Memory's Bride

by Decca Price

  “Yes,” she replied.

  As the night deepened over Abbot Pyon and its environs, the two men on Claire’s mind were thinking of her as well.

  Edward Latimer, still seething, sat late in his study lighted only by the fire, drinking a mediocre brandy and wishing it was Montfort’s whiskey. But he hadn’t visited Montfort Abbey since he and Rhys had clashed on Oak Grove’s front steps nearly two months ago.

  Latimer was angry at himself for the clumsy way he had handled Claire. He had gone to Oak Grove intending to exhibit a concern that would gradually lead to the revelation of tenderer feelings for the woman. Instead, he had lashed out at her and exposed his intentions in the grossest manner possible. It would take him weeks to undo the damage, assuming she would ever admit him to her home again. She had thrown his words back in his teeth without hesitation.

  Women were a snare and a stumbling stone. He had failed with Lucy, and now Claire Burton had turned him into a fool as well. If he couldn’t get a grip on himself, he would never win her over.

  He was just as angry at Rhys, however. He had warned the man off, yet the man defied him, just as the woman did. Already he could hear them laughing at him, as she was sure to recount every detail of his failed proposal as they sported together next.

  The glass in his hand cracked as he imagined Rhys’s hands on Claire’s body, his lips sucking and licking her tenderest, secret places, her moans of pain and rapture as the pair rolled together in some deep covert away from prying eyes. As he pictured his enemy’s climactic thrust between her writhing hips, however, he was the man looking down into Claire’s tear-filled eyes as she gasped and begged for release.

  Latimer lunged to his feet with a low cry as bile rose in his throat. He pushed the ugly images out of his mind. He had no reason to think Rhys had come anywhere near Claire in that way yet, and he believed the woman when she said Rhys had made no improper advances. But she was too trusting about men. If Rhys wanted her, he was more than capable of taking advantage of her. And then it would be too late. She would have passed from one wicked man’s use to another’s like a common street harlot, until all decent options were closed to her and she ended in perdition.

  What had not occurred could be prevented, however. He’d start in the morning with a note of apology, he decided as he lurched off to bed.

  Montfort wasn’t having a much better evening. As he gripped the mantel in his study with one hand and jabbed a poker into the burning logs with the other, he told himself he could—and should—halt his nearly daily meetings with Claire Burton. But he was stimulated by the attraction she clearly felt for him. She tried to hide it, but he could feel the tension of anticipation rolling off her and see it in her eyes.

  He felt it, too. He was drawn to touch her like iron to a magnet and it was merely a question of which would spring to the other first.

  He had tried once or twice to stay away, but even in those short intervals, he missed her laughter, her quizzical looks when he uttered a double entendre she didn’t quite comprehend, her serious application to the actual business of estate management. She made him see just how empty his life was.

  But he didn’t trust himself to marry again, and any other arrangement was out of the question, unless he could persuade her to go abroad with him. The idea of dragging her down like that was repellent, though. So whatever it was between them had to stop before they were both irretrievably damaged. Calling it lust wasn’t wholly honest, but he rejected the alternative.

  Not tomorrow, though. Tomorrow he had promised to go over the new building they had undertaken between the estates to house the overflow harvest they expected in coming years now that the drainage project was completed.

  After that, he would go away for a while, maybe to Scotland or even Russia. He had always had a hankering to see wild places. If he could pull himself out of her orbit, she had a better chance of creating a respectable life for herself. She had had a lucky escape from Joss Carter and she deserved better than to fall in with another bad lot like him.

  Chapter 13

  Clouds threatened the next morning, but Claire rode out to meet Rhys Fitzgordon at the appointed time. To let the weather affect plans in England was to sit indoors perpetually and do nothing.

  He was waiting for her.

  “Riding the prize stallion again, I see,” he commented. “Shame on Carey for not stopping you today. Dickon might get wet.”

  “What about me, Lord Montfort? Don’t I matter?”

  “Not compared to the thousand-pound horse,” he groused.

