Jocelyn, his open face agonized. “Lady Jocelyn, has his lordship hurt you in some way? If he has . . .”

  He looked so protective that Jocelyn had to swallow a lump in her throat before she could reply. “On the contrary, it is I who have injured him.”

  Face set, she walked from the room, leaving Marie and Hugh staring after her.

  The Welshman asked, “What has happened, lass? Her ladyship looks like the devil himself has walked on her grave.”

  “I don’t know,” Marie said miserably. “Yesterday she and his lordship were smelling of April and May, then this morning she was crying fit to break your heart, and we must leave immediately.”

  Hugh enveloped her in his embrace. “Good-bye, sweetheart. If I know Lord Presteyne, we’ll be following you to London as soon as he gets home.”

  “I don’t want to leave you,” Marie cried, tears bright in her eyes. “Let me stay, or you come with us to London. You can be milady’s footman again.”

  “Nay, lass, you saw her face. For now, my lady needs you, and I think my lord will be needing me.” He kissed her hard, already missing her. “We’ll be together again soon, I swear it.”

  With an agonized last glance over her shoulder, Marie took her mistress’s jewel case and left the room. Hugh found a window where he could watch the two women climb into the waiting carriage, assisted by the unhappy butler.

  And then they were gone.

  It was late afternoon when David returned home, impatiently pushing the front door open without waiting for a servant. As he entered the hall, Stretton approached, expression lugubrious. David removed his hat and flipped it to the butler. “Where is Lady Presteyne? In the attics again?”

  Looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else, Stretton replied, “Her ladyship left for London this morning, my lord.”

  Uncomprehending, David repeated, “She left?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  She must have received an urgent message from a relative. A life or death matter. Yet a premonition of disaster was already knotting his belly when he said, “I presume she left a letter for me?”

  “Yes, my lord.” The butler handed him a sealed note.

  He ripped it open and read: David—I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. It is best we not see each other again. Jocelyn.

  The words struck with the impact of musket balls. He reread the note twice, trying to make sense of it, but there was nothing more to be learned. There was . . . nothing.

  He shoved past the butler and climbed the stairs three at a time. Surely this must be some bizarre joke.

  Throwing open the door to her chamber, he saw that it had been stripped of all traces of its recent occupant. The elegant clutter of perfumes and brushes was gone from the dressing table, leaving only a lingering scent of jasmine.

  Disbelievingly he touched the bare mattress, as if to find some warmth left from the night before, but there was no remnant of the joy they had shared. The joy he thought they had shared.

  He scanned the room. The only sign of occupancy was a crumpled ball of paper in the cold fireplace. He picked it up, hoping it might be a preliminary good-bye note that would say more than the one she had left with Stretton.

  He almost discarded the letter when he saw that it wasn’t in her hand, then read through when he saw it was from Lady Cromarty. Damnation. What did it mean that the countess was threatening Jocelyn?

  Ice formed in the pit of his belly and spread through his body as different possibilities flashed through his mind. Had Jocelyn decided that she didn’t want the annulment after all, since it would make her vulnerable to her aunt’s extortion? Freeing herself of her virginity may have been done to undercut Lady Cromarty’s case.

  Or—God help him—she might have decided that she was ready to go to her duke and didn’t want to do so as a virgin. Who better to relieve her of an unwanted maidenhead than a willing, temporary husband? He had cooperated with alacrity. She had been an apt pupil, and could now offer herself as a woman of the world.

  Yet it was hard to reconcile such cold-bloodedness with his image of Jocelyn, her warmth and honesty. Had she thought he would gladly bed her for the moment’s pleasure, with no emotions involved, then been dismayed by his declaration of love?

  Perhaps he had been wrong to think there was warmth and vulnerability beneath her ladyship’s highly polished exterior. She had grown up in a different world than his, where lords and ladies behaved in ways incomprehensible to common people.

  He crushed the letter in his hand. Traditionally men were blamed for using and abandoning women, while in this case the reverse appeared to be true. It was an irony he didn’t appreciate.

  His thoughts ground to a halt when he realized that he had no idea if he was making sense. The only incontestable facts were the note saying she didn’t want to see him again, and the letter from her aunt that turned an act of love into a handful of ashes.

  He was staring blindly out the window when Morgan entered the room and said hesitantly, “My lord, I want to talk to you about Lady Jocelyn.”

  “There isn’t much to talk about.” David swallowed, struggling to put a calm public face on what had happened. “It was . . . kind of her to come and help organize my household here.”

  Refusing to accept dismissal, Morgan said, “Marie told me that this morning her ladyship was crying as if her heart would break. When I asked my lady if you had wronged her, she said that on the contrary, she had injured you.”

  Seeing his master’s expression, Hugh flushed. “I meant no disloyalty to you, my lord, but she will always have my first allegiance, for what she did for my brother.”

  Reminded of Rhys, David wondered if a woman who had rescued a depressed, crippled soldier purely from the kindness of her heart could really be a callous seducer. Frowning, he tried to fit this new data with the other facts of Jocelyn’s departure. She hadn’t been distraught the night before, he was willing to swear to that. Unless she could lie with both words and body, she had come to him from desire, and experienced rapturous pleasure.

  Might she be angry with him for consummating their marriage? Too much champagne might have clouded her judgment and left her blaming him for what had happened. Which would be damned unfair considering how often he’d asked her if she was sure, and in his experience his wife had always been fair.

  Speculation was useless, he realized; Jocelyn’s behavior was unlikely to be caused by anything obvious. Despite her calm, apparently confident exterior, he had known that she was wary of the very concept of love. Somewhere deep inside her she carried scars that had been broken open by the vulnerability of passion and his declaration of love.

  His confused thoughts were interrupted by Hugh’s determined voice. “Marie says Lady Jocelyn is in love with you. Everyone in the house
could see it.”

  In love with him? David’s paralysis broke. He must have been mad to consider abiding by Jocelyn’s brief, senseless note. The only way he would let her go was if she would look him in the eye and swear she didn’t want him.

  Striding to the door, he ordered, “Throw a few of my things in a bag. I’m leaving for London immediately.”

  “I’ll go, too, my lord,” the valet said with determination. “I promised Marie I would come to her as soon as I could.”

  Envious of a relationship that was so much more straightforward than his own misbegotten marriage, David said, “Then we shall have to bring both of them home.”

  Chapter 32

  Jocelyn returned to London as fast as a good coach and hired horses could take her. Throughout the long journey, she studied the gold wedding ring David had placed on her hand, and bleakly thought about her past. Many men had claimed to love her, and she had easily dismissed their declarations as youthful infatuation or fortune hunting.

  Yet David had been able to reduce her to cinders with a handful of words. He had insinuated himself into her life with his courage and kindness and laughter. Thinking that another woman had his heart, she had allowed herself to come too close, and now she was paying the price.

  They reached London late in the afternoon of the second day. By then, Jocelyn was exhausted by the thoughts that jolted around her head in rhythm with the pounding hooves of the horses. One bitter conclusion was unavoidable: the pain of the present was rooted in the unbearable past that she had always refused to acknowledge.

  The time had come to face that past, no matter what it cost her. She might be flawed beyond redemption, but she should not be a coward as well. Tonight she would sleep in London, and tomorrow she would go on to Kent to find Lady Laura, the only person who could answer her questions.

  As she entered the foyer of her home, she scanned the familiar grandeur. Grand, but so incredibly empty. What was one lone woman doing with so much space?