Seduced by a Stranger

by Eve Silver

  His assertions made her want to cry all over again. And they stole her own words because she knew not what to say. She did not trust him. Not fully. And she certainly did not want to allow such horrific swells of emotion to burst free when she was with him. It only seemed that circumstances arranged for her to behave this way.

  The first time he had comforted her as she sobbed out her grief over Martha’s murder, he had stumbled upon her. That was happenstance, nothing more.

  But today… perhaps today it was because she trusted him, felt safe with him. At least a little. She had no idea if she would ever trust him enough to tell all.

  “What do you know of me?” she asked, certain that he knew all manner of secrets, though not her deepest ones.

  “I know you became the ward of Jasper Hunt, Baron Sunderley, when he assumed the title after your father was killed. I know you became his lover, and now I know you bore him a child.”

  She swallowed and nodded. “He wooed me. Made me such pretty promises. We would be wed, he said. I believed him. In the beginning, I loved him. With the love that a young girl bestows on her first suitor. Innocent, naïve love in a heart and mind that had no understanding of what might follow a first, chaste kiss. He came to my bed in the darkest hours of the night, and I lay there as he did what he would. Always quickly. Never”—she bit her lip, unwilling to compare, but seeing no other way to make it clear to him how she felt—“not like this. Never like this.

  “It was not long before he began to change. He did not like the way I wore my hair and had me fix it in a different style. He did not like the gown I wore to supper and had me return to my chamber and don a different one, then said I was too slow and let me have no supper at all. Then he did not like my tone when I spoke. ‘Can you not be soft, Catherine?’ he would say. ‘Can you not be quieter?’ And other days it would be ‘Can you not speak up? Must you whisper?’ As time passed, he began to grow short and sharp with me all the time. Just the sight of me was enough to turn his temper. I pleased him less and less.”

  “There are those in this world that will not be pleased no matter what we do,” Gabriel murmured.

  “Yes. I know that now. But I did not know it then. He used to make me beg. ‘Say please, my cat.’ One night, I did not beg prettily enough. He took up a small wooden box from my table. It was a birthday gift from my grandmother the year she died, a small treasure that had not been sold to pay my father’s debts. He used his knife to pry off a bit of the ivory inlay. Then he used the heavy handle of the poker to smash it to dust. I begged, but it only made him angrier. He pried off the next bit and the next, and in the end, he smashed the whole box, bringing the poker down again and again, bidding me reach in and save the damned thing if I wanted it so badly.” She fell silent, shuddering as memories toppled against memories like a line of domino bones.

  “You sketch for me a skeleton of your life with him,” Gabriel said. “I suspect the flesh of it was even worse.” There was leashed fury in his tone. She was stunned to hear it. He was normally so calm and even.

  “Yes.” The word was no more than a breath as she remembered all, remembered that Jasper had broken her, but that, she would tell no one.

  For a long while, they only lay on the bed, wrapped around each other, breathing in unison. Then Gabriel asked in his ever-blunt way, “And your child, Catherine?”

  Her child. Her baby.

  “When I became pregnant, he locked me away and told the servants I was not to be let free and none were to speak to me. I spent the months of my confinement in a single room. The windows were painted shut.” She could not help but glance at her hands now, remembering the way she had clawed at the frames until she bled. “The solitude was terrible. I think there is nothing so painful as to be alone, completely and utterly alone.”

  “Yes,” Gabriel agreed, a wealth of meaning in that single word. She wondered that he understood. That he knew. She could hear it, feel it in the subtle tension that suddenly laced his frame.

  “When were you alone?” she asked, certain that they shared this, that he had been locked away as she had been locked away, but unable to see the possibility of how.

  “This is your time, Catherine,” Gabriel replied. “There will be another time for my story.”

  Would there? Or was he simply avoiding sharing any of his secrets with her?

  “Tell me,” he urged.

  “Why?”

  For an instant he looked nonplussed, and tilted his head in contemplation. “Because I wish to know.”

  He was nothing if not consistent. He wished to know and so he expected an answer. Oddly, despite the tension of the moment and the terrible memories that bit at her, she found a measure of comfort, and perhaps even amusement, at his reply.

  “Jasper…” She paused, hating to even say his name, hating that he still had that power over her, the power to make any emotion surge in her breast. “Jasper brought a doctor when my pains came, and when it was done, my baby born, the doctor took a”—she swallowed against the horror that swelled at the recollection of the hooked crotchet: cold metal and ripping pain—“he did something inside me, and I sickened after that. I burned with fever. I almost died. I remember him coming again and again, bleeding me, and speaking of scarring to my female parts. He told Jasper I could never again bear a child.”

  “I will take you to London,” Gabriel said. “To Germany. To France. There are doctors there.”

  She stared at him, not understanding at all. Then it came to her with stunning clarity. “You mean to take me to physicians until you find one that can give me hope?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?” She shook her head, her confusion absolute. “Because you want a child?” It made no sense to her. Even if he did want a child, he would sire a babe on a wife, not a lover.

  She could not misread the appalled horror that crossed his features, a fleeting flicker of expression that faded as quickly as it appeared.

