The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  “Can you believe, Thorne, that Rob and Cathy are nearly six years old?”

  There was a catch in Lena’s voice, and Thorne knew she was thinking again about the governess who would soon take up residence at Wycliffe Hall.

  From his prone position on the picnic cloth, he reached for her hand. “Aye, and I’ve the gray at my temples to vouch for it.”

  She laughed then, and Thorne smiled, his eyes closed against the lowering sun. Even after six years, her laugh never failed to turn his thoughts toward a lustier vein, and he found himself craving the privacy and cool sheets of their bed.

  Squinting, he watched her nestle their sleeping toddler more closely to her bosom. He brushed a hand against little Thomas’ dark silky curls and on up Lena’s arm, then swiftly sat up behind her and touched his lips to her nape. “‘Tis time we made another babe,” he said low. “What say you to the end of our picnic?” With an eye on Robert, Catherine, and Sophia, he discreetly cupped a breast. His long fingers gently massaged the pliant fullness, then sought out its distended peak. He chuckled quietly as Lena gasped and involuntarily arched her back.

  “Aye,” she breathed, leaning against him for a moment. “You do play me like a fiddle, Thorne Neville.”

  “Rob! Cathy, Sophie!” The hoarseness of Thorne’s voice betrayed his own arousal, and it was Lena’s turn to chuckle.

  “Papa, come see!” Rob called. “We’ve a frog, and we want to take him home!”

  Catherine stood up and made a beeline for her parents, tugging four-year-old Sophia along behind her. “Can we, Mama? He’s just a wee thing.”

  Thorne grinned, noting Sophie’s dubious expression.

  “Leave the poor thing to find its mother,” Lena chided. “Would you like it if someone caught you and took you away from your family?”

  Catherine’s small brow furrowed. She dropped Sophie’s hand and ran back to her older brother. “Let him go, Robby. His mama will be looking for him.” She watched, hands on hips, until he reluctantly released the creature.

  “The little minx is more like her mother every day,” Thorne said with a smile, and, as Lena’s mouth dropped open, took the opportunity to cover it with his.

  “Ha-ha-ha!” It was their younger daughter’s delighted peal of laughter. “Wobby, Caffy, wook! Papa’s kissing Mama!”

  “Ugh!” her brother said. “Papa, come fish with me!”

  Thorne dropped a kiss on Thomas’ lolling head, leaving Lena with a quick squeeze and a murmured promise, then swept Sophie up onto his shoulders and strolled toward the older children.

  “Too late for fishing today, Rob, time for us to be on our way.” He ruffled the boy’s hair, pulling him fondly against his side, and nodded toward the western sky. The sun appeared precariously balanced on the topmost limbs of a huge ash tree—the very tree, as the children knew well, on which were carved their parents initials, in a testimony to a love that had begun when they were but five years older than Catherine and Robert. “Look there. Sol is diving into the Irish Sea. Dusk will be at our heels before we reach the Hall.”

  “There’s William!” Catherine cried, pointing into the forest, her eyes shining. “I shall ride fore of him!”

  Lena shaded her eyes to see their young stable master through the trees, easing his mount down the ravine. She laid Thomas down gently on her shawl and gathered up the picnic cloth, then shook off the breadcrumbs and stray strawberry caps and folded it over the china and flatware already packed in the basket.

  “M’lord, Milady.” William dismounted and bowed. “I come to tell ye my Celeste has just took a roast suckling pig off the spit, and she’s having a rare fit, afraid no one’ll be home to eat it. About to drive old Bridey mad, she is.” He whistled into the deep shadows behind him, and Raven appeared, saddled but without a rider.

  Thorne winked at Lena. “Well, I’m not about to miss Celeste’s roast suckling pig…indeed I’ve a little suckling in mind myself,” he murmured. “Ride fore of me, and I’ll keep you abreast of the matter.” As Lena smothered a laugh, he said more loudly, “William can handle Rob, Cathy and Sophie…can’t you, Will?”

