“Your purposes, milord?” said Briggs.
“You know that I’ve sent Gifford to Court with Baron Ellsmere’s deathbed confession. I should like to be able to give Allegra the king’s pardon of the Baniards as a wedding present. If you could but add your voice and influence to Gifford’s…”
“London? But I’m needed here, Lord Ridley.”
“Not for the next few weeks. ’Tis a quiet time. The harvest is in, and the cottagers are feeling mellow. Well disposed toward the Lord of the Manor. And with the capable Mrs. Carey here…”
“But…London. I have few friends at Court, milord. And my brother’s title is modest. I fear my influence will be trifling. Surely you yourself…”
He shook his head vehemently. Every day he was getting stronger, seeing the past with a clearer eye, feeling the jagged wounds heal. He had stopped missing the gin after that first week. He had looked for joy in his days, and had struggled to bury the darkness of the past.
But he wasn’t brave enough yet to face London society. He had stayed cooped up in Morgan House while Gifford had inquired after Wickham and sent his men to scour the pawnbrokers’ shops for the knife. And, on his way back to Shropshire, he’d only stayed in London long enough to refresh himself and see that Baines delivered the prize ship and the smugglers to the proper authorities. He wasn’t ready to risk the humiliation of being seen at Court or in St. James’s Park or in any of the clubs or coffee houses where Viscount Ridley had been greeted with warmth not so very long ago.
“Stay at Morgan House and assist Gifford in whatever way you can,” he said. “I charge you, as well, with a difficult undertaking. This will be your burden alone. Gifford has more than enough to do.”
“Whatever you wish, milord. I stand ready to serve you.”
“’Tis the matter of my friends. I should hope to have Lady Mortimer and Lord Richard Halford attend my wedding. But we parted on a note of acrimony. You are to bring them my warmest greetings and my humble apology.”
Did he only imagine the sudden light in Briggs’s eye? “Yes, milord,” said the steward.
“Peacemaking takes time, you understand. Friendships must be nurtured. Lady Dorothy is particularly sensitive. I fear I hurt her exceeding much.”
“But with her capacity for forgiveness, her sweet nature, her kind and generous spirit…” Briggs stopped abruptly, blushing to the roots of his blond hair. He cleared his throat and studied his shoes. When he continued speaking, his voice was low and strained. “I’ll call upon the lady directly I arrive in London. And assure her of your amity.”
Grey scowled. “It will take more than a simple assurance. I charge you to call upon the lady every day.” He had to turn his head aside. It was difficult to look upon the expression of mingled joy and pain on Briggs’s face without smiling.
“Every day?” he croaked.
“Every day. And I order you to take her to the theatre at least twice a week. And strolling in the Mall, if the weather holds.” He stared up at the ceiling in thought and scratched his chin. “Oh, and take her for tea at Mr. Twining’s Tea Shop in the Strand. The ladies seem to like it, as I recall.” He waved an indifferent hand. “And any other amusements you can think of, that Lady Dorothy might enjoy. If you need a proper suit, have Gifford direct you to my London tailor.”
“But, milord, I…”
“Damn it, Briggs! Do you work for me, or do you not? You’re to do all this in my name. And with a right good will, by God, whatever your personal feelings in the matter! If you find Dolly’s company a trial, you’ll simply have to endure it for my sake. Now go away, and let me talk to Ram.”
“Milord.” Briggs set his jaw in a hard line and backed from the room.
Grey turned to Jagat Ram. “Now, you said you received a letter from Gifford this morning?”
“Yes, Sir Greyston. And—as you instructed me—I have not opened it.” He pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to Grey.
“Good. If it requires a reply, I’ll expect you to get my letter in the post without Briggs knowing of it.” He tore open the letter and read it quickly, smiling in pleasure at the message. “I knew I could depend on Gifford.”
Ram raised a dark, inquisitive eyebrow. “May I ask, Sir Greyston?”
“You may not.”
Ram chuckled. “I am thinking you are very satisfied with yourself.”
“Satisfied, but scarcely content.” His body ached with longing and desire. “Three weeks, Ram. I think I’ll go mad until I see her again.”
