by Sandra Heath
As the chimes died away, it occurred to her that it might be burglars. Should she raise the alarm? No, for if it was Blair after all, he’d clearly not be pleased. Better take a look first. She tiptoed across the landing and hesitated before stealthily opening the door and peeping inside.
Blair was there, his solitary figure dimly illuminated by the almost exhausted candle she’d left on the mantelshelf all those hours before. He’d taken his coat off, and was slumped in a chair he’d drawn up at the desk. His shirt was undone to the waist, and his neckcloth lay on the desk where he’d flung it. There was no sign of the decanter and glass she’d found earlier. But then she noticed them lying broken on the hearth beneath Celine’s portrait. They’d clearly been hurled there, and that was what had awoken her.
Blair’s frilled shirt was very white in the candlelight as he gazed up at the portrait and then reached to take the diamond necklace from the flat leather jewelry case that lay on the desk. The precious stones glittered and flashed in the candlelight like white fire, their brilliance spilling sensuously over his fingers as he looked at the portrait again, then kissed the necklace as if it were still warm from Celina’s skin.
His lips lingered on the diamonds, and Laura found she was holding her breath. Oh, to be those diamonds... Silent longing filled her. She wanted to go to him and stroke away his sorrow.
Suddenly he sensed her presence, and turned to look directly at her. The cognac had him in its spell, and he saw the wife he mourned so much. He smiled. “Ah, there you are, my love.”
Laura was rooted to the spot. What should she do?
“Where have you been, Celina?” Still holding the necklace, he got up and came around the desk toward her.
She had to say something. “I—I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You know I’m always glad to see you,” he said softly.
“But, I...”
“Come here.” The command was uttered softly, like a caress.
Slowly she went to him, expecting that at any moment he’d realize she wasn’t Celina. But he didn’t, he was too far in drink.
He caught her hand to draw her closer. “I’ve been waiting for you, my love. Why have you been away so long?”
She couldn’t answer. His fingers burned against hers, and she couldn’t pull away. She didn’t want to...
He let go of her hand to fasten the necklace around her throat. The diamonds shimmered against her skin as he slid his fingers into her hair.
She raised her mouth instinctively to meet his, and their lips came together in a long, exquisitely loving kiss. She could taste cognac, fiery and intoxicating, but though she knew she should leave, her treacherous body trapped her with desire. She wanted his kisses. Needed them. And although she knew she was stealing his love, she couldn’t help herself. Shame knew no place in her actions, she felt too much for that. The spellbinding emotions he’d aroused were too compelling, and as they ran riot through her, she surrendered body and soul to temptation.
Her arms moved about him, and she slid her fingers over his back, exulting in the sheer ecstasy of holding him. He was warm and real, his body firm, lean, and muscled. She remembered watching him on the riverbank, and desire stirred even more intensely through her. She wanted him— oh, how she wanted him... The diamonds glittered at her throat as her lips softened and parted beneath his. Seductive coils of sexual need twined around them both. His hands enclosed her buttocks through the soft stuff of her nightgown, and he pressed her hips to his. The dormant masculinity she’d gazed upon by the stream was now rock-hard and throbbed potently against her. She felt as if her whole body would dissolve with excitement.
He moved her erotically from side to side across his arousal, and shuddering pleasure almost robbed her of consciousness. She leaned her head back, her breath escaping in a long sigh as she gave herself up to waves of almost sinful pleasure.
He drew his head back, his eyes dark in the candlelight. “Fie on you, madam, would you have me take you here?” he said softly.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Have you no modesty?”
“None at all,” she replied, slowly untying the ribbons of her nightgown with trembling hands and allowing the garment to slither to the floor around her feet. Her body was smooth and inviting in the gentle light, and her taut nipples cast small shadows across the fullness of her breasts.
Then she slipped her arms around his neck, molding herself voluptuously against him and drawing his tongue deep into her mouth. No man could have resisted such abandonment. White-hot with passion, he pressed her against the desk, his fingers sliding knowingly over her thigh and then between her legs.
