Most Eagerly Yours

by Allison Chase

  Her duty dictated that she safeguard those secrets, though her heart decreed otherwise. But what of Aidan’s heart? Would he be forthcoming with her, or would honesty be a one-sided affair between them?

  The answers must wait. Wondering where her clothing had fallen, she began to disentangle her legs from the bedclothes.

  Aidan’s arms held her still. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Back to Abbey Green.” At his puzzled frown she explained, “I cannot stay here all night. Already your servants must be abuzz about the woman their master has secreted away in his bedchamber.”

  He pressed his lips to hers, his kiss punctuated by soft laughter. “Laurel, I have only one servant here, my man, Phelps, who attends to all my needs. I can assure you, I have never known a more discreet soul.”

  “Oh . . . in that case . . .” She relaxed into his arms, the nudging doubts and even Victoria’s admonitions dissolving into the heat of their joined bodies as they stretched out, pulled the covers over them, and made slow, languorous love until sleep claimed them both.

  Just as she drifted off, she felt Aidan’s lips at her cheek and heard the words I love you. She didn’t know whether he had spoken them, or whether she had, or whether they had been merely part of the dream that enveloped her.

  Chapter 20

  They set out from the Royal Crescent soon after dawn, driving the cabriolet out through the service entrance at the rear of the property to avoid supplying Aidan’s neighbors with the seeds of gossip.

  By midmorning they arrived at the outskirts of Billington, some twenty-five miles northeast of Bath. Laurel had always considered the countryside surrounding Thorn Grove lovely, but the fairy-tale perfection of these rolling fields bordered by limestone walls and lush wood-lands, sweeping valleys, and sudden, breathtaking hills dazzled her.

  The villages they passed, built of the same creamy stone as Bath, held similar charm. Yet just as when she had peered out from the proposed site of the Summit Pavilion, she discovered along the neat, winding roads nothing that struck a chord of remembrance. Nothing recognizable stirred in the breezes sifting across the meadows; no scents triggered any deep- rooted childhood memories.

  How could she have lived here for the first six years of her life and remember nothing about it?

  In Billington, Aidan pulled the cabriolet up beside a tidy coaching inn, freshly whitewashed and thatched. Vibrant flowers lined the path and spilled from window boxes. The signpost bore the image of a bright red fox, and the front door stood open to the brisk morning sunshine.

  Entering a cleanly swept public room, they chose seats at a table by a window overlooking a rushing stream. The proprietor brought spiced ale for Aidan, mulled wine for Laurel. She regarded the man’s thinning hair and weathered complexion and estimated his age to be some forty-odd years. Old enough, perhaps, to remember a grand estate and the fire that had destroyed it.

  “We are searching for a property hereabouts,” she told the man. “Peyton Manor. The house is gone, burned to the ground nearly twenty years ago. Have you heard of it?”

  “Peyton Manor?” He stroked the grizzled hair on his chin. “Don’t strike a bell, ma’am.”

  “It would have been between here and Chedford, I believe. The owners were called Sutherland,” she added, hoping to jog his memory. “They most certainly would have patronized Billington’s shops, as well as employed some of the villagers at the manor.”

  “Sutherland. A common enough name, I expect.” The barkeep shook his head. “Still, I can’t think of any abandoned properties nearby, nor fires that destroyed ’em, and I’ve owned the Crimson Fox for nigh on thirty years.”

  “Does this look at all familiar?” Aidan held out the signet ring for the man to see.

  “No, sir.” He sauntered into the kitchen, leaving Laurel and Aidan alone.

  “Perhaps my parents conducted their business in Chedford,” she reasoned, “rather than here in Billington.”

  Aidan dropped the ring into his coat pocket, then reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. “The house may be gone, but the property won’t have walked away. Someone is bound to remember.”

  “Perhaps, but I wonder if anyone will be able to shed light on why a Frenchman would have any connection with my family.” Laurel blew into her wine, waiting for the steam to settle before sampling the fruity beverage. Both spicy and sweet, it tickled her tongue and warmed her on its way down.

