Amy Lake (14 page)

The earl was looking at her accusingly. “But Athene was a goddess,” he said. “Achilles was just a mortal man.”

“Exactly,” said Claire with an impish grin. Edward grabbed for her again and, on a whim, she took off running down the stable aisle. Her husband gave chase, and she ducked through a side door, only to discover she was at a dead end.  Edward caught up with his wife next to a freshly cleaned stall and with one swift motion, picked her up and threw her into the pile of straw.  Claire whooped with laughter and, scrambling to her knees, she started to throw handfuls of straw at her pursuer.

“You’re filthy!” declared Edward. “The Countess of Ketrick is never filthy!”

“Mortal!  Mere mortal!”

Edward countered her assaults with his own, and they collapsed in laughter, wrestling in the straw. In a few minutes Claire, winded by the attempt to fend off her much stronger assailant, conceded defeat. She flopped onto her back and started picking bits of straw out of her
décolletage
.

Edward pulled her onto his lap and began to help, his fingertips brushing over the smooth mounds of her breasts.

She murmured encouragement into his ear.

“It’s going to be terribly itchy later,” he told her.

“I suppose I’ll need to take another bath,” said Claire,  “–and so will you.”

“Mmm.”

 Eventually their playful embraces grew so heated that Edward knew he would soon be unable to stop. He didn’t mind being caught with a woman in the stables–in fact, come to think of it, he
had
once been caught with a woman in the stables. The gypsy’s widow, he recalled, close to thirty and he a randy lad of seventeen–but oh, she had been a very willing widow, indeed. He smiled at the memory.

Nevertheless, he reminded himself, he didn’t want his new countess to be an object of fun to the castle population. Best to confine their lovemaking to the bedchamber. He gave Claire a last, lingering kiss, and reluctantly pulled her to her feet. They both made themselves as presentable as possible for the short walk back to the hall.

* * * *

“Were these your brother’s rooms when he was the earl?” asked Claire. She sipped a glass of an excellent Bordeaux and warmed her feet in front of the fire. She and her husband were both freshly bathed and wrapped in robes of thick velvet. A matching pair of robes–Claire idly  wondered if she was the first woman to wear hers.

Supper had been served in Edward’s rooms. They were similar to Claire’s,  although to her eye rather sparsely furnished. The earl was apparently not a man to require elaborate or luxurious surroundings, but what he did have was of the finest quality. The fireplace was a huge stone rondavel in one corner, set with pillars at each side and the Ketrick arms carved along the top. Claire’s eyes kept straying in the direction of the earl’s bed, which was much larger than her own. Although not a four-poster, it boasted a massive carved headboard at one end, and an almost equally massive footboard at the other. Despite its size, the bed looked cozy with its layers of blankets and a swansdown duvet.

“Frederick?” replied Edward. “Yes. Yes, these were his rooms. Melissa had yours.”

“Melissa was your sister-in-law?” 

“Hmm. Yes.”

Claire knew that Frederick’s countess was also dead. She wondered at her husband’s reaction, since the mention of Melissa had left him subdued. What kind of relationship had Edward had with his brother’s wife?

 His reply had been curt, but now Edward added in a lighter tone,  “Their portraits are in the long gallery, if you would like to see them. It’s just through the banqueting hall–”

“Oh, please.”  Claire was eager to learn everything she could about her new husband and other than his brief mentions of his older brother and Frederick’s countess, she knew almost nothing of his family.

* * * *

An arched door led to the banqueting hall, and from there they padded quietly through the chapel and into the long gallery.

“What an unusual floor,” commented Claire, looking at the narrow planks of almost black wood. 

“Double-dovetailed ebony,” said Edward,  “believed by some to impart a medieval ambience to the room.”

“The fifth earl, I take it?”

“Precisely.”

The long gallery ran along the west side of the castle, with family portraits hung on the inner wall. As they walked along, Edward pointed out the better-known members of the Tremayne family, plus a few of the more eccentric ones.

“This is Philip Tremayne, the second earl’s firstborn son, who went on crusade with Edward the first. It is said that he renounced the title to remain with the king.”

“Did he never return?  The king did.”

