by Olivia Drake
The narrow gold band on her finger glinted in the sunlight. She was Mrs. Ryding now. Mrs. James Ryding.
The joy of being his wife made the rigors of the long journey all worthwhile.
It was hard to believe that only three days ago, she had been in London, worried about her future and wracked with uncertainty about James. Then he had come to her bedchamber and declared his love and she had never looked back. They’d left at midnight and driven through the dark, while she’d dozed against him. How James had managed to stay awake, she still didn’t know. Then, the following two nights, they had stopped for a few hours at posting inns, posing as husband and wife.
Now they were truly married by Scottish law. At mid-morning, they had arrived at Gretna Green, a village right over the border. The wedding ceremony had been a hurried affair performed by the blacksmith and witnessed by his stout wife and a serving maid. Afterward, James had not wished to tarry because Blythe’s father would have sent men in pursuit of them. So immediately they had headed south again, avoiding the main road this time.
Blythe felt a little pang at the thought of her parents. James had left them a sealed note, and he’d told her what was in it—a testament to his love for their daughter and his firm commitment to take excellent care of her. That would have to satisfy them for now.
For most of the day, they had been driving through the Lake District. Around every bend lay a breathtaking new sight, a crystal blue lake nestled between rugged mountains, a waterfall coursing down a sheer cliff, herds of sheep grazing on verdant hills.
“I had no idea England had such gorgeous scenery,” she marveled. “Cumbria reminds me a little of the foothills of the Himalayas. We traveled there sometimes to escape the heat of the summer.”
“Someday, I’ll show you Lake Windermere and the area around Grasmere. Although, by the way, we’re in Lancashire now. We entered it at the last village.”
“Lancashire!” She looked out at the rolling landscape and the cluster of cottages in the distance. “My parents are from somewhere around here. And this is where you grew up, too, isn’t it?”
James nodded, his eyes on the winding road. “I haven’t been back in many years. I left shortly after my father’s death.”
He had been sixteen, she recalled, all alone in the world. “Where did you go, then?”
“I worked here and there, including a good deal of time in the West Indies.” He laid his hand over hers, looking away from the road for a moment to search her eyes. “I am sorry we’ve had to travel so far and so fast, Blythe. You must be weary of being jostled about for days on end.”
She laced her fingers with his. “I don’t mind, so long as we’re together.”
He gave her that crooked smile, the one that always stirred heat inside her. Then he returned his attention to the horses. “There’s a place I’d like to show you not far from here,” he said. “But don’t ask me to elaborate, it shall be a surprise.”
He refused to tell her, no matter how much she begged, instead pointing out landmarks and other sights: a badger waddling through the bushes and a hawk wheeling against the cloudless blue sky.
The sun was sinking on the horizon as James drove the carriage between a pair of stone pillars and down a wide avenue that meandered through a stand of ancient oak trees. He deftly guided the horses around the potholes in the graveled road. On either side stretched more of the drystone fencing that seemed ubiquitous to the area.
“There,” he said, pointing ahead. “That’s what I wanted to show you.”
In the pink and gold of sunset, an ivy-covered mansion sat on a gentle knoll against a thicket of trees. Mullioned windows marched across the stone front and many chimneys dotted the roof. Sheep grazed the undulating green lawn that stretched up to the house. The place had a warm, homey feel to it that instantly appealed to Blythe.
“How very lovely!” she exclaimed. “Do you know who lives here?”
“The owners are no longer in residence.” James gave her a strange, tight smile. “This is Crompton Abbey, the house where your parents once lived.”
She gasped in surprise, immediately scrutinizing the place again with a sharper eye. “But … Mama said it was a tumbledown ruin. I wonder why we’ve never come here in the summer. It would have been far more pleasant than staying in London.”
“Perhaps your father couldn’t leave his shipping business.”
“It still seems as though they would have at least wanted to visit the place.” Blythe could not imagine a reason why her parents would shun such an idyllic setting. “How did you know where to find it?”
