The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  Four pairs of eyes rose to peer into the shadows of the heavy ceiling beams. Townsend spoke first. “‘Twould seem we’re not alone.”

  “Bats,” Caroline breathed.

  “God help us,” Gwynneth whispered, looking ready to fly down the steps.

  Thorne reached out to steady her. “We’ve only to be quiet and move slowly. They’re sleeping. And harmless, I promise. They’re of tremendous value to the livelihood of this estate, and I dare not begrudge them shelter in an otherwise useless structure.” He smiled. “That said, watch your step.”

  Leaving the ammonia-laden fumes of the bats’ lair behind with a collective sigh of relief, the party emerged onto the battlements.

  While Thorne and Townsend walked around to the southern view, Gwynneth followed Caroline to the parapet’s nearest crenel, a waist-high gap for an average man. “It looks like patchwork,” Caroline said of the four hundred eighty hectares of pasture, crop fields, orchards, meadows, forest and beck spread out around them.

  Gwynneth shuddered, staring at the flagged terrace far below. “Agnes,” she said faintly, “must surely have crushed her skull on those stones. How long, I wonder, could the abominable life inside her have survived…”

  It was Caroline’s turn to shiver. “I imagine the poor babe died on impact as well…Gwynneth, are you ill?”

  A visible tremor had seized Gwynneth, yet her focus stayed on the terrace, her words sounding slurred as she spoke through chattering teeth. “‘Tis but a chill. ‘Twill soon be over. Everything…will soon be over…”

  “Gwynneth!” Caroline shook her arm. “Gwynneth, look at me. Let go the parapet, why do you cling so? Look at me!” She wrenched one of Gwynneth’s hands loose. Slowly, Gwynneth turned to face her.

  “God’s blood—Lord Neville!” Caroline cried out. “Come quickly!”

  Both men came on a run. At the sight of Gwynneth’s glassy eyes and sickly pallor, Thorne seized her icy hands and rubbed them between his. “Christ, sweeting, what’s the matter?”

  His hands went still as Gwynneth’s blue-tinged lips curved into a slow smile, at once seductive and contemptuous.

  Caroline gasped, lurching backward into Townsend.

  The ghastly smile thinned to a grim slash as Gwynneth’s eyes acquired a sulphurous hue. She curled her lip at Thorne. “You were a coward to leave,” she rasped in a voice not her own. “Better our child should die, than to know its father was less than a man.”

  Caroline screamed and Townsend shouted as Thorne was suddenly straining to pull Gwynneth off the parapet. One leg up, foot braced against the wall, she seemed to try with all her might to climb up and over the crenel.

  As Townsend joined Thorne’s efforts, Gwynneth fought them off like a she-cat. Most terrifying of all was that she uttered no sound during her struggle, but only stared with savage ferocity at Thorne.

  “Townsend, leave off, she’s tiring!” Thorne held Gwynneth fast, looking stunned at her tenacious strength.

  Townsend let go, wide-eyed. “What the devil ails her, has she gone mad?” He retreated to join Caroline, who had flattened herself against the parapet.

  “Be still, Gwynneth,” Thorne soothed, with a withering glance at Townsend. “That’s it, sweeting. Breathe now. Deeply, slowly…speak to me when you can.”

  Panting for air, she looked suddenly dazed, then went limp in his arms.

  “She’s fainted.” Relief flooded Thorne’s voice; this he could handle. “Caroline, pull yourself together and find my housekeeper. Tell her to send for the doctor immediately, and have Bridey hurry tea.” Lifting Gwynneth, he winced as Caroline rushed toward the tower door. “Take the lantern and leave it at the bottom of the steps for Townsend to fetch so he can bring us down—and for God’s sake, Caroline, tread slowly!”

  Once out of the keep and through the steward’s office, Caroline took the east hall on a run, Lord Neville’s terse baritone echoing inside her head.

  Caroline, pull yourself together….for God’s sake, Caroline, tread slowly!

  Even in her heart-pounding haste to reach Dame Carswell’s office, Caroline smiled.

  Thorne Neville had used her Christian name.

  *

  “She simply fainted,” Thorne told John Hodges before anyone could say otherwise. “We were atop the tower, and the height must have made her dizzy.”

  “When did she last eat?”

  “Late this morning.”

  “Has she fainted before in your company?”

