by Lavinia Kent
A Military Hero and a Despairing Wife . . .
Captain Wulf Huntington and Rose, Lady Burberry, become lost in pleasure on an anonymous afternoon and evening caught in time.
But reality intrudes sooner than either thought possible when both learn the other’s true identity and all the reasons why their love cannot be. He must return to military life and she to the only life she knows.
Until . . .
Years pass and now the widowed Rose seeks another husband. At a country house party organized to meet eligible men, an angry Wulf intrudes. He wants answers from Rose, answers she is not willing to give. Will past betrayals and secrets keep the lovers apart or will they come to embrace a love for all time?
Price of Desire
By
Lavinia Kent
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Lavinia Klein
Cover design © Victoria Sheer
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Prologue
Cornwall, 1812
“Bloody hell,” Rose muttered as she caught her thumb on another thorn. The fresh scent of the greenery tickling her nose was no consolation for the pain in her hand. She’d tossed her muddy gloves aside, and now the blasted bush was determined to sabotage her every effort to remove it to a more genteel setting. Her hands stung with evidence of the battle. She sucked on her finger, ignoring the bitter taste of mud, and determined not to yield to emotion. The tears that ached heavy behind her eyes had little to do with wounds of the flesh. John would not want her crying over him.
John.
She would not think of him now.
Her skin prickled in the heat and she fanned the fabric, trying to get a bit of air as perspiration trickled down the back of her neck onto her sodden collar. When she’d first decided to spend the day digging up a border of hedge roses, the cold gray of the April morning had not admitted a suspicion of hot sunshine. She’d sought only distraction from the desperation that clung to her as she watched the illness that ravaged her beloved husband. Each day he seemed further from her, more separated by walls the eye could not see. With a thirty-five year difference in their ages, she knew she should have been more prepared, but so often she wished she could lie down beside John and travel with him on his coming journey.
“Bugger it all.”
Glancing down the path to be sure of her solitude, she loosed a colorful and varied stream of curses. Being the wife of a seafaring man had greatly increased her vocabulary. With each word that passed her lips, the suppressed frustrations of the last difficult months fermented to the surface like bubbles in a bog.
“I don’t know the meaning of half those terms. Would you care to explain? I assume you’re not actually talking about my mother.”
The deep, well-modulated voice echoed from behind her, speeding her heart.
She spun around, her half-boots catching on the stubborn root. With a further stream of more ladylike vulgarities, she tumbled onto her behind. The mud sloshed around her. She shaded her eyes and peered up.
A man stood at the top of the rise, the backlight of the bright sun forming a halo about his head, like that of a descending angel. His large and commanding presence filled the clearing. The brilliant light hid much, but his hair shone the deepest bronze tipped in gold, and the immensity of his frame as he towered above her was unmistakable. She swallowed, aware of her vulnerability as she sat encased in mud.
Had it not been for the very real outline of the heavy-limbed horse beside him, she might have wondered whether heatstroke gave her visions. The brusque chuckle that followed her fall lacked any angelic quality.
“Forgive my lack of gallantry, dear damsel, but may I make amends by offering to help you in your task?”
Rose fumbled for words. How did one respond when uncertain of the jest? She brushed at her skirts with dirty, gritty fingers, not sure how to rise without appearing even more foolish. She glanced at the gentleman from the corner of her eye as she continued her straightening. He stepped down the ridge and offered his hand, dwarfing her own. She paused before placing her grubby palm in his, and his masculine fingers wrapped warm around hers. Her heart sped. His very warmth awakened something caught, frozen within her.
She gazed up at him, taken aback by her own unexpected response. For the first time, she noted the glint of brass buttons and scarlet regimentals.
A passing soldier, then.
“No forgiveness is required, sir. I am sure I am quite the sight, sitting in the mud surrounded by rosebuds.” Her fingers shook as she let him haul her to her feet. “A little help would not be amiss, however. The lad who was helping me has gone home to take his meal. I should, perhaps, have gone also, but I misjudged the labor required to loose this bush.”
Rose gave another brush to her gown with the hand she’d pulled free from his, and raised her eyes to meet his squarely. She almost stumbled back again — would, in fact, have stumbled, had not he still clasped her other hand in his. Her thoughts of heaven and visions were not far gone. He stood stark and still; his high-planed cheeks, firm lips and unabashed eyes certainly did remind her of an angel — but an avenging one.
When he moved closer, it took courage to stand her ground, and not yank her remaining hand free. He was taller than any man of her recent acquaintance. The height she had attributed to his standing on the rise was all his own, and he towered far above her own middling stature, every inch of him hard and muscled. He was huge, but she doubted there was a ripple of fat anywhere on his physique. A fierce shiver of awareness settled at the base of her spine, lighting fires she’d banked in the long years since John had departed her bed. His thumb brushed along her palm once, and then, as if with more deliberation, a second time. His eyes narrowed in calculation. Her heart sped faster.
