For one brief moment his cheek rested against hers and she breathed in the scent of his skin and felt the tumult of emotion in him. Then he loosed her and she stepped back, very aware of her hair tumbled about her shoulders and the thinness of her cotton nightgown. She felt an acute sense of loss without his warmth and his touch.
Lady Wardeaux was hurrying forward with a blanket, more to cover her up respectably than give her comfort, Margery thought. Edith had gone to heat some milk for her and everyone else was talking at once. Lady Emily, white and frightened, was twisting her fingers anxiously in her shawl.
“How could this happen?” she was asking of no one in particular. For once, the tarot cards did not appear to have furnished her with an answer.
“It was fortunate that Lord Wardeaux smelled the smoke,” Chessie said.
“I was on my way to the library for a book.” Henry’s gaze touched Margery’s briefly. “I could not sleep.”
“The door was locked again,” Chessie said, and Margery caught the sharp glance Henry threw at her with its unmistakable order to keep quiet. She shivered and immediately Chessie was by her side.
“Come along,” she said. “There is another bed in my chamber. You can have that, for tonight at least.”
Chessie’s room was another huge space lit by a pitifully inadequate fire and with dramatic wall hangings depicting a medieval scene. Margery shivered harder, whether from cold or shock, she was not sure.
“You’ve got one, as well,” she said, pointing to another of the spaniels that was snoring on Chessie’s bed cover, oblivious to the drama.
“I always keep a dog with me in country houses,” Chessie said. “It’s far too cold otherwise.” She shepherded Margery into the enormous four-poster and Margery burrowed under the comforting weight of the bedclothes.
“Was the door really locked?” she asked as she drank her hot milk.
Chessie looked troubled. “Yes, it was,” she said. “Lord Wardeaux kicked it in.”
Margery frowned, remembering the hammering. “I had not locked it myself.”
Chessie stilled. “Are you quite sure?”
“Certain,” Margery said. “Perhaps it was simply jammed shut. I did leave the candle burning,” she added, feeling dreadfully guilty. “I fell asleep over my book so I suppose it was my fault.”
She did not sleep well and was wan and heavy-eyed when she went down to breakfast. Lady Wardeaux exclaimed that she was out of bed at all.
“I am not ill,” Margery said, “and I agreed to ride out with Lord Wardeaux this morning.”
“Riding!” Lady Wardeaux said. “You would do better to take the carriage.”
The thought of parading about the countryside in the Templemore coach seemed ridiculously pompous to Margery. Besides, she needed to ride. She wanted to gallop across the hills and run off some of her frustrations.
Before she was allowed out, however, she had to choose a new bedchamber from the twenty-two on offer. Her own was largely undamaged but for the ruin of the bed curtains, but the unpleasant smell of stale smoke hung about it, reminding Margery of how close she had come to disaster.
“You must never read in bed again,” Lady Wardeaux scolded. “In fact, it would be better if you never read at all. No good can come of a book.”
Eventually Margery was installed in the north tower room, a circular chamber with walls covered in yet more family portraits and a spiral stair leading down to the ground floor.
“I wanted something smaller,” she wailed, feeling like a marble rattling around in a huge box.
“I’ve explained that there is nothing smaller,” Lady Wardeaux said, with barely concealed exasperation. “We do not have small rooms at Templemore, and this is the traditional room of the heir.”
It had not occurred to Margery that this would previously have been Henry’s room until she found a copy of Tristram Shandy with his initials on the bookplate. She held it in her hand and looked at the strong black slashes of his name. She really had taken everything from Henry, his place at Templemore, his future itself. In return he had saved her from a burning bedchamber. She felt humbled and deeply ashamed that she had previously questioned his integrity. She remembered the clasp of his arms about her, strong and sure. She was coming to rely more and more on Henry’s strength and it frightened her. But she was powerless to resist.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Two of Swords: Balance, a duel between two equally matched opponents
IT WAS WITH A LIGHTER SPIRIT that Margery ran downstairs after luncheon and out into the bright sunshine of the May afternoon.
“Lord Wardeaux requested the most docile mare for you, milady,” Ned said, when Margery arrived in the stable block. There was a twinkle in his eye as he gestured toward a piebald nag with graying whiskers who looked as though all he wanted to do was stay in the warmth of the stable pulling the hay through his rack.
“I could outrun Lord Wardeaux any day,” Margery said. She looked out of the door to where a groom was leading out Diabolo. The sun gleamed black fire along the stallion’s coat. He was bursting out of his skin with energy.
“I’ll have a horse like that, please,” Margery said.
Ned laughed. “There’s no horse like Diabolo, but I’ll do my best for you, milady. Your lady mother did not ride,” he added. “It’s good to see you here in the stables.”
His gruff approval warmed Margery. “Wait until you see whether I can ride first,” she said with a smile.
While Ned went off to saddle a horse for her, Margery watched Diabolo. It seemed curious to her that Henry would choose a horse so wild and with a name to match. He must be an incomparable rider. The Henry who was bound by duty and obligation would surely choose a steadier mount, but perhaps the Henry she had known in London, the rake with charm to burn, would be perfectly matched with this magnificent stallion.
