Elizabeth turned back to her more immediate problem, the identity of the mysterious man who had touched her so intimately and then let her go. She would ask her brother about the other houses along that stretch of coast. Even if the stranger did not live right on the beach, he had to know it pretty well to have found that cave.
The cave… That magical cave. He had made her give her word not to tell. Had been most insistent upon it, judging from the more harsh, grating quality of his tone as he had urged her to swear she would never breath a word about it to anyone.
Well, there was no chance she would be telling a living soul about it soon, Elizabeth thought with a rueful twist of her lips as she put the finishing touches to her coiffure and went in search of a shawl. No, the shadowy cavern and what had nearly happened there was not something she was about to blurt out in this lifetime.
The bell rang for dinner. Elizabeth started and picked up the train of her gown. She took one last look at herself in the mirror, noting her high color, and decided she would lurk on the edges of the company that evening so as not to be the center of attention.
The last thing she needed was for her astute brother to see her blushing and flushed as if she had spent the day with her lover….
Chapter Four
The tall man labored on in the dark, dank cave, sweat plastering his shirt and linen trousers to his limbs and back, until he stripped down to his sodden drawers, and then finally tugged off their cloying confinement.
He hardened all over again as he thought of the lovely woman who had so completely unmanned him like a schoolboy. She hadn't even laid a finger on his most sensitive flesh, and he had lost control.
He was more grateful than he could say that he had not tried to make love to her fully after all, for he would not have lasted one second inside of her thrumming secret core.
He shook his head. He had never imagined anyone like Elizabeth Eltham could ever exist. Let alone that such a one could possibly be in his arms in this God-forsaken cave. She was an alluring combination of innocence and desire in the most perfect and voluptuous form.
He had loved his wife, but she had not been breathtaking, and certainly not responsive. He had been young, eager; she had been more worldly, yet very very Catholic. According to her, flesh was sinful, desire something to be ruthlessly controlled. Rules, regulations, saint's days, feast days, her difficult monthlies which had left her indisposed for eight to ten days at a time, all of them had been barriers to any sort of intimacy developing during the short time they had been wed. The final straw had been her work as a partisana.
He felt disloyal for even thinking of her religion and her cause so resentfully. After all, had they not all contributed to making her the woman he had loved and admired?
Admired, certainly, he admitted with a rare flash of candor. She had been fiery, passionate for freedom. But it was almost as if the slaughter of her family at the hands of the French at Burgos, and his assisting her, had opened up the floodgates of her passion, though it had not been for him.
He could not help wondering if her willingness to marry him had been only gratitude, pure and simple. And perhaps his own willingness had been not much more than a desire to at last lose his own virginity safely and cleanly, with no fear of disease or consequences, upon another virgin.
Wedlock had solved both their problems, he had to concede. She had got a protector who could help provide her with weapons and ammunition to defeat the devils who had ravaged her country and very nearly her own short stocky body. He had got an outlet for his yearnings and a promise to settle down and have a family as soon as God and the Emperor willed it.
Or Wellington, he remembered with a fond smile. Next in his pantheon after the Almighty. Napoleon of course had been Lucifer, the fallen angel. He sighed as he recalled the youthful idealism that had had him longing, with his family, for all of the depravities of the corrupt monarchies of Europe, including the British one, to be swept aside. For a new world order to be forged out of the principles of egalitarianism, equality and fraternity.
Instead they had had Robespierre's bloodbath and the rape and pillage of a Grande Armee bent on conquest, led by a little corporal from a tiny island which most people had never even heard of.
He shook his head, stripping off the last of his clothes until he was completely naked, and returning to his back-breaking labor, made all the more difficult by the limited mobility of his left shoulder and the low ceiling of the cave.
Or his own lofty head, he thought with a smile. Whoever had used this cave in the past must have been quite a bit shorter, he reflected, looking at the ragged planks of wood which had collapsed in a corner. They still bore some resemblance to a bed.
There were various unusual objects on the shelves, which had been dug into the walls along the perimeter of the cave. He occasionally paused to look at them. He was sure they were valuable, if only to be put in a museum as examples of how people had lived hundreds if not thousands of years before. Some of them certainly were beautiful.
He banged his head and looked up again in irritation. The constant dripping over the years must have lowered the ceiling, he decided, looking once again at the fang-like projections which jutted downwards, always threatening to poke him in the eye or head if he forgot himself and rose to his full height of nearly six and a half feet.
Life was so strange, a seemingly random series of events. Something so simple as a chance meeting by a river, along a battlement, or even on a beach, in a cave, could change everything, he thought with a sigh.
He told himself he was being a romantic fool. Elizabeth Eltham was not for him. No woman was. Not now, perhaps not ever. His wife's death was still too raw, even admitting all he had to himself about the great number of limitations to their marriage.