  “Aye,” the young stable master said. “Else they’ll handle me. Be it one or t’other, we’ll all get where we’re going.” The children ran to him with excited squeals, but suddenly Robert dropped back. “Must you be such a child, Cathy?” he scolded, then to the amusement of his parents whirled about, his vivid blue eyes dancing. “Papa! You and Mama and Thomas can race us home!”

  Lena laughed, wrinkling her nose at Thorne. “The lad is more like his father every day.”

  She emitted an un-matronly squeal, clutching Thomas tightly as Thorne swept her up with dizzying speed onto Raven’s back, then mounted behind her. Thomas awoke to protest, but finding himself perched atop “Raben’s” back, he settled delightedly against his mother as his father encircled them in his arms and took the reins.

  *

  Arthur paused on the flagstone walk in the south gardens to light his favorite brier, where he spotted the horses rounding the bend in the Northampton road.

  “Bridey!” he called through the kitchen door, open to the delightful spring air. “Look lively, they’re on their way!”

  Bridey shuffled out the door. Side by side, they watched two horses and seven riders canter up the road against a backdrop of pine-covered hills and crimson sky.

  “What a time you’ll have in the kitchen when Sir Richard and Miss Bernice and their families arrive. This old Hall will be overrun with children.”

  “Aye, as it should be!” Bridey’s grin was comical with two of her front teeth missing. “‘Twon’t be any hardship though, what with Hilly and Susie and Celeste to help me. Saints Peter and Paul, but that girl can cook—as good or mayhap even better than old Lizzie can! But I never said that, mind ye,” she cautioned with a snicker.

  Arthur smiled. “Aye, she’s a fine girl, a good wife to our William.” He puffed on his pipe, then glanced sidelong at the old cook. “‘Tis rumored there’s to be a wee Will or Celeste before the year is out…perhaps you’ve heard?”

  “Perhaps,” she said through the side of her mouth. “Now, I’ve soup to stir.” She shuffled back into the kitchen, chuckling.

  Arthur folded his arms across his chest and drew on his pipe, watching the approaching riders with a heart full of pride—his family, as he thought of them, just as Thorne had wanted. The children called him “Grandpapa,” and were forever clamoring for his attention. He wished his Anna were standing alongside him now, but he knew she was aware and with them in spirit.

  The memory of those dreadful months before the children had come to Wycliffe Hall had dulled over the years, as so many joyful times had come along in their stead. He had watched the love of Lena and the children work its magic on Thorne, and knew within the first year of the marriage that he was a changed man. Nevertheless, Arthur also knew that it was the very trials Thorne had endured with Gwynneth, Hobbs and Caroline that had taught him that love was not an ill-afforded luxury: that it was instead the binding ingredient for a full and happy life. And surely, Arthur mused, old Robert Neville, looking on from a higher plane, could see the error in his well-meaning but misguided advice, and would be proud of his son, and glad for the direction his life had taken.

  He waved as one of the children spotted him, and watched with a smile as the horses and riders entered the stable yard, the children squealing and shouting with the boundless energy of youth. His mind wandered back to another warm evening, some seven years ago in July, when he and Thorne had sat in the relative coolness of Duncan’s public alehouse. At that time Thorne had spoken the words which, though referring to his upcoming first marriage, seemed so much more appropriate now.

  “My course is set,” he had assured Arthur with a smile, “and I embark happily on life’s journey, my mate at my side through fair weather and foul, for as long as she’ll have me.”

  And Arthur, smiling in return, had replied, “Bon voyage, my friend and li
ege…and God go with you.”

  About the Author

  Daughter of an avid reader and journalist, Linda devoured mysteries, biographies and the English classics as a child, and wrote two contemporary novels as a teen. Later, books by Anya Seton and Anne Golon made her a fan of historical romance. In 2004 and 2008 Linda was awarded first place in national contests sponsored by Romance Writers of America. Her first historical romance, The Heart Denied, was published by Hydra Publications in 2011. A quilt artist as well, Linda lives with her husband, son, and three clueless indoor cats in a bird sanctuary in Kentucky.

  Also by Linda Anne Wulf

  Heart of the Hunter

  PROLOGUE

  1742

  Warwickshire

  She’d been warned all her life not to enter Dinsmore Wood.

