by Wilma Counts
“They raped you. All three of them?”
“Y-yes.” She felt tears streaming down her face, and was drawing deep breaths. “I tried to run, to get to my horse, but it was useless—I needed help what with the sidesaddle and all, and they dragged me down—and—and—did it. I remember Reggie saying he got to be first because he’d never had a virgin before. How disgusting was that?”
“Disgusting is the mildest of things you might have said,” Adam muttered, his jaw clenched in fury. “Why did you not tell anyone? Have them horsewhipped? Make them pay for what they did?”
She sighed in resignation. “I threatened to, and they just laughed. Said it would be my word against theirs. So what good would it do me—other than to ruin me? As though they had not already accomplished that little deed,” she added bitterly.
“So you kept quiet?”
“I did. Reggie was the golden child in that family. His father doted on him as the heir to the barony. His mother thought him the handsomest, most wonderful creation God and she had ever achieved. I knew very well none of them would believe me, let alone support me.”
“Then what happened?”
“I threw a tantrum and insisted on returning home the very next day. The baroness said I was a spoiled brat and Marie was not best pleased, but they did hire a carriage and sent a maid and a footman to accompany me home. I think I cried all the way. When I arrived back here, Mama had taken a turn for the worse. I think she must have known it was coming. She died within the week. Papa was prostrate with grief. I could hardly unload that burden on him.”
“And all these years—you just kept it locked in?”
“Yes.” She gave him a searching look. “Surely, you can understand that. Have you not kept all those horrors of the war locked away too?”
“I—maybe you are right,” he admitted.
“But they come out in dreams—right?”
“Yes. Is that what happens to you?”
She nodded. “It’s not as bad as it once was, but yes, sometimes I have bad dreams. I honestly thought I had dealt with it. Overcome it.”
“Until I made you dredge it all up again.”
She sat up straighter and gave him a tentative smile. “Yes, but you know—I think it has helped. Just to say it aloud to another human being—sordid as it was—is.”
“It truly is a terrible story, Hero. I hate that you had to live through something like that. But you, my lady, are pretty damned wonderful. Perhaps you will be able to put it behind you once and for all now.”
“I hope so.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Oh, my goodness. The time! Mrs. Hutchins will have supper on the table already.”
He kissed her on the cheek, then stood and went to the alcove that held his washbasin and returned with a wet cloth. “Here. Wipe your face. Then we will go out on the terrace and return to the house via the front entrance as though we are returning from a short walk. ’Twouldn’t do for someone to see you leaving my room.”
Chapter 15
Later that night, Alex lay awake, unable to put that scene with Hero out of his mind. He knew how difficult it had been for her to bare her soul as she had. Dredging up such a devastating, painful experience had taken incredible courage. Were such an incident widely known, society would undoubtedly view her as—how had Teague phrased it?—ah, yes, as “damaged goods.” Apparently she had accepted that opinion of herself. Why else would such a lovely, lively woman have remained unmarried in a country and time that saw the titles of wife and mother as the only viable choices for women—a social milieu that relegated single women to oblivion? Had he not heard his modern, progressive mother rail against the limited options for a lady of the gentry or the aristocracy? That is, honorable options: governess, nun, ladies’ companion, dependent relative—barely tolerated so long as she stayed in the shadows. Yet this woman had forged a place for herself in a field that rejected those of her sex—as, indeed, did most fields of public endeavor. Shakespeare might produce a Portia as a woman of the law, but woe betide a modern woman who wanted to be a lawyer, or a doctor, or a politician on her own. Nineteenth-century England, Alex mused, is truly a man’s world, and God help the woman who tries to get a foothold in that world.
As much as he might be sympathetic to the plight of women in general, that sympathy was vastly overshadowed by his admiration of—and attraction to—this woman in particular. Major Lord Alexander Sterne had had his fair share of women in his time. But never had he wanted another woman as he wanted Hero Whitby. Nor did he think this was just a passing fancy as others had been. The intense physical need was eclipsed by his desire just to be with her—in the same room, breathing the same air, to know always where she was, feeling a tie that extended beyond mere proximity.
Was he in love with Hero?
Well…perhaps.
Probably.
Yes.
Yes?
Yes…
Once before, he had fallen victim to this condition. As a young ensign in India, he’d thought himself in love with Madeline Henderson, the blond, pink-cheeked, blue-eyed daughter of a general. She had reminded him of a porcelain figurine, fragile and precious. He remembered—with chagrin now—manufacturing situations where he could gaze at her, wangling invitations to social affairs that he knew she would attend, even writing sappy love notes to her. But Madeline had come to India to snag a husband—and she had her eyes set on something more promising than a lowly ensign and a third son, much as she basked in any male attention. It had come as a distinct disappointment to discover that, rather than fragile and precious, she was brittle and cheap. However, the lesson had taken, and despite an occasional liaison, he had not again allowed himself to become quite so enamored of another woman.
Now Hero was playing havoc with his emotions and his judgment. But he could hardly do anything about that as Adam Wainwright, could he? No. His personal issues would have to await the outcome of this infernal smuggling business.