No words were needed. She pulled away to lie back on the desk as he undid his breeches. His erection sprang out, imperative and pounding, and her breath caught with incredible pleasure as he pushed the tip gently between her legs. He skillfully applied gentle pressure, arousing her almost unbearably before sliding fully inside her. She melted with the kind of gratification she’d never dreamed could exist, and gasped as he withdrew to thrust in again.
The cognac hadn’t robbed him of his potency, nor had it dampened his ardor. He was virile, practiced, and above all he was making love to the woman he worshipped. It was Laura Reynolds whose body he penetrated, but it was Celina he saw in her sea-green eyes, and as his strokes became more urgent, culminating in an explosion of sensual delight, it was Celina’s name he cried out as he gave up his soul.
Laura reached up to cling to him, and the tears on her cheeks were the first acknowledgment of guilt. She’d knowingly seduced him, but she was the one who now paid the price. He thought he’d just made love to his wife, but Celina was dead, and in the morning, when the cognac released him from its grip, he’d remember—and he’d hate Laura Reynolds.
For the moment, however, she still held him. She needed to glean every last second of these stolen moments. His virility softened slowly inside her, and after several sweet minutes of lingering kisses and caresses, he pulled away at last to straighten his clothes.
She was afraid to look into his eyes, afraid she’d see bitter realization there, but as he smiled at her, she knew he still saw his wife. “I love you so much,” he whispered, drawing a fingertip across one of her nipples.
“And I love you, Blair,” she replied with heartfelt honesty.
He bent to retrieve her nightgown and helped her to slip into it again. After that, he put his hand gently to her throat, caressing her skin and the necklace with his thumb.
“You are the most perfect of women, the keeper of my soul and the jailor of my heart. To look at you is to want you, and to be without you is to... To be without you is to be...” A puzzled look came over his face, and she knew he’d remembered Celina was dead.
Suddenly he didn’t seem to see her anymore. A glazed look descended over his eyes and he released her. “A drunken fantasy,” he whispered. “No more than a damned drunken fantasy...” He turned to fling himself into the chair by the desk, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.
She went to him, putting out a hand to touch his hair. He didn’t know she was there, nor did he react when she bent to put her lips to his. Tears stung her own eyes as with trembling hands she unfastened the necklace and put it into its case. She couldn’t carry out Miles Lowestoft’s plan, even now, when the opportunity was so perfect. Tonight she’d transgressed enough by knowingly usurping Celina’s place in Blair’s arms, luring him into sexual intimacies he’d never have permitted if sober, and she’d known full well what she was doing. She had no excuse for the shamelessness of her actions, nothing to say in her own defense, except that she loved him. Yes, she loved him. Completely and unconditionally.
Catching up her skirts, she left the library. Her courage failed then. She couldn’t face him again, not after this. So instead of returning to her room on the floor above, she went down the grand stairs, because it was the way back to the future. As she reached the bottom, suddenly everything changed, and
she was in the hotel dining room again. It was the middle of the night, and there was no one to see as she ran to the seclusion of her room and flung herself weeping on the bed.
Chapter Ten
Laura felt ragged the next morning. She’d cried herself to sleep, and was all too soon disturbed by the sound of hooves and voices outside. At first she thought it was 1818 again, but then she realized it was a meet of the local fox hunt.
Glimpses of the night darted starkly through her as she lay there, and tears began to sting her eyes again. She wished she hadn’t succumbed to temptation, but shame couldn’t take away the exquisite pleasure she’d felt in Blair’s arms. The intensity and fervor of his lovemaking lingered strongly even now, and her body felt warm and sated. No, not sated, for she could never have enough of him. He was a man no woman could ever tire of, and whose kisses left the recipient yearning for more.