James shrugged. “When you grow up in the country, you learn the location of all the large estates in the area.”
“You were a boy, then. Did you ever encounter my parents?”
He glanced away, staring at the house. “No. We did not frequent the same social circles.”
His voice held a hard note. Of course, James had not been a member of the upper class, though he had been raised as a gentleman. Had he felt resentment of his lot in life? Did he wish he too belonged to the gentry?
Blythe longed to heal the wounds of his past, whatever they might be. It was thrilling to know that as his wife, she would have that chance.
There was no time to ponder the matter further, for James was directing the pair of horses down the drive toward the front portico. She glanced quizzically at him. “Are we stopping, then?”
“Even better, we’re spending the night here.” He leaned closer to brush his mouth over hers. “Our wedding night.”
Though a shiver of pleasure swept through her, Blythe felt troubled at the prospect of barging in unannounced. “But no one’s expecting us.”
“There will be a housekeeper and a skeleton staff, I expect. They will not turn us away, especially as you are the daughter of the owners.” He flashed a roguish smile. “Consider it an adventure.”
James was right. How exciting it would be to see where her parents had lived before they’d moved to India so long ago. There was no danger of discovery, either. Papa would never think to look for her here. And even if any of the staff should chance to send word to London, she and James would be long gone by then.
As he drew the horses to a halt, she slipped her arm around him. “Oh, James, this is the most wonderful wedding gift you could ever have given me.”
He stared intently at her, a muscle working in his jaw. “Blythe, I hope—”
James compressed his lips without completing the statement. Again, she had an impression of dark emotions roiling in him. What was its source? Was he perhaps reflecting on all that he could not give to her because he lacked the funds? Blythe would just have to prove to him that none of that mattered so long as she had him in her life.
The front door opened and a lumpy, middle-aged woman shuffled out onto the porch. She wore a mobcap on her head and a white apron over her gray gown. Arms akimbo, she squinted at the carriage, her demeanor radiating curiosity.
James jumped down from the high perch and came around to the other side. He set Minx on the ground and the dog went sniffing the grass that edged the drive. Then his strong hands lifted Blythe down. Her legs felt stiff from sitting and she leaned gratefully against him as they mounted the granite steps to the porch.
He nodded to the servant. “You are the housekeeper here, I presume?”
She looked him over warily. “Aye, Mrs. Grimshaw, I am.”
“I’m Mr. James Ryding, and this is my wife, Blythe. Her parents are George and Edith Crompton.”
Mrs. Grimshaw’s jaw dropped. Her brown eyes grew large. “No one told me that family was coming.”
“Well, here we are. We have been traveling all day, and we would like your best bedchamber prepared at once. We’ll need a hot bath as well and a meal delivered to the room.”
“Sir! I-I’ve little provisions for fancy folk.”
James gave her a cool stare. “Cold meat and cheese will suffice. I’m sure you can manage something simp
le. And do send a man for the horses, will you? In the meanwhile, my wife and I shall be taking a tour of the house.”
His hand resting at the base of Blythe’s spine, he guided her past the dumbfounded woman and into a pleasant, though rustic, entrance hall with a suit of armor on display and tapestries on the wood-paneled walls. Minx trotted inside after them, her claws clicking on the checkered marble floor. Mrs. Grimshaw vanished down a corridor.
Untying her bonnet ribbons, Blythe tilted her head back to admire the paneled walls and the fine oak staircase. But she wrinkled her nose at the musty smell of a house kept closed up too long.
“What a pity the place has gone unused for so many years,” she said, her voice echoing. “If I lived here, the very first thing I would do would be to air out the place.”
“An excellent notion,” James said, striding to one of the windows flanking the door. He wrestled with a stubborn latch, then pushed open the window so that a cool, fresh breeze eddied through the foyer.
Since Mrs. Grimshaw had gone to do their bidding and there didn’t appear to be any other servants around, they left their wraps on a chair before exploring the house.
