“Go to sleep,” he said. “You may be certain that I shan’t ravish you tonight.”
Tonight.
Hawk turned away and stripped off his clothes. Out of long habit, he neatly folded them over the back of a chair. When he returned to the bed, he saw that Frances was hugging the far edge, so close that he expected her to crash to the floor at any moment. It would serve her right, he thought, feeling suddenly completely out of charity with her. Silly twit. Did she find his hairiness that repugnant? Now, if she was really against male hair, she should have met his old sergeant, Dickie Hobbs. Lord, the man had a mat of hair on his damned back! The jest among his men had been to the effect that woman could run her hands through Dickie’s hair and never finish until she’d reached the soles of his feet.
Frances felt the mattress give when he got into bed. She held her breath, but he stayed on his side. How odd, she managed to think some minutes later, finally secure in her belief that he would keep his word. She was lying in bed with a man. She was so nervous that it took her some minutes to realize that her stomach was back to normal and that her husband was asleep.
He turned onto his stomach.
He began to snore.
Frances gritted her teeth and clamped the pillow around her ears.
She awoke to find herself quite alone. She queried her body and found a neutral response. No more cramps, no more nausea. But the thought of another interminable day spent riding in that lurching carriage gave her considerable pause. At least her husband, in a spate of good manners, had dressed and left her alone. She glanced toward the small clock on the mantel. It was only six o‘clock in the morning.
She sat up in bed and sighed. He would want to leave, and very soon. I’m being a selfish ninny. His father is very ill and he is anxious to see him.
She found the basin of water he’d used the previous evening to bathe her face and quickly washed herself. She was dressed, her hair in a severe, dull bun, her spectacles in place, within ten minutes. She came down the inn stairs, only to draw up at the sound of her husband’s voice.
“I suppose it would be monstrous of me to ask her to get out of bed,” Hawk said. “Damn, I don’t wish to waste another day!”
“I can’t see that there is a choice, my lord,” came Grunyon’s voice.
“No, I suppose you’re right.”
He could at least act a bit concerned, Frances thought, her lips tightening. Show some worry for me. She squared her shoulders and descended the stairs.
“I should like a bit of breakfast before we leave, my lord,” she said.
“Frances! What the devil are you doing out of bed?”
“I ... that is, we ... well, I think we should continue, my lord.”
“Philip,” he said.
“Yes, well, Philip.”
“Are you certain?”
She flinched a bit, seeing that he was closely regarding her. She remembered to squint at him.
“Of course.”
They breakfasted in silence. Thirty minutes later, Frances was standing by the open carriage door.
Hawk, who had just mounted Ebony, saw the look of strain on her face, the dread. He started to say something, when he saw her stiffen and climb into the carriage. She wasn’t a bad sort at all, he thought. No weak-willed fragile little lady. She had guts.
Still, Hawk had Grunyon pull off the road at least every two hours during the day.
Frances realized his kindness, but couldn’t bring herself to say anything conciliatory to him.
When they stopped for the night in Jedburgh, she didn’t have the slightest twinge from her head.
More’s the pity, she thought, wondering what the devil she was supposed to do tonight to keep him at bay. She thought of the horse-colic medicine and grinned ruefully.
She was silent as her mouse image all during dinner.
Hawk said at last, “I’m tiring rapidly of haggis.”
Frances forked down an extra large bite.
Hawk studied her bent head a moment, then said, “You’re feeling the thing now?”
Frances jerked up, unable to help herself. And he saw the wariness, the distaste on her face. She squinted at him and he said sharply, wondering even as he spoke if he would be able to bring himself up to performance snuff, “For God’s sake, Frances, ‘tis not a question designed to get me in your bed!”
“Yes,” she said, eyeing her haggis with grave concentration, “I am feeling much better. Thank you for stopping during the day. I am not used to riding in a closed carriage.”
“What are you used to?”
“Riding my own horse, of course, or walking.”
“I have no extra horse and you can’t walk to York.”
“No, I can’t.”