  “Did your father fight in the wars?” he asked.

  “Yes, but that would not explain how the attacker recognized me. Or why he seemed so familiar.”

  Aidan’s hand tightened around hers, and very gently he asked, “Is there any reason to suspect that your parents’ deaths were anything but accidental?”

  She jolted, nearly spilling her wine. Though she had had a similar thought last night, hearing it spoken so plainly undermined her fragile composure. Setting the goblet down, she drew a breath and forced herself to consider the worst of possibilities.

  “Uncle Edward never once wavered in his story. He said the inspectors believed the fire started with a popping ember in the drawing room.”

  “Could someone have deliberately set the fire?”

  Chills shimmied up her spine.

  The barkeep returned with wooden trenchers of stewed mutton and hunks of coarse brown bread. They ate quietly, their hands occasionally touching, their gazes meeting across the table. Aidan’s presence steadied her, made her feel safe, and yet . . . she felt the presence of an evil specter hovering close by, an unknown entity from her past that was capable of committing acts of unspeakable wickedness.

  She feared for her sisters, for herself, and, yes, by association, for Aidan. But she also knew that danger would not frighten him away.

  A half hour later, they climbed back into the cabriolet. After stopping to question a handful of Billington’s villagers, they continued north. The valleys deepened; the hills became more sheer. In the bend of a river, a watermill churned the currents into a rushing music that echoed across the pastures surrounding a farmhouse and outbuildings. They hailed the farmer, who met them at the gate.

  “Peyton Manor? Tween here and Chedford? Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of such a place.”

  Laurel recounted the directions Uncle Edward had once described.

  The man removed his straw hat and passed a sleeve across his brow. “Sounds like the way to Greys Abbey. Not much more’n a pile of stones, the abbey. Very ancient. I can’t remember any estate that ever sat near it.”

  He called to his wife, who had just then exited the barn with a tiny brown lamb in her arms. Her husband explained Laurel’s quest. Aidan showed them both the ring.

  Like her husband, the woman shook her head. “Chedford . . . you’re sure, ma’am? Not farther north, perhaps?”

  Laurel combed her fingers through the fleecy warmth of the lamb’s coat, then tickled the adorable creature beneath its chin. It gave a weak little bleat and nuzzled her finger. “I’m not sure of anything anymore,” she said.

  They thanked the couple and drove on. Holding the reins in one hand, Aidan reached an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “We’ll find your answers. I promise you.”

  She did not remark that such promises as often as not went unfulfilled.

  The day wore on. As the slanting sun stretched golden rays across the rippling landscape, jagged stone walls rose up before them. Tumbling shrubberies and tangles of hawthorn surrounded the roofless structure.

  “That must be Greys Abbey,” Laurel noted.

  They drove past it and continued to Chedford. Again they questioned local residents and shopkeepers. Surely the elderly seamstress would remember Laurel’s mother, who could not have ordered all her dresses from London. Hard of hearing, the woman cupped a hand behind her ear and urged Laurel to speak up. In the end, she tucked a gray wisp under her cap and shook her head.

  Everyone they approached shook their heads. No Sutherlands, no Pe
yton Manor.

  Disheartened, Laurel climbed once more into the carriage and sank back against the plush squabs. “Where do I come from?” she mused aloud.

  “There is a simple explanation,” Aidan assured her. “But it’s growing late and will be dark soon. We should start back to Bath. If you remember anything important, we’ll return.”

  Reluctant to give up, yet knowing he was right, she nodded. Wandering the countryside, especially in the dark, would not magically reveal the details of her past.

  When the ruined abbey came into view again, a sense of urgency prompted her to grasp Aidan’s wrist. “Stop the carriage, please. I . . . I wish to see Greys Abbey close-up.”

  “Does it seem familiar?”

