Toward Love's Horizon

by Michele du Barry

  She saw the jealousy flame in his eyes and laughed. Scott relaxed and grinned back at her. “Tease! You drive me to distraction. I will make excuses and get out early. I’ll tell them my hot little wife demands my services and I am at her mercy.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “And,” he threatened with a twinkle in his eyes, his hands circling her throat, “if you dare to even look at that puppy I’ll throttle you!”

  “Yes, my lord duke,” Angela mocked as he started for the door. She swept him a deep curtsy and impudently stuck her tongue out at him.

  “When I return you will pay for your insolence. I will have to think up a new torture.”

  “Make it a good one!”

  “I will! Believe me, I will!”

  Angela hugged herself and spun around, ecstatically happy in spite of Scott’s absence. She felt secure now in their love that was slowly unfurling like the petals of a long dormant flower. A few more weeks together and it would be in full bloom for all to see and admire, for Angela to cherish for the rest of her life. After all their trials and tribulations the curse was finally dead, laid to rest beneath the flourishing plant of their love, nourishment that only strengthened them and brought them closer.

  Going outside, Angela lingered in the orchard not far from the cabin. The trees were heavy with fragrant fruit and she reached out and plucked a ripe peach. Walking slowly through the rows of trees she watched the sun slip to its rest beneath the rim of the mountains. The peach was soft with fuzz against her lips and she bit into it savoring the sweet juiciness, watching the ever-changing panorama between the laden branches and gnarled trunks.

  The sky was a sapphire blue at the mountains, shading gradually to indigo and black, and the high wisps of clouds tinted a delicate shell pink couldn’t obscure the sprinkling of stars. They appeared, growing brighter as darkness descended, shimmering though the clouds like the bright eyes of a flirtatious Spanish lady through a lace mantilla.

  Candles blazed in the big house, light pouring from every window and horses of every description were tied up out front. Scott was in there, with the other hardy outdoors men that ran Thornhill. The others would doubtless be ill at ease among the elegance of the house but Scott would move with an easy grace, accustomed to riches, but not a stranger to deprivation. He could make even a bare one-room cabin a palace with his presence, and Angela smiled in the dusk, knowing that she would prefer living in a tent with him than the most sumptuous edifice with any other man.

  She threw the peach pit down and licked her sticky fingers clean, at peace with the world. Much later the meeting would be over and she would wait up for her husband. He would leave Celeste Carew’s elegantly gowned, perfumed and coiffured presence and rush to be with her. And she would greet him with her hair floating loose, the way he liked it and ungowned so that no barriers would halt the quick progress of their desire.

  With Scott she needed no artifice or tricks to win him. Just her presence and her lissome body would banish all thoughts of beautiful ladies, sparkling with jewels, tempting him from every side; because he was hers. A soft sigh escaped her, she was his—heart, body, soul, and mind—possessed of him, obsessed by him, bedeviled and bewitched.

  The mellifluous tones of chirping birds, crickets, the breeze sighing softly through the trees, and her own breathing blended subtly, lulling Angela into a tranquil mood. She placed her hand on the tautness of her abdomen. Even now the seed of Scott’s love for her might be sprouting and growing deep within her. She hoped it was for she would cherish it and carry it beneath her overflowing heart. And such a love-child couldn’t help but fulfill their heart’s desire.

  The breeze turned cooler and she went back to the cabin sheltered and secluded in the embrace of the night. A light had been lit and she ran the last distance. So Scott had extracted himself from the dull meeting unable to endure their parting any more than she could! Angela flung the door open and the smile died on her lips, for there, building a fire on her own hearth, was Clyde.

  Struggling to conceal her disappointment Angela managed a different smile for him as he rose to his feet brushing his hands off.

  “Well,” she said brightly, “how was your trip?”

  “Fruitful,” Clyde said, squelching further comment by his tone. “I’ve brought you a peace offering, Angela. I hope you will accept it.”