  “I’ll race you to the lane,” she teased.

  “Not on your life! If anything happens to that horse when I’m around, I’ll hang myself. But first I’ll drown you.”

  “That drowning may come sooner than later,” Claire said with dismay as a few drops began to fall. The drizzle was no worse than any other summer shower, so they continued. High dark clouds soon filled the upper sky, however, and the rising heat became oppressive. Montfort suggested they turn back.

  She was sorry for it, though. Montfort seemed different toward her today. More solicitous, more attuned to her somehow, though those were not exactly the words she sought. As it was, she attended to him more closely than usual herself, and that made all the difference between them.

  The wind rose in a sudden gust and a crack of lightening set the horses dancing. Claire looked to Montfort since they were closer at this point to Montfort Abbey than Oak Grove.

  “We’ll never make it,” he said, divining her thoughts. “We’re close to the oast house, though. Follow me.”

  They raced for shelter as the rain pelted down and reached it just as the clouds burst.

  Though she’d passed it many times, Claire hadn’t seen the inside of the peculiar-looking structure tucked away at the edge of the hop field. Oast houses were used to dry and roast the harvested hops, or sometimes barley, before brewing. The twin kilns themselves were brick cylinders crowned with cocked pyramids topped by white sail-like peaks. Attached to the kilns was a low rectangular building.

  Montfort twitched a key from the ring on his pocket chain and jabbed it into the lock. Swinging the door open, he pushed her inside. Then he returned with the horses and shut them in the adjoining room directly under the kilns.

  Claire shook droplets from her skirts and brushed at her sleeves as Montfort surveyed the half-empty space.

  “A storm this violent should blow over quickly,” he said. “I’d invite you to make yourself comfortable, but as you see...” He indicated low stacks of filled burlap sacks along the wall and shrugged. The room was otherwise empty. “If it were later in the year, there would barely be room for us to stand.”

  Claire navigated the perimeter of the small space and inhaled deeply. The pungent dusty smell of dried hops permeated the room and rose in dizzying swells as her skirts disturbed the air near the floor. Splats of rain pulsed against the small windows and she waved a gloved hand before her face, hoping to stir a breeze in the increasingly close, uncomfortable room.

  She loosened her stock, though barely a finger’s width, and then unbuttoned her gloves.

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, take them off,” Montfort said half-laughing. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  He had already shed hat and gloves and was peeling off his long coat. He shook the water off and spread it, damp side down, on a pile of the hops sacks near the corner. “It’s not luxurious, but it will do,” he said, indicating that she should sit.

  The sky overhead boomed and crackled and the roof thrummed with the force of the rain. At least, Claire thought it was the rain. Their eyes met in the diminished light and he abandoned his resolve of the night before.

  Rhys pulled her into his arms and drew her into a long slow kiss. When she responded in kind, he broke off.

  “Don’t move from that spot,” he said. Then, with a loud snap of the key, he locked the door.

  As they stood together in the center of the room, he slowly peeled off
her right glove and drew the tip of his tongue across her upraised palm. She shivered.

  Dropping the glove to the floor, he dealt with her left glove with the same deliberation and lifted her fingers halfway to his lips. His eyes narrowed as he took in the row of amethysts and the black enamel of the ring she wore.

  “I’m going to make you forget that,” he said, and began to kiss her mouth again, more slowly this time. He stopped long enough to gently remove her hat and toss it aside. Then he reached out and swept his hand lightly across the hair above her ear.

  “Take it down,” he said.

  Mutely, her eyes locked on his, she began removing hairpins and slipping them into her jacket pocket. Her hair stayed in place almost until the last one was out, when it suddenly tumbled down her back and over her breast. She stood abashedly, her hands toying with the ends of a strawberry-tinged tress that cascaded nearly to her waist, waiting for him to say something.

  He began kissing her again, slowly but urgently, his hands buried in her hair at the back of her head, pulling the strands backward from the roots as he steered her toward the soft place where his coat lay. She wrapped her hands around the back of his head, burying her fingers in the dark curls, and clung to him as he eased her onto her back, kissing her mouth all the while.

