Amy Lake (18 page)

“Edward,” she breathed, and was rewarded with an impassioned groan. The next minutes were breathless with turning and twisting about until eventually–Claire giggling helplessly–they fell off the armchair and onto the floor in a tangle of half-removed clothing. Once safely on the thick carpeting, the rest of the exercise was more easily accomplished.

* * * *

From similar occasions the servants had learned that the library was off-limits in the evening. Although this embarrassed Claire–who was quite correct in thinking that she and Edward were the topic of amused speculation belowstairs–she had also grown accustomed to the repeated evidence of her husband’s desire.

It was, as Claire reminded herself often, not everything she wanted from her marriage, but it was a start.

They spent each night together, in her bed or in his, sometimes not sleeping until the dawn. There was no further talk of the earl’s return to London, and Claire had begun to hope–to dream– that her marriage might take a more companionable turn.

       There have been no further incidents of gunshots

      
in Green Park . . .

Edward read through Justin MacKenzie’s most recent communication, frowning. His

man-of-affairs had been unable to discover who had fired at the de Lancies, and the investigation seemed to have come to a dead end.

       There have been numerous reports of suspicious persons

       ‘lurking about’ in the wooded areas, but this is a

        perennial complaint . . .

The earl put the letter down on his desk and rubbed his forehead. Perhaps the incident had been nothing, after all. Some fool boy, handling a firearm he didn’t understand, or a drunk–

Or perhaps not. Edward couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something beyond a mere accident had occurred. And Pam had thought so, too. Sharpening another nib, he wrote MacKenzie a quick reply with further instructions. He had hoped for a clear resolution to the matter, but as it was, he was loath to allow Claire to return to London– Claire?  In London?

Edward allowed himself a small, rueful chuckle. When had he started to think about having his wife accompany him to town?  He would need to be more careful with his . . . imagination in the future.

 * * * *

One day the earl cried free of a meeting  with his steward and gave Claire a tour of the more remote areas of Wrensmoor Hall. She was amazed by the number of odd little rooms he showed her, tucked away into various corners of the castle. Late in the afternoon he took her down a back staircase to the armory, and Claire was both fascinated and slightly appalled by the variety of weapons stored there.

“Good heavens,” she breathed,  hoping the place was kept locked.

“They’re of no practical importance now,” Edward pointed out. “Battle-axes and the like. And only a grown man could wield most of them. Believe me, Frederick and I tried. ”

Claire ran her fingers over the jeweled hilt of a broadsword. “Would they have used  something like this in a real battle?” she asked, thinking it must weigh more than a stone and a half.

“I think not.”  Edward took the sword down from its iron bracket and held it
en guard
, seeming to barely notice the weight. She saw his shoulder muscles bunch under the fabric of his coat, and for a moment, time spun backward. In Edward’s stance Claire saw ancient years when the lords of Wrensmoor were expected not only to provide for their people but also to fight for them. She turned away, short of breath and overwhelmed once again by the sheer physical presence of her husband. He seemed to take up the whole of the room, and a melancholy question came to Claire’s mind. In the life of such a powerful man, was there any place for her?

* * * *

      
Mon cher frére . . .      

Jody slit open the letter from his sister and took another bite of sugared ham. Breakfasts at Tremayne House were his idea of heaven, and he told Mrs. Huppins as much every other day. She’d taken to baking a dozen fried-apple tarts in the mid-morning, and Jody usually discovered a small errand he could do for her around that time. The tarts were nearly as good as Mrs. McLeevy’s cinnamon rolls, though he had not admitted this to anyone, fearful that word might reach the kitchen at Wrensmoor.

He chewed appreciatively as he scanned the pages of Claire’s neat handwriting, trying to read between the lines. Jody understood, in general terms, the nature of the arrangement his sister had made with Lord Tremayne, and he thought–well, it was stupid. Foolish and completely unworkable, and he had told her as much. He adored Claire, and the Earl of Ketrick was the closest thing to a hero Jody had known in his fifteen years of existence. He wanted them to be happy together.

