The Heart Denied (11 page)

"Then come to me," he said gently, extending a hand. "We'll ride this one out together."

Gwynneth hesitantly took his hand. Thorne drew her into his lap, first tucking a small cushion beneath her hips for her "comfort," as he told her, his smile going somewhat awry. Innocently accepting the explanation, his bride leaned back against him.

Lightning split the sky, thunder on its heels. Feeling Gwynneth stiffen in his arms, Thorne gathered her close and pressed his lips to her temple.

Blinding-white light speared the bedchamber, an ear-splitting crack and explosion of thunder on its heels. Gwynneth ducked her head and squealed, clapping a hand over one ear and pressing the other other against Thorne's chest.

With a soft chuckle, he pulled in the window sash. He gazed tenderly at Gwynneth as she opened her eyes. "You've nothing to fear, sweeting," he murmured, and felt her shiver as he brushed his lips against her ear. "Neither from the storm...nor me."

As if to mock him, the heavens roared again, this time rattling the casements and vibrating the window seat beneath them. As Gwynneth cried out, her body going rigid in Thorne's arms, he knew it was time...time to make her forget the storm and everything around them.

* * *

Terrified by the storm's rage, Gwynneth turned gladly to the distraction of Thorne's kiss, moving her lips against his with an urgency that defied the elements. Wrapping her arms about Thorne's neck, she desperately breached his lips and drew him inside her mouth.

His appreciative groan should have brought her up short, but the heat in her belly had quickly spread to that place she'd explored as a child and then later learned to ignore while praying feverishly to the Blessed Virgin.

Gwynneth moaned like a wanton into her husband's mouth.

Dragging his lips from hers with another groan, he tongued a river of fire down her neck, making her gasp with pleasure. But her heart leapt in warning as nimble fingers began loosening the ribbon ties at her throat. Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt the gossamer fabric of her wrapper slide off one shoulder. Warm lips followed its descent, sending wave after wave of chills over her body before backtracking to tickle her nape.

She heard Thorne's breath catch and quicken as he encountered a well-placed dab of lemon verbena. Her tension fled, her entire body thrilling to the touch of his agile tongue and lips as he forged a steaming trail to the notch in her collarbone. Caught up in the headiest sensation she had ever experienced, she could not utter a word of objection as he went on to lay one round breast, its peak painfully taut, bare to his gaze. The weak sound she did manage was drowned out by another clap of thunder. The sound did not faze her, as Thorne chose that moment to close his mouth over her virgin nipple and suckle like a starvling.

Gasping and moaning, Gwynneth arched her back in shameless entreaty, her ears roaring, not with the fury of the storm, but with the hot blood of lust rushing through her veins. A tug-o-war raged between her lavishly tended nipple and that mysterious core of fire inside her, making her thighs clench unaccountably as if to take something within their grasp. Failing to find it, they writhed against one another while she squirmed in Thorne's embrace and cried out for a relief she couldn't name.

A warm hand slid up her thigh. Her protest died as Thorne lifted his head from her breast and nibbled her lower lip between husky-voiced words that eventually penetrated her fogged consciousness.

"I beg my lady's permission," he murmured, stroking her bare bottom with a reverence that eased her initial shock.

"For what?" she asked breathlessly.

"To pleasure her to exhaustion."

Gwynneth forced her eyes open, and through a haze of passion beheld the burning blue gaze and sensual smile of her husband.

Just as Satan smiles on you from the fiery depths
, hissed a voice in her head.

The voice of Sister Theresa Bernard.

* * * 

Thorne's smile and gentle patience were a bluff, his self-control flagging fast. The cushion he'd tucked between himself and his bride served its purpose all too well. He wished he could hurl it out the window.

"No!" Gwynneth cried with a gasp, her eyes widening.

"What?" His smile faltered.

"No!" She struggled to sit upright, levering against her husband's chest with hands that only moments ago had clutched him to her in a death grip.