Arm in arm, they wandered through rooms filled with old furnishings, the chairs and chaises shrouded by white dust cloths. Minx scampered after them, sniffing all the corners. They discovered a cozy parlor for sitting, a library with tall shelves full of old books, and a breakfast room that looked out over a tangled, overgrown rose garden. The whole place had a charming air of shabby elegance.
James ran his forefinger over a carved wood mantel, and it came away gray with dust. “Mrs. Grimshaw does not appear to have high standards of cleanliness.”
“Perhaps she hasn’t had sufficient help,” Blythe said. “Were it up to me, I would hire a team of maids to make everything shine.”
“You like the house, then?”
“Very much so!” she exclaimed as they strolled into a dining chamber. She stopped to admire an exquisitely carved chair at the head of a long mahogany table. “I’m trying to imagine my parents sitting here for dinner when they were first married. Do you suppose there’s a portrait of them anywhere in the house?”
James gave her a piercing stare before turning to examine the large hunting scene that hung over the fireplace. “I haven’t seen one.”
She tucked her arm through his again. “Well, dust or not, the house appears to be in good condition. Is there an estate agent, I wonder? If so, he must have sent an erroneous report to my parents.”
“If you like, I’ll look into the matter. But not tonight.” Smiling, James rubbed his thumb over her lower lip. “Tonight I have other plans.”
A bone-deep tremor of excitement gripped Blythe. For the first time, they would be joined as husband and wife. She could scarcely wait to lie in bed with him, with the entire night stretched out before them. “It’s growing dark outside,” she said, glancing at the window. “Shall we go, then, and see if our room is ready?”
She expected him to laugh, but instead he gathered her close, his arms enveloping her in a tight embrace. His hands moved up and down her back, and he murmured into her hair, “I don’t deserve you, Blythe. You’re far too good for me.”
A little puzzled by his shift in mood, she renewed her resolve to make him happy. “I do not wish for either of us to be good,” she said. “In truth, I vastly prefer you to be very wicked.”
This time, he chuckled, and they headed upstairs. It was a simple matter to find their quarters since a straggling line of servants was hauling large tins of steaming water through a door at the end of the passageway. Mrs. Grimshaw was nowhere in sight.
“I’ll give you a few moments alone while I check on the horses,” James murmured before he went striding down the dim passageway.
Venturing inside, Blythe found a spacious bedchamber with heavy old furniture and burgundy hangings. A lighted branch of candles sat on a table and a wood fire burned on the grate. One maid was changing the bed linens while two others filled a brass tub in front of the fireplace. Blythe greeted them with a smile and a word of thanks, then went to open the casement window to the cool evening air.
A deep purple twilight shrouded the front lawn. Clusters of sheep huddled together against the backdrop of hills and trees. How amazing to think that this magnificent house was a part of her family’s heritage.
One of the maids helped undo the buttons at the back of Blythe’s gown, then Blythe dismissed the servants. She left her clothing in the dressing room and hurried naked into the chilly bedchamber.
Shivering, she gratefully lowered herself into the oval copper tub. It was scarcely large enough to hold her, and she could only sit with her knees crooked up. But the warm water felt wonderful and there was a cake of lavender soap that smelled heavenly.
A few moments later, the door opened and James stepped inside. He was carrying a tray, which he placed on the nearest table. The heat in his eyes sparked a slow burn inside Blythe. Their gazes held as he walked toward her while stripping off his coat and then his shirt, letting them fall to the floor.
She slowly ran the cake of soap over her breasts. James watched, his eyes at half mast, as he sat on a stool to remove his boots. Then he sauntered closer while unbuttoning his breeches. He shucked off the garment, giving her a spectacular view of him in full arousal. Blythe lifted a hand out of the water to touch him, but he knelt beside the tub.
“Not yet,” he said, taking the soap.
He plunged his hands into the water and began to wash her. She tilted her head back against the rim of the tub and reveled in the slick glide of his fingers over her body. He teased her for a time before commencing a more intimate exploration that soon had her crying out from the pulsating bliss of release.
