Speak Only Love

by Deana James

  The "grooms" climbed clumsily into their saddles, and they set off at an amble down the drive. At the gate Vivian's horse stopped dead and would not move until the weasel-faced man came up behind it and gave it such a cut that it whickered and actually trotted forward. When she tried to haul its head to the right, it proved to be iron-mouthed.

  She almost turned it back and abandoned the idea of the ride, but the wind hit her face, carrying with it the salt of the sea. She lifted her chin and kept on going.

  Out in the lane, the punch felt itself on familiar ground and moved along at a trot that jarred every bone in her body. With a sigh she pulled it back to a sedate walk. When she returned home, she wondered whom she might approach with the problem of a suitable mount. Surely these were not the only horses in the Larnaervon stable. If so, then the first order of business would be to send men to bring several mounts from her own stable at Stone Glenn. Provided that Sebastian had not sold them off. At the thought of her guardian, her stomach clenched. Where would she be now if not for the earl and her husband? Locked up somewhere, she did not doubt.

  Suddenly, the wind switched around to the north. The sun paled, fighting a battle with the lowering clouds. Tears, not alone from its icy blast, started on her cheeks. Angrily, she wiped them away with her gloved hand. Even if she returned chilled to the bone, the ride was a necessity for her. Without the oppor­tunity to get out of the house for a few minutes each day, what matter whether she was locked up by Dawlish or by Larne? Without some freedom, she would surely go mad.

  The pounding sea began to call to her. She had not realized how close it was until she rounded a headland and saw it stretched before her. Her breath sighed softly out of her throat. It was so beautiful. So free and wild. Gray and white, the water foamed icily up the white sand and disappeared into an inlet. Awesome granite boulders guarded its entrance. Against them the waves shattered and sprayed high into the gray sky.

  "It be fearsome cold," the groom called behind her.

  She shot him a disgusted look and turned the punch off the lane and down a trail that meandered to the beach.

  While the men shivered and huddled over their saddles, casting her evil looks, she led them up and down the beach. Only when her cheeks were red as fire and her hands were stiff in her gloves, did she turn the punch back up the trail in the direction of her new home.

  Built within the foundations of an ancient Roman wall, the house had been added to by successions of occupants until it reached its present size. Against the burnished blue of the sky, it stood bleak and gray. To her unhappy eyes, it seemed to glower down on her.

  Halfway up the trail, she pulled the mount to blow while she studied the house. The portion that faced the sea must be very old. Only a few narrow windows dotted its sides. For defense? In ancient times had men stood at those slits and fired arrows through them at invaders?

  No portion of the rest of the house-not the gate, not the drive, not the wings with their gracious windows- could be seen. Every stick and stone of it hid behind the thick gray wall. No one approaching from the sea would see the hospitable home, only the forbidding shield of granite. A defense in itself.

  Turning her face toward the roiling waves, she tried to imagine those invading vessels seeing this sight and passing on by in search of easier pickings.

  As the men behind her grumbled unintelligibly, she sucked the harsh air into her lungs. The wind blew against her reddened cheeks and brought more tears to her eyes. From here she could see inside the inlet where white froth poured like milk up to the white sand beach.

  Gray gulls turned and circled and trailed each other in mewing turns. One dived into the choppy waves and rose with shining silver in its beak. Shrieking in envy, the others swirled around him. From high behind Vivian's head, a blue-gray streak plummeted down into their midst, striking one with deadly force. The gull collapsed in a burst of feathers. A seahawk flapped its wings to gain speed, veered away, and skimmed behind the rocks of the inlet, its prey clutched in its talons.

  Vivian shuddered. The cold pierced her bones, and her heart shivered within her at the brute nature of the bird of prey. She was in the process of gathering her reins and hauling the gray's heavy head up when alien movement caught her eye at the edge of the inlet.

  Barrels floated and sloshed in the ceaselessly moving water. Only partially visible, in the wash of the waves, they were covered by white foam a moment later. She rose in her stirrups, her eyes searching. Had there been a shipwreck? No other debris appeared along the beach stretching around the side of the inlet.

  A hard hand grasped her bridle and pulled her mount's head around.

  "We'd best be going, milady." The groom with the weasel face firmly tugged her reins from her hand and led her horse up the road.

  The presumption of the man made her furiously angry. High spots of color stood out on her wind-reddened cheeks. Someday she would be mistress here in full, she vowed silently. The other man spurred his mount on ahead, and the weasel-faced one dragged her mount ignominiously behind him, letting her trail along like a dull child whose mount had to be controlled on a leading rein.

  At the steps of the house the party halted. When the groom strolled back to assist her from her saddle, her eyes spoke volumes as they blazed at him.

  He gave her a cheeky grin and bowed before lifting his hands to her waist to bring her down. "Them that don't see, can't be answering questions, milady."

  Still furiously angry, she swept into the house as the butler opened the door.

  The brisk wind of the morning combined with the poor food of the evening before had given her a ravenous appetite. With the butler in attendance she strode to the morning room and seated herself at the small table.

  "What will you have, milady?" the butler inquired solicitously.

