But she’d nodded because she had.
By God, she had.
****
Tonight she was to receive him.
How could she keep herself from falling into this death spiral of hope if she continued to allow him such intimacy with her person? For there was no way to have relations without intimacy.
Except there was.
There was, and it had been absolutely horrible.
Could she hold herself in reserve? She imagined herself, lying passive as Alex—no Monfort—touched her, opened her up. As he explored and tasted and…loved.
It would be impossible to not want him back. She was not at all like his first wife. She wanted him!
But he had not indicated that any of it mattered to him. Ever since they’d left the inn, he had been cold, aloof, and arrogant. But still she would not resist him.
And as she waited for his arrival to her rooms, her conviction grew stronger. The hour she normally went to bed was long past. She’d been attempting to read but in her nervousness failed to comprehend more than a page or two. Why was she waiting for him? He’d obviously forgotten his request of earlier. Was a wife so easy to forget?
Defeated by the inconsideration of her blasted husband, Abigail set her book aside, shed her dressing gown, put out the few candles she’d left burning, and then climbed onto the vast canopied bed she’d been allotted. She did not realize how cold she’d become until she lie cocooned beneath the heavy coverlet. Turning to her side, she pulled her knees up to her chest and burrowed for warmth. Next time, she would simply tell him no. That way she would avoid the torture of being disappointed by him.
Why must he be this way?
One tear escaped before Abigail surprisingly fell asleep. Her last thought of the night was of the children she would see tomorrow.
****
He’d come after all.
She awoke to the feel of his lean warmth behind her. He had wrapped one arm around her waist and was kissing the skin behind her ear. “Abigail,” he whispered, “forgive me?”
And then his lips were moving around her face, across her eyes, down her cheeks. “I’m sorry I have come so late. The stable master was injured, and I needed to wait while the doctor attended him.” His mouth traveled along her jaw, her neck.
And then his lips found her mouth.
Abigail parted them and arched into him. She could never resist him. His tongue explored behind her teeth, inside the tender skin of her cheek. Abigail opened wider for him.
“God help me,” he mumbled inside her mouth.
Abigail’s hands grasped the back of his head. She wanted him closer, tighter. Their teeth made a clashing sound as they both fought for something deeper.
With a rumbling growl, Alex swept her nightgown up and over her head. He’d already shed all of his clothing. He smelled of soap and sandalwood. He must have bathed before coming to her.
They found each other again quickly. There was no playing, no teasing. Instead there was pushing, pulling, and deep, oh so deep, thrusting. In burying himself inside of her, he not only reached for her womb, but her inner essence.
“Alex,” she cried out several times. It was all she could coherently manage, so engulfed she was by the sensations of him. “Alex!”
****
Alex very nearly had not gone to Abigail that night. After the accident in the stables, he’d almost convinced himself the hour had grown too late.
He was also somewhat wary. He’d ordered Hyacinth to receive him and look at what that had achieved. Now, he’d ordered Abigail. What if he went to her and she resisted him? He would not demand her acquiescence. He was not so stupid any longer. He’d been an insensitive, rutting cub with Hyacinth. He was no longer that man.
He’d been granted Abigail’s trust. He would not do anything to cause her to feel unsafe ever again. Perhaps he would simply go to her and apologize.
He would apologize for hurting her feelings the first night they’d arrived. He would apologize for ignoring her for the past four days. And then, perhaps…If she received him…
He ordered a quick bath and donned a dressing gown before sending Villiars away.
When he entered her room, all was dark. She lay beneath the coverlet, still and breathing deeply. She was asleep.
He should leave. He could speak to her tomorrow. But even as those thoughts drifted through his mind, he found himself climbing under the coverlet and wrapping one arm around her. She smelled clean and delicate. He inhaled as his lips found the pulse at her nape.
She was his.
She would not refuse him. She was not Hyacinth.
Alex whispered his apologies into her neck as he sensed her awaken. He had intended to be gentle and coaxing tonight, but her enthusiasm for his touch ignited a passion inside him he’d long suppressed. It was physical. It was emotional. It was almost even spiritual.
And she chanted his name, as though in prayer. No time elapsed at all before he buried himself in her sweet, wet warmth, her legs spread wide, her hands clutching at him. It was not enough.
He drove into her hard and deep, her returning thrusts surprisingly strong. They merged into one being. And when her body shuddered and began clenching around him, he drove into her one last time, deeply, powerfully, and released his seed. As he pulsed in completion, he pushed into her even harder before relaxing and rolling onto the bed. She curled onto her side and placed one hand upon his chest.
“Are you afraid for tomorrow?” he asked into the darkness.
Her breath tickled his shoulder when she sighed deeply. “I am terrified, and yet nothing on earth could keep me from coming along.”
Alex pulled her closer to him, his arm trapped beneath her neck. “I will tell you everything. You do not need to be there. If their situation is remiss, I will make arrangements to right it.”
That soft sigh again. “I know…” She trailed off. “But I have a yearning”—she brought one hand up to her heart—“inside, to see them with my own eyes. I have to go, Alex. I cannot let this opportunity pass me by.”
Again, he gave her a gentle squeeze.
