Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  "Don't." This time, when he drew her against him, it was to comfort her. For a time, he stood there, his arms folded around her, his cheek against her shining hair, aching for her. Finally, he forced himself to step back. "Come on—I'd still show you the church."

  She wiped wet eyes with the back of her hand, then nodded. Trying to smile, she twisted her mouth awkwardly. "What a wretched, foolish creature I have become," she managed. "I wonder that you can stand me at all."

  "You've had too much to bear, Ellie," he said softly. "I won't make it any worse for you."

  They walked silently, each subdued by his own thoughts, until they reached the old village church. Once inside, she looked about her, seeing the elaborate carvings, the beauty of the rose window, feeling the silent wonder, the solace there.

  It was as though he felt it also. "If God is anywhere, He ought to be here," he murmured beside her.

  Moving away from her, he sat down on one of the benches, looking toward the altar. Closing his eyes, he felt the emptiness within himself. And the words he'd read in Proverbs seemed to echo in his ears.

  "Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before the fall."

  What was it that Shakespeare had written in Macbeth? "Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself / And falls on the other side." And his thoughts turned to Jane Barclay. The irony wasn't lost on him—he'd been led blindly by his ambition, and now he was looking into the pits of hell.

  He opened his eyes, seeing that Elise knelt, her head bent in prayer, probably not for herself, but rather for Rand. The faint light from a window fell upon her red-gold hair. As he looked at her now, he felt not desire, but rather a hunger for her kindness, for her healing spirit, for her sense of right and honor. And for her passionate belief in justice.

  Somewhere between Bothwellhaugh and here he'd lost much of that to his ambition. And now he was going to fall, he knew that. From the envisioned heights of a ministerial portfolio, he was going to plummet to the unenviable position of political pariah. But now that he faced it, it didn't seem to matter anymore.

  For as surely as he breathed, he knew now that he wanted to spend his life with Elise Rand, to have his children grow up in Barfreston and be confirmed in this church, to know the love that had been denied him so long ago. He no longer wanted the perfect wife, nor did he wish for an heir and a spare dispassionately conceived for the greater order. He wanted sons and daughters born with their mother's red-gold hair, and he wanted those sons and daughters to carry the name of Hamilton.

  He saw her rise, and he walked out after her. "Do you feel better now?"

  "Yes." She looked up at him, her expression sober. "I asked God for Papa's acquittal."

  It wouldn't happen, and he knew it. "Sometimes God in His wisdom does not give us what we ask," he said finally. Reaching for her hand, he tucked it beneath his arm. "Come on—we'd best get back to the house."

  She could not sleep. Instead, she lay there, listening to the night sounds of the ticking clock, the dying fire, the soft, gentle rain upon the roof, telling herself she was being a fool. For hours she'd tossed and turned, torn between conscience and desire, until she could no longer stand it. What had seemed so clear to her by light of day was by no means so when she lay alone in the night.

  Every time she closed her eyes, she relived Patrick Hamilton's kisses, his every caress, hearing again his whispered words. And as wrong as it was of her, she ached for him to hold her again, to make her whole, to love her despite his promise to Jane.

  She knew now that the few chaste kisses she'd shared with Ben Rose were but as small sparks when compared to the blazing fire Patrick had kindled within her. With Ben, she'd been the blithe innocent so sure of happiness that she believed her love could move the world. How wrong she'd been. How very, very wrong she'd been. Instead of moving, that world had collapsed in ashes.

  And what fate might yet bring she did not want to ponder. Not now. For if Rand were hanged and Patrick Hamilton wed, she would have nothing beyond her father's fortune and the feckless mother she could not forgive. And what was left of her pride. Which was nearly nothing now. What had Pope called it? "Pride, the never-failing vice of fools."

  Despite everything that had warned her against committing her body to Patrick Hamilton, she'd done it, and whether she wished to face it or not, she'd been wrong there also. She'd been wrong to think she could separate herself from what she'd done, and now she had to face the fact that her heart had followed where her body led. And not even the resultant shame could blot out the searing memories of passion — nor the aching need to relive that passion over and over again. And no matter how fervently she prayed, she gained no peace from yearning.

