by Beverley, Jo
“Us.”
Something in his desperate tone lit an ember of hope. “Can you make me see why?”
“You want to live here?”
“No. Yes. It doesn’t matter. That’s not the problem, David. What is?”
“You want to live so far from London? So far from a city, even a town of any size. In the wilds of the country, where even the grass can make you cry?”
“No. I mean it doesn’t. I don’t have hay fever.”
“Lies?”
“A minor one. I didn’t want your sympathy.”
“Why were you crying?”
“For loss of my old life and unhappiness with my new one. It seems so long ago now.”
“Yes.”
She studied him, her back pressed to cold stone, as his was pressed to the opposite wall. They were putting as much space between them as they could, but it wasn’t enough.
“If you believed I would hate this place, why didn’t you invite me to visit?”
“Perhaps I tried to save you a tedious journey.”
She finally found the courage. “David, are you afflicted by your family’s madness? Are you trying to protect me from that?”
She saw him inhale. “I should say yes. That would do it, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I’d hate it, and I’d try to help you, but I wouldn’t marry you. Tell me. Please.”
“There’s no insanity in my family. I’m not the son of the Mad Earl of Wyvern. I don’t carry that blood.”
“You’re not? But then . . .”
“Why am I earl? Because Amleigh didn’t want to be, and Susan his beloved didn’t want him to be, and I had the legal right.”
“Because your mother was in truth married to the earl?”
“Exactly. But she fled him on her wedding night and was Mel Clyst’s after that.”
“You’re his son.”
“A tavern keeper and smuggler. Will that turn you off?”
“I’m the daughter of a foundling who doesn’t know who his parents were.” She stepped forward, closed the gap, and put her arms around him. “Nothing else could keep us apart. I love you, David. You and no other, for all time.”
“Oh, you wretched woman.”
He kissed her as she’d hungered to be kissed. Lucy kissed him back as fiercely, holding him to her as tightly as he held her to him, exploding with relief. To kiss, to be with him like this, to know he hungered for her as ravenously as she hungered for him. Any difficulties were dust, blowing away on a delirious wind.
When the kiss ended, when she snuggled against him, she said, “That was the truth, my love. The only truth that matters.”
Against her hair he said, “There’s more to this than kisses.”
“I know.”
He pushed her away. “Damnation, Lucy. I won’t ruin you, and I can’t marry you.”
Now his rejection only stirred exasperation. “Can’t, not won’t? Why?”
But he was looking behind her, out of the window.
She turned. “People!”
Ridiculous to feel shocked, but she did. Two men were walking along the path toward them, toward the gargoyle-encrusted doors of Crag Wyvern. Two normal men, talking as normal people might, one in ordinary clothes, the other in a uniform.
David grabbed her wrist. “They can’t know you’re here. At least, Lloyd can’t. Come on.”
Chapter 29
He towed her back down the corridor, past the stairwell, and around the corner. He opened a door into an explosion of color and pushed her in.
“Stay here,” he said and left, shutting the door.
Dazed from the kiss and the rush, Lucy turned to take in the extraordinary room. In a building that seemed made up of harsh angles, this room was circular and a painted dragon took up all the wall. She turned, following the green, orange, and gold beast from fanged head along lizardlike body to tail, which it was eating, so it all started again.
That seemed all too like the never-ending tangle of her life.
Can’t, not won’t, but still a rejection.
“Why?” she asked the dragon’s huge black eye, but it didn’t respond.
She forced herself to see the more normal aspects of the room. A flat window looked into the courtyard, but everything else on the walls was curved, including a japanned chest of drawers, a washstand, and an armoire. Even the door, she noted, was curved on the inside and the painting of the dragon flowed over it, almost making it disappear.
The bed, if a bed it was, was also circular and sat in the middle of the room. It lacked posts, bed-hangings, and pillows, but was covered by a counterpane in a fabric that matched the dragon’s scales. It sat on a circular carpet with the same self-consuming dragon winding around the bed.
The ceiling was dragon free, but it was concave and painted to look like the sky in bright blue with a flaming comet streaking across it.
Seeking escape from the riot of color, she went to the window to look down into the garden. Its lack of vibrancy was a relief. From here she could see that the pale paths were laid out geometrically with the outer ones, forming a pentagon. The inner ones formed a star.
A maid—a short, plump one this time—came out on Lucy’s left bearing a tray with a flagon and two tankards. She crossed the garden to Lucy’s right, and Lucy worked out that David was receiving one man in the great hall. Only one?
The two men shouldn’t know she was here to avoid scandal. Especially Lloyd.
Why especially him? Who was Lloyd? It was a Welsh name.
Irrelevant, but the men’s arrival meant she now had an opportunity to explore on her own, to see whether the whole house was odd, or if David had showed her only the most peculiar parts. She opened the door and listened. Silence. Stone walls and floors could make sounds hard to detect, but there didn’t seem to be many people here. She left the room and closed the door.
She was about to go right, in an unexplored direction, but then she heard faint voices from her left. Through stone walls and floors?