  She floated, breathing deeply to savor his musky scent, now mingled with the strong aroma of the hops that wafted up as she sank back and crushed them.

  On his firm lips she tasted salt and also, faintly, on his skin, where moisture beaded on the fine hairs. She ran the tip of her tongue across his cheek to enjoy the comingled flavors of warm sweat and clean rain.

  Lying beside her, his arm across her chest, he started a chain of kisses and rapid flicks of his tongue running from her hairline, then down, over and across her ear, pausing to explore the delicate curves. He gently probed the small central whorl, sending a light shudder the length of her frame. Satisfied with her response, he murmured nonsense sounds deep in his throat that vibrated on her skin as much as she heard them.

  He continued down to her neck, going only as far as her high collar permitted. He paused to remove her starched linen stock, then repeated the performance on the other side. His gentle breath on her neck relaxed her body yet stirred her blood as it rushed to warm the places he touched.

  When his short stiff moustache brushed across her cheek and approached her lips again, she moved impatiently to meet him. She sighed, mingling her warm breath with his, as his tongue entered her mouth. She closed her eyes to concentrate as he excited the tender nerves that connected her mouth to the secret throbbing place between her legs. She felt a flood of warmth there, that hot sensation of opening to him that she had dreamed of alone in the night.

  She tightened her arms around him and returned the kiss almost savagely. Their tongues met and jousted, his thrusting and hers pushing it aside likewise to enter him. She spurred him to crush her tighter to him and tasted blood on her lips. The coppery taste excited her and she insinuated her body further under him to feel his strength press down on her as it had in her midnight longings.

  She uttered a little cry of surprised disappointment when he finally broke the kiss off.

  “Rhys?”

  Wordlessly, he lifted himself from her and adjusted his trousers as though they were too tight. She struggled to catch her breath as her chest rose and fell in long, deep rounds of inhalation and exhalation. His eyes were wide, dark pools, the gold flecks like distant suns, as he started to unbutton her bodice, pausing only to press another hungry kiss on her lips before turning his attention to the tiny fastenings.

  She lay still, afraid to move, afraid to think, until he finished.

  He peeled open her lapels, then untied the ribbon that closed her chemise, gently pushing aside the sheer muslin to reveal the treasures beneath. He ran the backs of his fingers gently across her exposed throat and she drew her head back like a contented cat, inviting him to continue.

  She gasped and clutched at his broad shoulders when he ran his tongue along the yielding flesh swelling above the hard edge of her corset. The sensation was exquisite.

  He circled his thumbs over the tops of her breasts, massaged them gently and moved down over the sides and into her cleavage. He worked his fingers into the small space and under her left breast, carefully lifting it free so he could suckle the rosy nipple. The sensation was so intense she tried to wiggle out from under him, but he grabbed her wrists. With one strong motion he brought them together in his vise-like grip, lifted her arms above her head and held them there.

  “Relax,” he murmured into her ear. “If you struggle, you won’t enjoy it as much. Hold tight to the sacks if you must.”

  The movement strained her other breast against the confines of the corset and, as she closed her fists on burlap, he freed it as well. She nearly swooned as he alternately sucked, licked and nuzzled first one breast and then the other. When she thought she couldn’t bear any more, he raised his head and began rubbing her erect, eager nipples with the palm of his hand and rolled them both between his thumbs and forefingers.

  When he stopped, she was giggling in semi-hysterical gulps as tears streamed from the far corners of her eyes into her hair. Her hands clutched the rough burlap as though she were afraid she would float away. Her lips and breasts felt swollen, and she stretched more deeply into the moment.

  While she languished before him, a lazy smile lighting her face, he took in the situation and considered. The rain fell in sheets against the small panes of the building and the distant rumble of thunder followed on the heels of a flash of lightening. Now was the time to stop, he warned himself.

  The air fairly crackled around them as, in a decisive gesture, he reached up and pulled his shirt over his head.