  Thorne gave the doctor a wry look. “She has not.”

  “The morrow is your wedding, mightn’t it be nerves?”

  “Possible, but not probable. She seems quite prepared.”

  The doctor lowered his voice. “Is there any chance at all…what I mean to say is, might she be…with child?”

  “Hodges!”

  “Forgive me, but I’m obliged to ask.”

  “No, she is not with child.”

  “Very well. Now, if you’ll kindly go and disperse her attendants, I shall examine the young lady.”

  Gathering Radleigh, Townsend and Caroline, Thorne took them from the study out into the gallery, where they could hear only the faint drone of Hodges’ voice through the heavy door.

  “What happened up there?” Townsend burst out.

  “I was a fool, is what happened,” Thorne said hastily, with a glance at Radleigh. “I told her that accursed story of my aunt, and she took it to heart.”

  Townsend stared at the floor. Caroline spoke soothingly. “She would have heard it eventually. She’ll be fine, you’ll see, my lord. Tomorrow she’ll stand hale and hearty by your side at the altar.”

  “Amen,” Radleigh muttered, and Thorne shot Caroline a grateful look.

  The study door opened; Hodges motioned them in. Gwynneth, pale but no more than normal, was drinking tea on the settee.

  “She is in fine form,” the doctor assured them, returning medical instruments to his bag. “Merely took a chill. The fire and the tea and the blankets were just what she needed.” Aside to Thorne, he muttered, “Those damned stays, you know. Women can scarcely breathe sitting still, let alone climbing steep steps.”

  He turned back to Gwynneth with a solicitous expression. “None of this ‘ladylike’ skimping on meals, Miss Stowington,” he chided gently. “And plenty of rest tonight, early to bed.” He looked squarely at Thorne, who arched his brow.

  “I’ll see to it,” Radleigh blustered, patting Gwynneth’s hand. Her answering scowl proved she was herself again.

  “Doctor Hodges,” she called after him as he was leaving.

  The palace guards couldn’t have about-faced more promptly. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Will you be at our wedding?”

  The doctor’s long face beamed. “Barring emergencies, I most certainly will.”

  “Such a gentleman,” Gwynneth remarked when he’d gone. “Has he a wife, Thorne?”

  “No, poor chap. Not many are up to his profession—off at all hours of the day or night to visit the sick and dying.” Thorne sat down and took hold of Gwynneth’s hand.

  “He’s a lovesick pup,” Caroline said dryly, “but he left us with good news, did he not?” Bending to take Gwynneth’s other hand, she nearly spilled her bounteous décolletage in Thorne’s face. “You had us worried, my dear,” she purred. “I’ll leave you now, you need your rest.”

  “You rest, too. You must be exhausted from all this foolishness,” Gwynneth told her, smiling gratefully and squeezing her hand. “We shall see you at supper.”

  Struggling to ignore Caroline’s blatant display, Thorne eyed the emerald betrothal ring on Gwynneth’s finger. “Do you remember what happened before you fainted?” he asked after the others left the room.

  “I know I grew quite cold. So you see, it was a chill.”

  Throw it off, Thorne told himself, silently vowing never to let her on the battlements again. “Let me take you to your chambers,” he murmured. “You must rest, our day dawns just hou
rs from now.”

  “Oh, my lord,” she breathed. “I am glad, but I must know…”

  “Anything, my lady.” Cupping her heart-shaped face in one hand, Thorne brushed his fingertips over a peach-blushed cheek and gazed into her beseeching eyes. “What is it?”

  “Do you find my kiss…satisfactory?”

  Half chuckling, half groaning, he pulled her close. “Your kiss is more than satisfactory, Gwynneth…it drives me mad.” He pressed his lips to her throat. “Hang the wedding, the witnesses too,” he murmured at her ear, and heard her breathing quicken. “Say the word. We’ll go and fetch the priest now if you-”

  He broke off with a muttered curse as a knock came at the door.

  Jennings spoke quietly, a jerk of his head indicating the great hall. “Sorry to intrude, M’lord, but another guest has arrived…Mister Horace Sutherland of London.” He blinked then, startled at Thorne’s hoarse reply.

  “Thank God in his ever-belated mercy.”

