The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  A male grunt.

  Thorne quickly lit the candle and, with his hand cupped around the flame, charged toward the disturbance. But just before he reached the larder, he heard the bolt being drawn on the door to the garden. “Ho there, halt where you stand!” he shouted, and ran for the heavy portal—which was slammed in his face.

  “Bloody buggerer!” He kicked the door wide and ran out into the cold dampness. The mist was thick, and the intruder was well outside the weak light of Thorne’s candle. There was no telling which direction he had taken.

  Back inside, Thorne bolted the door and held the candle high; a close inspection revealed no evidence other than some spilled wheat flour, and none of it had hit the floor, where it might have exposed some footprints.

  So the thief came from within, Thorne realized grimly. Tomorrow he’d tell Carswell, and God help the poor beggar after that.

  Actually it had been rather a lark going after the fellow—more excitement than he’d had in a long while. He grinned ruefully, thinking it was surely a sad state of affairs when the master of the house had to resort to wee-hour cloak-and-dagger shenanigans for entertainment.

  But the leftover roast hen he found had never tasted better.

  THIRTY-ONE

  At Arthur’s insistence, he and Thorne were on the Wycliffe road heading east before seven of the clock next morning, tricornes pulled low and steaming scones inside their pockets. Three hours later they’d covered five farms and logged only minimal amounts of damage. On their way to the sixth, Thorne glanced southward and sharply reined in his mount. Arthur did the same.

  “Who the devil would find that fit to live in?” he wondered aloud. They were staring down a dray path in a field of wheat stubble, where stood a rundown wooden shack, which had been uninhabited for years. But this morning the chimney was exhaling a slim plume of smoke.

  “Likely some Gypsy.” Thorne lightly flicked the reins. “Whoever he is, he’s welcome to it. He’ll wander along come spring.”

  “Perhaps he’s your thief,” Arthur ventured, urging his mount to a trot alongside Raven.

  Thorne chuckled. “A far piece for a man to walk for his daily bread.”

  “Oh, I think he makes off with at least two or three days’ rations in one heist,” Arthur said with a droll expression. “Keeps it down to a couple of raids per week that way. I can always tell when he’s come calling, he does get Bridey’s dander up.”

  “Well, ‘tis not the Gypsy,” Thorne said, still smiling, “but apparently a member of my household, though none of the servants goes to bed hungry—that I’ll warrant, or know the reason why. And at any rate,” he added, suddenly sobering, “Carswell and Lady Neville will get to the bottom of the matter today.”

  *

  “I have assembled all the servants in the great hall, Milady.”

  Gwynneth jabbed her quill into its stand on the desk in her day room. With militant stride and head held high, she followed the housekeeper as far as the foot of the central stairs, and there stopped to scan the line of men and women, young and old, that ranged along the walls of the great hall.

  She began with an austere nod. “Good morning ladies, gentlemen…though one of you does not deserve that distinction…in particular, the individual who has been helping himself to the foodstuffs in the larder. I shall now address that person directly.

  “Have no doubt that before the year is out, I will have determined your identity. From that time on,” she declared coldly, “your wages will be withheld while you work until complete restitution is made…at which point you shall find yourself without situation or reference.” She smiled with grim satisfaction. “You were nearly discovered yestereve by his lordship. ‘Tis only a matter of time until you are exposed. However” —she looked at each servant in turn— “if you, the thief, can find it in your meager conscience to report yourself to Dame Carswell this very day, you will be required to make only partial restitution, and shall be given a passable reference upon dismissal.” She paused expectantly, but the Hall was silent. “Very well then,” she snapped. “Back to work. There is much to be done toward the joyous celebration of Christmas!”

  *

  “Come in,” Thorne said shortly.

  Gwynneth closed the study door behind her. “Pardon me for interrupting, my lord, but I thought now might be as good a time as any to discuss…that is, to decide-”

  “Sit down, my lady, please. The floor is yours.”

  She gave him her most engaging smile. “We needn’t conduct this discussion under Parliamentary procedure, husband. I’m simply your wife, come to consult with you.”