  What she wanted was to love Patrick and to be loved in turn by him. More than that she dared not ask, and he dared not give. It was as plain as that. Whatever happiness there could be in stolen moments would have to be enough.

  Throwing back her covers, she rose and drew on her borrowed wrapper, then with candle in hand, made her way down the hall to his room. Knocking softly, she waited for his answer, her breath bated. Nothing. Perhaps God was saving her from her folly. She turned back, hesitated, then started downstairs. No, she was not ready to give herself over to her tortured thoughts again. She'd warm milk, then find a book to read after she drank it.

  At the bottom step, she paused, seeing the faint slice of light from beneath the bookroom door. Drawn to it, she pushed the door open wider and stood there watching him.

  He was in his shirtsleeves and breeches, sitting at a table writing so intently that she was almost afraid to disturb him. Instead, she waited while he consulted a book, then wrote something more. Finally, she could not stand the silence anymore.

  "You are up rather late."

  Surprised, he looked up, then smiled wryly. "I could not sleep."

  "Neither could I," she admitted, setting aside the candle. Daring to move closer, she asked, "What is it that keeps you from your bed?"

  "You."

  The word hung between them for a moment, then she nodded. "I suppose that must make us even," she said quietly, "for I feel it also." Her pulse pounded

  in her ears as he rose and walked toward her. "I came down to tell you that I lied when I said I could not share you with Jane. If the truth be told, I should rather have some part of you than nothing at all."

  His arms closed around her, and he bent his head to hers. "Ellie—Ellie—" he whispered against her lips. "God, but I want you."

  She kissed him hungrily, feverishly, as the heat between them flared like fire. His hands moved over her back, her hips, pressing her body into his. "Love me, Patrick," she urged him breathlessly. 4 Just love me— please. I don't want to think anymore."

  For answer, his hands caught at the ties of her wrapper, loosening them, then slid upward to ease it from her shoulders. As it slipped to the floor, she undid his shirt eagerly, baring his chest, while he worked the buttons of his breeches. Together, they sank to the floor before the fire in the tangle of his half-discarded clothing.

  There was no leisurely exploration, no tender words of love, only the all-consuming fire of passion. She closed her eyes as he eased her nightgown upward to explore her body with hands and lips. And when his hot palm slid over her thigh, she parted her legs for him wantonly, giving him access there. She moaned when his fingertips found the wetness within.

  Her back arched eagerly as she twisted and turned beneath his hand, seeking more of the pleasure he gave her, until she thought she must surely burst from the ecstasy of it. She protested feebly when his hand left her, then she felt his body ease over her, joining hers, filling all of her.

  Her legs opened and closed as her hips cradled him, holding him, striving to keep him deep inside, straining for the ultimate union until wave after wave of ecstasy shuddered through her, and she heard herself cry out over and over again. Abruptly, he sought to withdraw from her, but her legs held him tightly and her nails raked his back. His whole body tau
tened, then he moved again, bucking and thrusting hard, and his cry of release mingled with hers.

  As he collapsed over her, her arms tightened around him, embracing him as she floated to peace. For a long time he lay over her, his heart beating against hers, his breath harsh and labored.

  "I'm sorry," he gasped, "I tried to stop, but you would not let me."

  "I didn't want you to leave me."

  He looked into her blue eyes, seeing the lingering vestiges of passion in them, and he felt utterly, thoroughly complete. Bracing himself with an elbow, he brushed stray strands of hair back from her damp temples. "Ellie, you are magnificent—truly a wonder to me," he said softly. "You make it impossible not to love you."

  There was such warmth in his gaze that she had to turn her head away.

  Thinking she was ashamed, he eased his body down beside her again, drawing her into his arms, holding her head against his shoulder, trying to put into words what he felt for her. His hand stroked her hair as he spoke.