  “Claire,” he said softly as he gently lay down beside her on his back. “Darling, pleasure me now.”

  Eyes shining in the dim light, she rolled onto her side, rutched her skirts up and straddled his body. Carefully measuring her length atop his, she stretched out, her full breasts pressed against his naked chest, and began to kiss him the way he had delighted her. First the little thrill of kisses from the hairline, down and into his ear and then along his jaw line onto the neck. She was an apt pupil and she went slowly, showing her teacher she had followed his lesson well. His low groans as she reached the vulnerable spot at the base of his throat excited her. Twice she did this on each side and then kissed him long and hard on the mouth. Once more their tongues tangled in mock battle before she pulled away and slid lower down on his body.

  Once settled in her new position, she brought her sharp little teeth to bear gently on his flat nipples, then ran her nails lightly down the faint line of dark, curling hairs that ran from his broad chest to his waistline. Then she started at the beginning again, this time kissing and nibbling until he writhed beneath her and his hips bucked gently. He clutched at his crotch and groaned again.

  She looked up to see him watching her through slitted eyes, the tip of his red tongue just visible between his lips. She crept up his length again to kiss him deeply on the mouth, then slid further down to sweep her tongue across his taut belly.

  Just as she approached his waistband again, he locked her in his arms and abruptly swung them both over so that she was supine beneath him once more. He sat erect, his knees pressing in on her sides, and through half-closed eyes she watched the muscles of his thighs flex beneath his tight breeches. He reached beneath her and untied the ribbons of her corset, loosening the laces just enough to create a space between the fabric and her skin. Then he untied the bands that fastened her petticoats to the bottom of the corset and, with his weight on his hands and his head at her waist, he blew softly and steadily up under her garments. Her stomach contracted and her back arched involuntarily.

  She wanted more. But when she fumbled to reach her corset laces, he gently pulled her hands away.

  “Leave it,” he murmured as she protested faintly. “We don’t need to ta
ke it off to satisfy ourselves.”

  With that, he reached back and raised up her heavy serge skirt, shoving as much of it as he could over her left shoulder get it out of his way. Her face partially covered and unable to see him, she suddenly felt out of her depth and afraid.

  In a flash, she was back in her parents’ drawing room two years before, with Josiah pressing her back on the sofa, fumbling under her skirts and jabbing at her as she fought to keep her composure. “I want you, Claire,” he kept panting. “Let me show you I love you.”

  She had already agreed to their engagement, so his ragged pleadings bewildered her. It would have been comical, except for those dark bruises he left on her thighs and the beastly look he shot her when she heard Mama’s carriage and pushed him to the floor. “You shouldn’t have taken so long,” he all but snarled.

  The passage from his journal about that encounter flashed through her mind and she gagged.

  Rhys found the bare flesh of her thigh between stocking and garter, and Claire struggled harder. His fingers kept going until they found the gap they sought in her pantelettes. Fire shot up through Claire’s belly and she fell still, mute and helpless.

  Rhys shifted on top of her and began tugging at the half-undone waistband of her petticoat. Her riding skirt slipped down and she felt welcome air on her face.

  “Rhys, no,” she gasped. “What are you doing?”

  Instead of answering her, he shoved her petticoats up around her waist. He insinuated a powerful arm under her hips, lifting her slightly, and immobilized her.

  “I won’t hurt you, love,” he said. “I promise—this time will make you forget any disappointments with Joss.”

  She felt him yank at her nether garments and heard the soft rip of linen.

  She flinched when his fingers touched her again—and then again and again. She succumbed to building waves of bliss. They started in hot bursts where he stroked her, then shot swiftly out to the crown of her head and the tips of toes, which curled in her boots each time. She thrashed from side to side, as far as his tight grip allowed, and her hips began rising rhythmically in anticipation as she pressed harder against the source of her ecstasy. The world around her shrank, and her body became less than nothing, except for the tiny, blazing hot sun between her legs. She cried out incoherently each time he lashed her desire, until a fiery blossom of light engulfed her and she dissolved.