“I know what you’re thinking. It’s not your fault. Have you looked your fill?”
“Yes.”
He sat on the bed and worked at his boots. “Look. We were both young and stupid. You made a mistake. I didn’t need to—Well, I did what I did. Thought what I did. Left, and on the whole had an enviable life, apart from those few months in prison.”
“I didn’t take the money your father offered,” Frederica blurted.
“So he wrote. Again and again. But how did you come by your tidy little fortune?”
“There was a little when my father died. And my mother’s aunt remembered me in her will. Your father invested the money for me. And then when the books sold—oh, Sebastian, he gave me everything. When he could have used the money himself.”
“That seems only fair. You wrote them, did you not?”
Frederica was stunned at his reaction. “How did you know?”
“I looked them over last night. They were much too interesting to have been written by my father. He was as dull as ditchwater, Freddie. Knew a great deal but put one to sleep in the telling of it. Cam said the series is rather famous in academic circles. Chock-full of facts, yet accessible for even the layman. Even stupid schoolboys such as I once was can read them. Cam has a set himself and is anxiously awaiting the sequel.”
Frederica felt her face warm from this secondhand praise. “The only reason the publisher bought it was because your father’s name was on it. He did all the outlining. I just filled in the details.”
Sebastian threw his head back in laughter. He was gloriously naked now.
“Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Does this publisher think my father’s writing from the grave?”
“No, but he believes I’m just polishing up the last of Uncle Phillip’s writings. And he wonders what’s taking so long.”
His nimble fingers were at the hooks of her dress. “May I?”
She nodded.
“I don’t suppose,” he said, pushing her bodice down, “that our arrangement is helping you speed up any.”
“It’s all right.”
He looked up at her. “No, it’s not. I’ll sell you the castle anyway, Freddie. Let’s rip up our agreement.”
She could hardly find her voice. “You don’t—want me for the month?”
“I didn’t say that. But my presence here is unnecessary, and I really should get back to Roxbury Park. After Cam’s week is up, we’ll go and leave you alone. I’ll get someone to draw up the proper sale papers.”
Her nipples were between his circling fingers now. Then this meant nothing to him. She could be any woman, and he’d be as efficient in his lovemaking. It was what he did.
“Why the change of heart?”
“Something Cam said. I really shouldn’t punish you for the past.”
So sex with her had been meant to be a punishment. Unfortunate that now she craved it. She supposed the punishment ultimately had been very effective indeed.
She said nothing as he continued to unwrap her from her layers of clothing. She could have told him to stop—it was her day. But knowing there would be few more encounters like this stilled her tongue and swallowed back her tears.
She had begun to hope that he liked her again. He seemed to have reached some accommodation for his father. But it had probably been too much to hope that he would become enthralled with her.
And did she even want that? She had her books to write. Her people to take care of. Her garden to tend. Her independence to maintain and cherish. She didn’t need him or any man.
He tipped her back on the bed and kissed her as she had demanded. His eyes were closed, his thick dark lashes crescents on his sunburned cheeks. His tongue and hands dealt with her in a ruthless, professional manner, so that in the shortest amount of time she ceased to think about the past or the future and concentrated solely on the present. His kiss was flavored with the custard, and as smooth. He coaxed her tongue to his, his fingertips lightly massaging her temple. The dull throbbing in her head vanished and she relaxed beneath him, floating in a sea of surrender. There was no point directing him—he knew just what to do, and did it well. She would be a fool to alter a single sweep of his hands or thrust of his hips.
She was not tied, so could return his strokes, feel the textured scarring on his back, rumple his still-damp hair, see the way his dark eyebrows met as he anchored himself. He entered her with care, as if the clock were winding down and all time was in slow motion. There was none of the wildness of the hill in the storm, none of the precise scene-setting of her usual submission. Frederica felt like a fragile china cup, filled with the most delicious temptation. He eased in and almost out of her with such control that she soon lost hers. Clutching his shoulders, bucking her hips up, digging the heels of her feet against his buttocks, she took charge and forced him to match her abandon.
Their coupling was no longer a delicate, regulated waltz but a vigorous mazurka with no fixed steps. Improvisation was all. She could not be sorry for her lack of finesse—the urge to be closer, to somehow be inside him, spiraled into a fierce orgasm for them both. But mindful of their parting, he withdrew and spurted his seed onto her belly. Frederica forced herself to keep her disappointment from showing. What was wrong with her? He was only heeding her lecture, doing exactly as she had asked. But his regard for her wishes did not bring her the satisfaction she expected.
He lay atop her, panting, his heart thudding against hers. His mossy eyes were closed. She had watched him throughout, a privilege she was usually denied. Sebastian’s face had been impossible to read, but his body at least had seemed fully engaged. She felt his lips brush a kiss on her shoulder, and then he rolled away.
“Are you all right?”
She managed a smile. “Yes. My headache is quite gone.”
“An unusual cure. I don’t imagine it will be found in most medical textbooks.” He took her folded napkin from the lunch tray and gently wiped her stomach clean.
“You should go to your friend.”
“Cam’s all right. He’s taken the diary and is wandering about. Now that he can see the places described, maybe he’ll unearth something beyond catnip and bugs.”