As Thorne met her fearful gaze with a bewildered stare, a shrill scream rose above the waning storm. Gwynneth sprang from his lap like a serving wench caught with her master.

Outside the chamber, voices hummed and exclaimed. "Wait here," Thorne muttered. He threw the bolt back and stepped out in the gallery, where a sea of ruffled nightcaps, frowzy heads and pale but excited faces greeted him. He closed the door behind him.

"Come now, ladies, gentlemen. Someone has either suffered a nightmare or discovered a mouse. Never mind," he said hastily at the women's collective gasp. "We'll find the poor rodent and make fast work of him."

"The scream came from there, I'm certain!" Gwynneth's cousin, Aunt Evelyn's son, pointed eagerly at a door on the upper west gallery.

Thorne's heartbeat slowed, his eyes scanning the throng but failing to find one guest in particular. Encouraging everyone to return to bed before catching cold, he sounded overly hearty to his own ears. "Besides, ladies, a mouse is about to meet its end. An ugly scene, I warn you."

The crowd quickly disbanded. Thorne took the gallery on wooden legs, apprehension mounting with every step. Glancing back, he spied one lingering guest.

"May I assist?" Townsend called out softly.

The way you did on the battlements?
"Not this time," Thorne replied dryly. "The next rodent is yours, I promise." But there was no rodent, and he knew it.

His hand weighed like stone as he lifted it to knock.

The door opened immediately, confronting Thorne with the wet-eyed, stricken face of Caroline's maid.

"What the devil is wrong?" He was nowhere near as annoyed as he sounded, but annoyance served to mask other emotions he'd no business feeling.

"Oh, M'lord," Ashby cried out, "'tis my mistress, she's had a terrible blow, sir, a dreadful shock!"

"Take me to her." Thorne's eyes were already searching the gloomy interior. Pushing past the maid, he bounded toward the inner chamber, where Caroline Sutherland lay motionless on the floor.

"Shut the door and stoke the fire," Thorne ordered Ashby over his shoulder. She hurried to obey. The storm had forced an unseasonable chill through a few hidden chinks in the old wattle-and-daub masonry, and Caroline badly needed warmth.

Kneeling over her, Thorne pressed two fingers to her golden throat, his shoulders sagging in relief as he found a faint pulse. Lifting Caroline, he watched the thick fringe of her lashes for any sign of movement, and carried her to the bed. Still warm from her sleep, the sheets gave off her scent as he laid her down. Thorne felt himself harden beneath his dressing gown.

Aye, no doubt even dead she'd arouse you.
He yanked the bedclothes up to her neck. "Fetch her salts," he ordered Ashby, and was soon passing the vial beneath Caroline's nose.

Caroline winced, turning away from the caustic fumes with a cough. She opened bewildered eyes to Thorne's frown, then weakly waved a hand toward the bedside candle.

Next to it lay a folded piece of parchment, the sort upon which official messages were conveyed at any and all hours. Thorne picked it up with a sense of dread, smoothed out the folds, and read the message therein.

23 August 1728

Mistress Horace Sutherland

in care of The Right Honourable Lord Neville

Wycliffe Hall, Northamptonshire

Mistress Sutherland,

I regret to inform you that your husband passed away this morning in the vicinity of six of the clock. The body is held herewith in custody of the London coroner, who upon your orders alone will proceed with a post-mortem to determine cause of death. Extenuating circumstances require your immediate return. I await your instructions.

Yours in sympathy,

Frederick Holstaad

Holstaad, Camdenfield,

and Griggs, Solicitors

Fleet Street, London

Minutes ticked by on an open watch locket on the table, accompanied by Ashby's muffled sobbing at the hearth. Caroline had lost consciousness again at sight of the paper in Thorne's hand.

"Ashby." He was taken aback by the huskiness of his voice. The maid stepped into the archway and dragged her sleeve across her dripping nose. "Mistress MacBride sleeps next to the larder," Thorne told her. "Go and knock sharply. Say that your mistress sleeps poorly and needs an herbal, but reveal no more. Do you understand?"

