But Claire…. Claire was still little more than a child, vulnerable, an unmarried girl with the extremely frangible reputation peculiar to all virgins. If Mason found proof—not just suspicion, for he would not dare risk Raeburn’s ire without evidence—that Claire was consorting with Fred O’Shea, he could destroy her. At all costs, Jessica must prevent that from happening.
Bunching up the hems of her robe and gown in one hand, Jessica raised the candlestick high and scampered down the stairs.
When she stepped outside and saw the stable, the wide, whitewashed door was slightly ajar, and on the frozen ground outside, the light from Claire’s lamp made a slanting yellow streak that wavered and stilled as someone hung the lantern on a nail. Cold began to seep through the thin soles of Jessica’s slippers, and teeth chattering, she pulled her robe closer about her. She blew out her candle and depended on the chill illumination of the crystal-bright stars overhead to guide her as she sidled silently toward the door, still praying that she was mistaken in her errand.
As she approached the half-opened door she could smell the penetrating, but not altogether unpleasant, odor of hay and dung wafting out warmly, and tilting her dark head against the damp wood, she listened carefully. She could just make out the sound of a horse nickering sleepily inside. With sinking spirits, she also heard the barely concealed amusement in the groom’s rich brogue as he declared complacently, “Well now, me darlin’ girl, and I thought you told me you’d not come.”
“I—I shouldn’t be here,” Claire admitted nervously. “If anyone finds out…. Oh, Fred, you’ll lose your position!”
A shadow moved across the beam of light, the distortion giving the silhouette of O’Shea’s well-built body a height it lacked in fact, and Jessica could see that the man was standing with hands on hips, apparently facing the besotted girl. She had no difficulty visualizing the cocky smile that must be lighting his handsome face, the glint in those engaging eyes that were startlingly blue under curly black hair.
“Now, now, love, and who’s to find out about us?” she heard him reassure softly. “Tomkins? That bandy-legged old rooster sleeps like he was rocked in the arms of Blessed Mary Herself….”
“B-but the other grooms might—” Claire ventured hesitantly, and O’Shea snorted.
“Don’t worry about them. They’re all tucked in their beds like the good Christian souls they are, and even if one of them saw us, he’d keep quiet. There’s not a lad among them who’d dare cross me….” There was a moment’s pause, and Jessica could see the shadow on the ground move as if he reached for something, but after a second he stood straight again and continued quietly, soothingly, in a tone he might have used to gentle a skittish filly. “Don’t be like that, Clairie. Be…friendly to me. We have hours to get to know one another. There’s none to see us or hear us, no one to make a fuss because His Lordship’s dainty sister is dallying with a stableboy.”
“But I’m-not—not dallying!” Claire gasped, obviously shaken and bewildered. “N-not the way you mean! How dare you say such a thing to me?”
O’Shea’s voice grew harsher, more impatient. “Isn’t that why you’re here, girl? Haven’t you come to me because you fancy a little tumble with a real man, not one of them fine lords with their fat bellies and soft white hands?”
“No, of course not!” Claire declared. “I’ve never—I would never—”
Jessica’s relief at the girl’s gullible innocence was quickly superseded by fear when she heard terse anger creep into the groom’s tone; clearly he thought that he was being teased. She noticed inconsequentially that his brogue faded as his wrath increased.
“Well, then, milady,” he mocked curtly, “perhaps you’d best explain to me exactly what it is that brings you to me in the middle of the night. I’m only an ignorant Irish peasant and I’d hate to think I misunderstood.”
Claire stammered unhappily, “I—I came because you a-asked me to. I never thought…. I—I thought you were my…friend, that you wanted to talk, the way f-friends do. Living out here in the country, with Aunt Talmadge in charge, I don’t have many other friends, except for Jess, and she’s always occupied with one thing or another around the house, and for weeks now, since the day you rode out with the two of us t-to gather holly, it seems as if you’re always busy too, that there’s never any chance for us to…to chat.”
O’Shea’s voice was grim and disbelieving. “You’re saying you came out here to…talk, is that all? What about the time we discussed running off to Scotland?”