  She peered at the abbey’s remains. “Not exactly familiar, but you see, I’ve always loved history, and I can only assume I inherited my interest from one of my parents. If we lived nearby, then we would have explored this abbey, perhaps picnicked here on Sundays.” Her fingers increased their pressure on his wrist. She could not prevent it; she felt as though she were hanging on for dear life.

  In effect, she was.

  The breeze felt cool against her burning cheeks, and she realized that hot tears of frustration were trickling down her face.

  With the pads of his thumbs, Aidan wiped the trails of moisture away. “Come, then. If we must, we’ll spend the night at the Crimson Fox.”

  “Thank you.” She summoned a shaky smile. “Most men are put off by a woman’s tears. Your courage is most commendable, sir.”

  “Perhaps, but be warned.” He yanked her closer and set his mouth against her neck. “My services come with a fee.”

  The kiss he pressed to her throat smoldered with suggestions and produced in her a tremor of anticipation. She hoped he would not wait long to collect his due.

  “There is nothing in this wretched place that I remember. Nothing.”

  Her lovely features turning stony with pain, Laurel about-faced, swept the length of the sanctuary, and stepped out into the gathering twilight. Aidan followed, wishing he didn’t feel so powerless to help her.

  They had explored the abbey thoroughly, wandering through the dark and chilly chambers, the echoing passageways and secluded cloisters, the lonely graveyard. They had bent to read the epitaphs scratched into the markers. None bore the name of Sutherland. Little by little, Laurel’s eager, hopeful expression fell away until the threat of tears gathered like storm clouds in her eyes.

  Her frustration was palpable, but more than that, they shared a rising apprehension to which neither gave voice. Their failure to uncover any link to her past suggested more than a miscommunication between her uncle and herself.

  If her guardian had passed on erroneous information concerning Laurel’s origins, Aidan suspected he had done so intentionally to prevent her from ever finding Peyton Manor—if such a place existed. And he would wager the man’s reasons had something to do with a mysterious, murderous Frenchman.

  Laurel stood at the abbey’s encircling wall, her hand resting on the curve of the iron gate. Walking up behind her, Aidan slid his arms around her waist. For an instant she resisted as if to pull away. Then the breath whooshed out of her and she relaxed against him.

  “I was so certain this abbey would trigger a recollection. If we lived close by, surely I would have played here with my sisters. My mother would have brought us here to gather wildflowers. Or I might have ridden past it with my father. He used to take me riding, you know; Uncle Edward told me so. . . .”

  A sob echoed inside her but she fought back the tears. Then she pulled up taller and raised her chin as if scenting the air. “I feel no affinity whatsoever for this place. I wish I’d never come to the Cotswolds.”

  “Laurel.” He closed a hand over her shoulder.

  She spun about to face him. “Do not tell me I’ll find my answers. Make no more false promises.”

  He waited for the echo of her resentment to fade into the trees. “I was merely going to suggest that we leave.”

  Her shoulders falling, she bowed her head and spoke to the gorse sprouting around the gatepost. “Forgive me. This should not be your concern.”

  “After last night, your problems are mine.” His heart pounded against his chest wall. What was he saying? It was one thing to lend his assistance for a day, even two, as he might have done for anyone in need. It was quite another to offer the sort of commitment his words implied.

  Too late to take them back. Laurel launched herself into his arms and kissed him full on the lips. His response was immediate and unconditional, drowning out logic and resolve and the best of intentions. With the same need with which the budding leaves overhead would open to life-giving rain, his lips parted to the prodding of her tongue.

  “I felt so lost, orphaned all over again,” she whispered between kisses. “The desolation that has haunted me for most of my life crept over me again today until I thought I would drown in it.” Her lips moved urgently against his. “When your arms are around me, the desolation lifts and I feel as though I am home at last.”

  Their kisses became frantic, imperative. Together they stumbled through the gate and sank to the springy moss beneath the wide, bare branches of an ancient yew.

  Aidan’s blood rushed, echoing the current of a nearby stream. Like water over rocks, he felt himself plunging into a maelstrom of sensation. How could this be? After last night, how could lust rise up so abruptly and powerfully, as if he hadn’t lain with a woman in weeks?