Then, as if coming to decision, his lips firmed.
“Pardon my rudeness, my lady. I did not realize . . .” He stepped back, dropping her palm, leaving an empty space between them.
“My lady? What brings you to that title? Certainly not my dress.” She brushed her hand over the soiled, well-worn twill. “Ah . . . my accent. It’s odd what having a governess for one’s stepmother will do. Are you willing to lend me a strong arm?”
He reacted as if on cue, his glance dropped to her hand, her dirty, blistered and recently callused palm. He smiled and stepped forward again, enfolding her in the power of his presence.
“Just show me what needs doing, and I would be happy to oblige, my sweetest lady.”
His tone mocked, even as his ready grin reassured. Rose stood trapped, a doe in the hunter’s lamp, caught up unwary by physical awareness. She’d known the implication of the words she spoke – sought only to avoid the embarrassment of explaining why someone in her position appeared li
ttle better than a scullery maid - but now was caught in full understanding of the precarious situation she’d bolted into.
She peeked down at her worn dress again, noting the dark let-out seams next to the faded fabric. Damp soil clung to her fingers, embedded beneath her short nails. The fresh blister, combined with abrasions of the past week, revealed the hours she had toiled. She looked anything but the lady that she was in truth.
She caught his heated gaze following her own, moving with slow precision over her body. It paused at her bosom; her breath stilled, and her fingers lifted, moving along the damp fabric to the buttons she’d loosed to cool herself. She started to refasten the buttons, but paused as she saw his eyes move and linger, following her movement. She watched as the dark centers grew in those flashing jade eyes. A long forgotten tingle began deep in her belly, giving rise to feelings she did not want to examine. She tried to breathe, to steady herself.
She was dizzy with his nearness. It had been so long since she’d felt this heady warmth, so long since she’d even realized that she missed it. She had to explain her position before circumstances raced beyond her control. Flirting was one thing, but the growing heat in his eyes was unmistakable. She needed to speak firmly and clearly before the misconception grew.
If only she could draw that breath, feel the spring air clear her mind.
Then she stopped, froze.
Why?
Heat. Passion. Life.
Each one drew her, held her, entrapped her.
This was her chance. She would not get another.
Could she choose to live? To go against all she’d been taught?
She closed her eyes, blocked out her pain, let the flares flicker into flames. She felt his hand rise, a single finger brush her cheek. His heat drew her. Her head tilted towards him, a cat seeking the master’s stroke.
No. She was a sensible woman, a woman not swayed by passion or desire. She opened her mouth to speak, looked up to answer him straight to his face.
All thoughts of what she should do faded before the green glow of his eyes. The ache within her grew and spread and she surrendered to . . . herself. She needed this, she could think of a thousand reasons to give in and a thousand more to flee, but as she saw herself reflected in his eyes, she knew there was but one choice, one answer. There was but one path from despair, and she would follow it. Trampling on her last niggling doubts, she turned her face towards his, towards the sun, and let a wide easy smile spread across her features.
“I am Rose, my lord. May I ask the name of my rescuer from this accursed root?”
###
Wulf Huntington looked down at the face shining up at him. Wide-eyed and fair-skinned, she was all he had dreamt of in the past long months, her lush curves caught in the tight gown, the clear gray eyes, the soft blond curls caught up so carelessly. Whenever he’d thought back to home and England and all he fought for, it had never been of the cunning, pampered ladies of his youth, it had always been this, the simple working maid in all her earthy glory, butter cream skin, well dampened by salty sweat.
For a moment, from her speech, he’d taken her for a lady, a forbidden temptress, but her words and work-hardened palm reassured him. His mouth watered. She smelled of honey, honey and blossoms.
He would be in England such a short while – only long enough to deliver the dispatches. He should resist, keep his mind only on his duty. But, she was such a reminder of all he fought for, all he’d suffered for. This was why he risked his life, his soul. Was the rest of her as creamy and pink as the flush that brushed her cheeks and rose at her unbuttoned neckline? She was glorious, the epitome of every dream he had dreamt on blood-covered battlefields. Thank God she was not a lady.
Realizing that he’d gone too long without reply, his mind busy with his fantasy, he hastened to answer. “No lord, my sweetness. A simple mister, or rather a captain, Captain Wulf Huntington to be exact.”
“Wolf?”
“Wulf, Beowulf, I am afraid. My father fancied himself a scholar and a poet.” He felt a hot rush of color rise up his cheeks. He didn’t know why he’d answered her fully. Little embarrassed him, but the use of his full name always brought the same anxious pause he’d felt as a schoolboy.
“It suits you. I am, after all, seeking a hero to help defeat this dreaded monster.”