She turned to find Henry at her shoulder. The sight of him in his perfectly cut riding garb stole her breath, and when he took her hand unexpectedly in his gloved one she thought her breathing might stop altogether.
His dark eyes appraised her. “You are well today, Lady Marguerite?”
“I am very well, thank you,” Margery said, suddenly feeling extremely shy and aware that the grooms were watching with avid curiosity. “I wanted to thank you for…for rescuing me last night.” She waited for Henry to tell her off again for being so careless, but he just looked at her and the expression in his eyes made her feel dizzy. When he smiled, the effect on Margery increased accordingly.
“It was my pleasure,” he said. He gave a brief nod and released her hand, leaving her feeling light-headed and oddly confused.
“I see Ned is saddling Star for you,” he added. “She’s something of a handful. Do you think you can deal with her?”
“I’ll leave you standing,” Margery promised recklessly. She saw Henry’s eyes light with challenge.
“I’ll take your wager,” he said.
Ned gave Margery a leg up into the saddle. It was a long time since she had ridden and suddenly she felt a little apprehensive, but it was too late. Star was fresh and bursting to go, and they clattered out through the gates and onto the drive before Henry was barely in the saddle. After that it was all a haze of color and the wind on Margery’s face and the beat of the sun.
She clung for dear life and tried to remember all she had learned about riding to bring at least some semblance of control to the headlong flight. Star galloped across the formal lawns and jumped the ha-ha and was away through the deer park while Lady Wardeaux’s face was still a blur of shocked disapproval at the drawing room window.
Behind her, Margery could hear the thunder of Diabolo’s hooves spattering gravel and then turf as Henry followed her across the park and up onto the downs. Margery was fairly certain that he would be furious with her for behaving like a hoyden, so she spun out the ride for as long as possible. Eventually Star began to tire a little, so she drew rein on the hill above Templemore village, fl
ushed and exhilarated with the primitive beat of the chase still in her blood.
“That was wonderful!” she said, turning a smile on Henry.
“You really can ride,” Henry said. She was astonished to see he was laughing. He brought Diabolo alongside Star. “Like a circus performer.”
“I know I’m not elegant,” Margery said. “But I am good.”
“You’re out of control,” Henry said. “Wild.” Something fierce and hot burned in his eyes to rival the sun. His gaze trapped hers and she felt her stomach drop.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” she said.
“Oh, I do,” Henry said. His voice was rough now. “I like it far too much.”
The horses shifted, bridles jingling, and the moment was broken. The light died from Henry’s eyes. He turned Diabolo toward Templemore village.
“Come on,” he said, over his shoulder. “There’s work to be done.”
After only a few hours, it felt to Margery as though he had presented her to a bewildering array of tenants and villagers. Her head was spinning. She tried to remember all their names but so many people were introduced to her, one after another, that it was impossible. Babies were thrust into her arms, little alien creatures that she did not even know how to hold. She felt awkward and clumsy, and the babies invariably cried and needed to be handed back to their mothers.
The older folk went misty-eyed when they saw her and told her she was the image of her grandmama. They related long, complicated stories of their families and Margery nodded, and tried to ask the right questions and smiled until her head ached. Through it all she was aware of Henry watching her, prompting her if she forgot a name or a connection.
And she saw the villagers look at him, and look at her, and she felt the wariness in their manner. She knew it was through loyalty to Henry that they were not prepared to take her unconditionally to their hearts.
The next day they rode out again, and then the next, this time to Temple Parva and Temple Hollow. With the villagers and the tenants, Margery was beginning to see a completely different side to Henry, a man who was concerned, thoughtful and deeply involved in the life of the estate. She knew he had built up such knowledge and involvement over many years but she envied him fiercely the history he shared with this place, its land and its people.
On one occasion she saw him strip off his jacket to help one of the tenant farmers wrestle an unruly sheep into the stockyard. On another she saw him squat down to talk to the children of the local blacksmith who wanted to show him their puppies. He had a word for everyone who needed him and as she watched him she felt both humbled and inadequate. She had thought that her natural friendliness would carry her through all the ordeals that being heir to Templemore might throw at her. Now, she was not so sure. She felt frighteningly lost under such a weight of responsibility.
“I don’t know what to say to them,” she burst out suddenly, on the way home that day. “I don’t know what to do!”
They were riding along a narrow path through thick woodland, ancient forest with huge spreading oak trees and beech in fresh green leaf. Fat rain clouds were building overhead. The sun had disappeared and there was an odd quiet in the air, the prelude to a rainstorm that had been threatening all day.
“Just be yourself,” Henry said. He glanced sideways at her. “All they want is someone to listen to their concerns, someone who cares about their welfare.”
“You are very good at that,” Margery said. She reined Star in and sat looking at him. “I wish…” She stopped. There had been a wistful tone in her voice and Henry had heard it. He cast her a searching glance.
“I wish you did not have to give it all up,” Margery said, in a rush. Then she blushed scarlet. “I’m not proposing to you,” she said, even more hurriedly. “I only meant…” She risked a glance at Henry through her lashes and saw with relief that he was laughing.
