Amy Lake (15 page)

Athene gathered herself, muscles bunching, and soared into the air.

Good grief, what–?  Claire saw the gash in the earth flash by almost under her heels, and with a thud they were down. She reined in Athene, worried that the mare might have been hurt, and was about to dismount as Achilles came thundering to a stop.

“Of all the idiotic, witless–what on earth do you think you’re doing?” Edward barked at her, jumping down from the stallion.

“I’m sorry, my lord, a moment please,” said Claire, too concerned about Athene to heed the fury in her husband’s voice. She knelt and ran her hands gently along the mare’s legs, feeling carefully for any swelling or evidence of a broken bone. Athene was breathing hard, but Claire decided the animal was otherwise uninjured. She looked up to see her husband giving her the devil’s own glare.

“What?” she said, suddenly aware of his anger.

“You are a sorry little fool!  What in hell possessed you to–” 

“I will not permit you to curse at me, Lord Tremayne!”  Her anger flared up as quickly as his. “I admit I should not have taken Athene so quickly up an unfamiliar hill, but–”

“Reckless, irresponsible– ”

“But I am an experienced horsewoman, and Athene was more than up to the task of–”

They were eye to eye now, arms gesturing and voices raised.

“Sheer lunacy!  I should not allow you to ride again!”

“
Allow
me!”  Claire’s indignation now knew no bounds. “My lord, Athene has suffered no injury, and–”

“
I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the horse
!” roared the earl, silencing them both. He sat down in the grass and put his head in his hands.

In the sudden quiet Claire heard the soft blowing of Athene and her own labored breathing, along with Edward’s. She knelt at her husband’s side. “Edward?”

“Just don’t–don’t go out alone,” he said. “I will not permit you to ride alone.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Claire. She sensed her husband’s disquiet and recognized that this stricture was only good sense, even if she might prefer it expressed in a less high-handed manner. ’Twas foolishness to ride unknown ground as she had, much as she hated to admit it. Edward had been right.

Her husband’s temper was a volatile one, thought Claire, and he proved it again now, grabbing her and tugging her into his lap.

“Is this the ‘best seat’ you were referring to, my lord?” she said, laughing. She squirmed away, knowing that resistance would inflame him further, wanting to see desire instead of anger in his eyes. She tried to stand, but he caught a handful of skirt and tumbled her down into the grass. He was astride her in a moment, his fingers working nimbly at the hooks and fastenings of her riding costume. She reached up to unbutton his shirt and he groaned as she caressed him in return.

“Claire” was all he said then, and they made love in the green grass, under the blue sky, the horses grazing in peace and indifference nearby.

 * * * *

The “best seat” proved to be a perch in the tree. Claire sat on a broad branch of the oak, her back against its trunk, and watched as Edward–sitting comfortably astride the same branch, seemingly oblivious to being ten feet off the ground–opened the picnic basket.

“Tree-climbing and wine don’t mix,” he commented, pouring her a glass of lemonade.

Claire wasn’t inclined to disagree. “I take it you and Frederick spent a fair number of hours in this oak,” she said, hoping to draw out another childhood story. “Did you often dine this well?”

Edward smoothed a table linen onto the bark between them.  “The cook was usually good for a pastry or two,” he said, extracting an assortment of cold meats and cheeses from the basket. “We always thought we were getting away with something, coming here, but I think the staff was just as happy to have us out from underfoot.”

“What about your parents?” 

“They were very little at Wrensmoor, actually,” said Edward. “Mother spent most of the year taking the waters at Bath, and my father . . . ”  He hesitated. “My father was happiest with the entertainments of London.”

“You and Frederick were alone, then?”

 “As were you and Jody,” Edward pointed out.

“Yes, but not by choice.”  She had loosened her boots, and one of them picked that moment to fall off. She watched it tumble to the ground and thought of her own childhood, which had been incontrovertibly happy until her eleventh year.

“How did your parents die?” he asked.

It was Claire’s turn to hesitate.  She had wanted to hear about Edward’s family, not talk of her own. A discussion of her parents would inevitably lead to her uncle. Still, he had asked–

“They said it was diphtheria.” 