  Today though, with the mists burnt off by noon and Papa working there in the field, the old forest whispered an invitation on every breeze.

  Fianna blotted her brow on a sleeve and eyed a break in the trees. What harm could come of dashing into that cool darkness and out again? The king hadn’t hunted there in ages, so his men weren’t likely on watch. Besides, she was nearly eleven years old now and could run like the devil, or so her friend Darcy Kieran said, and being twelve, he should know.

  Fianna slid her gaze across the rippling field to Papa. All morning he had cut the stalks while she tied them in sheaves and stood them in stooks. He was only spelling her now so she could eat her dinner. Still, if he didn’t see her go, and she was to come back straightway, he’d be none the wiser.

  Dropping her last morsel of soda bread for the field mice to find, she lifted her petticoats and bolted for the trees.

  Loamy field soil gave way to spongy forest floor beneath her bare feet before she reached the shade. Beneath the towering canopy, where larks and pipits chorused by the hundreds and shafts of filtered sunlight glowed yellow-green, she thought she must have entered God’s own cathedral. Little wonder the king kept the forest for himself!

  She whipped off her cap to let it flutter from a string, felt her braid uncoil and pound her spine with each long stride.

  No doubt she’d best stop and have a look, then quit the place for good and for all. But the moss underfoot felt so velvety, the air so crisp and bracing. Besides, she could run out as fast as she had run in—couldn’t she?

  Turning to follow a little stream, she spied a leaf bobbing on the current. She trampled lady-fern and mint to watch the leaf, delighted to see it navigate every obstacle from sandstone outcropping to floating deadwood.

  She nearly missed the flash of white at the corner of her eye. Her head snapped up as it registered. She froze in her tracks.

  A man stood yards ahead. Not likely one of the king’s men, though, with those lace-trimmed cuffs shoved to his elbows, and certainly not one of the tenant farmers who had to pass through Dinsmore Wood to pay their monthly rents. Besides, today wasn’t rents day.

  She frowned. A poacher, perhaps? Papa had said that now and again on a drunken wager, some fool would venture into Dinsmore Wood and try his luck. But a man of the gentry? Not likely.

  Still, stooped over with his back turned toward her, the man might well be loading a musket.

  Fianna stole a wary glance around her. Where had God’s feathered choir gone? How silent and dark the forest suddenly seemed, nary a sliver of sunshine piercing the green mesh overhead. She had gone too far, she could see that now, the mossy oaks in this part of the ancient woodland easily twenty times her girth.

  She crept to the nearest tree and anchored her fingertips in the deep-grooved bark. Peering around the massive trunk, she let go a soft sigh of relief.

  The man had no musket. He’d been resting over an upright spade, and now he was digging—perhaps for royal treasure! Fianna spotted a pile of earth in the shadows, and next to it a cloak lying in a heap on the forest floor. She suppressed a snort. Who but a member of the delicate gentry would bother with a cloak on such a day as this?

  She flattened herself against the tree as the man straightened. When she dared peek again, he’d stuck the spade in the ground. As he mopped his face with his already dirty cravat, Fianna inched further out, eager to see what riches he had unearthed.

  But instead of lifting something from the pit, the man bent down, lifted the cloak, and tossed it aside.

  Fianna gasped. A woman lay where the cloak had been. Fast asleep, knees bent to her chest, she wore nothing but her shift. Perhaps she’d taken a chill, this deep into the forest without her clothes—but to look stiff with cold, parts of her turning blue, on a fair September day? Fianna felt her own clammy palms against the tree, and frowned.

  Her frown turned to a squint. Specks of black circled the woman’s head, settling now and then on the tangled mass of hair that hid her face. Auburn, that hair, but darker in places. And matted, like the fleece of one of last year’s lambs…after a wolf had gotten to it.

  Blowflies, Papa said that day, when Fianna asked about the squirming maggots in the lamb’s carcass. Carrion eaters.

  Remembering, she smothered her cry quickly enough. It was the nearby snap of a twig that brought the man’s head around with a jerk, and sent Fianna’s head ducking behind the tree again. She strained to hear over her pounding heartbeat, desperately hoping he hadn’t spotted her.