He eyed her with mounting frustration. Why the devil couldn’t she carry on a civil conversation with him? Then he wanted to laugh at himself, remembering clearly his reasons for selecting her over her sisters. She didn’t chatter. She was quiet and homely as a mouse. She wouldn’t bother him or make demands on his time or ask for attention.
He said suddenly, “Was I the first man you’d ever seen?”
She understood him very well, but she said slowly, “Perhaps you believe Kilbracken to be isolated, my lord, but both sexes were present from time to time.”
“Philip,” he said.
She said nothing, merely toyed with her wine goblet.
“Naked, I meant.”
“Of course not.”
That drew him up short. “You’ve seen a lot of naked men?”
“No, a couple of boys, that’s all. And my little brother, Alex, of course. They didn’t have any hair.”
For a moment he thought she was mocking him, but no, that couldn’t be true. She was too timid, to damned dull for that. And far too ugly. No, not really ugly, just ...
“Frances, you’ll have to accustom yourself to me sooner or later.”
“I suppose that’s true enough.”
“Just as I will have to accustom myself to you.”
Aha, she thought, wishing she could smack his handsome face, it’s a thought that turns your stomach, isn’t it?
“I hope that you will not,” she said in a flat voice.
Hawk said, his voice equally flat and emotionless, “Well, you needn’t worry about it tonight. You have your own bedchamber.”
“Excellent,” said Frances, and squinted up at him. She saw him stiffen and quickly lowered her head to hide her triumphant smile.
They reached York two nights later, near to ten o‘clock. The horses were exhausted, as was Hawk. It was still a fifteen-mile trek to Desborough Hall. He wanted to push on but knew he couldn’t.
Frances was so bored she wanted to scream. And she was ravenous.
English fare, she thought, staring some thirty minutes later at the boiled beef and tasteless potatoes. But she ate.
Hawk had made up his mind. He had let her be for the past two nights. Tonight, he thought, he had to consummate their union. The last thing he wanted was for his servants at Desborough Hall to find her virgin’s blood on the sheets. They’d been married five days. It was time. I will make her relax, he thought, and said, “Tomorrow before luncheon, we’ll arrive at my estate, Desborough Hall.”
“Hmmm,” said Frances, not looking up.
“It belonged to my older brother, Nevil, you know. Indeed, he was the Earl of Rothermere until his death some fifteen months ago.”
“I am sorry,” said Frances.
“It was very odd,” Hawk continued, speaking now for his own peace of mind rather than to her. “It was a yachting accident, near to Southampton. He drowned. I’ve been to Desborough Hall only three times since I returned to England.”
“Why?”
A woman of few words. He fiddled with his brandy snifter for a few moments, then shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s because Desborough Hall was never mine, never meant to belong to me. I suppose I’m still not used to being my father’s heir and the Earl
of Rothermere. It’s a beautiful estate.”
So, Frances thought, now seeing the light clearly, this is where I’m to be immured. Well, it could certainly be worse.
“Gentlemen in London will call me Rothermere and I won’t respond. I feel like an interloper, I guess. As I mentioned to you, most people call me Hawk.” He grinned and she noted with dissatisfaction that he had very straight, very white teeth. “Thank God for the number of army friends. They got it started, you see. The Hawk part, that is.”
He was sounding positively human, and it made Frances uncomfortable. As long as he acted arrogant and conceited, she could keep him in excellent perspective.
She managed a sound that gave him the impression that she was listening, and he continued, “I’d always assumed that the army would be my life. I found it somewhat difficult to adjust to the demands of a gentleman of leisure.”
Ah, but you have adjusted, haven’t you, beautifully?
She merely nodded this time, biting her tongue to keep her sarcastic words behind her teeth.
“You will like Desborough Hall,” Hawk continued after he’d cracked a walnut between his long fingers. “It is a well-run estate.”
Does he believe me utterly stupid? she wondered. She wanted to tell him that she knew his intentions well enough.