She was educated, then. Her stepmother had taught her well. Perhaps a vicar’s daughter? A schoolmaster’s bride? No, he would not let his mind wander in that direction. A true man would not let such perfection wander unaccompanied. He would simply take her for what she was – willing to give, he hoped.
She gestured towards the brambles at her feet, the sweeping movement of her arm pushing her full breasts into a sudden prominence that drew his avid attention. He could almost taste the salty sweat running between them. He swallowed. Ah, the glories of England, the simplicity of a country maid with nothing but pleasure on her mind.
“You’ve already requested a strong arm. What of an iron will, or a sharp sword?”
“A strong arm is certainly needed, and perhaps an iron will. The sharp sword we’ll have to consider anon.”
He sent a questioning glance her way. The lass was perhaps as interested as he, if that were possible, and her wordplay surprising for one of her station. Her gaze met his, straight and direct. His flush deepened, and not from embarrassment.
He bent and grabbed the bush at her feet, prepared to give a strong tug. The soft, but thick leather of his riding gloves saved him from all but the sharpest of the thorns.
Her slight hands closed about his own, and desire coursed through him at her nearness. She squeezed lightly.
“Perhaps a more gentle, if firm touch. I hope to coax the bush to flowering still, this coming summer.”
He swallowed, as possible meanings raced through his mind. He shifted legs, easing his growing discomfort.
“Of course, my sweetest Rose, we do want a full flowering don’t we? I am always willing to help coax a blossom.”
He wrapped his arms about her, placing her between him and the plant. God, she was soft. She fit so well in his arms. “Why don’t you show me how you mean?” He let his arms slide down hers, enjoying the firmness of her arms, the sweet swells of femininity his fingers grazed. He trapped her firmly in his embrace. It was impossible to miss her shiver of awareness, the sudden intake of breath. Her hands reached down through the dirt to encase the trailing root.
“Just like this. You need to hold it firmly and pull it forth gently. We don’t want to damage it more than we must. I want it to grow back quickly to full hardiness.”
“I think I can oblige if full and hardy is what you like.”
Deep crimson darkened her cheeks, but she did not demur as he drew hard on the embedded root, pressing her warmth more firmly to him, the fullness of her backside pressing into his strong thighs. She smelled so sweet, so clean despite the dirt. He reveled in his growing lust. He let his breath tickle the back of her neck, brushed it lightly with his lips, dreamed of what was to come as he reveled further in her honeyed, musky scent.
When the earth finally loosed its hold they went tumbling back onto the warm grass, light-hearted laughs and repartee rising up between them.
It had been the best night of his life. Wulf could not resist a smile as the butler led him to the admiral’s study door. He slapped at the dispatches still safe in his pocket. Who would ever have thought that the boring task of delivering a packet of papers to the great Burberry and a night in a hay barn could have led to such bliss?
The smile crept further up his cheeks. She was a wonder. He hadn’t expected to ever feel such joy again after all the death he’d seen. She had brought him back to life, reminded him of his abiding love for England and all it offered. If only she hadn’t crept away this morning before he’d had a chance to tell her – well, as soon as he was done with Burberry he’d find her again, let her know that he’d be back. It was clear they were meant to be together. He could even imagine
saying those words he’d long forsworn.
“I believe you have something for me?” The voice interrupted his reverie, drawing him back to the serious matters at hand.
He looked up and schooled his features quickly. This could not be Burberry. He’d never met the admiral before, but he’d heard many stories of his greatness, his kindness, the power of his presence. And he’d seen him from afar several times in past years – a tall, straight man, command surrounding him like a cloak. The man at the desk was hardly more than a shadow, his cheeks sunken and his skin pallid.
“Yes, sir.” Wulf forced cheer into his voice. “It was requested that you look these over and send back any suggestions you might have. It is known you have great familiarity with the defenses around Toulon. Your help could save many lives.
As Burberry reached out for the papers, his hand shook with the effort. “Familiar, that puts it nicely.” He attempted a laugh, but it sounded more like a rattle as a deep cough shook his chest. “You sound exceptionally cheerful for a man dragged from the front to play messenger boy to an old man. Have you already had enough of glory and adventure?”
Wulf paused. The question was not idle curiosity. “Yes and no. I’ve long realized that glory is paid for in lives and that only a fool seeks adventure in front of a charging cavalry, but I do miss the chance to be at the forefront protecting our great country.” He hoped he wasn’t actually blushing as he pictured his love of the previous night and his renewed belief that nothing matched up to the glory of England. Gads, the poetic nonsense his mind glowed with this morning.
“That is not the smile of man thinking of the battlefield. Has one of our fair Cornish maids caught your eye?”
“Well . . .” She could not be completely unknown in these parts. “Actually, yes, I did meet someone, a wonder of womanhood.” That was too poetical. “I met somebody.” That was better. “Blond and pretty, perhaps you would know . . .”