She did, she told him with a curtsey, and he soon heard the latch click. 

He used the smelling salts again. Caroline came around immediately. Seeing him, she closed her eyes with a sigh, tears trickling from their corners.

Without a second thought, Thorne gently stemmed the warm flow with his fingers.

"I wondered what had become of you," said a cool voice behind him.

He jerked his hand back as if stung, then swept the bed hangings aside to meet the steady stare of his wife. Putting a finger to his lips, he rose and showed her the courier's message.

Gwynneth stifled a cry, then shook off Thorne's solicitous hand and took up his post at Caroline's bedside.

The chamber door opened. Ashby entered, Bridey behind her bearing a tray, and Elaine Combs bringing up the rear.

Thorne turned a withering look on Caroline's maid. "No doubt the rest of the household will be along shortly?"

Ashby shrank back, her sniffles resuming.

"Must you be so harsh, my lord?" Gwynneth arched her brow at him as she took the tray from Bridey. Thorne saw Elaine Combs' furtive glance from him to his wife as she turned to assist Ashby. Gwynneth sat down at bedside again to hold Caroline's hand and offer comforting words.

"My lady."

Gwynneth turned her cool gaze on him. "My lord?"

"As I suddenly find myself in a hen house, I shall take my leave. When you've done here, come to my chambers, please. I require a word with you."

* * *

An hour before dawn, Gwynneth crossed Thorne's threshold without a word, only gazing pointedly at his open windows and rubbing her arms.

"Sit by the fire, my lady, please." He closed the door and the sashes. Leaning against the mantel, he silently marveled that the young woman perched so primly on his settee had, scant hours ago, writhed with passion in his arms.

"Gwynneth, I'm aware you've lived more than half your life without servants."

"I
was
a servant," she said tartly. "A servant of God."

"Let's leave God out of this, shall we?" He saw her frown. "Domestic servants are a fickle lot," he went on. "Even the most loyal keep their eyes peeled and their ears to the ground. Any discord sensed between master and mistress will set tongues to wagging."

Gwynneth cocked a delicate eyebrow.

"When a wife chastises her husband in the presence of servants," Thorne explained patiently, "their respect for his authority is quite naturally diminished. And without his servants' respect, a man's household is soon in chaos."

"You refer to my chiding you for your harshness with Caroline's maid."

"I do indeed."

"I should hardly call it chastisement. Very well, then I apologize, but I've never heard you speak so to any of
your
servants."

"Gwynneth, I ordered the girl not to say a word of circumstances, only to bring the items I'd requested. Yet she returned with the cook--and your maid!"

"Combs happened to be in the larder.
Eating
, would you believe, at such an hour! No wonder she's plumped up since my first visit. Never mind, I've put a stop to it. But I've half a mind to tell Dame Carswell."

"No need, I'll do it myself," Thorne lied, knowing it would be the last straw. Combs' morning bouts with nausea seemed to have passed, but eventually--sooner than Thorne cared to admit even to himself, for some odd reason--the maid's predicament would be general knowledge. What then?

"My lord." Gwynneth's sharp tone told him she'd said it once already. "I am concerned for Caroline," she told him as his startled gaze met hers.

"So am I."

"Yes, I could see that you were. I must ask a favor of you."

Masking his trepidation, Thorne sat down beside her and dared take her hand. She didn't resist. "Ask away, then."

"I'd like you to accompany Caroline to London tomorrow."

Dumbfounded, Thorne could only stare at his wife.

"I can be of no use to her," Gwynneth explained hastily. "She will need assistance in legal matters, and a strong shoulder to lean upon when the situation is unbearable. You of all people would be of great help to her."

"For how long?" Thorne rasped, finding his voice.

Gwynneth shrugged. "However long she needs you."

He slowly shook his head. "My lady, another man in my position might wonder if you intend to rid yourself of a husband."

Gwynneth's chuckle sounded forced. "You've a droll sense of humor, my lord."