But he was bound to remember what had happened, and for her to return to 1818 again would be to face his contempt. She’d known last night that she couldn’t endure that, and her decision remained firm today. Or did it...? Deep in her heart she wanted to see him again no matter what.
The hounds yelped excitedly outside, and she got up to look. It was sunny but frosty, and the lawns were white. The horses’ breath stood out in clouds, and the riders’ hunting-pink coats were vivid against the winter background. Mrs. Fitzgerald and several maids had been handing around trays of stirrup cup, and withdrew as a horn sounded and the hunt moved up the drive. Pursuing actual foxes was no longer legal, so trails were laid for the hounds to find, but the traditional spectacle remained the same.
After taking a light breakfast in her room, Laura dressed in jeans, an Aran sweater, and a warm jacket, and then slipped out to the stables where her horse was quickly brought. To avoid the gate, so clearly a portal to the past, she decided to explore the woodland beyond the Bargee’s Arms, and see if she could find the spot depicted in the watercolor.
After stopping at the pub to say hello to Ron Sawyer, she rode along the valley, following a frosty track between the trees. From time to time she heard the hunt in full cry in the distance, and the unsteady note of the horn, but it didn’t come any nearer. Suddenly the track entered the clearing in the painting, the blasted oak was right in front of her, and on the hilltop beyond she saw the church against the cold, clear sky. The bluebells weren’t in flower, and there were no leaves on the trees, but she was in the right place.
Without warning, it seemed the grayness of the winter undergrowth intensified to bright green, and a haze of blue flowers began to spread over the ground. The sun was suddenly much warmer through the leaves above her head, and she could hear the joyous song of a skylark. It was May 1818, and she was glad, notwithstanding her halfhearted resolve not to face Blair again.
She was alone in the clearing. Her hired roan horse had changed to a dark bay, and the conventional modern saddle to a sidesaddle. She wore a gray riding habit, and her hair was swept up beneath a black beaver top hat, with a net veil that covered her eyes. At the house the music teacher had come to give Marianna her weekly harpsichord lesson, and then a note from Miles had been delivered, ordering his hapless accomplices to be at the blasted oak at this particular time. Stephen ought to have been with her, but had left at dawn, before the note arrived, to visit a friend in Cheltenham. She hadn’t seen him since the night before. Nor, as yet, had she encountered Blair, so had no idea of his reaction after what had happened between them in the library.
She was still determined not to go ahead with Miles’ plan, and intended to tell her blackmailer not only that she and Stephen had been unable to find the necklace, but that they suspected it was no longer at Deveril House, perhaps not even in Blair’s possession. As to the rest of what Miles demanded of her—that she break Blair’s heart—she was going to insist her resemblance to Celina had proved a deterrent, not a lure. Unless Miles had been a fly on the wall in the library, he wouldn’t know better. He certainly wouldn’t care if hers was the heart to be broken.
Now she waited nervously, praying she’d be able to persuade him his plan wasn’t going to work, and that she and Stephen should be relieved of the burden he’d placed on them. Only then could she rest easy with her conscience. If that were possible after last night’s abandon.
She heard cantering hooves, and her heart sank as Miles rode slowly toward her from further along the valley. He wore a beautifully tailored green coat with brass buttons, and looked as if he were part of the Hyde Park parade. She hid her loathing behind a bland expression as he reined in beside her.
“Where’s Woodville?” he demanded without preamble.
“He left for Cheltenham before your note arrived.” She met his gaze. “Before you say anything, I have to tell you we haven’t been able to find the necklace; in fact, we don’t even know if it’s still at Deveril House. We suspect it isn’t.”
He dismounted slowly, and removed his top hat to rest it casually over the pommel of his saddle. Her gaze was drawn to his ring. The black unicorn! Of course. Why hadn’t she remembered before? But who could the mysterious woman be? Her mind raced. Who would have a signet ring that matched his? Who else but his wife! Was Lady Lowestoft following her? Why, though? Why on earth would Miles’ wife wish to...?