As she lay relaxed and happy, James lifted her dripping from the tub. He wrapped her in a linen towel and carried her to the bed. There, he stood over her and dabbed the moisture from her body, bending down to kiss her all over. Then Blythe took charge by drawing him down beside her and commencing an investigation of her own. She reveled in their differences; where he was hard, she was soft. Discovering all the ways to pleasure him imbued her with joy. When at last he entered her, their first joining as man and wife held whispered words of love and the perfection of mutually shared ecstasy.
Afterward, James brought over the tray and they ate cold chicken and cheese in bed, talking and laughing about inconsequential matters. There was even a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
Blythe sat wrapped in a blanket, which by artful design kept slipping low on her breasts. Oh, she relished the way James looked at her. She enjoyed gazing at him, too, watching the gleam of candlelight on the muscles of his naked chest. Nothing tonight would interrupt them.…
“Minx!” she said suddenly. “Where is she?”
“The lone stable boy on staff is watching her. When I left the kitchen, he was already spoiling her with table scraps. And speaking of feeding”—James leaned forward to pop a morsel of chicken into Blythe’s mouth—“I’ve had fantasies about serving you like this.”
“Mm.” She ate the bite while regarding him curiously. “Odd, how you’ve never really seemed like a footman to me.”
He lowered his gaze to the slice of bread he was buttering. “Perhaps because the position has never appealed to me. I vastly prefer to be my own man, and to spend my time outdoors.”
Blythe watched him, wondering how to broach the topic of his prospects without offending his pride. “James, I intend to write to my parents on the morrow. I must plead our case with them and ask them to accept our marriage. You mentioned once going to India to make your fortune. I would very much like to invite my father to help you.”
His face darkening, James shook his head. “After I stole his daughter? He will want nothing to do with me.”
“But you could manage one of his offices there and learn about the shipping business—”
He pressed his finger to her lips. “I need no one’s help in providi
ng for you. And never mind the future just yet. All that matters is now.”
Pushing away the tray, he pulled her into his arms and touched his lips to hers. He tasted of wine, and by the time he had thoroughly kissed her, she felt too happy to spoil the mood by quarreling.
“Oh, James, I do wish we could stay right here forever.”
“As do I.”
He left the bed to remove the tray and blow out the candles. In the semidarkness of the dying fire, he settled her against the length of his body, snuggling with her beneath the covers. “I want only your happiness, Blythe. I pray you always know what you mean to me.” His voice lowered to a husky murmur. “You are the love of my life.”
She basked in the glow of his words, while noticing how tightly he held her. Did he fear she could ever scorn him? “I love you, too. So very much. And don’t you ever forget that, either.”
* * *
The chirping of birds awakened Blythe. Daylight poured through a crack in the curtains, slanting across the canopied bed. A marvelous sense of well-being permeated her. She lay alone, and the pillow beside her still bore the impression of James’s head.
She stretched luxuriously, enjoying the slide of the linens against her bare skin. How decadent it was to lie naked in the tangled sheets, to remember all the ways James had pleased her. Twice more during the night, they had made love, and it had been wonderful to awaken in the darkness to the caress of his hands on her body. Each time they had fallen asleep together, her back to his chest.
You are the love of my life.
She looked forward to sharing a bed with him forever. Her husband. To think that a few months ago, she hadn’t even known James existed. Now, she couldn’t imagine life without him.
Where had he gone? Perhaps to take Minx out for a walk on the grounds? James had an energetic vitality that demanded action of him. He must have let her sleep late on purpose, to make up for the days of travel and their vigorous activity during the night.
But she would not waste a single moment of this day.
Blythe slid out of bed, her bare toes curling against the chilly floorboards. She drew open the draperies and glanced outside. There was no clock in the chamber, but the slant of the sun told her it was mid-morning. Did James intend for them to stay here for a time? She hoped so. It was the perfect place for their honeymoon.