Knowing the locals as he now did, he was attuned to their concerns and worries—and intensely aware that there was much that he could do—should have done before—to alleviate some, or even many, of those. Townspeople were fearful. The smugglers among local folks perhaps regretted having wrecked that ship, though the word circulating was that people who had been most instrumental in that misdeed were the outsiders Teague had brought into Weyburn some years ago. Local people who had actually taken part were trying to fade into the background—playing least seen, as it were. Even Jonathan was staying close to home.
Alex knew the gang would have to do something soon about all that contraband they had hidden away. Yet there had been little noticeable activity on that front. Then, one night, there was. But it did not go well for the law-abiding, law-enforcing element. Word had reached the ears of the militia of a planned movement of goods at thus-and-such a place and time. It turned out to be a ruse—a deliberately floated rumor that sent the militia on yet another wild-goose chase.
Alex and Mac met the next day with Colonel Phillips and his aide, who had taken rooms at the inn while a contingent of their troops bivouacked on the beach near Weyburn. When Alex and Mac entered the main room of the inn, Teague and three of his bully boys were sitting at a table across the way. They sent sly glances at Alex and Mac, apparently sharing a huge joke. However, they did not linger, leaving the inn soon after Phillips and his aide came down from above. Alex wondered sourly when Teague ever managed to do any of his estate business, what with the way he was always turning up elsewhere.
Phillips, in his forties, had even features, gray eyes, and black hair that was graying at the temples. Alex had been favorably impressed with the man’s apparent competence and shared his frustration at being outmaneuvered by the sort of men who would deliberately entice a ship to disaster. The aide was younger—a captain of perhaps thirty, with blond hair and a deferential attitude toward his commander.
The militiamen wore their red-coated uniforms. It was midmorning and the four men were sitting at the same window table Alex and Hero had occupied so many days earlier, drinking coffee and commiserating over the last night’s debacle. On the table, Phillips had laid out a map of their section of Cornwall.
“I cannot believe we were so completely bamboozled,” Phillips said. “It was all a trick. And now we must play that infernal waiting game again—wait for them to move that contraband. But—by God!—this time we shall keep our own watch and not trust an informant!”
Alex leaned across the table to say to Phillips, “I think we should watch the Abbey itself, but more to the point, the entrance to that cave below the Abbey cliff. It will not be easy, but you should be able to position your men so they can see and not be seen. Goods from those cargos must still be in the ancient cellar of the Abbey—or in the barn of the deserted Thompson farm—or, more to the point, in both. It might be possible to move goods aboveground from the Abbey itself, but it is far more probable they will go through the tunnel to the cave.”
“Likely they’ll need as many as twenty mules and packhorses. That much livestock is hard to handle secretly,” Mac observed. “Not to mention they will have to transfer the stuff to buyers’ wagons. Now where they gonna do that?”
“Here? In town?” Phillips offered.
“Perhaps…” Alex’s voice trailed off in thought. “That might be too risky, though.”
“This little village of Trenton?” Phillips pointed at a location on the map. “Five miles along the coast, then—what?—another five miles inland. The Trenton road connects to a main highway.”
The four of them sat in silent thought for a few moments, drinking coffee and nibbling at some scones Mrs. Barkley had produced. Then Alex sat up straight and snapped his fingers.
“I have it! The mine. It has a loading yard that would accommodate the kind of traffic we are talking about.” He explained the situation as he and Hero had observed it, ending with, “There are enough trees and shrubs there to provide adequate cover for your watchers.”
“I have a capable young lieutenant who can handle that task,” Phillips said.
Later, as Mac and Alex strolled about the town, trying to appear their touristy best, Mac said, “Rather like old times, eh, Major?”
Alex knew exactly what he meant. “There do seem to be parallels between police work—which is what this is—and dealing with Boney and his troops.”
Mac grunted. “With a lot of hurry-up-and-wait about both.”
“There is that,” Alex agreed with a chuckle.
For the next few days, there was little activity on the smuggling front. The militia remained in place in Weyburn, but Teague and his lot seemed to be playing a cagey game—or perhaps they were having difficulty lining up their buyers. Meanwhile, for Alex, life at Whitby Manor continued more or less as it had. Soon after it had been devised, he shared with Dr. Whitby and Hero, but not with Jonathan or anyone else in the household, the general plan he and Phillips had developed. Now they too were committed to the temporary “wait and see” approach to life in general.
He had worried that Hero might turn shy and withdrawn after finally admitting to another person what had happened to her as a girl. To his delight, that had not happened. At first she did seem a little subdued, with an expression of wariness in her eyes when they chanced to meet his. He thought she was merely unsure of how he was reacting to what she had told him. She knew very well how others might react—had not Teague reiterated that view only a few weeks ago? His own deepest reaction, which he tried to keep from her, was anger. Rage, actually. In London, Alex had known the present Baron Portman. Not well, but he knew who Portman was—and what he was: a brash braggart who tended to drink to excess and gamble recklessly. The baron was a womanizer who made no secret of the fact that he was out to bargain his title for a rich wife—even if said wife came with the smell of trade about her. Alex hoped fate would provide a suitable reward to the man for what he had done to a young, vulnerable Hero, but if fate failed to do so, Alex silently swore that, if ever their paths crossed, he would achieve that end himself.