  Laurel wasn’t just any woman—not like the others, mere placeholders for what his heart craved. No, she filled the hollows inside him as no other woman ever did or could.

  And that could lead them both straight into danger. Him, because she would become his Achilles’ heel, his one vulnerability in a life that permitted none; and her, because she would learn too much about him and his business and thus would become a potential target should his double life ever be discovered.

  Love was a luxury he’d agreed to give up when he joined the Home Office. At the time, it hadn’t been a hard choice to make.

  “Confound it, Laurel. Why can’t I resist you?”

  “I don’t wish you to.”

  “No? You would if you knew what was good for you.” He pressed her to the earth, dipping his face hungrily to her throat. Straddling her waist and sitting up, he gripped the edges of her carriage jacket and opened it with a single rending motion.

  She had the audacity to smile up at him and slowly, very slowly, trace her bottom lip with her tongue.

  “Is that so?” He yanked her bodice and camisole down, exposing her breasts to the evening air. Reaching behind him, he dragged her skirts up and burrowed a hand beneath them.

  She made pleasure sounds that silenced his twinges of conscience. Leaning over, he untied her bonnet, tossed it away, and pinned the golden hair that came loose to the ground. “Look at me.”

  Her eyes were storm-ridden with joy and entirely permissive.

  “Another man, a better man, would have walked away long ago.”

  “I wouldn’t be here with any other man.”

  Her assertion maddened him, filling his heart and lancing his lower regions. The latter spawned an instinct to be a scoundrel and simply impale her.

  His heart won out, and he eased off her. When her brow creased, he grinned and lifted a slender booted ankle. Little by little he worked his way up her silk-clad leg, lips first. He spread her thighs as he went, and then he leaned close, tugging her drawers aside and using his lips and tongue to open her.

  She raised her hips to meet him, her body undulating with each suckle and prod. The last of the sunlight turned her hair to liquid gold, the glistening down between her legs to threads of amber.

  His breath caught. He had never seen her like this, laid out before him in the vivid outdoors, with nothing hidden, nothing shadowed. She was his, all of her, and at that moment there were no secrets or deceptions between them. That he could banish her fears and im
merse her in passion heightened his own arousal. He throbbed to be inside her.

  His sense of power became explosive as he opened his trousers, covered her with his body, and slid the tip of his sex inside her.

  Laurel gasped her pleasure, shattering his control. With a single thrust he sheathed himself. Her inner muscles embraced him, squeezing with a fit so snug he might have been created for the purpose of entering her, and she of receiving him.

  With each beating pulse of her response, a conviction grew. Whoever she might be, whatever her history, she was his.

  But could he find a way to make the future theirs?

  The sun dipped behind the hills with startling suddenness, plunging the countryside into blue-black shadow. Greys Abbey stood ghostlike against the sky, the broken limestone walls reaching as if to embrace the rising moon.

  The air turned sharply frigid. Still, Laurel did not wish to move or break the fragile spell that prevented the surrounding world from encroaching on her happiness. In Aidan’s arms she felt freed from the burdens of threats and mysteries and even from the promises she had made to the queen.

  Her respite proved all too short. He stirred beneath her, tightening his arms around her and sitting up. In the gleam of the half-moon, she saw his rueful smile. “We’ll catch our deaths if we lie on this ground any longer.”

  She clung to him for another moment. “I am almost willing to chance it.”

  He nonetheless helped her to her feet and helped her straighten her clothing and don her carriage jacket, adding his own coat around her shoulders to ward off the chill.

  “No, you’ll need it,” she protested.

  He pressed his forehead to hers and kissed the end of her nose. “Keep it. No arguments.”

  They circled to the side of the abbey where they had left the carriage. At the sight of the dozing horse silhouetted against the twilight, Laurel came to an abrupt halt. The cold, stark beauty of the hills and the abbey and the emerging stars renewed her earlier impression of having stumbled into a fairy tale. It was an illusion that broke her heart.