Moreover, he had his job to do. Hauling, unpacking, counting, cleaning, repairing, readying all for the order to invade which he was sure would come fairly soon. The weapons were old, not in the best repair, having lain here in the dripping cave for so long, but they could still prove decisive in the fight for freedom.
The question was, freedom from whose point of view? The Spanish, French, Portuguese? The British? The Irish? The British authorities were claiming they would help restore order and their choice of government to the French. Yet the French people had loved Bonaparte. Over a million men had followed him and his vision of the world to the ends of the earth, from Egypt to Moscow to Lisbon to Sicily, and had given their lives for it, for their Emperor.
The British said they fought for freedom, yet the Irish Catholics had none. Ireland itself was a mere colony subject to all sort of injustices such as had been perpetrated upon the Americas four decades ago. They had the same exact British king, the same corrupt monarchy as they'd done then.
He had viewed the Emmett Rebellion of 1803 with horror a little over a decade ago; now, having come back after so long, with all of his bitter experiences of the war still so fresh in his mind, he was not so sure of his loyalty to the Crown any longer.
As he had looked around Dublin and Cork and seen the sleek complacent Protestant ascendancy with their ineffable sense of superiority, it had made him sick to think he had ever fought to preserve that way of life. The sacrifices they had all made, the good men who had fought and died….
The vast irony of it all had not escaped his notice either: the colonizing British fighting to stop the French from colonizing as well. The oppressed Irish making up one-third of the British Army, and thus enforcing the Crown's repressive measures upon their own people in the economic and political spheres. Why, even Wellington himself had been born in Dublin.
His friends had told him to be patient, to wait to see how things would shake down. They would get their own houses in order, and then try to run for Parliament. Thomas Eltham, the Duke of Ellesmere, was a Radical, after all. More and more of them were coming into power all the time.
He sighed and tested his left shoulder, noticing that it seemed to feel even better
than it had five minutes ago despite all the strain he had put on it heaving another couple of crates of muskets out into the central part of the cave to unpack, count, clean, and repair them as well.
He sighed heavily. Even if this mission were all over tomorrow, he would still have the Herculean task of putting his own house in order. Enough to ever bring home a wife, start a family? He shook his head.
Times had been hard all over Ireland, he knew that. His only consolation was that his house, despite all the damage which had been wrought, was not nearly as bad looking as some of the others along this secluded stretch of coastline.
But somehow it seemed worse when compared with the jewel of Ellesmere Manor, and the even more precious woman who apparently resided there. She had been dressed with elegant simplicity. A lesser cousin? Quite likely. Surely not the Duke's sister? No, he didn't think so. She had been so simple and unaffected.
At least he hoped not. For if she were, then he would have no chance of winning her for his bride.
Married? No ring… And she had not tried to stop him from... But her being wed already would be another insurmountable obstacle to his hopes. He was simply not that kind of man.
He sighed again. The loss of the lovely young woman from his life was even more unthinkable than the little voice inside his head telling him to use the weapons which surrounded him in the dark cavern for something truly revolutionary.
Having touched and kissed Elizabeth, felt her writhing against him passionately as he had driven her to climax with his hand between her silken thighs and mouth on her gorgeously lush breasts, how could he ever let her go?
The memory of their passionate interlude threatened to overwhelm him all over again. He had practically collapsed with desire at her response, barely got her out of the cave and concealed the entrance before she had come to her senses. His tiny spy hole looking out onto the beach had revealed her alarmed response, her desperate attempt to find the entrance to the paradise they had shared once more.
He shuddered with longing again, yearning for the taste, touch, smell of her. He had been with a woman before, his wife, but the mere physical act had never prepared him for what Elizabeth had evoked within his own nature. He simply had to have her for his.
His what? Mistress? No, out of the question. He had more principles than that.
Wife? What sort of husband would he make for a delicate blossom, a sensual woman like her? He had not been a notable success in his first marriage, now had he?
How could he ever hope to win that inestimable girl for his own, or make her happy, when he had been such a failure as a husband? When he had killed his own wife?
Chapter Five
Once downstairs in the drawing room at Ellesmere Manor, it was impossible for Elizabeth to escape Thomas Eltham's notice. Her devoted brother embraced her even more warmly than usual and commented, "My, you're looking well-kissed by the summer sun."
She tried not to start at his words, far too close to the truth for her own comfort.
"Yes, you look very fine indeed," Charlotte said, observing her sister-in-law's glow.
"I suppose the storm didn't bother you too much, then?" Thomas asked as he handed her a glass of elderberry cordial.
"No, not really."
"It looked quite fierce. Phelps and I were cleaning out the desk when it hit. Fairly shook the house, so it did. Were you all right out in the open?"