The earl nodded, familiar with this scourge.

“They sent Jody and me away when Angeline first took sick–”        

“Angeline?”

“Our sister. She was a year old.” 

“Dear Lord,” said Edward. His eyes were gentle as he watched her.

“The disease went quickly with Angeline. She was dead inside the sennight. But then both my parents became ill.”

Edward leaned forward and took both her hands in his, though for once she scarcely noticed the warmth of his touch. She felt numb, which was the way she always felt when she thought about those terrible first weeks at her uncle’s house. She and Jody had waited–waited for the letters to arrive, waited to return, to mourn a baby sister with their beloved parents, waited to go home–

Numb, deadened to all feeling. She was long past caring, anyway–it was all too long ago to make any difference. Claire didn’t realize she was crying until Edward had somehow shifted his position and taken her in his arms. They both leaned against the comforting solidity of the oak, and she sobbed her heart out, cried until her eyes were red and burning and she had made a sodden lump of the earl’s handkerchief. He stroked her hair and murmured soft comforts into her ear as she wept for the tiny, beautiful Angie, for her mother and father, and for Jody, orphaned at the age of six.

Finally she cried for the eleven-year-old Claire. The child who–thrown into an unfamiliar household,  responsible for her terrified little brother–had never been given the opportunity to grieve. In all the years since her parents’ deaths, there had never been anyone to help shoulder the burden. Never anyone whose help she could rely on–until now. Eventually the sobs quieted, and–as Edward held her–Claire fell asleep.

* * * *

They took a different route back to the castle, their progress silent and slow,  Claire experiencing a mixture of relief and chagrin. Relief that the earl’s broad shoulders were there for her to cry on, and chagrin–well, because it felt so good. It felt good to give up the cares of being in charge, of always being strong. She
could
be as strong as any man, but it was no longer a requirement, and her heart felt more at ease than it had in years.

Don’t be a silly miss, she tried to tell herself. He’ll be in London most of the time, and then what will you do?  Cry into the butler’s cravat?

No, she would worry about that later. When her husband was gone.

They came to a small creek with a stone cross standing on its opposite bank. The horses splashed across, and Edward dismounted, beckoning Claire to follow. She walked to the cross and read the words carved into the grey stone.
Frederick John Tremayne
. There was no other inscription.

She looked at Edward curiously, but his face betrayed nothing. “Your brother is buried here?” 

“Oh. No.”  Edward shook his head as if to clear it. “Frederick broke his neck in a fall from a horse. This is where we found him. He was trying to jump the creek, I should imagine.”

Claire tried to keep the puzzlement from her face, but the earl must have guessed what she was thinking.

“It’s just a creek, I know–not much of an obstacle,” Edward said. But it was a cloudy night, and he was riding fast . . . and recklessly. Frederick didn’t know any other way to ride.”

“I’m sorry,” said Claire, knowing that there were no words to erase the pain. “It must have been terrible for you.”

Edward nodded. “My brother would have liked you,” he said, and Claire felt the swift dart of a bittersweet joy. “I wish you could have known him.”

They walked on for a while, leading the horses. The sun was warm on her back, and Claire removed her boots and tied them to the pommel of the mare’s saddle. The turf here was soft and thick, and her toes were delighted to be given their own small freedoms. 

Her husband had fallen silent. She had always assumed that married couples had a great deal to talk about, but until now she and Edward had shared nought more than a bed. Claire blushed, recalling their last few nights. How would she ever get to know her husband if they never spoke to one another?  She’d had a glimpse of his past today, ‘twas true; still, she knew so little. Claire gathered her determination. Since he had been willing to show her Frederick’s memorial, perhaps her husband would not be offended if she asked something more about his brother.

* * * *

“Did Frederick and Melissa prefer town?”  asked his wife. Edward had stopped to pick brambles out of Achilles’ mane and heard only the last few words of her question.

“Hmm?  London?”

“Did your brother spend most of his time in town?  Or at Wrensmoor?”  Claire smiled up at him, her cheeks rosy from their walk. Her riding costume followed the curves of her body so closely that his mind saw straight through to the smooth skin underneath. Edward felt the painful tightening in his groin that had been his constant companion during the last few days.