Scotland! Jessica repeated, shuddering. So Claire’s clumsy questions about Gretna Green had had a point, had they? Had she actually led a servant to believe that she would elope with him? The girl’s stupidity was almost criminal—and yet she seemed to be perfectly sincere when she said, “But, Fred, that was just a joke, wasn’t it, like the time you showed me the cartoons about Graham? I—I enjoy your jokes. I like the way you make me laugh.”
After Claire’s ingenuous statement, a long and ominous silence stretched between the couple just inside the stable door. Jessica, her fingers and toes growing numb in the frosty air, listened warily. She considered breaking in on them, if only for the redolent warmth of the stable, but she admitted that as long as Claire seemed able to deal with the situation, she was extremely reluctant to make her presence known, lest she precipitate a scene that might alert other members of the household to the girl’s gross indiscretion. If only Claire would make her excuses to O’Shea and retire to her quarters, where Jessica could deal with her privately….
But the enactment of such a prudent sequence of events seemed doomed from the beginning, for suddenly the groom growled, “So I make you laugh, do I? The rich, exalted Lady Claire Foxe thinks the Irish stableboy is beneath her notice, just someone to tease, like a dog….” Before Claire could respond, he swore crudely and declared, “Well, my fine lady, I’ll make you laugh, all right. When you’re lying beneath me, I’ll make you laugh and cry or anything else I damn well please. I’ll make you beg me to take you. I’ll make you….” His voice trailed off deliberately, and suddenly the little shaft of light from the doorway blazed clearly as he lunged out of its path.
From inside came shuffling sounds of straggle and the thud of a body wrestled to the packed earth floor. Claire squealed gutturally, and her frightened, almost childish whimper stabbed at Jessica as Lottie’s cry would have done. Galvanized into recklessness, Jessica wrenched open the heavy wooden door and plunged inside.
After the darkness outside, she was momentarily blinded by the bright lamplight, and blinking hard, she stumbled forward and collided bruisingly with a wooden partition, striking her cheek hard against a peg hung with tack, knocking down two bridles and a long leather crop whose loop wound snakelike around her bare ankles before she could trip out of the way. Disoriented by the blow, as her eyes adjusted to the light she reeled in confusion, first noticing the double row of narrow whitewashed stalls where sleek horses, roused from sleep by the commotion, shifted about nervously. Then a flutter of bright blue and the rending sound of silk attracted her, and she ran down the aisle to an apparently empty stall where behind a bale of hay she found two figures twisting and flailing wildly on a heap of sweet-smelling straw.
Claire, pinioned beneath O’Shea’s muscular body and writhing frantically to keep his knee from between her legs, spotted Jessica first. She gasped hysterically, “Help, for God’s sake—” before her words were crammed back into her mouth by the groom’s work-callused hand. Intent on his purpose, he did not become aware of Jessica’s presence until she leaped at him and began pummeling on his shoulders. When he rocked back in surprise, heedless of her own safety she grasped the neck of his coarse woolen shirt and jerked with all her strength, almost strangling him as she dragged him away from Claire.
“Mother o’ God!” he choked at this unexpected counterattack, and swearing crudely, he twisted round to defend himself against Jessica’s battering fists. She slashed at his face with her nails, a
nd he reached up brawny arms to capture her wrists and hold them out of range. In the process his rough fingers caught the sleeve of her robe and ripped it half out of the armhole, revealing the satin bed gown beneath.
As he turned on Jessica, cursing her, he lifted himself completely from Claire, who rolled free of him and staggered to her feet, gasping. “Oh, Jess,” she wailed, too caught up in her own fright and despair to notice that her rescuer might still be in peril. Miserably she pulled the edges of her torn bodice together over her breast. With trembling fingers she tried to brush away the bits of straw and dirt that clung to the dress. “If you hadn’t come, he—he was going to—”
Sternly Jessica calmed herself. She eyed the groom with contempt as she said grimly, “I know what he was going to do.” Impatiently she tried to pull away. “Let go of me, O’Shea,” she grated.
“And let those sharp little nails of yours get at my eyes?”
He chuckled drily as he steadied himself. “Do you take me for a bedlamite?”
