Williams and a footman lifted Nicholas from the straw-filled cart. Seeing Clare's expression, the butler said, "Don't worry, miss. We'll take good care of him."
Knowing she would only be in the way, she turned back to the carter. "Do they have final casualty figures, Mr. Lewis?"
He grimaced. "Thirty-two dead, dozens injured, five still missing. Hardly a family in the village that hasn't been affected. They don't expect to find anyone else alive. A crew will keep looking for bodies, but tomorrow regular work will start again in the parts of the pit that weren't affected."
Life had to go on, Clare supposed sourly; no doubt Madoc and Lord Michael didn't want to lose any more of their precious profits by delaying. "Thank you for bringing Lord Aberdare home." She hesitated, wondering whether he was expecting a more tangible reward.
Guessing her thoughts, Lewis said, "No need, Miss Morgan. Lord Michael Kenyon took care of me. He's another tough one, he is, but fair. Went down pit himself several times." His voice dropped confidentially. "The men are hoping he'll manage the mine himself now. George Madoc would never have spent so much time on rescue work."
So perhaps Lord Michael did have some redeeming qualities. After bidding the carter farewell, Clare went indoors and hovered indecisively in the hall, wondering what to do. She had also worked long hours since the explosion. Besides making the arrangements to feed the rescue workers and performing basic nursing chores, she had gone to the homes of bereaved friends to offer both comfort and practical aid.
Exhaustion had overcome her earlier in the day. After three hours of sleep, she had been preparing to return to the village, but from what Mr. Lewis said, the immediate crisis was over. Though there were certainly things she could do, her help was no longer vital, especially since she was so groggy that she couldn't think straight.
With a sigh, she climbed the stairs and went back to bed.
* * *
When Clare woke again, it was dark. Though she felt drained, her mind was clear as she faced the painful knowledge that she would never see Owen again. Her own sense of loss increased the heartache she felt for Marged and the children.
The night echoed her mood, for a storm was rising, the wind whistling around the house and rattling branches against the window. Music blended so subtly with the wind and her sorrow that it took time for her to recognize that the elegiac tune wasn't in her head. It was like her first night at Aberdare, but this time she knew the source. Nicholas had woken from his sleep and was playing a dirge for the dead.
Unable to bear her aloneness, she got up, put on her slippers, and splashed cold water on her face. She still wore her crumpled day gown, for she had not undressed earlier. Rather than put her hair up again, she tied it back with a ribbon and went in search of Nicholas. It was very late, and she guessed that everyone else in the household was long asleep.
She found him in the dimly lit library, softly singing an ancient lament. Bathed and dressed in his usual black and white, he looked almost normal, except for a bruise on his jaw and the blood his raw fingers left on the wire strings of the harp. He glanced up when she entered the room, his eyes opaque. Then he bent to his instrument again. Though the words and tune were Welsh, a plangent Gypsy sorrow wound through the music.
Wordlessly she crossed the room and added more coal to the fire. Then she sat in a wing chair and rested her head against the back, letting the music flow through her. It helped to be in the same room with him.
The last chord filled the room, dissolved and died. In the silence that followed, a distant crack of thunder sounded. As if that was a signal, Nicholas said in a strained voice, "I should have done more. You told me how dangerous the mine was, but I didn't take your warnings seriously. To me, the whole business was only another game."
Surprised by his self-reproach, she said, "You talked to Lord Michael and you were doing your best to break the lease. What else could you have done without legal authority?"
"I could have done more." He set down the harp and rose to his feet, then began prowling about the shadowed room. "It's my fault Owen is dead."
"Don't blame yourself," she said softly. "Everyone who worked at his coal face died."
"But Owen wasn't at that face, he was with me. He should be alive now." Stopping by a window, Nicholas opened the curtains and lifted the sash, then inhaled deeply, as if trying to draw the storm into himself. "We were at the foot of the Bychan shaft, ready to leave, when the first explosion went off and the tunnels began collapsing. The bucket could only hold one man."
His fingers tightened on the sill. "Because of his family, I told him to go first. Rather than argue, he walloped me in the jaw and shoved me into the bucket. Another minute or two and he could have escaped, but there wasn't enough time. Not enough time..." As his voice trailed away, the first raindrops spattered against the glass and sprayed through the open window.
He swung around, his expression showing the same wild fury she had seen when he had slashed his wife's portrait. But this was worse, for his rage was for himself. "If my life was worth a hundred gold guineas, Owen's was beyond price," he said savagely. "Owen knew how to build, how to sing, how to laugh. He loved and was loved. Goddamn it, why him and not me?"
Her nails bit into the arms of her chair. In his position, she would feel exactly the same; death would be easier than living at the cost of a friend's life. Wanting to ease his torment, she said, "If he sacrificed himself for you, it was because of the power you have to make changes. Because of you, many lives might be spared in the future."
"That's not good enough!" With sudden, shocking violence, Nicholas scooped up his harp and hurled it across the room with all his strength. The graceful instrument crashed into the wall with a grotesque shriek of wounded strings, then fell to the floor in pieces, leaving a note of painful dissonance quivering in the air. Lightning crackled through the night sky, illuminating Nicholas and the broken harp with eerie brilliance.