But she was not finished speaking. “If you could see your children once again, nothing would stop you. You must think of them often. I know you must…It would be impossible not to.”
At her words, a familiar coldness crept into his limbs—through his head, his legs, and into the area where surely his heart must be.
“Is that why you are assisting me in this matter, Alex?” she persisted.
Alex removed his arm from around her and sat up abruptly, causing her hand to fall away from his chest. A roaring filled his ears. He closed his eyes and envisioned little Marigold trapped under the ice, enshrouded in eternal darkness. And Elijah, not old enough to swim, his lungs filled with ice cold water, frightened and unable to draw in air.
He remembered the efforts of himself and his servants. He’d tied a rope around himself and gone into the water in search of them.
But the temperature had dropped quickly that day. The servants had pulled him out, wrapped him in blankets, and dragged him inside as the lake froze solid.
“Their bodies could not be retrieved until springtime.” The sound of his own voice in the darkness surprised him. “So you see, I was given one more opportunity to see them after all.”
Abigail crawled to her knees and wrapped her arms around him. She held him tightly. She infused warmth into him. He would not give in to the urge to reach up and clasp onto her hands with his own—to turn around and bury his neck in her softness.
Instead, he removed her hands. He needed to be away from her. Retrieving his dressing gown from the floor, he shrugged into it quickly.
Her voice reached out to him. “Why do you resist this?” she pleaded. “What are you afraid of?”
He would not answer her. He could not answer her. Instead, he turned and sketched a low bow. “You have my full gratitude for receiving me. Until tomorrow.” And with those words, he returned to h
is own rooms.
Chapter 20
After a sleepless night, Abigail preceded Monfort into the coach that was to take them to see her children.
It was an older coach, without the ducal insignia. Monfort had informed her that he did not wish to draw any undue attention. They were traveling today, not as a duke and a duchess, but as Mr. and Mrs. Cross. They were to make their visit as though Monfort was interested in purchasing a horse. Ironically, the people who’d taken in her children were known for their horse breeding.
Her children.
As much as she wanted to be angry with her husband for his parting words to her the night before, she knew that she’d prodded at something painful. And like a wounded animal, he’d coiled back.
Was he so very broken? She was beginning to think that perhaps the only closeness he ever wanted to share with her was of a physical nature. He tended to close himself off after he talked to her about himself.
Would sex be enough? For each time they came together, Abigail gave him a part of herself. If she were to continue to do so, without him giving back something of himself, she might be left with nothing. Which hardly made any sense at all.
Shaking her head at her own dramatics, she peered out the window at the passing countryside. The leaves on the trees were beginning to change color, even though it was barely October. Fall was arriving early; perhaps winter would as well.
She wanted to talk with her husband, but he’d shut her out again, completely, by opening a lap desk and pouring all of his concentration into the contents of some paperwork. Occasionally, he would make a note with a pencil.
How could he concentrate on contracts and whatnot when she was less than a few hours away from laying her eyes on her children for the first time in nearly nine years? Just when she thought he cared for her feelings, he put her opinion in doubt. She turned her head away from the window and stared unabashedly at him.
Tiny wrinkles spread out from the corners of his eyes. He squinted slightly as he read. He was going to need spectacles at some point, she imagined. His hair was combed back neatly. It was longer than when she’d first met him. His valet had even tied it into a short queue in back.
She knew the texture of his hair, intimately. A heady sensation, imagining that just last night he’d been inside of her. She’d been able to touch his body wherever she’d wanted. And now, today, she dared not risk reaching out to touch even the length of his jaw.
Sensing her appraisal, Monfort’s eyes slid over to her impatiently. “Did you need something, Abigail?” He spoke as though bored with her. This tug of war between them was beginning to aggravate her as well.
“I am nervous—and excited…It’s difficult to sit quietly and wait for our arrival. Is there anything else you might be able to tell me about their family? About the people who took them in?”
After placing the lap desk on the floor, Monfort nodded slowly. “I sent word that we would be coming to look at a few of the Cripes’ horses. I will speak with Mr. Cripes about the boy while you speak with Mrs. Cripes. Hopefully, you shall be able to glean information about the girl.”
“What if they are not forthcoming?”
“If we do not succeed, I will have my man of business use more straightforward means to see to the children’s circumstances. Hopefully, this will not be necessary. I’ve given my solicitor only the most pertinent of information in regards to his inquiries.” As though struck with a surprising thought, he raised his brows. “I do hope you haven’t discussed any of this with your maid?”
“Of course not!” Did he think she was a fool?
And then he grimaced at her ruefully. “It was my intention to protect you from scandal, Abigail, but it seems I’ve caused even more to rain down upon you. If society got wind of our visit, and why…” He shook his head. “It will be better if we do this quietly.”
His eye still showed some yellow bruising beneath it.
She nodded solemnly. He was correct, of course. “Of course.” She echoed her thoughts out loud. And then she voiced a regret she’d known for years. “I do not even know their names.”
Monfort averted his eyes from her to stare at the opposite corner of the coach. He looked as though he would say something but was keeping himself from doing so. She wanted to ask him more about the children he’d lost. It was something they shared.
