Lily Lang (11 page)

“Are you sure, Miranda?” he asked. She stroked his hair and it must have been her voice that said
yes
and
yes
and
yes
.

Then he lifted her hips between his large hands, he settled himself on his knees between her legs. She felt the hard length of him against her thighs, and though in the small part of her brain still functioning she thought she ought to be afraid, or hesitant, or nervous, she felt nothing but desire.

He held himself at the opening of her body for a moment. Then he leaned down and kissed her, a kiss she could sink into, a kiss she could drown in, and then slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, he thrust himself inside her.

She could not quite muffle a sound of pain. He cursed. His face was flushed, his eyes half closed as he held himself rigid above her. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead, and she reached up and brushed back a damp lock of his hair.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”

He said her name and thrusted, his hips pounding heavily against hers. She held him close, stroked his back, whispered soothing, meaningless words to him. She was beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond even desire. All she wanted was for him to make her whole again, to fill the empty places in her heart that marked all the losses she had ever known.

After awhile, the pain receded, and when it had gone the desire returned, a hot, luscious thing suffusing her entire body. He moved more quickly now, his breath hissing out rapidly from between his clenched teeth.

Thrust for thrust, breath for breath, she matched him, until her head tossed on the pillow and she said his name on breathless pants. He bent his head and kissed her, and was still kissing her when she arched and cried out her release.

Above her, he made a hoarse sound deep in his throat and went very still, holding her so tightly she could not breathe. She cradled his head against her shoulder and stroked him gently, trying to tell him with her touch what she could not say aloud.

She loved him. She had never stopped loving him.

She held him close as his breathing finally slowed and the sweat dried on his back. They did not speak. After a while he rolled off of her and got to his feet, leaving her feeling bereft and alone. But he merely went to his washstand and wet a handkerchief to bring back to her. He cleaned her tenderly, then he climbed in beside her and drew her once again into his arms, his large biceps bulging as he wrapped them closely around her.

For a long while they were silent. Miranda, resting her head against his chest, listened to the slow, steady beat of his heart and felt a bone-deep contentment she had not known since childhood. She had no wish to sleep, needing only to savor this moment. He had made her his, and for this one perfect, evanescent space in time, he was hers as well.

Not wishing to destroy the peace of the moment, but needing to know, she asked in a low tone, “How did you escape the hulks?”

Behind her, he tensed, while his arms loosened around her. For a moment she thought he would not respond.

“I had been in the hulks for two years,” he said at last. “It was two years of hell I shall never forget.”

“Tell me.”

“It isn’t fit for your ears.”

“If you could live through it, I can stand to hear about it.”

“You can’t imagine what it was like,” he said after another moment. “The darkness, the filth, the stench, the God awful everlasting gnawing of the rats. There were constant outbreaks of typhus and cholera. During the day we were put to hard labor on the docks; at night we were chained to our bunks to prevent escape. We were constantly being flogged or placed in heavy irons for the most trivial offenses. There was never anything to eat or drink.”

She made a small sound and pressed a kiss to the biceps that encircled her. She felt his arms tighten around her.

“Then, one night, before we could be chained to our beds after a day at the docks, a fight broke out between several of the other convicts. In the pandemonium I managed to jump overboard, and by some miracle no one noticed me go over. I was too weak to even swim to shore; I simply clung to a piece of wood and let the current sweep me down river. The next morning, a man saw me and jumped in to save me.”

“Who was he?”

“Oliver Harvey, actually. He brought me home, and his wife nursed me for a month until I was strong enough to find work on the docks. But the work was sparse, so I went to the gambling hells to earn money. One night, I sat across from a bored young marquess who had been seeking some entertainment in the stews. By morning I had won a hundred thousand pounds from him at hazard.”

Miranda was nearly speechless. “You won a hundred thousand pounds in a single night?”

He shrugged lightly. “Great quantities of money often change hands at a gambling table,” he said. “That’s when I first decided to start a club of my own.”