Jessica shrugged as nonchalantly as she could with her wrists still restrained. “I can’t see what harm you think I can do you—although it’s obvious you must be suicidal, to risk Lord Raeburn finding out what happened….”
“Now, now, Mrs. Foxe,” he cajoled, watching her out of glinting blue eyes that narrowed assessingly as her struggles stilled. For a moment they seemed at an impasse; neither spoke, and the only sound was Claire’s labored breathing and the blubbery snorts of the horses as they settled down once more. Then he released Jessica’s hands and planted his fists firmly on his hips, in that swaggering stance he had affected before. His mouth turned up in a sardonic grin, and when he spoke, she noticed that his brogue had returned thicker than ever. “Is it sure you are that you’re knowin’ the truth of what happened, darlin’ Mrs. Foxe? What if I were to tell you that Her young Ladyship asked me to meet her here, cool as you please—”
Claire squawked in protest, and Jessica declared scornfully, “O’Shea, if you think you can get me to believe blarney like that, you’re a fool—and if you plan to tell your Banbury tale to the earl, you’re a damn fool, or else just plain mad!”
The man seemed to consider her words for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he judged at last. “I’m not afraid of any man, much less an overfed aristocrat like His great Lordship, and even if I was, don’t you think it’s worth the risk? I expect the fine Earl of Raeburn would pay through the nose to keep the world from finding out about his teasing trollop of a sister….”
“Trollop!” Claire wailed in anguish, staring at the groom with velvety brown eyes glazed with shock at his betrayal. “Oh, Fred, how can you…but you told me…I—I thought you…we—”
She broke off abruptly. Outside, from the direction of the house, they could hear a deep voice rough with masculine impatience call, “Jess, where the hell have you gone?”
At the sound of Raeburn’s shout, O’Shea tensed, and Jessica saw Claire go white with panic. The girl rose on tiptoe as if poised for flight, but she seemed uncertain what to do. “Oh, God,” she gasped hysterically, “what am I to do? If Graham discovers—”
Jessica glanced toward the door opening out into the starry darkness. She could hear heavy footsteps approaching. With a furious jerk of her head she waved the girl back out of the light. “Don’t be a ninny, Claire,” she hissed under her breath. “Get out of here before Graham finds you!”
“B-but Jess, what about you—” Claire began remorsefully.
“Dammit, do you think I can’t handle a man like O’Shea? I said get out. Go the back way!”
The girl stared at Jessica a few more seconds; then she sobbed chokingly and fled down the length of the stable to vanish into the shadows.
“Jessica!” Raeburn shouted, nearer.
When Jessica watched Claire narrowly make good her escape, she panted as if she were running each step of the way with her—as indeed she wanted to be. The patent anger in Raeburn’s deep voice filled her with dread, but she knew she would have to face him if she hoped to divert his suspicions from his sister. Tugging her torn robe into place on her shoulder, Jessica flicked her head to one side to toss her long raven hair down her back. “You’d better go too,” she said coldly to the groom. “I’ll make up some excuse about why I came out here.”
“No, Mrs. Foxe.” He laughed humorlessly as he squared his brawny shoulders. “I’ve never yet hidden behind a woman’s skirts, and I’ll not start now. I’ve been waiting for this chance for weeks, ever since His Lordship told Tomkins to keep a watch on me, like I was a thief after filchin’ the silver…. I swore then that—”
Jessica never knew the exact phrasing of O’Shea’s vow, for at that moment his words were choked off as the Earl of Raeburn bellowed her name once more, just outside. Before she could step away from the groom, Raeburn yanked open the stable door and burst inside.
“Jess!” he called as he squinted blindly against the light, and his deep voice reverberated off the beams and partitions, once more rousing the horses. “Dammit, woman, don’t hide from me. I heard you stumbling around in the house, and I know you’re in—”
“I’m right here, Graham,” Jessica said quietly, her even tone masking her apprehension as she watched his gray eyes blink painfully. She surveyed him warily, remarking his uncharacteristic dishevelment with dismay. She recognized his trousers as the satin evening breeches he had been wearing at dinner, but with them he wore white-topped riding boots and a frilled linen shirt that dangled unbuttoned over his broad chest, revealing the triangle of dark blond hair that ran down his flat stomach and disappeared into his waistband. He must have been preparing for bed when he heard her bump into that table and overset the kissing bough, she decided, and in his haste to investigate the noise, he had grabbed whatever clothing was close to hand. His ridiculous appearance augured ill for his frame of mind. “I’m right here, Graham,” Jessica said again; “there’s no need to startle your cattle.”