“I’m sorry. When I read that the earl put new plants along the foundation, I thought he had an opportunity to conceal something else. Everything is back in place?”
“Good as new.”
“I’ll have to cut the stems back next month.”
“We could have done that today. You don’t have to wait until the castle’s yours.”
Frederica felt a shadow fall across her heart. “No,” she said lightly, “June’s the month for cutting back catmint. Then the plants grow bushy. And I mustn’t let the flowers go to seed, else they won’t last through the winter. We have our routine.”
Sebastian began to dress. “My father was lucky to have you as chatelaine. I just hope you’re happy up here.”
“Oh, I will be.” She had to be. She had no choice.
Chapter 34
She hates me. I should be happy.
—FROM THE DIARY OF SEBASTIAN GODDARD, DUKE OF ROXBURY
He had done the gentlemanly thing, releasing her from their bargain. He would leave Goddard Castle with Cam when his time was up, well before the month was at its end. Dissolve the guardianship. Release her funds in their entirety. Sebastian should take some comfort in his decision, but instead his gesture struck him as hollow.
He was walking away, leaving Freddie to fend for herself. That was what she wanted, what she had always wanted. But there had been something melancholy in their coupling today. Something too tender. He did not want to think of Freddie actually missing him.
Or him missing her.
She needed to get on with her life and he with his. If he distanced himself now—removed himself from her bed or wherever else he might take his pleasure with her—it would be easier in the end for both of them.
Which meant that today was the last time he woul
d ever touch her.
He swallowed back a mouthful of what tasted very much like regret.
There was plenty for him to do here to distract himself from pursuing her. The castle was rambling and ripe with possibilities. Just because nothing had been buried beneath the catmint did not mean that the lady’s garden was free of loot. But to uproot Freddie’s carefully tended plants would be a shame, and quite frankly, Sebastian’s back ached from shoveling.
Sebastian recalled the expression on the Earl of Archibald’s portrait. Haughty. Aloof. Even as a young man, he did not look apt to do any sort of manual labor to sully his consequence. No, the digging they had done had been an exercise in futility. Archibald was reputed to be clever—he’d find a hiding place that did not require him to soil his hands. They were already covered in the blood of betrayed British soldiers.
Sebastian and Cam would pore over the diary again. Freddie, too, if he could keep his blistered hands off her and she could spare the time away from her writing. He’d been selfish expecting her to drop everything for his games.
He’d wanted to punish her when he first arrived. Ironic, when it was he who was now feeling the pain.
Just a few more days. And he’d given control over most of them to Freddie. He could fix it so she didn’t want him. Be as boorish as the next fellow. Push her away, inch by inch.
He could do it. He had to.
The next few days tested Sebastian’s resolve. He had come no closer to discovering where the mythical Archibald treasure might be despite studying the diary for hours on end. After Freddie’s misbegotten garden project, they concentrated on the interior of the castle, dividing up the search between the three of them. Cameron orchestrated their assignments, reducing the likelihood that Sebastian and Freddie would be thrown together. He was scrupulous in avoiding Freddie when he could, going so far as to take all his meals in his room. It killed him to think of Cam flirting with Freddie at the dinner table, but it might do her good to be the object of someone else’s interest. She should marry—not Cam, of course, but someone who could keep her company through the long Yorkshire winters. Someone who would treat her with respect. Someone who would appreciate her warm heart and lively mind. Someone who would worship her body as he had come to.
He was feeling smugly successful dodging her, but after several days, his luck ran out. On his way to inspect the stable block one last time, he bumped into Freddie in the courtyard. The sky above was steel, the air heavy with moisture. Wind whipped her skirts, pinked her cheeks. He tried to brush past her, but she reached out to stop him.
“Have I offended you in any way, Sebastian? You’ve made yourself awfully scarce.”
“I thought we agreed we were through, Freddie.” He would make sure of it now, if she had any doubts. “You’ll get the damn castle without further groveling.”
Her hand dropped from his sleeve. “I didn’t grovel.”
“Whatever you want to call it. There’s no need to whore yourself any longer. Cam and I are leaving tomorrow and I’ll see to it the necessary arrangements are made to get you the deed and your monies. All of them. I’m not inclined to remain your guardian. I admit it’s been somewhat amusing, but it’s time to move on.” He had practiced every brutish word, had anticipated Freddie’s response, and was not surprised to feel her fist jab into at his solar plexus.
“You—you cad!”
“I never told you otherwise. Think about it. What kind of gentleman would accept your harebrained scheme? I took advantage of you, plain and simple. I was curious to know if you had gotten better in bed, to quote you. But you probably don’t recall, drunk as you were the other day. Poor Freddie. You’d really better lay off the intoxicants before you do something stupid again.” He stood still for another punch.
“Something stupid? Something stupid! You are the only mistake I’ve ever made! You’ve taught me your lesson, Your Grace. Never will I trust another man!”
“Oh, I don’t know, Freddie. There might be some poor fool out there who wants to be managed by you. And I have taught you a thing or two of the bedroom arts. Not every wife comes so trained.”