  It was then that she noticed the package wrapped in tissue paper and blue ribbon on the well-scrubbed table. Beside it was a bottle of expensive French wine and her eyebrows raised inquiringly. What could Clyde be up to now? She was alert.

  “Peace offering?”

  “Yes,” Clyde said picking up the package. “For not believing you when you told me that you and your husband were reconciled. For trying to talk you into accepting the divorce when you didn’t want to. For pressing my suit against your will. Will you forgive me, Angela? Can we go back to being good friends again?”

  The sincerity of his face, the hesitant way he held out the gift, the slight catch of regret and shame in his voice, all worked to convince her that his plea was earnest. Poor Clyde, with his honest slightly ingenuous apology and his need to placate her and his conscience. She took the proffered parcel and saw his eyes flood with relief.

  “I thought,” he said eagerly, indicating the wine, “that we could drink to your continued happiness and to a long marriage for you and Scott. Let bygones be bygones and all that. But where is he? I did want us all to have a toast together and become friends.”

  “I’m afraid he’s at a meeting and won’t be back till later.” Angela saw disappointment swiftly cross his face, and countered, “But we could have a toast and tomorrow I will tell Scott that we are all reconciled.”

  “Could we?”

  “Of course, but let me open this.” And her fingers untied the ribbon and loosed the paper to reveal a small rosewood box exquisitely inlaid with other precious woods and ivory. It gleamed with the delicate tracery of scrollwork surrounding a perfect white ivory thistle.

  “Open it,” urged Clyde and she lifted the lid and a Scottish air tinkled delicately, the movement of the mechanism visible through the glass bottom.

  “Why it’s beautiful, Clyde. Thank you! You remembered my longing for Seafield Castle didn’t you? How thoughtful!” She went to him and kissed him fleetingly on the cheek. “We were always friends, Clyde, and I hope we always will be.”

  “Then I’ll pour the wine while you put the music box away.” He watched her go to the mantel, standing with her back to him and her head cocked deciding where to put it.

  Swiftly, with rehearsed ease he took a small paper from his pocket and emptied a powder into one of the glasses. Pouring the wine into each one he watched it dissolve instantly, invisible in the ruby liquor. As he picked up the glasses he swirled the wine around gently in one and when Angela turned back to him with a trusting smile he handed her the doctored wine.

  “To you and Scott—may all your dreams be fulfilled.” Clyde raised the glass to his lips and drank freely.

  Angela sipped it and sat down on one of the chairs before the fire. “Won’t you join me for a few minutes, Clyde? The wine is delicious.”

  He sat in the other chair, watching her drink again, feeling a shiver of excitement go down his spine. They chatted lightheartedly and the liquid in her glass slowly disappeared. A pink flush suffused her cheeks and he saw her eyes flutter.

  Angela moved her chair back from the fire. It was making her all warm and drowsy, and there was a brilliant edge of light around Clyde. She refused when he offered her more wine. It was unaccountably potent and her head began to spin. Before her eyelids drooped irretrievably shut she saw him smile at her very charmingly.

  He waited long agonizing minutes until Angela’s breathing was heavy and even and then allowed the feeling of brilliant accomplishment to take over. The hardest part was over, the rest would occur as easily as falling off a horse.

  She was his! In less than an hour Scott and Cele
ste would stroll to the cabin after an unusually short meeting and everything would fall into place. A jealous husband encountering his sleepy, unfaithful wife, caught in the act with her lover. There could be only one outcome.

  Clyde picked up the unconscious woman of his dreams and laid her on the bed. With infinite care he began undressing her, pausing to touch each newly revealed treasure. Panting with passion, shaking with desire he stripped himself and rumpled the bed convincingly. His eyes swept the room; it was a perfectly set stage. The empty wine glasses caught the firelight beside the bottle on the table, the tissue paper and ribbons were discarded on a chair, their clothes were scattered across the room and the bed was revealed just enough to make the play of shadow and light dramatic.

