A Wedding Story

by Susan Kay Law

  Chapter 24

  It snowed through the night and most of the next day, until the drifts outside were hip deep in places, the heavy kind of snow that held oceans of water. Kate didn’t mind a bit; for the first time in months, the steady, nagging pressure to hurry, hurry, catch up was absent. Mother Nature had imposed her will upon the contest, and they could do nothing but wait her out. And so all that was left to Kate was twenty hours of ensuring that Jim had at least a few lovely memories of this place to balance the rest.

  When it stopped, the sky clearing abruptly, the inside of the house went light, as if a thousand candles had suddenly sprung to life, the sun outside reflected so brightly off all that pure, blinding snow.

  “Looks worse in the light,” Jim commented lightly, as if he were talking about a place that had no connection to him whatsoever. The library was still dim, but enough light spilled through the open doorway to reveal the details hidden the night before. He lay on the floor in front of the fireplace, Kate sprawled on top of him, staring up at the ceiling. Cracks spread over the plaster like fine net, thick cobwebs shawling in the corners, a huge hole where a chandelier had once hung open clear to the upper floor.

  He loved the weight of her. The feel of her hair tickling soft beneath his chin, the smell of her, even the rhythm of her breath—he could forget where he was, forget anything but her. The only flaw, he considered, was that they were rationing the wood and it was so damn cold they’d had to put their clothes back on.

  “Do we have to go?” she murmured, sleepy-voiced, a sensual hum that thrummed in his bones, his blood.

  No, never, he wanted to say. We’ll just stay right here, snowed in, and the world can go to hell.

  “Not yet,” he said. “The roads will be slop. No point in even trying it.”

  She was silent for a moment. “How long?”

  “Tomorrow. Maybe the next. Depends how quickly it warms up.” His arm was around her waist, beneath her coat. He stroked her back, rubbed small circles low at her waist until she stretched into his touch like a cat. “I’ll have to go out tomorrow, though. We’ll need more food, wood. For the horse, if not for us.”

  “How far?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “There are cottages not far away. Whether there’s anyone there, anything there, I don’t know.”

  He kissed the top of her head, letting the feel of her drift through him, amazed that something so easy, so comfortable, could be so powerfully arousing at the same time. He wondered if there would have ever come a time, even if they had far more of it than they did—a lifetime of it—when she wouldn’t have that effect on him.

  Immediately she lifted up, sliding over him in a way that had his blood surging. “You can do better than that,” she murmured, and lowered her mouth to his.

  He let it simmer a bit, building slowly of its own accord, trying to savor. But there was no holding back where Kate was concerned—when had there ever been? Her tongue was sweet in his mouth, her weight glorious on him, her hands along his sides, slipping tantalizing farther down.

  He yanked her blouse from her waistband, sliding his hands beneath. She hadn’t put her shift back on, and her skin was warm, silky.

  “Kate, I—” He stopped. Kate, I what? What had almost come out of his mouth? It hovered in his brain like a wisp of incense, more dangerous than opium. He knew what they had, knew even better what they couldn’t.

  And then she shifted her hips against him, circling, just tantalizingly short of a grind, and he forgot words. His hands slid higher, seeking—

  “Hullo!” The shout startled them both, echoing—hullo, hullo—in the cavern of the foyer. They scrambled to their feet, checking buttons and tucks in a panicked flurry. It could be another competitor, a reporter.

  “Who’s here?”

  “I’ll go,” Jim said quickly, heading for the foyer. “While you…repair.”

  Oh, well, Kate thought. Nothing important showing. And if she looked a bit—a lot—messy, who cared?

  A man stood just inside the door—he should have been a big man, judging by the breadth of his shoulders, the size of his hands, his feet. But he was hollow-cheeked, hollow-eyed, a threadbare coat ridiculously insufficient for the weather pulled up around a long narrow neck, a fraying wool hat pulled low over his brows, so only a slice of his face showed, raw and red.