  All hope died at the sound of a muttered curse and thudding boot-heels.

  Fianna shoved off from the tree and ran, not daring to look back for fear she might stumble. Over roots and mossy hillocks she fled, petticoats clutched above her knees, feet skimming the ground. Tuning her ears to the sound of pounding boot-heels behind her, she uttered no cry, instead controlling her breath as Darcy Kieran had taught her to do for the sake of endurance.

  The stream veered left; a narrow ravine loomed without warning. She had missed the turn. She’d no choice but to leap the gap. Falling just short of the other side, she began to slide. She cried out in fear.

  Keep your wits about you, Fianna Morgan. Papa’s voice in her head, calm and practical, was just what she needed. Digging her toes into damp subsoil and grabbing handfuls of bracken up top, she hauled herself up the rise and glanced back, panting.

  The man trailed her by mere yards.

  Praying the ravine would slow him as it had her, she took off again, legs and arms pumping madly. She crested a steep ridge on the diagonal, slid down the other side, scrambled to her feet, and headed for what she hoped was the wheat field.

  But her lungs burned, her knees felt wobbly. Tears stung her eyes.

  She would never see the sunshine again. Never see Papa or Mama or baby Brenna, or her friend Darcy. Instead she would be caught and killed, then dragged to where the woman’s body lay, and buried with it in that fresh hole.

  She whimpered—and would have screamed a second later, had she any breath left, as something grabbed her by her braid and yanked her backward.

  She slammed into a sickeningly solid body.

  A hand clamped over her mouth. An arm snaked about her waist, locking her own arms at her sides. Hot breath bathed her ear.

  “Hush, I have you now.”

  Spoken by a man, the words would have terrified her.

  But this voice belonged to a pubescent boy.

  Hope surged again, despite Fianna’s bewilderment, but her exhausted limbs failed her. Struggling just to breathe, she surrendered with a groan when her captor hoisted her under a sinewy arm as if she were a rolled length of carpet, his other hand still plastered over her mouth.

  A painful throb and the coppery taste of blood told her she’d bitten her tongue. Sucking air through her nostrils like a winded stallion, Fianna watched the forest floor speed by until she felt too dizzy to keep her eyes open.

  “Stay here and keep down,” her abductor ordered as they slowed.

  The acrid smells of humus and limy water filled her nose as she was laid gently on her back, a hand still pressed to her mouth. She opened her eyes to see the boy kneeling
over her and scanning the forest like a hunted beast.

  He wouldn’t be a boy for long. Perspiration dewed the fuzz below a somewhat crooked nose. His broad chest heaved with the effort of hauling her over what she guessed to be at least two furlongs of uneven terrain.

  He looked down at her, his eyes the color of thunderheads. “You won’t scream?”

  She shook her head as best she could.

  He looked dubious, but eased his hand off her lips. He winced as she turned to spit blood. “Water,” he said hastily. “I’ll fetch water. Lie still.”

  Panting, she darted her gaze from the patch of tall gladefern surrounding her to the rocky ledge above. Safe shelter, surely. She willed away tears of relief. Boys detested weeping, nor was she one to blubber.

  Her rescuer returned, cupping water in a large linden leaf in his hands, and sat on his haunches to let her drink. “He must have fallen into the ravine,” he told her, and Fianna silently marveled at how quickly her prayer had been answered. “He’s limping,” the boy went on, “but it didn’t stop him. I spotted him over the ridge, apparently searching for you. But he’s turned back now. Do you think he’d a look at your face?”

  “No.” Braced on an elbow, Fianna took a tremulous breath and drank as best she could without slurping, then wiped her dripping chin on a sleeve. “Leastwise, not up close.”

  The boy blew out a breath. “Thank the stars. Green as your eyes are, he’d never forget them. Bad enough your hair is as pale as flax. It makes you stand out. Did you see his face?”

  “Not close. Not so as I’d recognize him.”

  “Just as well.” The boy’s relieved expression turned rueful. “I’m sorry about your tongue. And for pulling your hair. I couldn’t think how else to stop you without shouting. You run like a lad.”

  “Didn’t hurt,” Fianna lied, absent-mindedly running a hand down the thick braid.