“We will stay but one day. Then we must leave for Chandos Chase, my father’s estate in Suffolk. I’m sorry, Frances, that there won’t be more time for you to rest, but—”
“I understand, my lord. You wish to see your father as quickly as possible.”
“Philip.”
“Yes. If you wish, I shouldn’t mind continuing directly to your father.”
“No. We must stop. The horses are blown. I’m certain you’ll appreciate not riding in a closed carriage for a while.”
A very short while, she thought.
He fell silent, and Frances, after some minutes, decided his confidences, such as they were, were at an end. She carefully folded her napkin and placed it beside her plate.
“I will bid you good night, my lord.”
“Philip.”
“Yes, in any case, I am tired. I will see you in the morning.”
Hawk watched her rise, and his eyes went over her body. It won’t be too bad, he thought. He elected to say nothing to her. He would simply appear and get the damned business over with.
“Good night,” he said, and watched her walk from the private parlor.
To Frances’ delight, a tub of hot water was waiting for her in her bedchamber. At least there was one good thing about being in England. And there was a maid, whose name was Margaret. She sank into the water with a blissful sigh.
Margaret washed her hair for her. I’ve died and gone to heaven, Frances thought. No one had ever washed her hair for her before, save for that one time when she was twelve and ill and Adelaide had assisted her.
She thought of Desborough Hall, her future home, while Margaret combed her hair before the fireplace. She tried to imagine living there, not knowing a single soul, and shuddered.
“You’re cold, my lady?”
“No, Margaret. Is my hair dry yet?”
“Almost, just a few more minutes. You have beautiful hair, my lady.”
“Thank you.” I’m in England, she thought, and shuddered yet again. A foreign country. A foreign husband.
She wanted to cry, but she didn’t. “I wish to go to bed now, Margaret.”
She began to braid her hair, but stopped at Margaret’s gasp.
“I shouldn’t, my lady. I’ll comb it for you tomorrow.”
“Very well,” Frances said.
Ten minutes later, she was lying in the middle of her bed, her hair spread on the pillow, the room utterly dark.
She heard footsteps in the corridor outside her room, and frowned. Then the doorknob turned.
Heart pounding, Frances sat up, jerking the covers to her nose.
Her husband walked into her bedchamber and closed the door behind him.
8
Great souls suffer in silence.
—FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER
“What are you doing in here? What do you want?”
Her voice rang out shrill and hoarse. Hawk saw her outline in the bed from the dim corridor light. She was sitting up, the covers pulled to her chin. He closed the bedchamber door and calmly walked into the room.
“Get out of here, my lord! You shouldn’t be here, ‘tis not your bedchamber!”
He could hear her breathing—fast, nearly gasping. “Frances,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, “I am here to consummate our marriage. It won’t take long, I promise you. All you have to do is—”
“No! Get out!”
“—lie quietly. I’ll try not to hurt you.”
Frances heard the determination in his voice. She stuffed her fist in her mouth at the sounds of him undressing. When his boots hit the floor, she nearly shouted, “I won’t have it, my lord, I—”
“Philip,” he said. “Hush now, Frances. You are my wife and you will obey me. Let me remind you that this is your duty as a wife.”
She knew all about duty, but she’d hoped that he believed her ugly enough to forgo this whatever-it-was for a while longer.
“I really don’t feel well,” she tried, and flinched at his chuckle.
“Did you drink more horse-colic medicine?”
“No, but I wish I had!”
He suddenly sat down on the side of the bed, and Frances scrambled away. He reached out his hand and touched soft, slightly damp hair. He wondered, not at all amused, if she wore one of her ridiculous caps to bed.
He could hear her breathing again, nearly feel her fear. He wished he’d left a candle burning, but imagined ruefully that he’d be unable to do his duty if he had to look at her.
“Frances,” he said, his voice still calm and gentle, “you must trust me. I know that you are ... worried about this”—that was a seemingly vast understatement, he thought—“but it won’t be so bad, I swear it. I know what I’m doing, and if you’ll just cooperate, it will be much easier for you. Don’t fight me, Frances.”