"Unfortunately it escapes me at the moment."

"Please, my lord, Caroline has been such a friend to me. Surely you can at least escort her home and help her with the property settlement!"

"Her husband's solicitor will manage the latter."

"But he won't
give her moral support, and comfort, during what is certain to be a grievous and trying time."

"Your father would gladly go with her."

"Yes, all too gladly. Like as not, he'd get a bellyful of whiskey and propose to her!"

Thorne tossed her hand aside and launched himself from the settee. "God's blood," he groused, "has the woman no family?" He took a cigar from the drawer and lit it with a piece of kindling.

"You needn't swear...and must you smoke now?" Gwynneth wrinkled her nose. "The only family Caroline has is an estranged half-brother who lives somewhere in the countryside."

Thorne exhaled a cloud of blue. "Friends, then...has she no friends in London?"

"Yes." Grimacing, Gwynneth swatted at a puff of smoke. "But none educated in law, or whose title and connections could serve as well as yours. Horace's estate is very likely unstable at the moment."

Taking a long draw and tossing the cigar into the fire, Thorne regarded his wife with a mixture of annoyance and admiration. "Well, my lady, Mistress Sutherland certainly has an ally in you! So, you think I'm her only hope of survival? I wonder what
she'd
say to your lack of faith in her ability to manage her own affairs."

"She knows what I'm asking of you."

"Does she." Thorne took up the fire iron and stabbed at white-hot coals of applewood. "And what was her reaction to your magnanimous offer?"

"She seemed quite receptive."

"Yes, people in shock rarely protest." Thorne dropped the fire iron into its caddy and brushed off his hands. "And what gives you the notion her husband's estate is unstable? Have you taken up law instead of religious dogma?"

"Horace," Gwynneth said, her lip curling, "apparently spent a small fortune for his habit. I suppose I should count myself fortunate that smoking
tobacco
is
your
preferred vice. And gaming." Her eyes narrowed. "I believe your purse was fattened the night before last."

"
Our
purse."

"
Your
purse. I want none of it, for I'll not profit by the carelessness and stupidity of others. Keep it if you will."

"Gwynneth," Thorne said shortly, "I vowed just yesterday before God, a priest and an entire village to cherish you until death, but I did
not
vow to change my ways." Sitting down beside her again, he took her hand in his. "I warned you that perfection eludes me...but I also told you I'd strive to be the husband you deserve."

She eyed him intently. "Then you'll take Caroline to London?"

With a sigh of exasperation, he stood and held out a hand to this persistent woman who was now his wife for better or for worse. "I'll go," he groused, tipping her chin up as she came to her feet and looking her sternly in the eye. "But not for her. Only for you."

Looking pleased at last, Gwynneth nodded.

Thorne managed a crooked smile. "Well, my lady, we've just had our first row. I say we make a gesture of peace and good will. Something quite conventional, perhaps a kiss between husband and wife.

 "Yes," she agreed readily. "'Tis a pleasant thing, kissing."

Despite her willingness, Thorne kissed her with caution, denying himself the slightest spark of passion for fear that any rekindled fires would only be doused again.

Her next words affirmed his wisdom. "I must go now and tell Caroline you're going to London with her," Gwynneth said, pulling away breathlessly. "She'll sleep all the better for it."

"Shall I wait up for you?" Thorne felt little real hope.

Gwynneth had the grace to blush. "I think I should stay what little time is left with Caroline.

Masking his disappointment with a smile, he nodded. "Then I'll see you come morn."

When Gwynneth had closed the door behind her, Thorne stared glumly at the high four-poster, the bed he'd thought would remain empty on his first night of newly wedded bliss. "Bloody hell," he muttered, flipping back the counterpane and sheet. He lay on the bed and stared at the oak-paneled ceiling.

Very well, Gwynneth. You stay with her tonight, and tomorrow I'll take up your charity. Thorne's mouth took a grim set. And God help me, my lady...I only hope my charity proves as innocent as yours.