Three days after his meeting with Phillips, Alex and the doctor had, as usual, been playing chess in the library in the evening. Hero had put Annabelle to bed and Alex had waited for her to appear in the library, for only with her settled into her customary place on the nearby couch would he feel complete and at ease.
She came in waving a letter in the direction of her father. “Papa. I have been rereading Michael’s letter. What can he possibly mean, saying he is bringing us a surprise?”
“I have no idea, my dear,” her father answered absently, concentrating on his game. “A new horse? That boy has always appreciated fine horseflesh.”
“A Belgian tapestry, perhaps,” she offered. “One might fit nicely in the drawing room.”
“Hmm. Why not just wait ’til he gets here and you will know,” her father said, moving his bishop into a precarious position. “Aah,” he groaned as Alex swept up the bishop. “I should have seen that coming.”
“I’m sorry, Papa. I distracted you,” Hero said.
She picked up the last volume of a novel by Sir Walter Scott, but her sighs and occasional comments to the chess players suggested to Alex that her heart was not into the book.
When the match ended, the doctor gathered up the chess pieces to consign them to their box.
Alex glanced in Hero’s direction and held her gaze. “Knights and deeds of chivalry and derring-do not so fascinating this evening?” he asked.
“Not really. I keep thinking about Jonathan—”
“Stop fretting about the boy,” her father said. “Young fellows of a certain age don’t like to have their mothers—or sisters—always concerned about what they are doing. I know. I was one once.”
Hero smiled at her father. “I know, Papa, but—”
“No buts,” he replied. “Leave the boy alone. He said he’s spending the night with Anthony. Accept it: He’s spending the night with Anthony.”
“I know that is what he said, but—”
The doctor snapped the lid shut on the chess pieces and set the box on the board. “Sometimes, Hero, you simply have to trust that people will be honest with you—even younger brothers.” He picked up his cane, came over to her, and bent to kiss her on the forehead. “Not to worry, my dear. Now don’t stay up too late.”
“Yes, Papa. Good night.”
Having stood as the older man bade them both good night and left the room, Alex turned his gaze on Hero again. “He’s right, you know.”
She carefully marked her page in the book and set it aside, then looked up at him, one eyebrow lifted. “I do not need the two of you ganging up on me.”
He slid onto the couch next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured and kissed her.
Later, he tried to tell himself it had been meant as a simple kiss good night, but he knew that was a lie. He had dreamed for days now—not to mention nights—of fulfilling the promise of those earlier kisses they had shared. From the way she immediately responded, he thought she might have had the same dreams, for she welcomed him enthusiastically, angling her head to give him better access as his lips moved from hers to her neck and to the swell of her breasts above the neckline of her dress. Cupping his hand around the firmness of one breast, he felt the bud of the nipple harden as he teased it with his thumb. Again, she moved to allow him better access to that portion of her anatomy. He placed his mouth against one cloth-covered nipple and allowed his hot breath to stimulate it as his hand continued to tease the other.
Pleased at her little moans of pleasure, he slipped his hand under her skirt and felt the smooth flesh of her inner thigh. His fingers brushed against the most intimate folds of flesh at the apex of her legs.
“Adam?” she murmured in awe.
“Open for me, sweet,” he urged, surprised and pleased when she did so immediately. His fingers probed and caressed until she was fairly writhing in his arms. Both were breathing hard and his erection was already throbbing. He withdrew his hand and pulled back from her slightly.
“No-o-o,” she moaned in protest.
Grinning, he stood and pulled her to her feet. “Come, my love. We need to finish this across the hall.”
“Across the hall?” she asked dumbly.
“Yes.” He chuckled at her tone. “Across the hall.”
He quickly doused the lamps in the library, grabbed Hero’s hand, and maneuvered her around the furniture and through the door of the library and then the door of his bedchamber. She seemed a bit dazed as he achieved all this, but murmured not even a whimper of protest as he locked the door.
Earlier he had left his bedside lamp turned low, and now, in that soft light, he gave her a piercing look. “Are you all right with this—with us?” He pulled her close and whispered against the smooth skin of her neck, “I want you—I want you desperately—but I would not have you against your will, Hero. Even your hesitation. You must want it as much as I do.”
He felt her swallow. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Well, then—the first order of business is to divest ourselves of this excess clothing.”
“Oh.” She began to pull at the sleeves of her dress.
“No. Let me,” he said. He slipped the cap sleeves off her shoulders and, his hands touching, caressing all the way, shimmied the dress down her body until it pooled about her feet and she stepped out of it.
He drew in a deep breath of anticipation. “The shift, too,” he said.
“A-are you sure?” she asked nervously.