The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  She began to pull away. “I assure you, my lord,” she said in a breathless whisper, “that your kiss is all the pleasure I shall ever need.”

  “No, Gwynneth,” he murmured, holding her fast to nibble at her earlobe and hearing her sensual gasp. “Your kiss tells me you want more, far more. And you shall have it. Your budding womanhood,” he vowed under his breath, “will bloom full like the rose under the hands of this gardener.”

  Gwynneth clutched at him and shivered, then drew a deep breath and backed out of his embrace. “I must go to Caroline now,” she mumbled, turning to run up the stairs as if her life—or Caroline’s—depended upon it.

  Frowning, Thorne watched her go. If only Horace Sutherland would return and set things right with his wife. Perhaps then Gwynneth could concentrate on being one herself.

  *

  One glance at Gwynneth’s face as she took her place at table later told Thorne there would be a conference. He hoped it was short. Will had already ridden to tell Duncan that most of Wycliffe Hall’s male guests would descend upon the alehouse later that evening. Thorne, along with Arthur, planned to be among them.

  “Opium, Thorne, can you believe it?” Gwynneth demanded, pacing in the privacy of his study. “Horace begged her to forgive him, told her he would try to give it up. But she simply cannot endure his presence just now.”

  Halting, she laid a hand on Thorne’s sleeve. “I realize our wedding is tomorrow, and that Caroline would have departed soon after, but mightn’t she stay a bit longer?” Gwynneth’s green eyes shone with tears. “Perhaps a se’nnight, or even a fortnight?”

  Thorne’s jaw clenched involuntarily.

  “I know you aren’t particularly fond of her,” Gwynneth said with a sniffle, “but she is my friend and she’s endured a terrible shock. She would do the same for me, wedding or no. And it isn’t as if we’ll be traveling soon. You said we must be here for harvest, that Parliament’s opening will commence our wedding trip…please, Thorne, let her stay. For me?”

  Her small fingers clutched like talons through his velvet sleeve, but she let go as he rose to stand with his back to her before the fire. He felt a strong need to warm himself. The prospect of having Caroline Sutherland underfoot in the first days of his marriage made his blood run cold.

  “Very well then,” he said in a toneless voice. “Let her stay.”

  *

  By Thorne’s pocket-watch, it was just past midnight when Arthur leaned over the dice table and spoke at his ear.

  Thorne let go a colorful expletive. First splitting his winnings with Radleigh, he left the table and made his way slowly through the rowdy throng, exchanging greetings but keeping an eye out for his objective.

  She was alone at a table near the door. Her cardinal was clasped at her throat, the hood crushed under a sea of blue-black hair. She cradled a dram of whisky in her hands, her stare fixed on a point beyond the room, a trace of tears marking her unusually pale cheeks.

  “Friend of yours, M’lord?” Duncan’s low voice gave him a start.

  “A guest,” Thorne said shortly.

  Duncan nodded toward a crowded table against the front wall. “She’s been spotted.” He moved on.

  Thorne recognized five of the six men ogling the lone woman. The stranger stood up on unsteady legs while two of his mates slapped his back in apparent encouragement.

  Thorne timed his own casual gait to reach the woman’s table just ahead of the stranger.

  “Here, watch your manners, mate!” the man groused, lurching into Thorne and stumbling backward. “I’ve a mind to introduce meself to the lady!”

  Slowly, Thorne turned to face him. “And I’ve a mind to toss you out into the road on your drunken ass.”

  “Ha!” The man stepped back, sizing him up. “You and ten other hearty chaps, mayhap!”

  He shrank back as Thorne’s eyes pierced him through, but offered a tentative fist until one of his tablemates bellowed, “Keep it to yourself, Fletch! ‘Tis late, and your pint’s a-wasting, come back and sit down.”

  Thorne held his stare. “A wise man, your friend.”

  ‘Fletch’ grunted, stealing one more glance at the prize he coveted before looking back at his companions. The movement threw him off balance. He staggered back to fall into his seat.

  Thorne faced the woman again. She’d yet to acknowledge him. Let her be. The thought was so distinct that it seemed for a moment Duncan had spoken again.