  “Gwynneth, in your case, ‘simply’ and ‘wife’ do not belong in the same sentence.”

  “Which is what I want to remedy. I’ve come to beg your forgiveness, my lord. I have not been a complete wife to you. You are a man who deserves…attention.”

  Her face was slowly reddening, but her eyes remained on his, and in them Thorne saw the determination she was trying to conceal with her smile and sweetly rueful tone.

  “Henceforward I shall be an attentive wife…if you will allow me, dear husband.”

  Thorne leaned back in his chair. “If nothing else, I’m curious to know what prompted your sudden largess. Is this a self-imposed penance for some wrong you imagine you’ve done me?”

  Her pale lashes fluttered. “I denied you what is yours. My confessor has helped me see the error of my ways.”

  “The good Father Chandler.”

  “Yes.”

  “How benevolent of him to be concerned with my marital rights.”

  Gwynneth’s smile was wearing thin. “He is more concerned with your right to have an heir than your right to have…me.”

  “Ah, yes, procreation versus recreation.”

  “Thorne, must you make a case out of everything? I am asking you, once and for all, to forgive my past behavior.”

  “And to join you in the marriage bed.”

  “Aye.” She blushed scarlet.

  “And once it is confirmed you’re to be a mother, how stands the marriage bed then, my lady?” He paused. “Empty, I’d venture, from the look on your face.”

  “Thorne, please.” The requisite tears surfaced. “I’ve always thought you a fair man, a kind one. Was I so errant in my judgment?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Gwynneth. Judgment is your forte, not mine.” Seeing her lower lip quiver, he casually gave her his handkerchief and went to stand before the fire. He looked into the flames for a while, before saying quietly, “Gwynneth, I won’t lie to you.”

  He turned to see her clutching his handkerchief and watching him expectantly.

  “‘Tis a biological fact that a man must feel desire in order to bring on…the necessary physical condition for child-getting. But desire is diminished by strife, Gwynneth, and there has been so much of the latter between us that the former is, I fear, entirely obliterated.” He paused, but saw no sign of comprehension. “I mean to say,” he pressed gently, “that I cannot force my anatomy into the state that is necessary to…sow my seed. I’m sorry, but I must be honest.”

  Her tears were starting again; she finally understood.

  “Do what you must,” he said with sincere regret. “Stay or leave as you please, continue as you have, or demand annulment of our marriage…but I can’t give you a child.”

  Gwynneth was shaking her head. “‘Tis not true, Thorne. You can, indeed you must…I don’t know what I shall do if you don’t…” She was starting to look wild-eyed. “I deserve another chance…we deserve it! You may do whatever you wish with me, I shan’t give you any resistance…please!” Her voice was breaking. She stood, holding her arms out to him. “Please, Thorne, say you’ll at least try…you must try!”

  He was struggling for words when she suddenly flew toward him, yanking the fichu out of her bodice. “Here, you see?” She crushed her ripe décolletage against his shirtfront, her small hands gripping his shoulders. “I am yours to do with as you please!�
� Frantically she tried to pull his head down and press his mouth to hers, at which point he gently extricated himself from her clutches and held her at arms’ length.

  “Gwynneth, please…don’t make this any more difficult than it is…”

  She threw off his hands, blinking furiously. “Keep off then! If you won’t give me a child, perhaps another man will!” As Thorne stared at her, shocked into silence, she laughed through her tears, ending on a bitter sob. “You think no other man would want me? Well, you are wrong, husband!”

  Thorne felt a slow burn in his gut. “I’ve no doubt Hobbs would take you riding in a trice, my lady…without a horse.”

  The Hall seemed to hold its breath and the walls to suck inward, as all color drained from Gwynneth’s face. With the flat of her hand, she struck Thorne hard on the cheek.

  He took the blow without flinching. “Forgive me, Gwynneth, but you do make it hard for a man to pity you.”

  “Pity?” Her wet eyes blazed. “I’ve no need of your pity, you are the one to be pitied…a man who cannot please his wife, who cannot give her a child! You might as well be a eunuch!”