  Drawing her pad and pencil from her jacket pocket, Vivian wrote his name Millard and her request in her firm hand. The butler did not even raise an eyebrow. Evidently, Addie had told her story below stairs. Taking her note in his hand, he positioned it for better light and read it quickly. Then allowing himself a small smile and nod, he folded it carefully.

  "Very good, milady."

  As he turned away, Vivian struck her glass with her knife.

  "Will there be something else?"

  She wrote again and handed him a second note. Did his eyes widen a fraction? She could not be sure. All she was certain of was a grave nod.

  When the butler had bowed his way out, Vivian was left alone with her own thoughts.

  A crystal pitcher of water stood on a tray on the sideboard. Rising, she poured herself a glass and drank it thirstily. As she returned to her chair, Mrs. Felders came stiffly into the room carrying the two notes in her hand.

  "You sent for me, milady?" she inquired with cold politeness.

  Nodding, Vivian picked up her pencil. With a look of grim determination, she wrote the word "Menus."

  The woman drew herself up haughtily. "Lord Larnaervon has approved of my meal selections for many years, milady. We serve his favorite foods."

  Vivian frowned, her pencil poised above the paper. At that moment the butler entered with a tray. While he served the breakfast, Mrs. Felders waited, pursing her lips. Two spots of high color flamed in her cheeks. Her hands crossed over her apron twitched nervously.

  When the butler had withdrawn, Vivian wrote again on her pad and passed the note to Mrs. Felders.

  "You must be mistaken, milady." She shook her head. "Lord Piers has never complained of the food. Why he hardly eats anything at all—” She broke off in consternation realizing what she had admitted.

  Vivian nodded haughtily.

  The notes rattled in Mrs. Felders's fingers as she folded them with fierce defiance. "Might I suggest that you would do very well to—”

  Vivian laid down her fork and started to rise.

  Mrs. Felders cast a look over her shoulder as Millard entered and stood by the door. "Oh, very well, milady. I’ll bring you the menus
in the drawing room after breakfast. If you want to do them, it'll save me the time and trouble. But," she predicted direly, "you needn't think you're going to come in here and make a lot of changes. This is Larne's house and he's the master here. Make no mistake about that."

  Vivian shook her head and wrote again.

  Mrs. Felders twisted her neck so she could look over Vivian's shoulder. "In your room? But—”

  Vivian underlined the words with strong bold slashes.

  "Oh, very well."

  "Why, Emma Felders. I didn't know you could say 'very well.' Such a surprise. Millard, bring coffee. Hot and strong."

  Both women started and turned at the sound of a masculine voice. The butler bowed and left.

  Piers stood in the doorway, deep shadows beneath his eyes and his mouth set in a straight line.

  "Lord Piers." Mrs. Felders's voice rang with shock. "Why you're up very early."

  "My wife and her maid made so much noise next door that they disturbed me. I couldn't get back to sleep." He scowled at Vivian. "You did, you know?"

  She started to write, but he put his hand over her own. "Spare me the apologies. It really wasn't you. It was your blessed maid. 'Milady' this and 'milady' that and banging doors open and closed. God!" He dropped into a chair. "Where is that man with the coffee?"

  Mrs. Felders allowed a small smile to ease her mouth. "I'll see to him, sir. Ah, here you are, Millard," she said in a clear loud voice. "You took your own sweet time."

  Piers groaned and pressed a palm to his forehead. "Bitch," he muttered loud enough for his wife to hear.

  The butler came through with a tray. Smoothly, he removed. Vivian's plate and set it down before her, whisking the cover off as he did so. From a silver coffeepot he poured Piers's cup and set it in the saucer.

  Despite a green look around the mouth, Piers managed to look with some interest at her plate. He swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee. "Why, that looks good. A piece of toast and an egg. Hard to foul that, I collect." He looked at the butler. "I'll have the same.'*

  "Very good, sir."

  Vivian bit into a corner of the toast, too hungry to stand on ceremony or wait for him to be served and her food to become cold.

  Piers took another swallow. "I should come down to breakfast more often," he muttered. "Evidently it's the best meal of the day. More likely it's easier to serve a hot meal in this room than any other room in the house." Resting an elbow on the table, he drank the rest of his coffee down.

  Even as the viscount finished, Millard came bustling. uOne egg and toast, milord." He set the plate before Piers, who held out his cup for more coffee.

  "Looks excellent. My compliments to Cook."

  "Cook does not get up so early in morning," Millard informed him coolly. "I prepared this myself."

  He stepped back as Piers stared from dish to man, and Vivian gave the butler a warm, approving smile.

  The butler poured more coffee and left.

  Uncomfortable at being alone with her husband, Vivian directed her attention to her plate. She buttered the second half of toast and cut her egg with delicate precision. With each bite her appetite seemed to increase.

  Piers watched her with something like envy, a sour smile curling his lips. "When Millard returns, perhaps you should order another plate," he suggested.

  Blushing, Vivian shook her head. Her appetite had always been healthy, and she had not eaten any great amount of food in forty-eight hours. To cover her embarrassment, she laid down her fork and reached for her cup. Over its rim Vivian studied her husband.