"It wasn't so bad on the beach," Elizabeth said noncommittally.
"It was very fine in Cork up until the time we were starting back," Vanessa said as she too gave her friend a warm hug. "Clifford was so worried, we ended up staying on another half-hour until it abated."
"Well, being under a tree is almost inviting the lightning to strike you, dearest," her husband pointed out mildly.
Vanessa put her arm around his waist and they gave each other the glowing look which Elizabeth had always envied in the past. Now she could well imagine giving and receiving one in return.
"Well, now that we've made such great inroads into the estate business, it's high time we became more sociable. Here three days already, and my cousins still haven't come to see us," Thomas said as they finished their drinks and proceeded into dinner, Elizabeth on his left arm so she would not have to go in alone.
"They understand. They've only just recently got back from the Peninsula themselves, now that we're sure the war is well and truly over," Charlotte said.
"Yes, they've been away a long time. Stewart and his wife, and Vevina's brother Wilfred, commonly referred to as Will. I know several of we Rakehells spent some time in the Army, but our sacrifice was as nothing compared to the men like Stewart and Will, who stayed until the very end."
"And the women's sacrifices," Vanessa put in, her tone one of reproach. "From what I hear, Vevina proved just as much of a hero as her husband and brother."
"Not to mention their friends," Clifford added. "Some of them are here too, aren't they?"
"Yes they are. Quite an interesting group of men and women. The little news that ever filtered back to us from the Continent was quite remarkable," Thomas said with a shake of his head. "But we mustn't pry too much. Reading between the lines, I would say that Stewart and Wilfred were charged with some very important business by Wellington himself.
"I know when Stewart and Vevina were wed, Wellington gave the bride away, paid for their wedding, and stood godfather to the twins. They should have come home at the end of the Salamanca campaign. Then we got a letter saying they were all staying. There wasn't much news after that. I suspect that, like our old friend Jason, Alexander as he is now, they were working behind the scenes to help bring down Napoleon."
Charlotte smiled at her husband fondly. "That's just the romantic in you talking. You know yourself how highly decorated the two men are. You can't get medals like that by hiding in the shadows. You get them by leading your men on the battlefield, to victory after victory, as Wellington and our forces did."
"With some help from the Portuguese and Spanish," Elizabeth interjected.
"Yes, of course. In the end they were trained up quite well to fight thanks to Beresford and his officers. Though it has to be said there were enough local people in Portugal and Spain who didn't mind if Napoleon won if it meant they could line their own pockets."
Vanessa shivered. "I can't even begin to imagine what they must have suffered, their country being invaded like that. The women, the children."
"The lovely homes and fields laid waste too," Clifford said, putting his hand over his wife's. "Could you imagine how we would feel if we lost Stone Court?"
"Or Eltham Castle?" Charlotte whispered with a mournful look at her husband.
Elizabeth shrugged. "But it's only a house, land. Surely the people inside are what count more."
"Spoken like a true Eltham. But of course, with twenty or so properties belonging to your family, it's easy for you to say that," Clifford teased. "Just pick up and move on to the next one."
They all laughed at his small joke, but Elizabeth's expression remained sober. "Perhaps it's different for me, since I'm a woman. I don't have any property of my own to speak of. I suppose all women become used to the idea that they will have to pack and leave their family home to go to their husband's one day."
"You know you're welcome to live with us for as long as you wish, Elizabeth," her brother said with a warm smile. "And now that you're longing to test your wings, we've agreed you can have your pick of any of the houses to run as you see fit. More than one if you really want to tie yourself down in such a manner. You won't come into all your money until you're twenty-one. But for the most part you can do as you wish, so long as your estate remains solvent."
She smiled back as her brother. "I was rather narrowing it down to this one or the one in Galway. I adore Brimley and the Castle, but there's just something about living by the sea."
"Not the one in Dublin then?"
She shook her head. "No, Thomas. It's a fine townhouse, but I don'
t want to be simply a Society hostess and live in a city. It's fine for visiting, the occasional trip up to town to shop and take in some of the cultural events, but it would be as bad if not worse than living in London or Bath all the time. No, I need the grass under my feet and the wind in my hair."
"You're awfully young to be wanting to rusticate at Ardmore," Charlotte said with a smile.
Elizabeth looked at Vanessa. "I believe our friend here was quite a bluestocking down near Lyme Regis when she was running her aunt's estate, and she does not seem overly provincial."
"True. But there's the other rub. An appropriate chaperone."
"Mrs. Phelps will be more than vigilant, I'm sure. In any case, I shall be so busy running the estate, especially at harvest time, and during the winter planting season, that balls and so forth will be the least of my worries."
The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2 Page 37