Her errant thoughts were snatched back because her horse tossed its head agitatedly when Miles suddenly seized its bridle. “Don’t think to gull me, madam, for I promise you’ll regret it!”
His cold anger frightened Laura, but she kept her nerve. “I’m not trying to gull you. Stephen and I have searched all over, but the only trace of the necklace is in Lady Deveril’s portrait. We think it may have been sold.”
“Sold?” He shook his head slowly. “Oh, no, Deveril wouldn’t do that, the necklace means too much to him. I’m sure you’d like me to think you and Woodville have been diligently combing Deveril House from attic to cellar, but I don’t believe a word of it.”
“I swear it’s the truth.”
“No, you’re lying!” he breathed, reaching up suddenly to jerk her from the saddle.
She fell among the bluebells, and her thick chestnut curls spilled over the crushed flowers as her hat rolled onto the track. In a moment, Miles was upon her, pinning her bodily to the ground with his face only inches from hers.
“Tell the truth!” he demanded angrily.
“You’re hurting me!” she cried.
“I’ll hurt you a great deal more unless you’re honest with me!” He thrust his hips warningly against her.
She knew what he was threatening to do, and her mouth ran dry, but she didn’t change her story. “I am being honest! We can’t find the necklace!”
“It’s there somewhere, and I expect you and Woodville to find it. Is that clear?”
Her eyes were huge as she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.
He moved a hand to her waist, pulling her body sensuously to his. “And what of your personal progress with Deveril?”
She felt his breath on her face, and tried not to shudder. “I—I’m not making any. He isn’t interested in me.”
His vulpine gaze flew to her eyes. “More lies, my sweet?”
“No. To him I’m his sister’s chaperone, a superior servant, and that’s all. I think he only engaged me because of the letter from Lady Tangwood.”
It was plausible, and he knew it, but he didn’t release her. “Try harder with him from now on. I want him desolate all over again!” His tone dripped with venom.
She summoned tears. “I can’t force him to want me!”
“Oh, I think you can, Laura.” His glance moved down to her breasts. “Any red-blooded man would want you, and Deveril’s certainly that.”
“You’d have done better to select someone totally unlike his late wife. He looks at me and sees a past he’s trying to forget.”
For a long moment he didn’t say anything, but then to her relief he loosened his hold a little. “Then it’s up to you to make it a past he wishes to r
evive,” he breathed. “You’re an actress, my dear, so use your imagination.”
Her eyes still shimmered with tears. “But—
“But nothing! I’ll allow you a few days more, but next time we meet, I expect progress with Deveril and the necklace, do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He got up and then tossed a letter down. “In the meantime, I suggest you read this. It’s a little reminder of your obligations.”
Slowly she sat up, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. The letter was from her family home in Norwich and, although addressed to her, had already been opened and read by Miles.
Norwich, May 20th, 1818.
My dearest Laura,
Please forgive me for writing to you like this, but things are very bad. Your father’s debts and ownership of the house have passed to Sir Miles Lowestoft, who is threatening the very worst unless you do as he wishes. We don’t know what all this is about, but if it’s in your power to appease him, then I beg you to do it for our sake. Your poor father’s health has been broken by the strain, and I don’t know where to turn, except to you. If you love us, please do as Sir Miles demands, no matter how much you may abhor it. We depend upon you, my dear. Please don’t fail us.
Your loving Mother.
The words cut into Laura like a knife, for although in the future her parents had died in a plane crash, here in 1818 the woman who wrote the letter really was her much-loved mother. She could see the tired, anxious figure at the escritoire in the ancient manor house immediately south of Norwich, where Regency Laura had been born and brought up in such happiness. The desperate letter pleaded to a cherished daughter’s conscience.
She met Miles’ gaze. “Please believe I’ll do everything possible. I love my family. Sir Miles, and will save them if I can. Trust me, please.” Her voice quivered, and she didn’t have to try to squeeze tears into her eyes, they came anyway.