  “Saw the smoke,” he said, stamping snow from his boots. “I live”—he hooked a thumb over his shoulder—“thataway a bit. Figured some travelers mebbe got caught in the storm.” He bobbed his head. “Guess I was right. Brought a few things, in case you—”

  “Will?” Jim stepped forward, quietly alert.

  “How’d you—” He broke off, squinting. “James?”

  “Yes.” Jim strode forward, an eagerness in his step Kate had not seen, one hand extended.

  Will beamed, flashing a big, uneven smile and moved forward to greet him. At the last minute he pulled back, snatching his hat from his head, standing there while he crushed the wool in his work-battered hands. “Lord Harrington. Good to see you, m’lord.”

  “Come now, Will, no need to stand on…” Lord. He’d called him Lord Harrington, then his hand dropped to his side and hung there, open-palmed, limp. “Francis?…”

  “They didn’t find you?”

  “No. They didn’t find me.”

  “Oh.” Will dropped his eyes, spun his hat around twice before continuing, clearly reluctant to deliver the news it shouldn’t have been his responsibility to convey. “Your brother died. Three months ago, in London.”

  “How?”

  “I—” He cut his eyes toward Kate, the red on his cheeks deepening. “I’m not sure. Not for certain.”

  “No matter,” Jim said. What would be the point in probing more? Francis had obviously come to a bad end, nasty enough that Will didn’t want to say it in front of Kate. No surprise there. A knife in a brothel, or some terrible disease he’d contracted there. A duel over cards, over a debt, over a woman. Pitching into the Thames too drunk to swim out. Maybe even in an opium den, wasting away to nothing.

  My brother is dead, he thought experimentally, trying to make the words ring true, to discover if pain lurked beneath them. But it had been so long since he’d thought of himself as having a brother, a family…it seemed a tale of tragedy read in the newspaper or relayed over a drink. A vague pity, distant regret for another wasted life. Nothing more.

  “There was no issue?”

  Another quick, worried glance toward the woman present, and then he shook his head. “Ah…no. No heir.”

  “I see.” So there could be—likely were—children. Maybe several of them. But none that the courts would recognize. Now he was James Bennett, Earl of Harrington.

  It sounded false, patently unreal. He’d never thought it would come to him—for all the wild recklessness of the previous earls, they’d all managed to produce an heir or two, born and molded in their own image, before they stumbled into death.

  His stomach went hollow, his head, light; he felt as dizzy and nauseous as when the Amazon fever gripped him most strongly.

  Will was inspecting Kate with open speculation. Perhaps a little appreciation. He cocked an eyebrow at Jim, waiting.

  “My apologies. This is…” He stumbled over the appropriate word to describe her. Fascinating, amazing, extraordinary. My lover, my friend, my…Kate. That’s it, my Kate.

  Gracefully she took the dilemma from him. “I’m Kate,” she said simply, taking Will’s hand and pumping it twice without a shred of discomfort while she smiled warmly at him. “I would tell you that Jim and I are old acquaintances, but I suspect you usurp me in that regard by a good many years.”

  “Will’s father was…is?” Jim glanced at Will.

  “Was.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  Will nodded, accepting.

  “Will’s father was steward when I was young,” Jim told her. “And as both our fathers were too occupied to keep too close
an eye on us, we managed to get ourselves into and out of rather a lot of trouble together.”

  Will chuckled. “That we did.”

  “Really?” Kate said, surprised. She would have pegged Will at least ten, if not fifteen, years older than Jim.

  “Yeah, well.” He bobbed his head toward a small sack slumped by the door. “I brought a few things. Not much. A few boiled eggs, some bread. I know it’s not what you’re used to.”

  “It’ll be a feast,” Kate said, enough enthusiasm in her voice that he couldn’t doubt her. “It’s very kind of you. Doubly so that you didn’t even know who was here.”

  “Oh.” He flushed, ducking his head, embarrassed as a schoolboy. “Times are hard round here. Have to help where you can.” He backed away toward the door. “We’ve young ones at home. Promised the wife I’d be back soon.”

  “You’ve children?” she asked.