  He had spent longer than he had expected during the process of rendering Angela naked and glanced uneasily at the door. They would arrive soon—did he dare take the chance of taking her now, quickly? No, he’d better wait until it was over, for to be caught off guard could be dangerous to him if Scott went mad and attacked. So for a few minutes Clyde rested beside Angela, stroking her breasts, feeling the soft flesh quiver and spring to life beneath his touch.

  She moved restlessly in her unnatural state, murmuring incoherent words, reaching out for Scott. Settling against the warm masculine flesh she was still again, secure in a fantasy world where only two existed.

  Clyde heard the high, clear laughter of Celeste and he shook Angela violently until her eyelids flickered open and she looked at him without recognition. Rearranging her limbs he rolled on top of her pulling her arms around his body. She wriggled beneath him whispering Scott’s name and Clyde cut off the sounds with his open mouth.

  “Angela, we have a visitor!” Scott called from the door.

  He entered just in time to see a shocked Clyde raise his head from Angela’s. Their naked bodies were entwined on the bed and the languor of her movements made it evident that they had made love more than once during his absence. Angela’s passion-flushed face turned slowly and her huge green-blue eyes registered surprise as they met his. As he crossed the room toward them with Celeste dragging on his arm she looked in bewilderment from her advancing husband to the man atop her.

  Something snapped in Scott and enraged he snatched Clyde from the bed as easily as he would have picked up a blanket. In slow motion he saw his fists make contact with Clyde’s face without letup and heard the sickening contact of flesh and bones. There was a hindrance tugging him back but he shook it off and blood spattered everywhere before his ineffectual opponent slipped to the floor.

  Then he turned to Angela. She was still sprawled indecently on the bed her eyes blinking in bemusement. He struck her across the face with the back of his hand and her eyes didn’t blink any more. As his fingers fastened around her limp white throat a sound penetrated his brain. With his wife still firmly in his grasp Scott turned his head and saw Celeste terrified and angry shouting at him.

  “You fool—stop it! You will kill her and then where will you be? They will hang you or send you to Van Diemen’s Land and for what? For a lying whore that takes to her bed any available man! Don’t throw your life away on the likes of her! Think, Scott! Stop!”

  Celeste pried his fingers from Angela’s throat, shaking with fear. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to have stopped any violence before it happened but this part of their trick had backfired. Clyde lay battered on the floor unconscious and Angela had fainted from the effects of the drug and the blow dealt her.

  Almost in a stupor Scott let himself be led back to the big house by Celeste. His dreams were shattered along with his love. Angela! Angela! How could she do this to him? She had lied all along, laughing at him behind his back, playing free and easy with lovers while convincing him of her undying fidelity. The perfidy of her act could never be erased from his memory.

  He could still see Clyde lying on her perfect body, reveling in her soft surrender, performing obscenities upon the altar of his love. Angela! His mind shrank from that picture, cringing inward upon itself, lost in a dull throb that would soon give way to the excruciating pain of a severed love.

  But Celeste was with him quietly pressing a glass of brandy into his hand, and another as quickly as that one was empty till the scene faded like a painting exposed too long to bright sunlight. Then the blessed relief of unrelieved darkness, an unthinking, unknowing void where time was suspended and nothingness existed.

  A long shuddering gasp escaped from Celeste. Scott was slumped in the chair half laying on the table. She had had no choice but to slip him some of the drug Clyde had given Angela. She was still shaking uncontrollably from the scare he had given her and the night wasn’t over yet. Taking a gulp of the brandy herself she steeled herself to go back to the cabin and assess the damages. She prayed that Clyde was still alive.

  He was stirring when she knelt beside him and with a wet cloth she wiped the blood from Clyde’s swollen, cut face. He would survive and Scott would remain at Thornhill, finally getting his divorce and marrying her. The stratagem was a success, with a few minor mishaps along the way, but the end justified the means. Clyde would have his adored duchess and she would have the only man in the wide world she had ever loved.