He didn’t bother ducking when she slapped him soundly across the face. It gave him perverse pleasure to know he was so efficient in alienating her. She shrieked at him for a good five minutes, competing with the howling wind. He didn’t listen to the half of it, content to watch the color creep up from the collar of her housedress to her cheeks and back down again. She was alarmingly plum-hued by the time she gulped for breath. The coup de grace came as she took the Earl of Archibald’s diary from her apron pocket and hurled it at him. It landed in a cloud of dust, ultimately useless. He lifted an eyebrow.
“As I said, Freddie, we’re definitely done.”
“I wouldn’t choose to spend another minute with you for all the money in the world!” she raged.
“You won’t have to. Didn’t you listen? I’m washing my hands of you and all your medieval nonsense. Have a nice life.” He walked away, but she hurled herself at his back, knocking him down. They landed in a tangle on the grass, Freddie stuck to him like a barnacle.
“Get off me! Have you no pride? No dignity?” He flipped over despite her nails digging into his neck. Freddie scrambled away, a look of horror on her face. Poor thing. He’d driven her to lose her temper, just as he had when they were children. It had never taken much, but usually she preferred to skewer him with her tongue, not her fingernails. As she claimed, he really was a cad. He sprang up and smoothed his clothing. “Don’t expect me to lie still while you strangle me. I didn’t count on us to end as friends, but don’t you think you’re taking this too far?”
She could not meet his eyes. She looked for all the world like she was eight years old again—disheveled, freckled, her dirty apron reminiscent of the pinafores she used to wear. If he were a gentleman, he’d help her up. But he’d just gone to rather elaborate lengths to prove he was not.
Hang the stables. There wasn’t anything there but hay and horse manure. What he needed was some exercise. He’d get Cam to fence with him and drive Freddie from his mind. Sebastian glanced up to the open library windows. He’d left Cam packing a few of Freddie’s cast-off books that he’d already paid Sebastian for so he’d have enough blunt to get back to Dorset. It was the devil to be beholden to him yet again, but one last favor wouldn’t make much difference.
Half an hour later, Sebastian was breathless, wet as the world outside. Freddie must have picked herself up off the ground once the rain began, but she certainly wasn’t in the long gallery to witness the violent sparring. He did not plan to run Cam through, but he had to aim his blade at something on this gray, rainy day. His fight with Freddie had made him reckless, but it had done its job. He’d bet she wouldn’t come out to the battlements and wave her handkerchief when they left on the morrow.
The long gallery rang with the clash of metal and frustrated oaths, the wall sconces casting macabre shadows as the men parried and deceived up and down the hall. Sweat poured down Sebastian’s body, but he didn’t stop to wipe his brow, which was why he found himself blearily careening into the late Earl of Archibald at sword point. With a snap of wire, the portrait fell from the wood-paneled walls, and Sebastian fell with it. He was almost glad to have crashed to the stone floor, for he could not have lasted much longer against his friend, who did not have the same demons working to defeat him.
“Mercy! You win. Get your damned father off me.”
“Tut, tut. You’ve ruined the frame. All that gilt.”
Sebastian rolled out from underneath the canvas, sat up and picked up a chunk of gold-painted gesso. He was too tired to stand yet, his legs trembling like jelly. “Take it when you go. Take them all. That’s if Freddie’s agreeable, and I think she will be. She’s never liked the paintings.”
“What, the last bastard live with centuries of Archibalds? See how they disapprove already.”
Sebastian laughed, a bit breathless. “They always look like that. You o
ccasionally show a flash of that expression yourself.”
Cameron examined the wall, running his hand on the intricately carved dark wood. “Damn me! I’ll have to work on that. Make myself look less sniffy. I say, this is really fine raised paneling, Sebastian. Now, if you’d let me remove it, I’d consider taking the ancestors to my attic. Some old Archibald must have installed it to keep the portraits from the damp of the walls. Really fine craftsmanship. See this?” Cam pointed to the geometric design that was for the most part covered by the massive paintings.
“I’ll have to take your word for it. I know next to nothing about interior decorating.”
“Seriously, this paneling would fetch quite a bit from a rich cit trying to gentrify his new house. It has, what we like to say in the trade, patina. If these walls could talk, eh?”
Sebastian sighed. “You’ll have to ask Freddie. Our terms are she buys everything in the castle. We’re talking of walls here. I rather think she thinks they’re included in the sale.”
“You’ll not see their like again. Here, touch this. Like satin.”
Reluctantly, Sebastian got up from the floor, pocketed the bit of frame and poked a finger at a knot of leaves in the center of a diamond. There was a popping sound, and a wide panel of the wall inched backward.
“What the devil?”
“Damn me again! It’s a secret passage. How very gothic.” Cam pushed the door in a little ways. The paneled carving was attached to a massive door, equal in thickness to the planks of the castle’s main entrance. “Stuck, of course. Let me borrow a shoulder.” The two of them shoved against the panel as it creaked open.
“Black as pitch. Grab a light from the sconce, would you, Sebastian? Better take the swords in with us. We may have to beat off bats and spiderwebs.”
“You’re not planning to murder me in the dark?”
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