Ram nodded. “Is it that Mr. Morgan will be needing to work in the almshouse a great many days?”
He laughed softly. “’Tis not the days that trouble me, my friend. ’Tis the nights!”
The ruins of the old abbey came up out of the soft fog like the bare bones of a mythic and long-gone sea creature. Allegra felt the damp mist on her face and smiled. It had been a sweet and comforting month. Her soul had been washed clean of its rancor, like the sea rocks when the tide came in; the hatred and bitterness had blown away with the strong, heather-scented wind that swept over the moors and out to sea. She was glad she’d had this time of solitude. She had found peace.
She heard the tinkle of a sheep’s bell beyond the crumbling walls of Whitby Abbey, and then a shepherd emerged from the mist, leading his flock. He tugged his hat in her direction and she responded with a polite nod. The inhabitants of the town had left her alone most of the time—not out of a sense of exclusion, but because they respected her privacy.
She had found them to be a warmhearted lot. They had been fond of Tom Wickham’s aunt; they seemed to assume, as a matter of course, that the old woman’s beneficiary was equally deserving of their friendship. And the several tenants who paid rent on her land were positively deferential.
She passed the abbey and took the footpath that followed along the top of the cliffs and led toward Robin Hood’s Bay. The air was colder here, smothered by the mist, the drifting white blanket that came in off the North Sea and hung along the shore on windless days. She could hear the cormorants wheeling and shrieking somewhere below her. She passed several small thorn trees, their branches twisted inward, as if to shelter themselves from the northerly gales and the corrosive salt air. The wild beauty of the place took her breath away.
“Oh, Grey,” she whispered. How she yearned to share this serenity with him. To walk the sandy beaches and climb the heights. To stand on the cliff when the wind blew strong, and feel the rain on their faces. And still there were four long days until his arrival. Saturday, the twenty-fourth, his note had said. I adore you.
She moved inland from the cliff path, making her way into the tree-filled hollow that sheltered her small cottage. Fingers of fog had managed to penetrate even this snug dell; the autumn-stripped trees were enveloped, and strings of mist threaded the last of the roses near the door. The cottage was old and cozy, still bearing in its rusty sandstone walls the distinctive diagonal chisel marks of the Yorkshire masons.
She hurried inside to the large sitting room that occupied most of the ground floor, lit a fire in the grate, and put away the few purchases she had made in Whitby. In a short while, the room was filled with warmth and the kettle on its hook had begun to boil. She made her tea, then cut herself a chunk of cheese and several pieces of bread, and sat by the window to enjoy her supper.
It began to grow dim, the gray evening descending like a soft veil. She lit the candles, pulled out her knitting, and settled in for a quiet hour or two before bed. She was beginning to nod before the fire when she heard a noise outside. At this hour? she thought. Who could it be? She hurried to the door and flung it wide.
A tall figure stepped out of the mist. “I couldn’t wait another day,” he said gruffly.
“Grey!” She threw herself into his arms, welcoming the sweetness of his kiss. His mouth was cold from the sea air, and his cloak felt damp beneath her fingers. But the warmth in her heart turned the October twilight to summer. “Come inside,” she said. �
��You must be chilled to the bone.”
“And worn to the bone as well. I rode all the way, scarcely stopping.”
“Alone?”
“I couldn’t bear the thought of a slow carriage journey. And Ram is no horseman.”
She gulped back her tears of joy. “Oh, you foolish, dear man. Have you had supper?”
“Yes. An inn outside of Malton. But if you have a barn for my horse, and a hot bath…”
She pointed toward a small stone outbuilding. “I think there’s fodder there. Tom’s aunt kept a cow.”
He kissed her again, but made no move to release her. “Allegra,” he said. His voice was soft and hoarse.
She saw the doubt in his eyes. “Did you fear I’d stop loving you?”
He pressed her to his chest and groaned. “I’d lie in bed at night and wonder if I’d merely dreamt it all. If my sweet Allegra would still be waiting for me.”
“Waiting and eager, my love,” she murmured.