  Thorne sat on the trestle opposite the woman. She flinched, then dragged her gaze upward to meet his own, her expression unchanging—dull, devoid of emotion, the fire gone out of her eyes. He wondered if she even recognized him.

  “Caroline.”

  She did not reply. He saw a flicker in her eyes—pain? He’d always thought women such as she only inflicted pain.

  He watched his hand move. Watched it slide unbidden across the table to envelop those cold, pale fingers in the warmth of his palms.

  “Caroline.”

  This time she looked at him, her eyes as eloquent as they had been empty moments ago. Why, they asked. Why?

  He lifted her glass of whiskey, helped her wrap her fingers around it. “Drink,” he said, and gently withdrew his hand.

  She did as he bade her, holding the glass in both hands like a child might, her dark eyes fixed on his face. In four little gulps she finished the whiskey, a tremor seizing her during its final burning descent.

  Thorne signaled Duncan for two more.

  This time Caroline drank the entire contents of her glass without putting it down, swallowing hard and fast, an erratic pulse beating in her golden throat. Color crept into her cheeks. Her eyes, dark bottomless pools, never left him.

  A man could dive deep into those eyes, Thorne mused. Could swim in their depths for days, weeks, perhaps even years, without surfacing for air…

  And could just as well drown.

  He found his voice, hoarse though it was. “‘Tis late, Mistress Sutherland. I shall escort you home.”

  “I rode, my lord.” Her throaty tones nearly sucked the breath from his lungs. “The bay roan. He is quite gentle, just as Toby said he’d be.”

  “Toby.” Thorne frowned. “My stableman? You’re acquainted?”

  Her hands, trying to corral her raven locks and pull up her hood, went still. “Not personally, of course, but”—she hiccuped—“we’ve all ridden a great deal, and it is his name, after all-”

  “His name is Hobbs. Has he been presumptuous, tried to take liberties?”

  “Heavens, no! Oh no, no, no.” Caroline giggled, an odd sound coming from her, and then hiccuped again. The whiskey had done its work.

  “Arthur will settle my account and see to your horse. You’re riding with me.”

  *

  Leaning against the stable doorway, Hobbs looked out into the night, ostensibly keeping vigil, along with the groom slouched against the wall, for returning guests. But it was Caroline for whom he watched.

  Lights twinkled on the hill, the kitchen fire burning well past the usual hour as footmen waited in the great hall. Up the lane, lantern light glowed in the open doorway of the coach house.

  The beat of hooves intruded on the soft night sounds; Hobbs recognized the canter of the Arabian. He nudged the dozing groom with the toe of his boot. “Nate, look lively.” Nate shot to his feet as Raven rounded the bend with not one, but two, riders.

  Watching them dismount, Hobbs narrowed his eyes and shook his head. Leave it to Caroline. Not only had she returned safe and sound, but with Neville himself. As Nate brought the horse in, Hobbs lingered to watch the couple cross the lane and enter the south gardens, Caroline’s elbow resting in Neville’s hand. At her first little stumble, he tucked her arm firmly through his.

  Hobbs darted his eyes to the second-story window at the northeast corner of the Hall. Was she watching? He knew those were her chambers. He’d made it his business to know.

  Seeing the draperies shift ever so slightly, he smiled.


  *

  Two maids met Thorne in the kitchen, their eyes widening for an unguarded moment to see Caroline “on the arm of the master with her hair unbound like a wild thing,” as Ashby later heard one of them tell a scullery maid named Janie.

  “Susan, Hillary, help me with Mistress Sutherland’s cardinal,” Thorne ordered the maids brusquely, dispelling any notion of impropriety, then nodded toward the table, where food lay waiting for the returning revelers. “Send some of that bread and broth to her chambers straightaway. And wake her maid.”

  As Caroline allowed Thorne to guide her up the stairs, a wave of exhaustion washed over her. With it came the terrible emptiness she’d felt after Horace’s departure this afternoon. To her horror, tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to swallow her sobs, but a tremor gave her away. Suddenly the stairsteps loomed frightfully close.