As thunder echoed across the valley, she cried, "Stop blaming yourself! You're not God!"
"From what I can see, even God isn't God," he said bitterly. "I've read the book of Job, and the Deity does not show to advantage."
Clare knew that she should reprove him for sacrilege, but she couldn't; it was hard to believe in divine justice when good people had died tragically.
Nicholas's restless pacing brought him to the fireplace. Bracing his hands on the mantel, he stared into the embers. "If I had acted sooner—if I had spent as much time thinking about men's lives as I did about getting you into bed—this wouldn't have happened. Owen would be alive, and the others as well." He drew a shuddering breath. "Two of the victims were children no older than Huw Wilkins."
"If you must blame someone, Madoc is the obvious choice. Or Lord Michael, who had the authority but gave it away to a greedy fool."
Unpersuaded, he said, "The game is over, Clare." He turned to her, his face implacable. "I'm releasing you from our bargain. Go home to Penreith. I'll fulfill my end of the agreement and do everything you wanted for the valley. But I'll do it alone, without injuring you any more than I have already."
She stared at him, face paling, unable to believe that he would dismiss her so arbitrarily.
His voice rose. "You heard me—get out! You don't ever have to endure my selfish, profane company again."
To ease his agonizing guilt, he needed to punish himself, she realized. And he was going to do it by sending her away at the very moment when he needed her most.
Numb to the point of paralysis, she stared at him helplessly. The thunderstorm that was sweeping across the valley was matched by the emotional storm that raged in this quiet, dim library. And she was equally powerless before both tempests.
Lightning flashed again, and in that instant of soul-piercing light she experienced an inward wrenching, a splintering of fears and doubts. Yet the result was not fragmentation, but breathtaking wholeness.
All of her life she had yearned for spiritual connection, and for human love.
Lacking both, she had despised herself for being too weak and small-souled to deserve either.
Yet between one heartbeat and the next, her world changed, like the tumbling patterns of a kaleidoscope. Though she had never before felt the divine love or inner guidance that were the bedrock of her religion, she now knew absolute certainty. She loved Nicholas; she always had. That soul-searing truth brought her entire life into focus.
And she knew in the marrow of her bones that she must stay.
She closed the distance between them and took his battered hands between hers. "You said from the beginning that only willing women interested you, Nicholas." She kissed his bloody fingertips, then drew their clasped hands to her heart. Looking up into his face, she said softly, "I'm willing now."
As thunder rumbled again, his body went rigid. "Pity is a poor excuse for willingness, Clare."
"I'm not offering pity." Slowly, holding his gaze with hers, she released him and began unbuttoning the throat of his shirt. When it was loose, she slid her hands under the fabric and gently massaged the knotted muscles of his shoulders. "I'm offering friendship."
He closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. "I should refuse, but I can't." He opened his eyes again, his voice dropping to a whisper. "God help me, I can't."
She stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his, wanting to take his pain into herself and transform it with the force of her love. This time there would be no turning back.
With a groan, he pulled her against him so tightly she could scarcely breathe. His hands worked with raw desperation, as if he could not get enough of her.
Sinking to his knees, he buried his face between her breasts, his ragged breath warm against her. She stroked the silky tangle of his hair as he spread his hands and drew them the length of her body, shaping the curves of her hips and thighs. Then he tugged her down so that she was knee to knee with him on the plush Oriental carpet, the fire warming her left side. Outdoors, the rain increased its force, battering the windows as if seeking to destroy their private refuge.
His mouth met hers, devouring, intoxicating, as if he was trying to absorb her very essence into himself. His deft fingers worked behind her back to unfasten the tape and button that secured her dress. He moved his hands between them and undid the drawstring of her shift, then dragged both garments down so he could cup her bare breasts.
She sucked her breath in sharply as the rasp of his palms sent tendrils of flame spiraling through her. The weeks of teasing kisses and sensual games had sensitized her, laying the foundation for this firestorm of passion. Needing to feel his flesh against hers, she dragged his shirttails from his breeches and slid her hands beneath the fine linen. Her fingers skimmed over his chest, brushing across the dark hair that patterned his torso. When she touched his nipple, inspiration struck. She raised his shirt, then leaned forward and kissed the soft nub until it hardened against her tongue.
He gasped, his head thrown back and the pulse beating visibly in his throat. Transferring her attention to the other nipple, she delicately teased it with her teeth.
He made a choked sound deep in his throat, then yanked the shirt over his head and tossed it aside. The reddish glow of the coal fire danced across the contours of his muscular torso as he reached for her and drew her full-length onto the carpet.
A maelstrom of sensations flooded her mind. His kiss, demanding and possessive; the pressure of hard muscles against her sensitive nipples; the prickle of carpet fibers and the dry heat of the fire. Then, searingly, his hungry mouth on her naked breast. Her frantic fingers dug into his shoulders. She wanted to feel his heat and strength everywhere at once, most of all in the throbbing place deep inside her.