“According to the word of his younger brother, Philip was killed in battle at Haifa.” said Edward. “But a rumor persists in the family that Philip
did
return some years after the king, only to find that his brother had married Philip’s own wife and sent his children–including his first son, who by rights should have become earl–into exile in the north.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Indeed. Some confusion remains as to which nephew actually became the next earl. At any rate, supposedly upon finding his wife at his brother’s side and his children exiled, Philip went mad and threw himself into the river from the top of the donjon.”

“Ah,” said Claire, surmising what came next. “And his ghost–?”

“Walks the parapets every midsummer’s eve, crying out for his lost children and faithless lady.”

Claire shivered despite herself at the gloomy legend. She felt her husband’s strong hand at her back and they continued to view the rest of the portraits, including the fifth earl, outfitted–of course–in full Arthurian armor.

“My father and mother,” said Edward, as they neared the final paintings. “And this is Frederick. And Melissa.”

Claire’s gaze was drawn to this last. Even with the license taken in portraiture, it was clear that Frederick’s countess was an unusually petite woman. Melissa’s perfect oval face was ringleted with red-gold hair, her eyes wide and guileless, a sprinkling of freckles completing the effect of piquance and innocence. She’s but a child, though Claire, with shock. Even the gown Melissa wore, a white muslin sprigged with tiny pink rosebuds, seemed chosen to accentuate the countess’s extreme youth. One almost wanted to scoot her right back into the nursery, thought Claire, who felt less charmed by the picture than, perhaps, she ought to have been.

The neighboring portrait, on the other hand, brought Claire a smile. Frederick was a slighter version of her husband, just as handsome but with no hint of the gravity she often saw in Edward’s face. His expression seemed to be saying, “Splendid!  Now what shall we do next?” and Claire’s impression was of a man who approached life
con brio
. She felt, for the first time, a keen sense of loss for this brother she had never met.

“She was the joy of his life,” said the earl, looking at Melissa.

The tone of his voice, a mixture of nostalgia and regret, made Claire uneasy. She didn’t mind competing with Lady Pamela for Edward’s affections; a live mistress was an adversary she could understand. But this tiny child-countess?  An innocent martyr of . . . of what?  She wondered suddenly how Melissa and Frederick had died, yet hesitated to ask her husband.                                   Instead, she admired the portraits of his mother and father, and was rewarded with several stories of youthful indiscretion. On their way back to his rooms, Edward pointed out a few remaining flecks of black paint on the portrait of a sixteenth-century countess, on whom–her husband claimed–he and Frederick had once painted a thick moustache.

“She does look quite disagreeable,” said Claire, looking at the proud, frowning face.

“Yes,” said her husband. “we rather thought she deserved the moustache. Frederick claimed she probably possessed one anyway, and that we were simply improving the likeness. But it took two months and three supposed experts on oil paintings to repair the damage, and my brother and I were restricted to the castle for the entire time.”

Claire laughed. “You poor things. Confined to a mere castle!”  She reached up and brushed a lock of chestnut hair back from her husband’s brow, searching his face for the mischievous boy that he must once have been.

“’Twould have been more pleasurable being confined with you,” Edward said, and bent to kiss her. For a moment only their lips touched. Then Edward caught her arms and backed her against the gallery wall. His hands moved over her with almost frantic haste, opening her robe, and they kissed and caressed each other until Claire’s legs could no longer hold her and she was in danger of sliding to the floor. The earl picked her up and carried her back to his bedroom and his bed.

“I can’t bear this,” she heard him whisper as he tore off his own robe and lowered his body onto hers. The remark puzzled and disturbed her, but only for a moment, as the rhythm of Edward’s lovemaking caught her up and carried her away.

* * * *

“Mmm,” Claire said, somewhat later. She rolled over onto her side to look at her husband. “I believe I now comprehend what all the fuss is about.”

“The . . . fuss?” said her husband drowsily, his eyes half closed.

“Yes. About . . . you know . . . making love. I could never understand–”

“The fuss?”  Edward interrupted. His eyes were now open.

“Yes. Aren’t you paying attention?  All the stew men get into over . . . well, being bedded. You know.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s really rather nice,” she said tentatively.      