She hurried back the way they’d come, the voices becoming louder. If this was a gothic novel, there’d be a spy hole into that great hall. Crag Wyvern felt all too much like the deranged creation of a gothic novelist, so she began to hunt for one. She concentrated on the inner wall, running a hand along the rough surface. Then she paused. It wasn’t stone-cold.
She tapped. It wasn’t stone at all, but wood painted to imitate stone. Folly and deception all around her! She would not let such idiocy come between her and the man she loved.
She continued on and found what she was looking for. It wasn’t exactly a spy hole, for it was a vertical slit, showing only a sliver of the great hall. It was a listening hole. When she turned her ear to it, she could hear the men quite clearly.
“Of course I give you permission,” David was saying. No, the tone was all earl—distant courtesy and palpable boredom. “Though I consider filling in a cave a waste of the government’s money.”
“Not if it stops the wretches stashing goods there, my lord. There was clear evidence of use.” A Welsh accent, so probably Lloyd.
The topic was smugglers and she guessed Lloyd was the uniformed one and a Preventive officer. He wanted to fill in a cave so it couldn’t be used to hide contraband.
“The coast is riddled with caves,” David said. “But I haven’t objected.”
The tone clearly said, Why are you lingering? She couldn’t believe David could be so openly discourteous to a man who was doing his legal duty.
“You don’t take great interest in trouncing the smugglers, my lord. But down Purbeck way a group of them treated a gentlewoman most foully because her husband objected to the use of his horses in a run.”
“I heard nothing of it.”
“You’ve been away, my lord, and it’s been kept quiet for the sake of the lady, but it happened, and now no one there will whisper a word.”
“Most regrettable, but Purbeck is far beyond my authority.”
“What happe
ns there could happen here, my lord, if the wretches aren’t suppressed.”
“Pray, what do you suggest I do?”
“Tell me who Captain Drake is.”
A silence made Lucy want to tear open the wall to see what was happening, but then David said, “The deuce, man, you’re obsessed with Captain Drake! Have you considered that it might be a moveable identity?”
“Upon one’s death or removal, yes, my lord. Melchisadeck Clyst was Captain Drake here for many years. We know that. Now there’s a new one. We know that, too.”
“Or a number of them. And is it not possible that whoever he or they may be, Captain Drake is controlling the smugglers in this area to avoid cruelty and mayhem?”
“He, or they, is still a criminal and it is my duty to put a stop to him.”
“Haven’t you heard of the Hydra, Lloyd?”
“Cut off one head and two appear in its place? Logic tells us that any creature must exhaust the possibility in time.”
“What the devil does logic have to do with mythology?”
“We live in an age of reason, my lord, where there are no Hydras—or dragons. It’s my duty to stop smuggling hereabouts and I will do so, by any means.”
It sounded like a direct challenge, foolhardy man.
“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” David said, his voice icily cold.
Even in the silence Lucy could hear the Welshman’s fuming frustration. “I will, my lord.”
“As is your duty. If there’s nothing more, Lloyd, I have pressing matters to attend to.”
Gritted teeth lay behind Lloyd’s “Good day, my lord,” and anger spoke in the click of his booted feet on the stone floor, and the near slam of the door.
Lucy continued to listen, wondering if the other man they’d seen approaching was there and might speak.
Silence.
She realized that David could be coming back to her. She ran back along the corridor and into the circular room, afraid that he might realize she’d overheard.
Afraid?
Why would overhearing that conversation put her in danger? The Preventive officer was seeking the earl’s help in suppressing smuggling, and clearly not for the first time. David had permitted the filling in of a cave, but otherwise been uncooperative. He’d made no secret of thinking action against smugglers a waste of time and money.
She was allowing the gothic horrors of this place to overturn her mind.
She hitched up to sit on the bed, but her mind circled the conversation like the dragon circling the room.
Then she shifted because of the journal in her pocket. She’d carried it there all the way from London but not written a word.
She took it and her pencil out.
I’m in Crag Wyvern,
And it’s just as horrid as said.
But we kissed, and nothing can be dark.
David clashed with the officer
Whose duty it is to end
The Freetrade here.
As if they truly were enemies . . .
Lloyd had said the Hydra was mythological, but added that dragons were, too. A dangerously impertinent jab at a nobleman who’s title was a dragon’s name. Proof of his anger. She should be in sympathy with him. But not when his opponent was David.
Ah.
David is the son of Captain Drake.
Though he was raised by his
Aunt and uncle, that must count
For something.
The current Captain Drake is probably
A friend or even a relative. Of course
He won’t betray him.
“What are you doing?”
She hadn’t even heard the door open.
Lucy said the only thing she could. “Writing poetry.”
“Is there no end to your talents?”
It wasn’t friendly and might even be suspicious.
“Bad poetry,” she said, turning the book so he could see the page, hoping he wasn’t eagle-eyed. Then she shut it. “Don’t ask me to read any to you.”
He shook his head. “You are designed to tangle a man in knots.”
“Not normal men. Who were your guests?”
“Guest. One man was my secretary, the other the local Preventive officer.”
“Come to discuss ways to put an end to smuggling, I assume.”
“You can assume what you wish.”