  “No,” he said. “I most definitely do not want a child.” Then, “I would take away your pain.” He offered the assertion gently, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  He must surely need an heir. He clearly did not want a child. He wanted her to be able to bear one.

  “You do understand the contradiction there?” she asked.

  A moment passed.

  She sighed. “I have seen several doctors. There was one who volunteered his time in St. Giles. Another was a friend of his who agreed to see me, a man of some reputation. And then a third he sent me to, a doctor of even greater reputation. A chain of kindness from strangers. The answer was always the same. There are no children in my future.”

  Instead of offering a reply, he leaned close and kissed her lids, her cheek, her mouth. Then he drew the sheets higher over her naked form, rose, and crossed to the bell pull.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “We need a bath.”

  A bath. In the middle of the day. The servants would bring the tub and hot water. And they would know. Even if she hid behind the privacy screen, they would know. She was uncomfortable with the thought. It was her nature to be private, even more so now that she had been the object of gossip for so long. She preferred not to draw such notice.

  “I have no wish to cause inconvenience,” she demurred. “I can make do with the basin and pitcher.” She dipped her head toward the washstand.

  “No, you cannot.” Very deliberately, he tugged the embroidered ribbon to summon a servant. When the maid came, he spoke through the door, giving the order for the tub and hot water to be brought up.

  From her place on the bed, she studied him, his broad shoulders, his now-rumpled coat and waistcoat. The inequity irked her. He was completely clothed.

  She rose from the bed and went to him. He only watched her, saying nothing, his eyes narrowed.

  “I want to touch you,” she said, unable to believe she had made love to a man who had not so much as removed his coat. There had be
en a certain delicious decadence to that at the time, but it left her a little uncomfortable now.

  “Do you?” he murmured.

  “May—”

  He put his finger to her lips, staying her words. “Take what you want, Catherine. Take it. I will not have you looking for my permission.” He offered the barest smile. “I told you I would not have him in my bed. You are a different woman now than you were then. Whatever he did to you, it is gone. Past. Dead”—she gasped, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks, then drain completely away. Did he know? Did he? But he offered no answer to her secret fears, only kept his finger on her lips, stilling her words—“You want to touch me? To feel my skin beneath your palms?”

  She could only nod, wanting that, wanting him, again.

  “Then take what you want, love.” He dragged her hand to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her palm, then held his arms out, offering her leave to do what she willed.

  Sliding her hands beneath his coat, she slanted him a glance through her lashes. Then she clutched the fabric in her fingers and yanked his coat down his arms, leaving him in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

  Something dark crossed his features, and for a moment, she had the strange thought that he would stop her, that he did not wish to disrobe before her. Her gaze raked him. Broad shoulders. Flat belly. Hard contours of muscle apparent even beneath the cloth. What possible reason could he have for refusing her this?

  None. He could have none. She was weaving obstacles where none existed.

  Next came his waistcoat. Then his cravat of red merino that she slid from beneath the high folded collar of his tucked front shirt. It was only when she went to remove the latter that he caught her wrist, his fingers forming a gentle but firm vise.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Has the bath come?” She had not heard a knock.

  “No. And when it does, it shall be set in the dressing room. I have no wish to be disturbed, nor to subject you to the servants’ scrutiny.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, touched by his thoughtfulness. “What is it, then?”

  His lips tightened, but he said nothing more. Instead, he reached back, caught the collar of his shirt, dragged it over his head, and tossed it to the floor.

  Her mouth went dry. He was magnificent. Cool hard planes and angles. Perfect shadows. Supple skin shifted over smooth muscle as he rolled his shoulders, but as her gaze lifted to his face, she read wariness and a guarded watchfulness. Why?

  Reaching out, she laid her hand on his chest, stroked along his muscle to his shoulder, his arm, his elbow. There she stopped, her breath catching. Understanding came to her.

  He was scarred.

  The crooks of his elbows and the front of his forearms bore a multitude of thin white lines, side by side, some overlapping, some of the scars raised and wider, leading her to believe the place had been cut repeatedly.

  He had been bled. More than once. More than a hundred times. Someone had opened his veins again and again and he bore the marks of that on his skin.

  Her gaze snapped to his. Not by the flicker of a lash did he betray his thoughts. His expression was calm, reserved, his muscles relaxed. But she sensed the expectancy in him. He waited for what she would say.

  And so she said nothing. Not yet. She needed to think on the right words. He had trusted her with this knowledge of him. Exactly as he had said: a gift.

  She bent and pressed her mouth to the crook of his elbow, to a raised scar there where she knew the vein lay close to the surface. A faint tremor took him as she kissed him there.

  With her fingers resting lightly on his shoulder, she straightened and walked around him to place both palms on his broad back, feeling the play of muscle under smooth skin. He was incredibly beautiful, perfectly formed, his waist lean, his buttocks tight, the curve of his spine a valley between wedges of taut muscle on either side.