  TWELVE

  “All is in place,” Arthur assured Thorne in the early evening quiet of the study—their only refuge since the guests had descended upon the Hall. “The church is polished and bedecked from chancel to nave to entry. I’d a look for myself.”

  Thorne’s sudden cough disguised a snicker. The thought of Arthur stepping foot in a “papist” church was too much for his composure.

  “There’s enough food for all of London,” the steward went on. “The coaches are shining inside and out, the horses are curried and new-shod, and from what I saw in the village this afternoon, labors have been cut short and shops closed early—although Duncan can’t begin to close his door. Heard him singing at the top of his lungs over the din. The celebration has begun.”

  “Sweet Jesu,” Thorne mumbled around the cheroot he was lighting, and handed the humidor to Arthur. “Just what we need to top off this damnable week, a pack of rowdies in their cups at the fes-”

  He broke off as a shrill feminine voice rang out above stairs but was curtailed by the low, harsh tones of a man—which ended with the sound of an open-handed slap.

  Silence, utter and absolute, settled over the Hall, as if the place and everyone in it were waiting, listening.

  A door slammed. Thorne sprang from behind the desk to the study door and opened it a crack. Arthur twisted in his seat, his brow elevated at the unprecedented disruption of decorum.

  Rapid footsteps coursed the great stairway. Caroline Sutherland moved into Thorne’s limited view, her long, lustrous locks tumbling to her waist. A lace mantel draped her shoulders. She used a corner of it to dab at her streaming eyes.

  “Mistress, wait!” hissed Ashby, chasing Caroline down the steps with hairbrush in hand. Caroline did not pause, and both women were quickly out of view. Soon the heavy door to the west hall thudded closed.

  Thorne eased the study door shut and met Arthur’s shocked look with one of bemusement. “Our Mistress Sutherland.”

  “No doubt her husband has arrived?”

  “An hour ago. He was shown to chambers and I haven’t seen him since, poor fellow.”

  Arthur grunted.

  Thorne tamped out the cigar. “If you and I’ve finished our business, I believe I’ll see to our guests.”

  “Looking forward to supper, are we?”

  Thorne grinned. “We are indeed.”

  *

  “I see you wasted no time getting here,” Hobbs said, watching his visitor from the stable doorway. Comically out of place in his velvet breeches and powdered wig, Horace Sutherland picked his way across the stable yard, trying in vain to keep his silver-buckled shoes out of scattered piles of dung.

  Horace strode past Hobbs into the dim stable, then turned and bared his teeth. “My wife is in a fine temper because I put your bloody summons before her needs, so state your business. I intend to be punctual for supper.”

  “Oh, by all means, we mustn’t keep the great Lord Neville and his blushing virgin bride waiting.” Hobbs spat in the straw, then dipped a wooden scoop into a sack of oats and carried it into a stall.

  “See here,” Horace sputtered, following at a distance, “you tell me what you want, now, or I shall leave immediately. Don’t think I won’t.”

  Hobbs stopped him with a glare. “What I want? What in bloody hell do you think I want?” He strode back to stand nose to nose with Horace. “Deuced if I’ll beg for it, either.”

  Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Horace dug hastily into a pocket as Hobbs stepped back with a snort.

  Pausing, Horace narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you’re not referring to money. Perhaps you need more of the-”

  “Watch your tongue, old man!” The stable master jabbed a finger into Horace’s chest and shoved. “You’re in my house, now. I want money and you bloody well know it! Only one time did I ask for the other—and I’ve done with that.” Hobbs gave him a cunning look. “Some of us aren’t nearly as needy as others, my friend. God help you if Caroline ever discovers your little habit.”

  “She won’t.” Horace’s swarthy face flushed, sweat beading on his brow and upper lip. “She’s curious about our meetings, but I can satisfy her with a bauble or two. Here.” He slapped a thick roll of currency into Hobbs’ hand, then mopped his face with a kerchief while the stable master counted.

  “All here.” Hobbs patted his bulging pocket. “Pleasure doing business with you, Sutherland.”

  Horace turned on his heel and strode out into the sunset.

  Hobbs lingered to hear Horace cursing his way back through the stable yard, then headed to his own quarters in the rear of the stables, where he stashed his new-made fortune under a loose floorboard. Covering it with a threadbare rug, he felt his hackles rise.

  “Tell me.”