  In one dizzying moment she felt herself swept up and cradled by a pair of unyielding arms. Held fast against the firm breadth of Lord Neville’s chest, she was carried to her chambers, her silent tears spotting his velvet waistcoat.

  Her maid cried out as Lord Neville brought Caroline through the door.

  “Hush,” he told the girl. “She’s conscious, just unsteady on her feet. Ashby, is it?”

  “Aye, M’lord.” Ashby stepped back as Lord Neville crossed the bedchamber and eased Caroline onto the canopied four-poster.

  He gestured toward the tray. “Your mistress needs rest, but first she needs strength. Do not let her sleep ‘til she eats.”

  Ashby bobbed her head. “Aye, M’lord, I’ll see she swallows every morsel.”

  “Mind you don’t force it down her gullet,” he said mildly. “Be gentle with her. She’s had a bad shock today.”

  “Aye, M’lord, I know.”

  He turned to Caroline. “Rest well. Should you need anything during the night, send Ashby to my—to Dame Carswell’s chambers, topstairs, first door to the right.”

  Caroline managed a wan smile. “Thank you. My apologies for disrupting your evening.”

  “‘Twas no trouble,” he said. As Ashby approached with the tray of victuals, Caroline watched Lord Neville stride to the curtained archway.

  Suddenly he paused, then turned around, his eyes piercing hers through the dimness. “As I am to be married today,” he said, “to a lady who considers you her dearest friend, ‘twould seem odd for you to continue addressing me by my formal name.”

  As late as the hour was and as poorly as Caroline felt, she did not miss a single one of the three implicit messages Thorne Neville had just delivered while giving her first-name privilege.

  I am to be married. Gwynneth is a lady. She believes you to be her friend.

  Caroline nodded. “Goodnight, then…Thorne.”

  He seemed to study her. She made her expression inscrutable.

  “Good night,” he said at last, and moments later closed the door with quiet finality.

  THIRTEEN

  “Milady?”

  Elaine heard no reply. Yet the flickering firelight under the door indicated her mistress was up and about. As I would be, she thought glumly, were I to marry Thorne Neville today.

  She touched the handle, then recoiled as she heard the drone of a voice inside. She clutched at her middle, sickened by the thought that Lord Neville could be in his fiancé‘s chambers at this hour.

  Her dismay vanished at the sound of a door closing on the west gallery. Even at that distance and through the murky light, she sensed Lord Neville’s eyes upon her. She dipped her knee and saw him nod as he headed for the stairs.

  Slowly, Elaine eased her mistress’ latch open and pushed the door ajar.

  The Honourable Miss Stowington knelt not on the rug but on the bare oak floorboards, her head bowed and her eyes closed, a string of beads threaded taut through her fingers. “Holy Mary, mother of God,” she intoned, “pray for us sinners…”

  The prayer died on her lips. Elaine watched, first in bewilderment as her mistress’ pale face crumpled, then in growing horror as the prayer took a new direction.

  “Pray for me,” the young woman pleaded through soft sobs, “for absolution for the sin I must commit, the Original Sin of carnal knowledge, which you yourself were mercifully spared, Virgin Mother, but which I must commit for the man that is to be my husband. Please, Holy Mother, entreat our Father to strengthen me and give me fortitude to endure such pain and abasement!”

  Elaine brought a shaking hand to her mouth.

  The bride-to-be opened her eyes as the sun broke over the horizon, one pale beam lancing a window and striking the rumpled bed directly in front of her.

  Clutching her beads to her chest, she astounded Elaine by smiling through her tears.

  “Thank thee, Blessed Mother,” she said fervently, “for hearing my prayer.”

  *

  The Church of Saint Michael reeked of roses, incense, and tallow. With every seat filled, villagers stood five deep in the vestibule and spilled out into the churchyard.

  Gwynneth floated up the nave on her proud father’s arm, looking like a hesitant angel in a gown of satin, lace, and seed pearls, her trembling hands clutching a Venetian glass bead rosary and a posy of roses plucked from the very hedgerows planted in her honor. Rosebuds and baby’s breath wove through her hair, while her veiled headdress displayed the traditional sprig of rosemary for keeping one’s husband faithful. Her wedding gift from Thorne, a circlet of matched pearls imported from the Arabian coast, adorned her slender throat.