  She stroked his hair from his nape, a spill of honey gold, wanting to kiss him there. He tensed, then relaxed, the movement so subtle she might have thought she imagined it except… She blinked. Frowned. Here, too he was scarred. An odd-shaped mark on the back of his neck was raised and uneven. She had a scar like that, a small one on her knee where she had fallen as a child and the scrape had gone deep and filled with dirt and it had taken a very long while to heal. It had left just such a mark.

  But why would he have such a thing on the back of his neck? How would he have injured himself there?

  Slowly she finished her circuit, looking her fill, touching him, leaning close to breathe the scent of him, to trace her tongue along the swell of muscle that capped his shoulder, the bulge of his biceps, the raised plane of his chest.

  Then she slid his trousers down his thighs, sinking to her knees before him to slide off first one shoe then the other, one trouser leg then the other until he was as naked as she. She sensed he suffered her leisurely ministrations and perusal, but suspected he was not relaxed in this.

  And as she peeled away the first of his stockings, his foot resting on her bent knees, what she saw made her certain.

  Something terrible had been done to him.

  “Who hurt you?” she asked, swallowing the fury that welled in her heart. She knew the marks of a burn well enough, and his feet bore not one such mark, but many.

  On her knees before him, she tipped her head back and met his gaze, wanting answers, uncertain exactly what questions to ask. Then from the adjacent dressing room she heard the sound of the tub being prepared, water pouring, a footman’s murmur and a maid’s reply.

  “Your bath awaits,” he said, looking down at her, his arms loose by his sides.

  She shook her head. “It can wait.”

  “The water will grow cold.”

  Leaning forward, she rested her cheek against his thigh. “Then we shall bathe in cold water.”

  There was a long moment of silence that made her look up, seeking his gaze.

  “I do not bathe in cold water. Ever.” There was ice in his tone, colder than any winter storm. “And henceforth, neither do you.” An order. A pledge. It wasn’t about the discomfort of a cold bath. There was something more here.

  The fine hairs at her nape rose.

  In an easy, fluid motion, he scooped her in his arms and, kicking open the door to the dressing room, carried her through, ending any discussion.

  As he sank into the tub with her, sloshing water over the sides, he kissed her, hard. He made love to her again, there in the bath, and when the water cooled, he carried her to his bed once more, taking his fill of her, and offering her the same in return.

  But though her questions were diverted and delayed, they were not forgotten. Later, as they lay together, warm beneath the sheets and coverlet, soft pillows beneath their heads, she asked him again, “Who hurt you?”

  * * *

  Part Three

  * * *

  14

  Hanham, England, 1814

  Gabriel peered out the window of the coach, anxious to know their destination. Mother offered no answer when he asked. Not the first time or the second or the tenth. She only shook her head and tried to make her mouth form a smile, but it was more of a grimace and it never reached her eyes. Her eyes were sad and afraid and she sat on the seat opposite him, not beside him, as though she could not bear to be close to him.

  Father had not come for the carriage ride today. He had stood on the drive at Cairncroft, his hands linked at the small of his back, his mouth drawn tight.

  Of Geoffrey, there had been no sign.

  Gabriel could not find any part of himself that was sad for that. He still bore the scar where Geoffrey had stabbed him, low in the gut, the stick passing clear through. In time, the wound had healed. A miracle, the doctor called it, for Gabriel had been so very sick, feverish and weak. But his parents never called it that. At times, he wondered if they thought it more a curse that he had lived.

  He had lost his place as his mother’s favorite, lost his welcome in her embrace, and he knew not what he had done t
o warrant it. She had begun to watch him in a strange way, her expression pinched, her hands always fluttering like two hummingbirds. Somehow, he thought she blamed him for being injured, for becoming ill, for the pain and grief and worry. He wondered that she refused to discuss the injury, that she never let him speak of that day or the way he had been hurt. They cut him off, stilled his words, both his mother and his father.

  Too, his mother had grown confused since his recovery, calling him by his brother’s name and his brother by his name. It was disconcerting to see her behave that way. He felt sorry for her, and he missed the way she used to be. At first, he corrected her each time she erred, but she grew so agitated, so angry, that he soon began to keep to the shadows, to try to blend with the furniture. Better she not notice him at all.

  The time since that day in the woods had not been kind to his family. He and Geoffrey could barely stand to be in the same room with each other now. Neither of them had been sent off to school, though at their age, they had expected to be. Gabriel was made to feel that it was somehow his fault, that he had created the tension and dark cloud that hung over the abbey.

  Then, last month, they had found the dead girl. Murdered. Lying in a pool of her own blood. No one had known who she was or where she had come from. She was found in a shallow grave, the dirt barely tossed over her, her body mutilated, her chest cut open.

  Sebastian had been visiting Cairncroft. It was he who had found her and then Geoffrey and Madeline had followed close behind. Gabriel had only heard the news when he overheard the servants gossiping. The maids had been upset. And Mrs. Bell, the new housekeeper, had sobbed and wailed behind the closed door of her quarters. Gabriel had heard her as he clung to the shadows, listening.

  In the end, they had buried the dead girl in a corner of the abbey’s ancient graveyard, her marker bare of a name, saying only the date they had found her, for they did not know the dates of her birth or her death, did not know who she was. Or who had killed her.