       Athene is normally sweet-spirited, but she has a plucky streak,

       especially when it comes  to Achilles. Each time he tries to move

       ahead, Athene will nose forward. The earl is adamantly

       opposed to racing–I suppose because of Frederick’s death–so

       he pulls back on Achilles, who becomes quite annoyed.

       Athene will drop back, then do it again–I think she is actually

       teasing the poor stallion.

Despite his worry, Jody smiled. If the earl and his sister would stop being so stubborn about everything, then he could finally visit Wrensmoor and explore a whole new stable of horses. Perhaps Lord Tremayne would buy him his own mount. Well, it was too presumptuous to think
that
–but surely there would be a nice horse for him to ride. And the river sounded like fun, thought Jody, envisioning the possibilities presented by castle walls and windows looking directly out over water.

He continued reading, hoping to find more on the vellum pages than Claire’s cheerful description of the countryside and the rooms of Wrensmoor Hall–although the armory did sound intriguing. But what was all this fuss over tapestries?  Musty old things. What Jody was really looking for was news about his sister and Lord Tremayne. Perhaps it was too much to ask that they fall madly in love, but
something
must be happening. Jody, unreconciled to his sister’s marriage of convenience, searched each of Claire’s letters for evidence that she had not thrown her life away on a man who would never love her.

Surely you can tear yourself away from London by now
, his sister had written
. Mrs. McLeevy is sorely put out that we cannot manage to consume more than a pan of cinnamon rolls each day. Besides, the library here is even finer than that of Tremayne House, and–oh, my dear brother–I can hardly wait for you to see the castle stables.

It’s not me you should be waiting for, thought Jody. Obviously it would be a little longer before he could visit Wrensmoor, and he wrote his sister to tell her so.

Chapter Eleven

“I saw that one move.”

“It did not move.”

“It most certainly did!  I think your eyes are becoming weak with age, my lord. As the younger player, let me assure you that the stick–that one, right there–moved.”

“Women are quite prone to letting their imaginations run away with them, I believe.”

“And men can’t even see what is in front of their own eyes.”

“It did not move.”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

“Oh, very well. It’s my turn, anyway.”      

Edward and Claire sat on her bedroom carpet and played jackstraws in front of a crackling fire. Her father had taught her the game, she knew, although she could no longer remember playing it with him. Claire reached forward and deftly flipped a stick out of the middle of the pile. She smirked up at her husband. “You are losing, my lord.”

“I never lose.”        

The earl picked up a stick with his fingers and–as Claire sat there, mesmerized–used it to trace the line of her jaw from her ear to her chin. His touch was so gentle, she could barely feel the tip of the jackstraw as it glided from her chin, down the side of her neck, toward–

“My lord,” said Claire,  “I don’t believe this is part of the game.” 

Edward smiled lazily at her as the stick grazed lightly across her skin, lower and lower.

Claire reached out and grabbed the jackstraw. She popped it down the front of her bodice and grinned at him.

“There. It’s mine now.”

“I don’t believe so,” said Lord Tremayne.

* * * *

I wonder if other couples end each game of jackstraws with lovemaking, thought Claire some time later. She stretched contentedly and peeked over at her husband, thinking he looked rather vulnerable lying half-naked on the carpet. Edward was quite ticklish, she had already discovered, and she inched closer, planning her attack.

Closer, closer.

“I’d reconsider,” said the earl without opening his eyes.

Claire waited, saying nothing. Suddenly his arm shot out, and she pounced–

They grappled on the floor until Edward pinned her underneath him. His lips came down on hers, hard and possessive, and after a short while Claire could no longer remember who was more ticklish, or who won at jackstraws, or anything else except the way she felt when she was bedded by the Earl of Ketrick.

 * * * *

So as the weeks went by–in a castle in the middle of a river, circled by the grassy hills of Kent–affection grew between the earl and his new countess. Claire wouldn’t call it love. They were satisfied with each other’s company–the sharing of mutual interests and intelligent conversation– and Edward bedded her with a hunger that continued to take her breath away.