“Ah. Yes.”

 Claire raised an elegant eyebrow at his answer. “You are wool-gathering, my lord,” she said, and the wench grinned at him as if she knew exactly what the problem was. It wasn’t fair, he thought, that she possessed a body like that.

“My brother did well by the estate and his tenants,” he said, working to recover his composure. “But Frederick was easily bored, and he could never endure being alone. He and Melissa would arrive at the castle, intending to stay for months, and a week later leave again for London.”  

His discomfort now increased at the sight of Claire’s feet, her toes appearing and disappearing into the grass with each step. Feet could be remarkably sensual, Edward realized. But the meadow was really too exposed for a tryst–

“He didn’t like Wrensmoor?”  His wife sounded disbelieving.

What were they talking about?  Oh, yes. Frederick.

“He liked it very well, I think, but there were just so many more people in London. On occasion, it seemed as if Frederick had invited them all here, but even then it was never enough.”

Claire had acquired an enticing smudge of dirt across the top of one foot. He longed to tumble her into the grass and wipe it clean, then continue up the curve of her calf to– 

Edward gave a deep sigh. His wife would begin to think him unable to let a single hour go by without bedding her. It was not too far from the truth, and he forced his attention back to the conversation.

“By the time he married Melissa, I was at Oxford,” he told Claire, trying not to look at her toes, “but I spent part of each vacation at the castle.”

“And the rest of the time in London?”

“Yes . . .” said Edward.

They walked on in silence for a while, until the turrets of the great hall came into view.

“I think Wrensmoor is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” said Claire, her sincerity obvious.

“Yes . . .” said Edward, hesitantly once again. “I believe so, as well.”

“My lord–” began Claire, then stopped.

Her husband smiled down at her. “‘Edward,’” he corrected.

Claiming a moment of forgetfulness, Claire she did not ask the question uppermost in her mind.

How long would the earl stay at Wrensmoor, this time?

Chapter Nine

“Edward?”

“Hmm?”  He draped an arm over his wife, feeling relaxed and sated. It had never been like this before, he realized, a bit amused by the irony of his situation. Oh, there had been pleasure before, and plenty of it. But never this feeling of utter . . . contentment. Perhaps he could put off his return to London for a few more weeks. 

“Edward?”

 “Hmm?”  It wouldn’t be right to leave his young bride by herself in this huge castle so soon after their marriage. Being the
chatelaine
of an estate such as Wrensmoor was a major undertaking. It would take quite some time for her to become familiar with the supervision of the household. Months, perhaps. He reached out with one hand, eyes still closed, and ran his fingers through a silky length of her hair. In his mind, he saw the raven mass of curls framing Claire’s face as she had lain on top of him only a few satisfying minutes ago.

“My lord, does a man require more than a single mistress, or is one generally enough?”

Edward’s eyes opened. He wasn’t sure he had heard his wife correctly.

“Lady Pamela is your mistress, is she not?  I would not say so in company, of course–I rather like her. But–”

The earl was sitting up now. He frowned at his wife. “What on earth can you be about, asking such a thing?  Mistresses are not a fit subject for discussion between man and wife, I assure you.”  He started to burrow back under the covers.

“Oh, I’ve no wish to discuss mistresses in general. Only yours.” 

Edward lay back, sighing, and stared up at the silk canopy of his wife’s bed. He was about to tell Claire that even
his
mistress was none of her affair, but he decided against it. It
was
her affair, of course, just not one he especially wanted to talk about. Many of the
ton
wives openly tolerated their husband’s paramours, but he had never envisioned Claire–

She was looking down at him, her expression curious. “So–do you generally have just the one?  Or is there someone besides Lady Pamela?  What if–”

Edward groaned. “Just one,” he told her.

“But not at Wrensmoor, am I right?  One in London, but when you are here–”      

“Just one, Claire,” he repeated firmly. “And only in London.”

“Oh.”  His wife pondered this in silence for a few minutes, and the earl decided it was the right time to renew his acquaintance with her breasts. He reached over to fondle one of the luscious mounds–