  “Three of them.” He beamed, a poor man suddenly transformed into a rich one.

  “Girls or boys?”

  “Girls, all of ’em. Pretty as their mother, sweet as sunshine.”

  “Congratulations,” she said softly.

  “I’ve a favor to ask you,” Jim said.

  Will straightened, nodded correctly as a servant. “Whatever you wish. If you’d rather not stay here…our place, it’s not much, but you’re welcome.”

  “No, we’re well enough here, though the food is most appreciated. Please thank your wife for us.”

  Jim was frowning. Uncomfortable with being treated as a lord rather than a friend, Kate suspected.

  “No, we’ve a mount and a lamentable lack of fodder. If you’ve supplies enough and could take her with you, I’d be most grateful.”

  “Where do you have her?” asked Will.

  “I put her in the ballroom.”

  Will blinked twice before he started laughing. “That’s very lordly of you, sir.”

  “And you’d do well to remember it,” Jim returned, grinning.

  Kate suspected that Will would do his best to maintain appropriate formality, but she thought the friendship was going to prove stronger than the gulf in their stations in no time.

  By the time Will and the mare trudged down the drive, Kate had a mental list of two dozen questions. She opened her mouth the instant he was out of earshot, and Jim laid a finger across it, stopping her, before the first word came out.

  “Be warned,” he told her. “For every question you shoot at me, I’ll be asking one back. I’m not sure I’ve the answers you’ll want, but I’ll be expecting them back.”

  “But Jim…”

  “I’m not sure I know the answers yet,” he said quietly. “Let it settle and sort for a while and then you can ask.”

  “Then will you tell me?” she asked. He’d kept his own counsel for a long time. But she wanted as much of him as she could get in the time allowed, all the secrets he guarded, all the dark places he never allowed himself to stir around in.

  He had to consider it. “I will.” Deftly he pointed her toward the library and steered her that way.

  “A bit early to go to bed, isn’t it?”

  “No.” She smiled and leaned into him, her skin flushing with anticipation. One word, two little letters, and she was ready for him, instantly, completely, as if her body were more attuned to his will than hers.

  It frightened her, how much she craved him, scared her even more to think about what she might do when he was gone. Perhaps she should begin to wean herself from the addiction. To hold off for a moment or two, not turning to him the instant he touched her. She searched for a delay, something that would distract them both for a little while—she had no hope it would last longer than that.

  “So what did you want to ask me?” she said.

  He paused just inside the doorway. Gently—oh, why did he have to be so gentle, so sweet? She would miss this as much as the passion, this warmth that glowed inside her, softer than the blaze, every bit as potent—he pushed a strand of hair from her face. Unsmiling, intent, as if he were as determined to memorize her face as she was his. “I don’t remember.”

  She tsked, attempting lightness. “Always in such a hurry. What happened to anticipation? You made me wait when you kissed me in the cave, remember?”

  “I was wrong. Anticipation’s fine, but what comes after is better. Much better.” He kneaded the back of her neck until her head fell back, eyes slumberous, her defenses down. “Does it always make you so sad, every time someone mentions a child?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped out, lifting her head. “I—” No, Kate thought. If she wanted honesty stripped bare from him, she must give him the same. “Not usually,” she said. “I thought I’d come to terms with it long ago. Perhaps I just didn’t allow myself to think about it, and now that Emily’s grown it has lodged in the forefront again, demanding attention.” She shrugged, having to consciously force her shoulders up, as if someone pressed down on them. “It’ll pass,” she said, determined that it would be true. What choice did she have?

  “How fortunate for the doctor, since he couldn’t have any more children, either, that he found you—”

  She went rigid, brittle as thin glass. “Either?” She moved away from him, away from the distraction of his touch, needing to concentrate on every word, every nuance of expression.

  “Yes, of course, I—” He frowned. “I assumed he’d told you.”

  “Told me what?” she asked, pronouncing each word with extreme care.