  “Hush, Gwynneth. You’re making a fool of no one but yourself, and the servants are bound-”

  “I don’t care if they hear, I hope every single one of them hears! They should know their master for the pitiful, impotent wretch he really is!” Her laugh verged on hysteria.

  Accosting her so swiftly she’d no chance to back away, Thorne wrapped his arms around her, pressing her face to his waistcoat.

  Slowly she pounded a fist on his chest. “You have broken my heart,” she said through her muffled sobs. “For shame I shan’t be able to hold up my head.”

  Still he held her, and after a moment said quietly, “Gwynneth, I’ll do everything possible to ensure your comfort and your happiness in any other way, but I cannot be your bedmate.” He gently kissed her brow. “I wish to God I could.”

  She wrenched free of his hold. “As if you ever wished anything of God!” she said vehemently through her tears. “Take heed, Thorne Neville. In denying me my God-given right to be a mother, you might well have reserved your place in hell this day.” Her lip curled. “And I hope you rot there.”

  She flung the door open and fled up the hall.

  Feeling cold all over but for his numb cheek, Thorne sat back down at his desk. The framed miniature stood just inside his peripheral vision, and his focus was suddenly drawn to it. The beautiful, enigmatic face of Catherine Neville looked back at him.

  “Caroline,” he murmured, startling himself. Caroline. This time it was in his head, whispering…beckoning, teasing, promising…and he was both amazed and dismayed as his body responded to the mere thought of her, in the very way it no longer responded to the flesh-and-blood presence of his wife.

  Caroline. Again, the soft whisper. He felt light-headed, almost drunk.

  Suddenly, Christmas in London seemed a very desirable prospect.

  *

  Gwynneth shot the bolt on her chamber door and threw herself on her knees before the small creche her father had sent as a Christmas gift.

  “What shall I do?” she cried softly. She snatched up her rosary beads and threaded them through shaking hands, then pressed them to her lips to quell a rising scream.

  “I hate you, Thorne Neville,” she whispered when the impulse had passed, her nose stinging with fresh tears. “You’ve ruined my life, you and Hobbs…may God rot his soul with yours! Oh God,” she moaned, “why didn’t you leave me in peace at Saint Mary’s? I hate this accursed place, and I hate my father for bringing me here!”

  With one mighty jerk of her hands the rosary snapped. Jet beads scattered and danced madly all around her. As the last bounce dwindled to stillness, she looked down at her tight fist, and loosened her fingers, one by one. In her sweating palm was all that remained of her beloved rosary: the worn sterling Crucifix inlaid with mother-of-pearl, on it the likeness of the Christ in pure gold.

  Her eyes darted, widening, to the porcelain figurine of Mary kneeling in the straw next to her babe. A startled sound escaped her lips.

  “You’re telling me then, Mother, that this is my cross to bear?” Her breathing slowed; her trembling eased. She took in the peaceful sight of the creche as a whole—mother, father and child in a lowly stable, the animals and shepherds, angels and wise men looking on with vacant stares.

  The stable! Of course. She almost smiled. The family, together in the stable. It was a humble scene, but beautifully appropriate. The Christ was born in a stable; her child was conceived in one. And if it was good enough for Him, it was certainly good enough for her babe…whose father, after all, was a stableman.

  *

  “Master’ll not be here to dine this eve,” Bridey announced, up to her elbows in a bowl of dough.

  Susan glanced up from the silver she was polishing. “He’ll come later, then?”

  “Not likely,” the cook grumbled. “He’s gone to London town.”

  “What?” Hillary was indignant. “With Yuletide nearly upon us?”

  “Aye.” Bridey gave the dough a hard punch. “The master gone off, and the mistress shut away in her chambers, no guests invited—leastways none that Her Prissiness bothered to tell me about, after all, I’m only the cook and have to feed them. By the saints, I’d reckoned on a merry Yule’, what with his lordship home and wed in the bargain…ha! ‘Twill be no different from the last four, more’s the pity.”

  “Oh, Mister Pennington’ll see to the gold for the tenants, and our wassail bowl as well, like he has since the old baron passed on,” Susan said placidly. “At any rate his lordship could return ere the day’s upon us, and who knows, he might fetch some company along with him…now wouldn’t that be grand!”