  Behind him, the voice sounded so harsh and guttural he hardly recognized it. He turned to see Caroline standing in the doorway, her unbound hair telling him she’d abandoned her little blond maid mid-toilette.

  His sagging mouth thinned to a smirk as he rose. “I see you’re as much Horace’s nursemaid as his wife.”

  Caroline’s voice shook. “Tell…me…now.”

  “Lower your voice.”

  “Lower my voice?” She nearly choked on the words.

  “Get in here.” Grabbing her by the wrist, Hobbs yanked her into the room and kicked the door shut. “Easy…easy,” he said, realizing she was trembling like a skittish mare. He guided her to the solitary chair in his tiny room. “You’ll get nothing from me ‘til you’ve calmed yourself.” Bending down to rub her icy hands between his sweating ones, he kept his voice even. “How long were you spying? What did you hear?”

  “Stop it.” Caroline’s look branded him with shame. “I’m all the family you have—or I might as well be—and I deserve better.” She jerked her hands from his. “Now talk. And so help me, Toby, if I smell a lie, I’ll gouge your eyes out.”

  Observing her long, manicured nails, Hobbs sat down just out of striking distance on his cot. “Your husband,” he confessed grudgingly, “is paying me for my silence.”

  “The deuce you say!” Caroline’s laugh bordered on hysteria. “Do you take me for a fool? I could have told you that much!”

  “He’s an addict,” Hobbs said flatly. “Opium.”

  Caroline’s face registered horror, denial, and finally acceptance. “I should have known,” she murmured. “The extended travels, the vacant stares. His apathy for everything that used to bring him pleasure, including me…”

  Eyes darting about the room, she shot up from the chair, swayed on her feet, and then crumpled into a heap on the floor, where she lay her head in her skirts and burst into wracking sobs.

  It was too much. Hobbs could take her abuse, her haughtiness and her anger—anything but her grief. Cursing, he slammed his fist into the oak planks, but the pain only fueled his anger. A powerful kick rewarded him with the sound of splintering wood. He kicked again. Surveying the damage with fierce satisfaction, he rubbed his throbbing knuckles.

 
; Caroline’s bawling ceased. With an expression that dared him to assist, she came to her feet and gathered her skirts up off the stable floor. Sweeping past him, she jerked the door open, then paused to glare at him over her shoulder.

  “There will be no more money from Horace. Henceforth you’ve only one cash cow. I shall pay for your silence now, regarding our kinship and my background. But the sum will be determined by me—do you hear?” As Hobbs nodded, she took a deep, quavering breath. “I shall apprise you of that sum at a later date.”

  With grudging admiration, Hobbs watched her depart in the settling dusk. He almost pitied Horace for what was surely to come.

  The sun slipped out of sight, leaving streaks of violet-red beneath a wash of indigo. Tomorrow’s weather would be perfect for a wedding.

  And not just any wedding. A perfect wedding. For a perfect man and his perfect virgin bride. And they would live in their perfect house, and raise their perfect children—while he, Tobias Hobbs, continued to take care of their perfect horses.

  Perfect.

  *

  “Mister Sutherland remembered some urgent business in London to which he’d no choice but to immediately attend,” Dame Carswell informed Thorne in a single breath. “Mistress Sutherland sends her apologies…she is indisposed by an insufferable headache.”

  “Tell Mistress Sutherland she will be missed this evening, and that I am sorry her husband was called away.” Sorrier than she could ever know. “Have Bridey prepare a herbal remedy straightaway.”

  Thorne passed Caroline’s message on to Gwynneth.

  “I think I heard them quarreling,” she said, her brow creasing. “I shall go and see to Caroline, perhaps lend an ear.”

  Thorne tried to hide his disappointment. “Take what time you need. I’ll make excuses at supper. But remember your rest, my lady. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Please forget this afternoon’s nonsense, I’m quite myself now.” Gwynneth surprised him by standing on tiptoe to buss his jaw.

  “Then kiss me,” he teased, and she offered her lips with a little smile. Thorne kissed her lightly at first, but as her lips parted, he cupped the back of her head and plied her sweet mouth with deliberate, tantalizing strokes of his tongue. Her soft moan was both reward and punishment as his member reached full arousal. “Tomorrow, when night falls, my lady,” he murmured thickly near her ear, “I shall pleasure you to the point of exhaustion.”