  "I think I've loved you almost from the first, you know. You've always had such a sense of right— something I never really had. I've always been the brash barrister, a fellow more intent on making a name for myself than in righting the wrongs of this world. Until you came into my life, I thought I wanted power—I thought I could trade whatever it took to get me onto that stage."

  She could feel his heartbeat beneath her ear. "You have the ability to do a great deal of good."

  "I don't even believe in much of what Dunster stands for, Ellie. But I don't want to speak of that, not now. What I'm trying to say—and making a botch of it—is that none of it matters anymore. Dunster— Jane—the grand ambitions—none of it matters. Only you."

  "You don't have to say this, Patrick," she whispered.

  He wanted to blurt out that he couldn't save Rand, but he was afraid she'd feel betrayed. "Ellie—" No, he was too much the coward.

  Afraid he meant to say something more about Jane, she shook her head. "Please—I don't even want to think of tomorrow. I want to live for now, Patrick. I don't want to care about anything else tonight."

  Reluctantly, he released her and sat up, his back to the warmth of the fire. "Come on—we'd best go up to bed." Standing, he reached down to her. "Your back must be broken from the floor."

  After pulling on their clothes, they crept up the wide staircase as stealthily as two children afraid of being caught. When they reached the hallway, he put an arm about her waist to guide her in the dark, and somehow they managed to reach her room without wakening anyone.

  He stopped at her bedchamber. "Good night, Ellie."

  "Good night."

  He waited until she closed the door, then went on down the hall. In his chamber, he tossed his shirt over a chair and sat down to remove his stockings. For a long moment he stared into the semidarkness remembering her touch, the soft lavender scent of her body, the heat of her passion. And then he thought of Jane, and he knew what he had to do when morning came.

  But for now, he didn't want to think of anything beyond the woman down the hall. She was the one he wanted now. She was the one he wanted forever.

  In her room, Elise lit a candle from the coals left in her fireplace, then she carried it to the washstand. With her other hand, she poured water from the ewer into the bowl, dipped a cloth into it, and lifted her nightgown to wash. Lost in her own tumbling thoughts, she did not hear the door open.

  "Don't," he murmured, coming up behind her. "Not yet." Her breath caught as his fingertips traced lightly over the bones of her shoulder. He bent his head to nuzzle the nape of her neck, and his warm breath caressed her skin. "If you do not mind it," he said softly, "I should like to stay with you."

  Unable to speak for the new wave of desire that washed through her whole body, she closed her eyes and nodded.

  Turning her around, he blew out her candle. "Love me again," he whispered as the cloth slipped from her fingers.

  It was a long way from Kent to Scotland, and it seemed even longer than usual because he was going to face Jane. At Bothwellhaugh, he broke his journey long enough to visit the ancient cemetery, where he stood in a cold, driving rain to look down on the graves. Janet Hamilton. William Hamilton. James Hamilton. Even now, as much as he'd once tried to put them from his mind, he could see his mother dressed for church in her silk gown, her head held too high to know the ridicule of those behind her. And his father holding his head in his hands every quarter day, always wishing for better times, spurred on by his determined, ambitious wife, always trying to be what she wanted, always coming up short. As he looked down upon the sodden graves, seeing the carved limestone markers, he felt a sadness for them.

  He'd always believed they had taught him nothing, but he'd been wrong about that. Until now. Now he was determined not to make their mistake, not to take a woman who prized ambition above love.

  His eyes strayed to Jamie's resting place, and his thoughts turned to the uncertainty of life. Pure, softhearted Jamie, the best of the lot of them, gone from this earth ere he could know the love of a wife or the joy of children to scramble for his attention, to laugh and play games at his feet. Instead he had returned to the dust from whence he'd come, proving beyond any doubt that life could be too short for any of it to be wasted.

  From this cold, dreary place Patrick had come with dreams far beyond the genteel poverty that had surrounded him, dreams of playing upon the stage, of hearing the approbation of a crowd. How his mother would have burst at the thought that he now had within his grasp far more than merely money—he had within his reach power and prestige beyond anything she could have imagined for him. And he had to console himself that if it had truly meant to be, then she must surely have lived to see it.