But the earl did not love her, she was convinced, even though he remained perfectly amiable and kind. Perhaps it was the tone of his voice, invariably cool until the moment he began to think of taking her to bed. Or the endearments he used: “my lady wife” had a beautiful, formal sound, but it was something one used in company, not–as Edward often did–in the privacy of their own rooms.

Perhaps the problem was the lovemaking itself, although it always thrilled her.
Edward
thrilled her. But the gentleness of their first nights together, when he was worried about the young miss beneath him, and even the lusty good spirits of the next few weeks, had slowly given way to something different. A harsh, even desperate, note had crept into their physical intimacy, almost as if he bedded her despite himself, as if he was driven to it against his true will.

No, he does not love me, thought Claire. But then, he never said he would. She no longer asked Edward about his return to town, but she was sure he planned to depart soon. There was an empty feeling attached to that thought, and Claire vowed to fight it. I will be happy here without him, she told herself. Quite happy. Because I am a sensible person, and because I have no other choice.

* * * *

Melissa walked down the aisle towards him, her wedding gown a deep crimson. Frederick was nowhere to be found, and Edward realized that he himself was the groom. He looked around at the unfamiliar church. This was surely not St. Albans. And where were his parents?  Where was Claire?  The wedding must wait, it wasn’t time–

“Dearest Edward,” said Melissa in her breathy, childlike voice. She approached the front of the chapel and placed her hand in his. Frederick isn’t here yet, thought Edward. I must convince them to wait. His pulse was racing, and he tried to turn to speak to the pastor, but the wedding was already over, and they were out on the steps of . . . wherever they were, completely alone.

“Edward, where is the coach?” asked Melissa. “There was supposed to be a coach.”  She sat down on the top step in a rustle of organdy, her skirts a crimson stain on the weathered stone.

“I don’t know why Frederick doesn’t like this color,” she commented absently, smoothing the fabric with her hands.

“Melissa!”  Edward realized with horror that she was bleeding. A stream of blood ran down the steps and pooled on the sidewalk below. A passerby looked up curiously at Edward, who discovered he could not find the breath to shout for help. Melissa was pointing at the blood and laughing.

Where was the coach?   Edward bent to lift Melissa, to carry her down to–

Then he saw the raven hair of the woman in his arms. It was Claire.

“No!” 

Edward sat up in bed, his heart pounding in his ears and his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Edward?”  He felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’m . . . I’m all right.” 

“You were shouting,” Claire said. She lit the candle on her nightstand. “Shall I get you some brandy?”

“’Twas only a dream.”

“An evil sort of dream, I think.”

“Yes.”  The small flame was a comfort and Edward stared at it until he felt his pulse slow.  Claire sat up, her hair tousled and glowing in the candlelight. She was clutching the sheet to her chest, and Edward realized they were both unclothed. Oh, yes–they must have fallen asleep immediately after–

“You called out Melissa’s name,” said his wife.

The tendrils of nightmare–which had faded with Claire’s touch–curled again around Edward’s heart. “Yes,” he said, hoping she would ask no more about it.

“Will you be all right?”

“I am fine, thank you,” he said, a bit curtly. He was not a man to tolerate weakness in himself, and a nightmare–well, the Earls of Ketrick did not succumb to such things.

He reached for Claire, and she blew out the flame. They sank back into the bedding and lay nestled together, Edward content to merely hold his wife. He was beginning to drift back into sleep when he felt her stir.

“Edward?”

“Hmm?” 

 “How did Melissa die?”

He forced himself to speak. “She died in the miscarriage of a son.”

“Oh, Edward, I am sorry. Was it after Frederick’s death?”

“No. A few months before.”

There was silence between them for some time. It was only much later that Claire would learn anything more about the death of Frederick’s wife, and even then–as Lady Pamela could have told her–she did not hear the whole of it.