“
Nice
?”  Edward had now rolled up onto an elbow.

“Yes, nice. Very much so. I can see why men so often wish to do this. I’m confused, however, about some of the stories I have heard from other ladies.”

Edward was looking at her with fascination. “Pray enlighten me,” he said.

“The younger woman–well, I suppose some of them are just frightened.”  Claire frowned suddenly, thinking of a conversation she had once had with Melanie Potsworth. Pain like a red-hot poker, indeed!   

“The older ladies say it is a duty to be endured. But, Edward,” added Claire, her face alight with sudden comprehension, “perhaps their husbands were not . . . were not . . .
doing
things quite correctly. Lady Fremont told me that
her
husband wished to –”

“Ah,” said the earl, his voice sounding strangled, “there’s no need to–”

“But it sounded rather odd. Do people really–”

“I can’t imagine what Jessie Fremont was thinking, talking like that in front of an unmarried girl.”

“Oh, but all the ladies talk about it.”

“Good Lord,” groaned the earl.

“And I heard Lady Peters say that during–”

His kiss silenced her, and there was an end to conversation between them for some time.

* * * *

The next day Edward suggested that it was time to saddle Achilles and Athene and ride down to the river for a lunch
al
fresco
.

The idea delighted Claire. “But the river is right there,” she said, pointing out the window of the breakfast parlor.

“Ah, yes, but we will go to a
different
place on the river. A secret place, much frequented by small boys in trouble at the castle.”

“These boys seem to have spent a considerable amount of time in wayward pursuits,” said Claire.

“But at least they managed to get out into the good country air once in a while,” said Edward.

“Indeed,” replied his wife.

* * * *

The estate itself, as Claire knew, stretched on for miles. She and Edward had long since lost sight of Wrensmoor Hall as they rode, sometimes along the valley, sometimes leaving the river to climb over a series of wooded hills. Near the castle the riverbanks were broad and grassy and dotted with sheep. As they traveled farther, the meadow lands sloped into wooded hills, and the river itself narrowed and twisted.

Athene was a joy, her gait smooth and effortless, and Claire felt that she was almost flying over the ground. It had been so long since she had ridden last–

She sighed, remembering when that was, and the one worry that she had yet to face. She had almost pushed Lord Sandrick Rutherford from her mind these last few days, but she knew he would keep popping up until she decided to tell Edward the truth about her family. He had been remarkably uncurious about her uncle, but one day–surely–he would ask.

He will be furious to find himself allied to a man of such dubious reputation, thought Claire. He will think–he will know–that I was hiding it from him.

But Wrensmoor had proved lovely beyond dreams, and her introduction to married life unexpectedly . . . satisfying. Somehow, the time had never seemed right. The earl was at her side now, on Achilles, and she felt the small, warm flutter that troubled her each time she looked at him. Romantic nonsense! she chided herself. Yet the earl was so handsome, and his arms were so strong around her when they made love.

“Frederick and I used to race to that tree,” Edward said, pointing to a majestic oak standing alone at the top of the next hill. “Whoever won got the best seat for lunch.”

The best seat?  Claire wasn’t sure what this signified, but she was grateful for the distraction from her current thoughts.

“
Ça va!
  Challenge accepted,” she said, and twitched the reins. That was all it took; Athene took off at full gallop.

“Claire–no, wait! 
Damn
!”  Edward gave heel to Achilles and raced after her. He knew, as she did not, that the terrain of this particular slope was treacherous–rocky and with a narrow ravine that was hidden until you were almost on top of it. He’d received half the bruises and scrapes of his childhood during the sprints up to that oak tree, and as for Frederick–

Claire’s bonnet and hairpins flew off in a shower as she and Athene thundered up the hill. Oh, freedom!  This had always been the major attraction of riding for her, especially at Cheltdown.  On horseback she and Jody had pretended they were alone in the world, gloriously free from the stifling atmosphere of the manor, their uncle’s threats, and Cousin Harry’s general strangeness.

Oh, do let’s not drag poor Harry into this, she told herself. She looked up to see the oak beckoning like a sentinel of victory, and then back, to see Edward hard at her heels. Another twitch on the reins, and–