He kissed her exuberantly then, patted her rump and laughed. “No more eager than I, woman! Get me into that bath—then show me to your bed. I’ve been dreaming of this night for weeks. ’Twas enough to make me want to go back to the gin!”
While she heated water and filled the tub, he undressed before the fire. She felt shameless—watching him, admiring the lithe strength of him, the easy grace, the potent body that filled her with desire.
He grinned and lowered himself into the tub. “Hussy! You once accused me of having wicked eyes. What am I to think of a woman who looks at me the way you do?”
She tossed her shoulder at him. “Think what you wish,” she said pertly. “’Tis my pleasure to look at you if I choose.”
He snorted. “And what do I have for my pleasure?”
“In point of fact,” she said, bustling to a cupboard in one corner of the room, “you can have Barbados water. Your saucy stillroom maid hasn’t forgotten what pleases you.” She poured out a small glassful of the soothing liquid and brought it to him in his bath.
He downed it quickly and smacked his lips. “As good as I remembered it. I’m not sure I’ve made a wise trade. A stillroom maid for a wife.”
“I can do both, you arrogant dog.”
He held up his glass for more and leered goatishly. “You can do many things.”
She reached for the glass. With a sly smile, he dropped it a moment before she could grasp it, and curled his fingers around her wrist instead. She squealed in surprise as she felt herself pulled into the tub on top of him. “Grey!” she cried, pushing against his wet, hairy chest.
“This is my pleasure, woman. You in my arms.” He embraced her shoulders with dripping arms and kissed her—a burning, searching, hungry kiss that left her trembling.
She put her hands beneath the warm water and felt his body, sleek and strong. It gave her a thrill of joy and anticipation. She ran her fingers down his ribs, kneaded the flesh of his hips, stroked the knotted muscles of his thighs. She purred in contentment. What heaven!
She giggled, aware suddenly that her skirts were soaked. “Godamercy, my gown. Let me up, Grey,” she laughed.
“Alas,” he said, echoing her laughter, “what’s to be done?” He helped her to stand, then climbed out of the tub himself. He glanced down at his wet body; his member was swollen and erect.
She stifled further laughter. “What a peculiar bath, to have produced such a result.”
“Indeed! We shall have to see if the bath has affected you in like manner.” He reached for the fastenings of her gown and undressed her with impatient hands, stopping only now and again to pull her into his arms and kiss her. At last she stood naked before him. He cupped his hands around her breasts and rubbed his thumbs against her nipples until she gasped in pleasure. “Yes,” he said. “Hard and firm. ’Tis a most peculiar bath. A strange malady.”
“Can you recommend a cure, milord?” she whispered.
“That I can.” He scratched enticingly at the small birthmark on her breast and bent and kissed it. “Charming. I remember it from the day I came into your bedchamber, and your shift fell from your shoulder. It was all I could do to keep from kissing it.”
“’Tis yours now,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “And all of me.”
“Then come, love.” He spread his cloak in front of the fireplace and laid her down upon it. He extinguished the candles in the room; the glow from the grate cast warm shadows across the walls and sparkled in his topaz eyes as he knelt over her. He kissed her face and neck, and when she arched her body in rapture, he kissed her breasts and swirled his tongue around the hard, eager points.
Writhing, she raised her hips to his firm member, aching to feel him within her, but he chuckled softly. “Not yet. ’Tis too much joy to tease you.” He thrust his manhood against her thighs, gliding it sensuously from her loins, across her belly and up to the sensitive hollow between her breasts. When she moaned and wriggled in delicious pleasure, he pressed her breasts together with strong hands to capture and enclose his burning shaft. He was warm and silken-soft and hard all at the same time; she felt her senses quickening with the plunge and slide of his manhood. She scratched at his knees in a frenzy of wild delight; in response he clutched her breasts more firmly and increased the vigor of his strokes.
She cried out in pain and tugged at his hands. His fervor had carried him beyond gentleness. “No more,” she whispered. Her voice was tentative, fearful to make him think she didn’t want him. “Come into me now, Grey. Please.”
His eyes were dark with passion. “I don’t want it to end so soon.”
“Will it end if you don’t move in me?”