  “Clyde, Clyde!” She shook him gently and he moaned. She owed him everything for together they had plotted and spun this web fit to catch a lady and her husband. Without his cooperation the ruse would have been an impossibility. But he owed her too. They had both been winners in the bargain they had struck and the losers would never, never know the truth.

  Clyde’s eyes opened and his hand went to his jaw tenderly exploring. With his tongue he felt a loose tooth, stinging cuts and smashed bloodied lips. Celeste helped him drink some wine and he recoiled in pain as the alcohol burned into his mouth and down his throat. Slightly revived she helped him up and he staggered over to the bed where Angela slept.

  The cheek turned to him was swollen and a long bruise marred her face. A trickle of dried blood was at the corner of her mouth and there were darkening finger marks at her throat.

  “Angela!” Clyde sat down suddenly turning her face to the light.

  “What happened?” He shook his fogged head to clear it.

  “She’s all right—in better shape than you are.”

  “Scott went on a rampage. I couldn’t stop him—I don’t even think he knew I was here. You’re very lucky you didn’t get killed.”

  “You were supposed to stop him, Celeste! We agreed!”

  “I tried to, but a whole army couldn’t have held him back. I just managed to keep Scott from strangling her!”

  “Is it really over?”

  “Yes—and we won!” Celeste’s voice was triumphant with victory. “They will never in a million years get back together again! She is yours, Clyde, all yours. Take her far away—you promised!”

  “Yes,” he said wearily. “I’ll take her back to Scotland. After tonight she will be devastated, and I will be here for her to turn to.”

  “I have to go, if you are sure you’ll be all right.”

  “Go, Celeste. We will leave for Sydney in the morning.”

  With extreme care Clyde stretched out beside Angela and drew the covers over them both. He should be reaping the reward of his subterfuge now, enjoying Angela’s body while she was unaware; but the effort of just walking to the bed had left him exhausted. He closed his eyes quelling a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Tomorrow he would feel better and then he could set about winning Angela’s love in earnest. It would take time, perhaps years, but eventually his love for her would be consummated and he could wait since they had a whole lifetime ahead of them.

  nine

  Angela turned over, her body so heavy she could barely move. Her head pounded with a throbbing headache and she was slightly sick to her stomach. There was a dull ache along the side of her face and she rubbed her fingers against it but the effort was too much. Letting her hand fall it came in contact with wa
rm-muscled flesh. Scott. Drawn to the secure comfort of his body she snuggled against him, feeling better immediately.

  Her fingers moved automatically over his chest, but she stopped, frowning. This wasn’t the lightly furred chest of her husband; this chest was as smooth and hairless as her own. Forcing her eyes open a crack she could only look in complete confusion at the stranger sharing her bed. It took several minutes for her drug-fogged brain to recognize Clyde Macdonald. Even then she didn’t move but lay like a statue trying to puzzle out how they could be lying stark-naked in Scott’s cabin with the morning light already in evidence.

  With an effort born of desperation she got out of bed and hid her body in a robe. In a habitual move she put the coffee pot over the dying fire and stirred it up, then sank onto a nearby chair and shut her eyes. She couldn’t even begin to think. When the aroma of coffee tantalized her nose she poured herself a cup and sat sipping it with her eyes still closed against reality. It wasn’t until she finished the whole pot that Angela began to function.

  She opened her eyes and forced herself to remember. Wine glasses on the table—yes! And there was the music box on the mantel. They had drunk a toast sitting before the fire and she had been so sleepy. That was all she could recall, except for some strangely muddled dreams that made no sense. And now Clyde slept in her bed with his face in sad shape. Where was Scott? Maybe Clyde knew.

  “Clyde!” She sat on the edge of the bed calling him, shaking him and he thrust her hand away but she persisted. “Please, Clyde, wake up! Damn you, open your eyes!” Her headache was fleeing under the all-important desperation to know the truth.

  “Angela?” His eyes opened, just barely; green slits in his swollen face.

  “What are you doing here, Clyde? What has happened?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “Would I be asking you if I remembered? Tell me what’s going on right now!”