But her children lived, whereas his did not.
He had known them. He had held them and watched them grow.
She had not.
Abigail turned her head back to stare out the window.
****
As they pulled in to the modern-looking inn, which advertised the large stable block in back, Abigail’s complexion had turned as pale as a ghost. She hadn’t spoken for much of their journey, which was somewhat unnatural for her. He’d learned quickly that his new wife could prattle on about nearly anything. It was strangely endearing.
Today she must be nervous, indeed.
The coach rocked to a stop, and Alex jumped up quickly to push open the door. The driver had alighted as well and stuck his head in before Alex could exit. “It’s muddy, Your Gr—ahem—Mr. Cross. Allow me to set down the step.”
Glad that he’d worn an older pair of Hessians, Alex stepped onto the ground tentatively. His feet sank nearly four inches. When Abigail peeked out, he reached up his arms for her. “You’ll ruin your slippers, my dear. I’ll carry you to the door.”
Her brows puckered at his words, and then her eyes drifted down to the mud and puddles that surrounded them. “I’m too heavy.” She bit her bottom lip.
Sometimes, she was such a practical lady and at others…Alex reached in and tried putting one arm under her arms and the other at her knees, but she bolted backward. “You cannot!”
Damn woman! Did she not want him putting his hands on her? She hadn’t been so reluctant last night. The driver, waiting patiently, observed them. He would be wanting to remove the horses to the stables for a rubdown and some water.
Alex reached in, wrapped his arms around Abigail’s thighs, and toppled her over his shoulder. Before pulling her out of the coach, he could not resist patting her bum and then giving it a quick squeeze.
She shrieked as he pulled her from the carriage. The driver grinned, and Alex winked at the man.
Had he really done that? Had he really just shared a joke with one of his servants over his wife’s inverted form? Oh, hell. He had at that. But today he was not the duke. He was Mr. Cross, and his wife was being silly and difficult.
He grinned as he crossed the muddied yard toward the entrance to the inn.
“Alex? I can walk, you know! Whatever are the Cripes' going to think of us? Alex! Please? Put me down, Alex!” She did not stop imploring him until he lowered her to stand upon the wooden platform just outside of the inn.
And then he laughed at the look on her face when she swung around to face him. “I cannot believe you just did that!” Red faced, she glared daggers, but he knew she wasn’t really angry. Embarrassed, but not angry.
Alex stomped his feet a few times to remove some of the mud and then, upon seeing a boot scraper, went about removing most of the debris. “Hush, Abigail,” he ordered her. Then winging her an arm, he raised his brows. “Are you ready?” They were both serious now.
She took a deep breath and then nodded.
“Very well then…Mrs. Cross. Let us see about some horseflesh.”
****
A few guests sitting at the wooden tables in the tap room glanced up curiously upon their entrance. Monfort ignored them and approached the long wooden counter. A heavyset woman, who looked to be well into her forties, greeted him cheerfully. “Ah, Mr. Cross? I am Agnes Cripes. Mr. Cripes, my husband, told me to expect you. You are welcome to head out back toward the stable. You’ll find him out there along with our stable master.”
Monfort sent Abigail an encouraging nod and then, thanking Mrs. Cripes, took his leave.
Abigail wanted to rush through the doorway beh
ind the counter. Was her little girl back there? “Hello, Mrs. Cripes,” she spoke firmly, while extending her hand. “I am Abigail—er—Cross. What a lovely inn you have! Do you perhaps have any tea? How long have you lived here? Your stables must be successful for your horses to have captured my husband’s attention.” She knew she was jabbering. She was so very excited—and nervous—and terrified. The anticipation of seeing one of her children was likely going to kill her.
“Oh, for certain, that I do.” With a glance at the men seated in the taproom, Mrs. Cripes reached for Abigail’s arm. “Come back here with me and I’ll make you a spot of tea. Your husband likes his horses, does he? That’s a fine carriage you come in.”
Abigail nodded and eagerly allowed the woman to take her into the back. A small girl of about five was stirring a pot, whilst a lad of about fourteen brought in some firewood. There were no others in the kitchen. “Are these your children?” Abigail asked cheerfully. Smiling at the little girl, she added, “What a pretty little thing you are.”
“Mary, fetch the lady a cup for tea,” Mrs. Cripes ordered the girl. And then, “Johnny, I told you not to bring mud into my kitchen. You get your dirty boots outside and then come back in here with a broom to clear this out.” Turning to face Abigail again, she scrunched up her nose as though a smell offended her. “The children are from the workhouse. Labor comes cheap, but I need to take the time to train ’em up right.” The woman rambled on about her heavy workload and the trouble she had finding good help. Mrs. Cripes’ hands were callused. When she spoke, Abigail wondered if the woman’s heart was callused as well.
Abigail’s own heart nearly stopped beating at the woman’s casual dismissal of the children’s humanity.
The woman didn’t seem malicious, but a tiredness lurked in her eyes. Her hair, although tied back, was dull, and the skin of her jowls sagged. Abigail swallowed the huge lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. Interrupting the woman’s long-winded discourse, Abigail could hold back no longer. “How do they end up in the workhouse? Are they orphans?”
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