  For the first time she could view him in something other than an abnormal situation. When they had met, he had been consumed with worry and grief at his mother's illness and subsequent demise. When she had been brought back to be his bride, his father had angered and upset him to a frightening degree.

  Now he sat at the breakfast table fresh from his bath. His dark-wine hair was combed damply back from his high forehead. Dark crescents under his eyes accen­tuated their darkness until the pupil seemed to fill the iris.

  Tentatively, he took a small bite. His expression relaxed, then he turned his attention to her. His gaze slid over her clothing and her windswept hair. "You've already been riding."

  Self-consciously, she smoothed several loose strands away from her temples.

  "You should have waited for me." He looked at her critically. "Your hair looks quite all right. I like it curling around your face." He reached out a long aristocratic finger that trembled only slightly. It touched the ringlet in front of her ear and brushed the skin beneath.

  Startled, she pulled away.

  Instantly, he drew his hand back. "Don't be afraid," he murmured. "I'm not going to ravish you at the breakfast table." He smiled engagingly. "However, it's not a bad idea. Since we've done it in public once, it rather breaks the ice, don't you think?"

  Embarrassed at his words, she glanced around hastily to assure herself that they were alone.

  "Vivian," he said softly. "It doesn't have to be painful or unpleasant. Thousands of people enjoy it very much."

  Her face flamed scarlet. Her cup clattered in the saucer. All interest in food and drink faded.

  He caught her hand. "Tonight, dear wife. I will come to you and show you ..."

  She tried to rise, her chair scraping back, but he held her firmly. "Don't struggle. As I said, I don't mean to ravish you at the breakfast table. Here. Sit down and finish your food.'*

  She shook her head, but he held her until she subsided in her chair.

  "Take a bite of food," he commanded. "Get your appetite back."

  Reluctantly, she pulled herself back to the table. He spread a piece of his own toast with butter and spooned some marmalade onto it. "Here now.'* He held it out for her to take a bite. "You'll need all your strength."

  When she tried to take it from his hand, he drew back. "No, you'll just set it down. It's very good." he took a bite to demonstrate. "Good marmalade. Sweet with just the right amount of peel in it. Not too bitter. Come. Take a bite. Don't be shy."

  She hesitated.

  "Look at how sweet and golden," he coaxed, holding it closer. "Come on, sweetheart. Think of me as a father."

  The corners of her mouth lifted in a reluctant smile. Daintily, she leaned forward and took a little bite.

  "Excellent." He set the toast down on the side of her plate. "And from the same spot that I ate." He grinned at the flush rising again in her cheeks. "Don’t start again. Just eat your breakfast."

  He drank another cup of coffee, took a single bite of egg, and grimaced. "Not for me this morning." Throwing down the napkin, he rose. "Too bad you've already gone riding. We could go together. However—” Suddenly, he was very close to her chair, very close to her shoulder. His hand dropped onto it, long fingers caressing the velvet.”—we have a rendezvous tonight"

  She looked up at him, fear in her eyes.

  He bent over her. "Vivian, when you were a little girl, you must have fallen from your horse."

  She tried to look away, knowing and hating what he was going to say.

  "No." He took her chin and lifted her face to him. "You will build horrible fancies in your mind. I don't want a wife afraid of me. The pleasures of the bedchamber are one of the few left in this old and very unpleasant world." He dropped his mouth onto hers, a light brush of lips, a flick of his tongue, and then he straightened. "Till tonight, sweet, sweet wife."

  Chapter 12

  The meeting with Mrs. Felders in the bedroom proved to be a pitched battle. Each dish Vivian wrote down was firmly and definitely rejected by the housekeeper. The earl did not care for that. His delicate digestion would not tolerate such heavy spices. The foodstuffs were unavailable at this time of year. Cook's skills were limited and could not be stretched so far.

  At this objection Vivian angrily wrote down, "Get a new cook."

  Mrs. Felders drew back. "The man has worked here for years. He was engaged by the late countess. To turn off a man at hi
s age would be cruel."

  "Helper with some skill." Vivian wrote.

  Mrs. Felders shook her head. Her mouth pursed re-pressively. "You'd best speak to the earl about hiring new people."

  "Recipes?"

  The housekeeper tilted back her head. "I believe the countess had a book at one time or another, but—”

  "Find it."

  The older woman stepped back. "I shouldn't be surprised if it's been destroyed or sent away to a charitable establishment. Lord Alexander ordered all of his wife's things removed. Didn't want to remind himself of his terrible loss," she ended, her voice flat. The corners of her mouth twitched as if she might have found the entire interview amusing.

  Vivian could see that she was getting nowhere with the woman. The time had come to take a stand. Shaking with suppressed rage, her inability to speak driving her almost mad, she coldly set about listing dishes for the cook to prepare that very evening.

  Mrs. Felders closed her mouth and swelled out her generous bosom. Her own color was high, her nostrils pinched with her indignant breathing. She sidled forward and looked over Vivian's shoulder. uHe doesn't like green beans in the French style," she declared triumphantly. "Doesn't like anything in the French style. Cabbage is the vegetable for him."