His eyes at last adjusted to the lamplight, Raeburn stared at Jessica—and the man beside her. For a moment he stood petrified, as if cut from the same pale, cold marble as Renard Chase; then life seeped back into his bloodless cheeks. O’Shea was watching the confrontation with avid interest, but he recoiled instinctively when Raeburn’s gray gaze touched him. With a disdainful sniff Raeburn dismissed him and turned back to Jessica. His eyes moved slowly over her, with insulting deliberation, and she saw his hard mouth thin implacably as he regarded her usually sleek hair that tumbled about her shoulders as if she had just risen from bed. Unable to face him, she dropped her head disconsolately, her tresses falling forward to mask the high, guilty color painting her elegant cheekbones, but she knew there was no way to prevent him from observing her heaving breast and the torn sleeve of her robe. His nostrils flared slightly when he saw the bits of straw that clung damningly to the hem of her nightgown. Nearly choking on the lump in his throat he sneered, “You whore.”
She said nothing.
Her silence seemed to enrage him, “What, no excuses? You’re not going to try to convince me that you’ve come out here to the stables in your bedclothes for a little timely tutoring in animal husbandry?”
Jessica winced at his sarcasm, but her only visible reaction was an almost imperceptible lift of her chin as she remarked quietly, “I might have known that as usual you would readily believe the worst about me, Graham. That’s hardly surprising. You’ve always seemed to derive such pleasure from your misapprehensions.”
Something about her tone, some indefinable element of…disappointment made it difficult for Raeburn to look directly at her emerald eyes. Instead he shifted his gaze once more to the roughly dressed man beside her, and his jaw tightened. He had been right about O’Shea from the beginning, and he should never have listened to Tomkins’ recommendations; the Irishman was crafty, intelligent, and capable, but with those ambitious blue eyes fixed firmly on the main chance; an undeclared egalitarian who would take advantage of any opportunity to st
rike a blow against his superiors….
And what more deadly, more personally devastating blow, Raeburn acknowledged with a groan, could there be than to seduce their women, taking their scented softness beneath that lusty, well-muscled body and plunging…Raeburn shuddered with disgust at the image. How could she, after Andy? How dared she? Jessica, Andrew’s Jessica….
His Jessica.
Painfully he looked at her again, somehow regal even in her torn robe, her head bowed like a vanquished queen, and he admitted that he loved her, loved her and wanted her—and hated her for turning to someone else. Determined to wound her as she was wounding him, he observed scathingly, “Poor Jessica, you should have been more frank with me this evening, my dear. Had I realized you were so very…desperate for affection, I might have made more of an effort to oblige you.” His deep voice lowered to a hoarse, accusing growl. “Or is it only the stench of the stable that excites you?”
At that she jerked up her head, the abrupt motion flicking her hair bade away from her face, and as she stared at Raeburn in anguished indignation he saw for the first time the deep bruise that purpled her cheek.
He caught his breath with a hiss. “I didn’t know you liked to play rough,” he muttered thickly.
Their eyes met and locked, commingling their mutual pain, and unwisely O’Shea chose that moment to speak. He regarded the earl’s discomfiture with a certain triumph and chuckled goadingly, “Now, now, me lord, don’t discompose yourself. We’re both men of the world and we know how women are….”
The temper that Raeburn had kept so rigorously in check when he faced Jessica now went skyrocketing out of control at the sound of the groom’s cocky, lilting accent. “You bastard,” he grated, turning on the man, “you goddamned insolent bandy-legged little Irish bastard.” His gray eyes narrowed into slits of steel as he glanced at the straw-covered floor and noticed the riding crop that Jessica had knocked down earlier. Quickly he snatched it up and stalked with inexorable intent toward O’Shea, one hand already raised to strike. “I’ll teach you to put your muck-covered fingers on one of my—”
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