  *

  The coach rolled to a stop, its crystalline-dew-covered windows giving no indication of their whereabouts. Thorne only knew that not enough road had been put between him and the Hall. His coachman was soon at the door, his breath puffing in steamy clouds.

  “We’re at Wolverton, sir—mightn’t you want to stop? The fog’s got thick and the horses a mite skittish.” He rubbed his hands together. “A bit chill up there, as well,” he added sheepishly, nodding toward his perch.

  “Have we passed the inn?”

  “No, M’lord, I wouldn’t ask to go back. ‘Tis directly ahead.”

  “I don’t know how you can tell in this stew. Hie to it, then. Just one buttered rum, Dobson, you’ll need your wits about you.” He peered over the coachman’s shoulder. “The moon will be up in a while.”

  Dobson nodded. “You coming in, sir?”

  Thorne shook his head. “I especially need my wits about me. And I’d like to be in London before daylight.”

  Dobson tipped his hat. “We will be, M’lord. Thank you, sir.” He shut the door firmly against the cold, creeping dampness.

  Thorne leaned down and shook the copper brazier to stir up some heat and, drawing out his pocket watch, settled back to await the coachman’s return.

  *

  Hobbs’ heart leapt into his throat as he glanced up to see Gwynneth. She hadn’t set foot in the stables since the night he’d stolen her virginity, and he hadn’t dared inquire after her. He stood, searching in vain for any sign of emotion on her face. “Milady,” he said hoarsely. “May I be of some service-”

  “You’ve serviced me quite enough, thank you. Like the braying jackass that confuses a thoroughbred filly with his own kind. And now there is a mule on the way.”

  He stared at her, his breath suspended, his head suddenly light. “You’re carrying my child?”

  “I am. No other has ever planted seed in me…not even my husband, as you must surely know by now.”

  He tried to speak, but she wouldn’t let him.

  “The babe shall be born nigh summer solstice, by John Hodges’ estimation. Not,” she said caustically, “that I had any doubt as to the eve of its conception.”

  Dumbfounded, Hobbs could only st
are. That he had fathered the first offspring of Lady Neville, Baroness Neville of Wycliffe, was a miracle of profound justice—recompense for the land he would never own, for the power and respect he would never enjoy without benefit of an estate. Add to that the years he’d labored from sunrise to sunset for a living, when all along he should have been waited upon by others for even his simplest needs, amidst all the luxury of the manor house up on the hill.

  He wanted to shout his triumph from atop the tower.

  “I never guessed you were a virgin.” A tremor in his voice betrayed his effort to match her reserve. “Otherwise, I’d have exercised more restraint.” But I would bloody well have taken you nonetheless. “Have you told him?”

  She gave him a withering look. “Do you think I’d be standing here on his land if I had? I should be in the nunnery whence I came, Tobias Hobbs, or deposited at my father’s rotting shell of a Hall. And you’d be cold in your grave.”

  “Oh, I doubt that, Milady. Your husband is far too lily-livered for violence. Consider the strange brand of justice he administered when the Combs slut found her belly swelling and laid the blame at my door…he kept both of us on, and invented a new situation for the lying tramp!”

  “Aye,” Gwynneth said grimly, and pulled her cloak tight around her. “He’d have kept that woman in his house even were she a murderess, I think. But his benevolence has limits. And I’m not his serving wench, I’m his wife—his chattel, as you’ve said before—and you’ve taken me right under his nose. Thorne Neville may appear mild-mannered under most circumstances, but I have seen murder in his eyes…as will you.”

  “Then you will tell him.”

  “I must tell him something. He doesn’t believe in virgin births.”

  Hobbs almost smiled. “Nor will he believe the babe is his nephew. Or niece.”

  Gwynneth frowned. “Pardon?”

  “The babe will have Wycliffe blood running through its veins,” he said softly.

  She slowly shook her head. “There is no Wycliffe blood in my line. My father would have told me long ago.”

  Hobbs laughed—briefly, bitterly, hands clenching at his sides. “I should have known you’d misunderstand.”