  Turning away, he jammed his wet beaver hat over his soaked hair and made his way back to the carriage he'd let at a posting house in Kent. No, he had not the time to waste, he mused as he climbed once more into the coach. Above him on the box, the driver and coachman huddled beneath oiled cloth as the team once again plodded northward on the muddy road.

  Leaning back, he slid the beaver forward to cover his closed eyes. He was weary, so terribly weary, and yet he could not sleep. Even if he extricated himself from Dunster and his daughter, there was still Bat Rand. For perhaps the thousandth time, he considered the old man. He was tired of Rand's games, tired of the machinations. And it would not end until the trial.

  Mentally, he reviewed the evidence, sighing. Guilty. No question about that, none at all. No mitigating circumstances. Nothing. Plainly and simply, Bartholomew Rand had murdered those women, and he had no remorse at all. But Elise believed in her father, and there was the rub.

  For days, he'd been toying with the boldest gamble of his career. One that would guarantee that Rand never walked the streets of London again. One that might keep the old man alive. Or might see him hanged. And either way, Elise would probably feel utterly betrayed.

  He couldn't sleep, and he ought not to even try. Reluctantly, he sat up and pushed his hat back. First he had to deal with Jane.

  Some three hours later, when the rain had turned to a fine mist that lay like a blanket over the hills, shrouding them into dim, gray mounds, the carriage turned into the narrow lane, jarring him awake. He sat up and brushed his hand across his eyes.

  Ahead, he could see the high towers of the castle, the broad expanse of gray stone walls, the formidable gate house Dunster had had restored. And he knew that his welcome was going to be brief, his stay exceedingly short. But no matter how much he wished to run, he knew also he had to face the earl and Jane.

  The road narrowed again, this time into a hard, rock-packed lane scarce wide enough for the carriage. As he reached what remained of an ancient barbican, he noted the bright green moss growing between the stones, life amid decay. Above, he could still see the rust marks where the gate had rested against the wall. And he wondered how many mailed parties had sor-tied out to raid their English neighbors or to make war against their fellow
Scots.

  Inside the courtyard, he could see the ruins of the first peel tower, dead grass now where ancient Scots had once retreated to hold this blood-soaked piece of land. More than five hundred years the present earl could trace his lineage backward, to when John Baliol and Robert the Bruce had struggled for a throne long since gone.

  The coach rolled to a halt, then the driver hopped down, stretching his legs before he opened Patrick's door. "Was ye wishful o' my boy announcin' ye?" he asked through a black, gaping grin.

  "Aye. Tell them—" He hesitated long enough to take a deep breath. "Tell them 'tis Patrick Hamilton come to wait upon Lady Jane. And when I am inside, wait at least an hour ere you leave."

  "Aye, sor." Beckoning the boy down from the box, the driver cuffed his ears affectionately. "Ye heard 'im, didn't ye? 'Tis Hamilton fer her ladyship."

  "For Lady Jane," Patrick said, correcting him. "There are two of them."

  "Oh—aye."

  Stepping down from the carriage, Patrick waited, feeling nothing now. The heavy carved oak door

  opened and an elderly retainer peered nearsightedly out.

  "Och, and who is it?" he asked. "Hamilton, sor!"

  "His Grace?"

  The old man had started to turn back to make the announcement inside, when Patrick stopped him. "Er—not the duke, I'm afraid," he murmured regretfully. "The name is Patrick Hamilton."

  "Aye."

  Moving slowly ahead of him, the butler limped beneath the long row of impressive portraits, some four hundred years of Barclays, beginning with "John, Lord Barclay: 1414-1442," all the way to "John, Earl Dunster: 1754-1792."

  "Not a long-lived bunch, are they?" Patrick observed irreverently.

  The old man stopped and looked up, then nodded. "All but the present earl, sir. Lord Dunster is already fifty-seven."