  “He caught a fever once, when we were in the jungle. It settled into his, ah…settled lower. Ballocks swelled up the size of a melon. He said it was unlikely that he’d ever father another child. I thought you knew.”

  “He never told me.” She flexed her hands—clench, extend, clench, extend, fingers stiff as if she’d aged a hundred years. “He never told me anything.”

  “I suppose it’s not an easy thing for a man with the doc’s pride to admit. And since it wasn’t an issue…” Something in her expression warned him. He stepped back, his voice going flat. “Did he examine you? Was he the one who told you that you couldn’t…”

  “He told me nothing,” she said, a savage edge to her voice. “No one did.”

  “Then how…”

  “I assumed. Me.” The disappointment had been steady all those years ago, deep and horrible but never acute. A fresh welling every month, a constant shading of grief. This—this was huge, one quick, hard punch of it, concentrated, in her gut. “It had to be me, didn’t it? It obviously wasn’t him.”

  Rage gripped her, corrosive and hot, a kind she’d never known. “He stole that from me. Took my choice, my chance.” It boiled within her, awful laughter edged with hysteria. “To think that I felt so guilty about kissing you, when all the time…I wish to God I’d slept with you then.”

  “God, Kate, I’m sorry, it never occurred to me or I’d have told you long ago. But maybe…” Maybe what? Jim wondered. What the hell did he almost suggest? Impulsive, irrevocable actions wouldn’t correct the terrible wrong done to her. Words clogged his throat.

  “It’s too late now,” she said, eyes a furious, fiery blue, two bright flags of color burning high on her cheeks.

  “Maybe not.”

  “No? And just how many times have we mated…” Her mind snagged on the word. Mated. “How many times have we been together? Dozens, more? If I still could, I would be. And I’m not. You know that.”

  “It’s only been a few months,” he said cautiously, while half his brain screamed, No, stop. Think!

  “Oh, no, don’t do this to me!” Grief thickened her voice. “I won’t let you do this to me. I won’t hope again, only to lose it. I can’t.”

  “But—”

  “No!” She whirled, looking wildly around. “Damn it, there’s not even anything left here to break. Stupid, useless ruin of a house!”

  “So take it out on me.”

  “What?” She rounded on him.

  “Take it out on me.” He spread his c
oat, leaving his midsection, covered only by a thin layer of gray woven wool, exposed. “Pretend I’m the doc, pretend I’m fate, pretend I’m whatever or whoever wronged you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Too late.” He was ridiculous, ridiculously lost in her, hurting for her, so much so that he’d rather she hurt him, if it would take some of it from her. “Hit me.”

  “Don’t think I won’t,” she warned him, her eyes narrowing.

  “Do it.”

  Though he’d urged her on, it still caught him by surprise. Her fist flew, dead square into his belly. He swallowed his grunt, forcing his face into impassive lines. If she saw any hint of hurt in his expression, she would quit and be sorry for the blow. “Is that all the harder you can hit? You’re such a girl.”

  She filled her cheeks with air, blew it out in a torrid gust. This time she wound up, drawing her arm back and cocking it like an arrow before letting it fly. He tensed his stomach in preparation, absorbed the blow as he longed to absorb her pain. “Come on.”

  She thrust out her lip in concentration, drew her fist even farther back, and rammed it forward.

  And froze an inch before impact, her small fist wavering in the air, her breath bellowing in and out. Then slowly, very slowly, she unfolded her fingers and spread them wide. And then she moved that last small inch, pressing her palm flat against his belly.

  “I have a better idea.” She rotated her hand, a slow stroke against him. “Make me forget.”

  Chapter 25

  Men arrived throughout that evening, sometimes alone, a few times in twos. Too-thin men, stoop-shouldered as if they carried an enormous burden—which Kate supposed they did—all dressed too lightly for the weather, their clothes thin and fraying, wet to the knee. They came in with their heads bowed, their faces raw-red with the cold, and their eyes lit with tentative hope. None came empty-handed. Their offerings were modest—a bit of cake, a small tart, a pot of jelly. Sometimes only a few sticks for the fireplace, but always something.