“I know what you meant, and thank you for your generosity.” His voice changed, gentled. “You have so much warmth and kindness in you,” he said. “That is all you need.” He reached out and touched her cheek. “In time they will take you completely to their hearts and I think that you will be very good for Templemore. You light it up.”
“Almost literally, the other night,” Margery said. She was very aware of the soft brush of the leather of his glove against her cheek. Her skin tingled from his touch. She could hear the whisper of the wind in the leaves and feel it stirring her hair. The trees pressed close, secret and dark, and the air felt alive with awareness. She held her breath and felt as though she was waiting, waiting for Henry’s kiss because she wanted it, because her entire body ached for him.
Another breath of wind brushed her cheek, followed by a loud thud. As the air sang with reverberations, she stared uncomprehending at an arrow that had pieced the trunk of an oak just two feet from her head. It was still quivering.
Henry’s reactions were quicker than hers. “Ride!” he shouted. They thundered down the path, the earth flying from the horses’ hooves, Henry forcing her mare ahead of his bigger stallion so that he could protect her back. At any moment Margery expected to feel the next arrow between her shoulder blades. She crouched low over Star’s neck, clinging for dear life.
Perhaps it was because she was too preoccupied to watch where she was going, but a low branch caught her a glancing blow on the arm and she teetered in the saddle then lost her balance completely and tumbled from Star’s back. She heard Henry swear before he followed her down to the ground, rolling her over and down into a ditch in a swirl of petticoats and tangled limbs. She was blinded; her hat came off and her hair fell from its pins. She felt the sting of nettles above her half boot. The ditch had several inches of water in it and at that moment it started to rain, huge drops pattering down from the heavy gray clouds.
Margery pushed the matted hair away from her face and tried to sit up, but Henry’s weight held her down. She glared up into his face, so close to hers.
“What the—” she began.
He put a hand over her mouth. “Quiet!” he whispered.
She did not like being told what to do, especially by him. She wriggled. Immediately Henry allowed his full weight to rest on her so that she could not move. Margery gave a muffled squeak against the leather of his glove and he shook his head slightly. He was tensed, his head tilted, listening.
The rain was falling harder now, pattering on the leaves above them. Margery strained her ears, but she could hear no sound of footsteps or horses. It was dark under the trees now. Henry’s face was in shadow, a bare few inches from hers. He took his hand from her mouth and this time she made no sound but lay as still as a hunted mouse, all senses alert to danger.
How long they lay there she had no notion. Her skirts were soaked now and the spiky grass prickled her back through her riding habit. One of Henry’s legs was pressed between hers, their bodies intimately close at hip and thigh. She could feel the beat of his heart mingle with her own. The rain had drenched his dark hair and it lay plastered against his head, droplets of water running down his cheek and the strong column of his throat. Margery watched the progress of one drop and felt an urge to trace its course with her tongue. Awareness flared between her thighs and she would have squirmed had she been able to move.
Their eyes met. His were darker than the forest shadows, his gaze intent and concentrated as it moved over her face. Margery felt the heat swamp her. Hastily she shifted her gaze to Henry’s lips. They were firm, chiseled and damp. This was even worse than staring into his eyes. It put all sorts of shocking ideas into her head. She felt as though she had a fever now, soaking wet and chilled and yet shivering for quite a different reason. Henry dipped his head a little toward her. In a second he would kiss her.
Or perhaps he would not. From the spark now in his eyes she divined that Henry was enjoying this soaring tension between them. She could feel his erection pressing against her thigh through all the wet and cumbersome layers of material between them. Shockingly,
the sensation made her want to shift her hips to cradle him against her, to part her thighs wider still.
Margery gave a little gasp, a drop of rainwater ran to the corner of her mouth and Henry licked it up, the bright light in his eyes even more intense now. With great deliberation he started to lap up the beads of water that lay on her skin, flicking his tongue over the curve of her ear and the hollow of her throat.
He bit gently on her earlobe and Margery wriggled helplessly. Goose bumps covered her body. Her nipples chafed against the soaking-wet linen of her chemise. She felt hot and light-headed, her ears filled with the sound of the rain, every inch of her skin sensitive and raw to Henry’s touch, begging for it, her body aching.
When he folded back the lapels of her shirt and exposed the wet skin of her collarbone, licking and sucking at it, Margery arched upward to meet him. His teeth bit down on her nipple through the damp cloth of her riding habit, not too gentle, not too hard. He tugged on her breast and fire streaked through her, pleasure flowering all the more with the slight sting of pain. Her nipples rose tightly and he pulled on them again and again, pressing the wet linen against her with his tongue, his hands at her waist holding her arched upward to meet his mouth. The rough caress was exquisite yet utterly frustrating. Margery wanted to rip off the heavy weight of her clothes and his, as well.
And still Henry did not kiss her. His lips hovered over hers and she saw them curve into a smile. There was a fierce heat low in her belly that demanded satisfaction and she was so angry with Henry for denying it to her. She frowned, reaching to pull his head down to hers. He drew back. Now she was so furious with him for refusing to kiss her that she wanted to bite him instead, to punish him for withholding pleasure from her.
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