Frances thought suddenly of the dreams she’d had as a girl. Dreams of a man who would love her and woo her and respect her and want all of her. It was nearly too much, this cold deliberation, this ghastly objective of his. She closed her eyes, knowing well enough that there was no hope for it.
“All right,” she managed in a thread of a whisper.
“Just lie still.”
“All right.” And she did, on her back, her eyes tightly closed even though the room was completely dark. She felt him draw back the covers, felt him lightly touch her cheek with his fingertips. She flinched away.
I had more fun in a raging battle, Hawk thought. He quickly grasped her nightgown and pulled it up to her waist.
“Hold still,” he said, his hand coming down on her stomach. She was very soft, he thought, his fingers seeking lower. He felt the nest of curls between her thighs and paused a moment. He heard her suck in her breath, and quickly moved down and parted her legs. Her flesh was soft, her thighs slender. He paused a moment.
“Frances, you do know what we will do, don’t you?”
We? She wanted to spit at him, tell him to go to the devil, but the words stuck in her throat.
Hawk waited a few more moments for her to answer, then said, “You are a virgin, aren’t you?” Of course she is, you damned fool! “Frances, I understand that it is natural to be afraid of something you don’t know about—”
“I understand,” she whispered, just wanting it to be over with and him gone.
“Good,” he said for want of anything better.
His fingers stroked up to find her and he realized at that moment that he would hurt her if he came into her now. Not just because of her virginity. She wasn’t ready for him. She wasn’t fighting him, but her body certainly was. How did one make one’s wife ready? He certainly couldn’t caress her like he did his mistresses; it would embarras
s her horribly and make matters but worse. He shook his head, wishing now that he’d thought to cover his member with cream to ease his way into her.
Still, he touched her lightly, his finger gently seeking her entrance. Her flesh was soft and cold. She jerked away and made a soft, frightened cry.
I can’t do it, not this way, he thought, and retreated. “Lie still, Frances, I’ll be back shortly.”
He quickly pulled on his trousers, then he was gone.
Frances jerked her nightgown down, then lay back again, not moving. Where had he gone? What was he doing? She looked wildly toward the area where the window was and considered jumping. Ninny! She swallowed, her body tense, her mind whirling.
There’s nothing you can do, save bear it. Nothing at all. Don’t carry on like a silly fool. He told you to lie still and that it would be over with quickly.
But where had he gone?
The bedchamber door opened again, then closed.
“Frances?”
“Yes?” she managed on a croak.
“Just stay put.”
What he had expected? That she would be cowering in the corner? That she would have jumped from the window? That she had a pistol and would shoot him? She had a sudden picture of him pulling her out from under the bed.
Hawk rubbed himself with the cream and approached the bed again. Hell, he thought, when he realized that she’d pulled down her nightgown. He worked it up again over her hips to her waist.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, his hands pulling her legs apart.
He was hard and ready—surprising, considering this was the last woman on earth he wanted to take.
Frances felt him press against her. He was naked. She could feel the hair on his legs against her. She felt his large hands clasping her hips and drawing her up.
“Just hold still,” he said again, almost a litany now.
Hawk had never before made love to a woman in the dark. It was damned difficult. He parted her quickly with his fingers, feeling her flinch, then guided himself forward. He eased inside her and stopped when she cried out. Had he hurt her already?
“It’s all right, Frances,” he said. “I’ll go slowly.” And he did, just a bit at a time. He felt how small she was, how she was stretching to accommodate him. He wanted suddenly to thrust deep, but kept himself in check. Taking a virgin was a heady thing. No, not just a virgin, for God’s sake, he told himself. She was a lady and his wife, and she deserved to be handled as gently as he could manage. He was glad he’d gotten the cream. He’d been thoughtful and spared her unnecessary pain. Why did he want to drive into her, fill her with himself? He bit down on his lower lip. He was doing just as he ought, and he would continue to. Slowly, very slowly, no sudden movements.
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