  The shine of tears through her veil surprised Thorne. Sentimentality wasn’t a trait he would have ascribed to her.

  Arthur was soon handing Thorne a gold-and-emerald band to be joined to the emerald solitaire on Gwynneth’s finger. “With this ring, I thee wed,” Thorne repeated after Father Chandler, “and I plight unto thee my troth.”

  Standing behind Gwynneth and lacking her usual golden glow, Caroline stoically held the bride’s posy and wedding gift to the groom, a gold signet ring featuring the couple’s initials entertwined with a rose vine on a background of jet. She passed the latter to the priest.

  Gwynneth took the ring from Father Chandler. As she slid the unaccountably cold metal onto Thorne’s finger, Thorne caught himself gazing at Caroline instead of his bride.

  The awkward moment passed into a guilty memory as Father Chandler signed the cross. “In nomine Patris,” he intoned, “et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…Amen.”

  Forty long minutes later, the Missa Contata was over.

  *

  Regaled by a crowd waving streamers and tossing flowers along the way, the newlyweds rode to the village green in a coach drawn by four plumed Percherons. Lizzie and Duncan tapped a dozen kegs of ale, and when everyone had eaten their fill of roast capons and suckling pig, the dancing began. The first dance, a reel, started off to an uproarious cheer as the bride partnered her groom and then her strutting father.

  Watching Radleigh and Gwynneth, Thorne looked up to see John Hodges wending his way through the throng.

  “A word, sir?” the doctor murmured when he reached him. At Thorne’s nod, he led him away from the noise of pipe and fiddle to the edge of the green, and fell into step beside him. “Yesterday at the Hall, I sensed something more than a fainting spell had occurred. I thought perhaps with a day’s passing, you might be more inclined to confide.”

  Hesitating at first, Thorne related his ancestor’s tragic fate, then quoted Gwynneth’s chilling words and told the doctor of her demented struggle to mount the parapet.

  “Well I’ve something to tell you,” Hodges said, breaking stride to face him. “Some weeks ago, I believe you hired a man or two from the village to keep watch from that very tower.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, one of them came to me with what I thought was a tale conceived at the bottom of a bottle, but now I wonder.”

  “Go on.”

  “He told me he had become ‘infernally cold’, if you’ll pardon the paradox, on his third watch, colder t
han he’d ever been in his life. No reason for it, he said, as it was a balmy enough night in these parts. Thinking he’d caught a chill, he relied on his wife’s care but, as he needed the compensation, returned to his post for the next three watches.” Hodges eyed Thorne intently. “Following the sixth watch, he came to me and said he’d not go up there again.”

  “Why?” Thorne made his tone flat, his expression stony.

  “It seems the night before, during his watch, he was…well there’s no other way to put it. He was shoved from behind.”

  “What the deuce?”

  “Indeed, shoved hard enough to lay him flat on his belly across the parapet. He said it quite knocked the breath out of him, but he’d the presence of mind to twist himself right ‘round to see who’d done it.”

  “And?”

  “No one.”

  “What do you mean, no one?” Thorne demanded with a growl in his voice.

  “He said there was ‘nary a soul in sight’, and that ‘no one but the devil hisself’ could have reached the stairs before he turned ‘round to see. Claims the door at the top of the stairs was shut tight at any rate.”

  “Bollocks. He was three sheets to the wind, as you first suspected—though how he smuggled a flask past Pennington is beyond me.”

  “There, you see? And why come to me with such a tale? His wife nagged him to see me on account of his sore belly, but I’d the distinct impression he was more desperate to confide.”

  “Desperate to convince his wife he wasn’t tippling on the job, you mean. Look, Hodges, I’ll admit to feeling out of sorts yesterday, hearing such words from Gwynneth in that strange voice. But you’re not a fool, doctor. Surely you can see that Gwynneth fell victim to her own sensitivity. And to my lack of it.”

  Hodges looked unconvinced. “Well I’m glad you ‘fessed up, as I can best treat my patients when I know something of their proclivities. But just for my own senseless curiosity, how long had it been, before these night watches, since anyone was atop that tower?”