He swept her skirts up to her belly, then began stroking her inner thighs, his sure hand moved higher and higher until he touched the moist, hidden folds of flesh. She gave a little cry of shock at the sensations that blazed through her, white heat that matched the lightning bolts that flared across the sky.
Her body took on a life of its own, rubbing involuntarily against his hand. She almost wept when he paused. There was a rasp of fabric, the rattle of a falling button that was ripped off by his rough impatience.
She tensed when he moved over her, expecting pain and steeling herself not to show it. But this time there was only an instant of discomfort, followed by a smooth, powerful penetration that filled her heart as surely as her body.
Bracing his hands on either side of her head, he thrust fiercely into her, the roll of his hips setting a rhythm that she recognized, though she had never known it before. This was passion without subtlety: a primal, desperate need for union that swept them both into the heart of the storm.
The tempest lashed the house with full force and thunder was everywhere, around her, within her, transforming her with its irresistible power. As she convulsed around him, she no longer knew where she ended and he began, for they were one, stronger together than either could ever be alone.
He drove forward one last time, crying out as he shuddered deep inside her. Lightning crackled directly over the house, filling the library with shimmering blue-white light and shaking the windows with thunder. Another bolt flashed again, limning the planes of his face with unearthly light.
He was unbearably, shatteringly beautiful, and whether he was a demon earl or fallen angel, prince of light or prince of darkness, she neither knew or cared. All that mattered was that she loved him, and this sharing of flesh and spirit was the truest act she had ever done.
Chapter 26
Passion sated, they lay quietly in each other's arms before the fire. The worst of the storm passed and thunder was only a distant rumble far down the valley. Clare stroked Nicholas's head where it rested on her breast. She had never felt happier, or more complete, in her life.
Strange that profane love had healed her spiritual weaknesses. Or perhaps it wasn't strange at all. Feeling unloved by her earthly father, her needy spirit had been unable to accept divine love; she had been hollow inside.
Admitting her love for Nicholas had opened the gates to her heart. She had always known, in her mind, that her father loved her the best he knew how. It had been her life's great sorrow that what she needed was different from what he was able to give. Now, finally, she was able to accept her father as he had been, and to love him without resentment.
She felt reborn, alive as never before in her life. By attempting to transform Nicholas's pain, she had also transformed herself. She wanted to laugh aloud for the sheer joy of it.
She also wondered, without anxiety, what would happen next. The fact that she loved him did not mean that he would ever love her back. Her stroking hand stilled. She would miss him dreadfully when their singular relationship ended. But she would survive, for her heart was finally whole.
The fire was almost dead and a cold draft gusted through the open window. Even Nicholas was not enough to keep her warm, and she began to shiver. With a soft exhalation, he pushed himself to a sitting position and looked down at her. Though his face was somber and rather distant, the wild anguish was gone.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he touched a finger to her lips, hushing her. After tugging her garments loosely into place, he got to his feet and adjusted his own clothing.
With swift, economical movements, he closed the window and the draperies, turned out the single guttering lamp, and collected his crumpled shirt. Then he knelt and scooped her into his arms and carried her from the library, leaving no trace of what had happened between them.
Her head pillowed drowsily on his shoulder, she was content to let him take her to her room. After laying her on her bed, he stripped off her clothing before tucking her under the covers. Though modesty was foolish after what had just passed between them, she was glad they were in near-total darkness.
She expected him to leave, but to her surprise she heard the sounds of the key turning in the lock and clothing being removed. Then he joined her in the bed and pulled her into his arms. She found that, whi
le she might be modest about being looked at, she was quite shameless about twining her bare body around his.
Conscience clear and spirit at peace, she slept.
* * *
Clare woke at the sound of someone wrestling with the doorknob. It was early morning, time for Polly to bring in her tea, and for a moment she couldn't understand why the door was locked. Then memories of the night before flooded her mind.
Polly, clever girl, gave up and went away. Thank heaven she wasn't local. She was also discreet; if she guessed that Clare had not slept alone, she would hold her tongue.
Clare reached out an arm and discovered that she was alone in the bed. But if Nicholas had left, why was the door still locked? She sat up and looked around.
He stood by the window, arms folded across his chest as he gazed into the valley. He was gloriously naked, his skin glowing like warm bronze in the pale dawn light.
Hearing her movements, he turned his head and their glances met. He wore an expression she had never seen before: not the despairing guilt of the night before, nor the wild fury he had sometimes displayed. Certainly not the playful openness she loved. Instead he looked—determined? Resigned? He seemed almost a stranger, and one who was a little frightening.
Hesitantly she asked, "How do you feel this morning?"
He shrugged. "No less guilty, but much less crazed. I'll survive." His gaze drifted over her. "You seem remarkably calm for a ruined preacher's daughter."
Realizing that, except for her long hair, she was as bare as a baby, she quickly pulled the sheet over her breasts.
"It's a bit late for modesty."
Defiantly she let the sheet drop to her waist and tossed her hair back over her shoulders.
Some of his composure dropped away and his breathing quickened. With visible effort, he raised his eyes to her face. "Obviously we'll have to get married, and the sooner the better. I'll send to London for a special license today."
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