That kiss might not have happened. Except that it fueled everything they said.
“Stop trying to pick a fight. My lord earl, will you marry me?”
“You have no sense of propriety at all.”
“Sense and propriety are rarely connected. Why shouldn’t women propose marriage to men? Why shouldn’t they call out men or women who offend them? Why shouldn’t young unmarried ladies sleep alone?”
“I have no idea,” he said, staring at her.
“Why shouldn’t they have short hair, or marry men ten years their junior? I mean, when older.”
A laugh escaped. “I assume you’re talking sense.”
“You do? Why?”
“Because you always do.”
“Then believe me when I say we are meant to be.”
She slithered forward to get off the bed and walked toward him. “Gems of my aunt’s dictates about propriety. She said that you’d fled London because we’d behaved improperly in that theater stairwell. That a gentleman would have to wonder whether such a lady would be a chaste wife.”
“A gentleman would merely hope that the lady would be as improper as a wife.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?” Lucy asked, reaching him, putting a hand on his chest, working it up to the open vee of his shirt, to his skin.
He trapped her hand there. “Lucy . . .”
“A lady might wonder if a gentleman who left without a word would be a constant husband.”
“Perhaps she should.” But his voice was husky and his eyes dark. “Lucy . . .”
“Yes?” She took hold of his shirt and pulled him with her, backward toward the bed. Once there, she turned with him and pushed him so his hips were against it, as they had been that night in her room.
“A better height, as I remember.” She moved closer. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? Stairs, beds, all kinds of devices for a tall gentleman and a sadly short lady.”
He gripped her waist. “There’s nothing sad about you.”
“I do hope not. Not now, not ever.”
She pressed forward and came fully against him, and against the hard evidence that his blood ran as hot as hers. How could it not? There was one sure way to cut through all the knots.
Her mother’s way.
Lucy put her lips to his. Instant fire pressed her closer, closer. She climbed over him so that he collapsed back on the bed, conquered, and she ravished him as best she could.
He rolled with her, crushed her under him.
Glorious weight and pulsing hunger.
Before he could hesitate, she kissed him again, pulling at his shirt to get her hands on his hot skin. His hand on her leg, under skirts and petticoats, his mouth hot on her neck, her shoulder.
He sat back and she thought she’d lost, but then he pulled at the front fastenings of her gown. Laughing, she brushed away his fumbling hands and untied laces so it fell open. Her light corset unhooked down the front and then only her simple shift covered her. She untied the lace that ran around the neckline so it hung loosely, exposing her.
His eyes never leaving her, he stripped off his own coat and waistcoat. He fell on her again, cradling her breasts, kissing, nipping, murmuring her name over and over. She lay back, arms wide, allowing him, reveling in the breathless ecstasy, laughing with it.
He laughed with her, but said, “We shouldn’t. Stop me, Lucy. Have sense.”
That made her laugh even more. She sat up to drag his shirt off him, to run her hands all over his magnificent chest. “What has sense to do with this?”
She pushed him down on the circular bed. “No top, no bottom. No beginning, no end. A
ren’t circles wonderful?”
“Ouroborus,” he gasped—she’d straddled him. “Symbol of eternity.”
“Perfect.” She kissed him again, searingly aware of him hard, so close to where she wanted him to be. Needed him to be, as she needed air to breathe.
She rolled off the bed, tossed off her shift, and then untied the laces so she could step out of her pantaloons beneath. The look in his eyes was all she could want and more and she smiled.
“Goddess,” he said huskily, struggling out of his remaining clothes. One boot hit the wall. “But goddess of what I have no idea. No scheming Greek or Roman you.” Naked, he said, “Nicholas would know.”
She chuckled. “A wise man, Nicholas Delaney.”
“I’m going to throttle him. Come here.”
Lucy remembered the night in her bedroom, him saying, “Come here, wench.” Feeling like a wench.
Now she felt like a goddess.
“Something from the East,” she said, sauntering slowly back. “From India. I’ve seen astonishing statues and paintings.”
“You’re a ruined woman.”
I hope so, she thought and crawled up onto the bed. He was sitting back on his heels and one picture made sense to her. She straddled him, straddled his long, thick manhood. “There was one like this.”
His eyes closed and he inhaled, but he opened them to say, “Not quite.”
He grasped her hips and moved her back. She resisted, thinking he was pushing her off, but then he adjusted himself and she felt him press exactly where she needed him to be.
“Oh, yes,” she said, letting her head fall forward onto his chest. “Oh, yes.”
Then it hurt. A burning, stretching sensation. In case he hesitated, she pushed forward, forced forward and felt the barrier break, felt him surge forward and fill her in a most extraordinary way.
“Stop!” She instantly regretted it. “I mean, wait a moment. Let me. . . .” He eased back, and she panted her words. “It’s wonderful. But . . . oh, yes, wonderful. Yes.”
She realized he was rubbing her close to where they were joined and his other hand was teasing a nipple. He wasn’t holding her at all. She was free.
She adjusted a little more.
Heard him catch his breath.
Smiled.
Rose up a little and then settled down again, watching him.