“Not so quickly.”
“Then don’t move,” she said, opening to receive his hard thrust. He was thick and full, and the feel of him within her, even quiescent, made her tremble and burn, as though an icy flame were racing through her body. She remembered the first time they had made love, when she’d discovered the strength of that odd internal muscle. Now she tightened it around him and was delighted to hear his gasp of pleasure. But when she did it again, and then a third time, he groaned.
“You witch,” he said, panting, “do you think I can keep still for that?” He kissed her hard and began to move against her hips, rocking and thrusting in a wild rhythm that drove her to the edge of madness. Her body was on fire, her loins quivering and pulsing in answer to his all-consuming need. And when he climaxed in a roar of triumph, she cried aloud and wrapped her legs around him, never wanting to let him go.
He sighed and buried his head in her neck. “I think I’ll never stop marveling at the joy of loving you. And when we’re married, I’ll want you every minute of every day. ‘Aha!’ the servants will say, when they see you vanish into my rooms. ‘His Lordship is harrying Her Ladyship again.’” He kissed her on the tip of her nose and smiled warmly. “If it pleases you, I think we’ll leave here in a day or so. I’ve already spoken to the rector in Ludlow about marrying us. We can take the mail coach home.”
“To Shropshire?”
“I thought we’d stop in London first. I want to see how Briggs is faring.”
“Mr. Briggs in London?”
He laughed. Rather smugly, it seemed to Allegra. “He’s squiring Dolly around the city. Upon my orders. Perhaps by now he’s managed to get up the courage to kiss her hand, if nothing more.”
She frowned at him. “You’ve thrown them together? Knowing of Mr. Briggs’s pride? Oh, Grey, how could you do such a thing?” She jumped to her feet in annoyance, then sank again to her knees as a wave of vertigo swept over her. “How…very strange,” she said, blinking against the odd sensation. “For a moment I thought I should faint.” She turned to him, her eyes wide with concern. “I pray I’m not coming down with a fever.”
She had expected sympathy, not a shout of laughter. “’Od’s blood!” he cried happily.
She scowled. Even loving him, she found his humor unseemly. She could be truly ill. “What is it?” she demanded
.
“Don’t be angry,” he said, drawing her back down into his arms. “Tell me, when I was holding your breasts before, and you pushed my hands away…Was it because they hurt?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered, taken aback. “They’ve been quite tender all this week. I scarce know why.”
“And your flux? Has it come as usual?”
Though she had lain with him, this still seemed too intimate a discourse to hold with a man. “No. ’Tis late. No doubt, the disruption in my life…the ship and the storm and the cruelties of the smugglers.” She shuddered.
“Oh, sweet heaven,” he groaned, holding her more tightly. “Have I atoned enough that God would bring me such happiness?”
“Happiness?” She gaped at the unexpected thought he’d put into her head. She felt like a naive fool. “Oh, Grey, am I carrying a child?”
He sounded very close to tears. “Our child,” he choked. “Yes. It must be so. I remember that Ruth…” He cleared his throat and stood up, turning away to hide his fervent emotions from Allegra. “We’ll marry tomorrow. In Whitby.” He helped her to her feet and kissed her with such love and tenderness that her heart burst with the joy of the sweet burden she knew she must be carrying. She would give him the child he had so longed for. She would replace his dreadful loss with the precious fruit of her womb.
He sat her before the fire while he fetched a fresh shift from her trunk, then dressed her as a loving parent would; he filled a warming pan with coals and carried it to the bedchamber above to heat the sheets for her comfort. She felt pampered and petted. And when he carried her to bed and tucked her into the circle of his arms as he drifted off to sleep, she knew that she would only have sweetness in her life from this moment on.
Grey scowled at the long, steep flight of steps that led up from the town of Whitby to the old Church of St. Mary’s, with its square Norman walls and its battlements. “Are you sure you don’t wish me to hire a cart? And take the road?”
Allegra reached out and smoothed the frown from his brows. “Dear Grey, I’ve been coming up and down those stairs for nearly a month, each time I came into town to the shops. I’m merely pregnant. I’m not a helpless cripple.”
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