“I can’t imagine the marquess was very pleased with you.”

“He thought it was highly amusing, actually, and became one of the first patrons of the club,” said Jason.

They were silent for a long moment. Then Miranda turned her head and kissed his shoulder softly.

“I’m very proud of all you have accomplished,” she whispered.

He did not respond. Instead, he lifted himself so that he was once again on top of her, and kissed her long and deep. His hands moved slowly, leisurely down her body, lingering at the sensitive peaks of her breasts, the flare of her hips. She arched into him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, but he pushed her hands away, his lips moving lazily down her throat, to her collarbone, and then lower, until he could nip at the curve of her breasts. When he pressed himself into her again, there was no pain and no resistance, only a tender, precious sense of familiarity.

Afterwards, he held her close, and she slept dreamlessly in his arms. But when she woke again in the morning, he was gone.

Chapter Four

As the elegant traveling carriage drew down the wide, tree-lined boulevard leading to Thornwood Hall, Miranda studied Jason’s face. His only reaction was a faint tightening of the jaw, but otherwise, he remained as impassive and silent as he had been the entire drive from London to Hertfordshire.

After giving her a succinct summary of his meeting with Laurence—which, what with one thing and another, he had not actually told her all of the previous night—he had spent most of the thirty-five mile drive absorbed in his papers and ignoring her utterly. As she watched him, she fought down a burgeoning sense of despondency.
I want you too
, she had told him, but he had given her no indication he wanted anything more than to exorcise a demon that had haunted him for the last ten years.

She wondered now if he felt any apprehension at returning to Thornwood. He had been born here, raised by the various old retainers of the estate, coddled and cosseted by the housekeeper Mrs. Andrewes, the house maids and kitchen maids, and even Miranda’s own nurse Hannah. She closed her eyes as she thought of their childhood, spent roaming free and wild through the gentle rolling hills of Hertfordshire together. Even after they had reached their teens, the democracy of childhood behind them, they had found every opportunity to be together. But because of her, her father had banished him from his home and the companions of a lifetime.

And she had failed him, in a way, she thought. She had been unable to save his home and his friends. All the old retainers were gone now, dismissed for insolence or disobedience when they had tried to protect her, and her uncle and aunt were bleeding the estate dry.

The irony was not lost on her. The boy who had not been good enough for her was now the only man she knew who could save Thornwood for William. She wondered if her father was rolling over in his grave.

She rather hoped he was.

The estate had changed a great deal since he had last seen it ten years before. She had kept it running smoothly and profitably during her father’s long illness, but under her uncle’s inept stewardship, the lands had suffered badly. The cottages in the village needed repairs, and a general air of neglect gave the fields a despondent look. Jason made no comment, however, though he studied the landscape carefully through the window of his traveling carriage.

Now they drew up in front of the large, mottled Elizabethan pile that was Thornwood Hall, and the bullfrog footman Briggs opened the door and helped them descend the steps into the cool, biting winter air. Jason did not offer her his arm; he evidently had no desire to touch her. They walked up the shallow steps together, without speaking or looking at each other, and when they reached the top, Jason lifted the knocker and gave three sharp, imperious raps.

A minute later, Carlisle, the sour-faced butler Uncle Clarence had hired to replace Hawkins, opened the door. His gaze widened at the sight of Miranda, but he remained otherwise impassive.

“Kindly inform Mrs. Thornwood that Jason Blakewell and Miss Thornwood have arrived,” said Jason.

“Mrs. Thornwood is not at home to callers,” Carlisle said grandly.

“We are not callers,” said Jason coolly. “I am not asking your permission. Either you will inform Mrs. Thornwood we are here, or I will do so myself.”

“Now, see here—”

Jason simply put his hand on the door and shoved. The butler, evidently recognizing defeat, moved hastily out of the way.

“Where would your aunt be at this hour?” Jason asked Miranda.

“The Spanish room, most likely,” she said.

He made his way unerringly to the west wing of the house and to the great double doors leading to the blue drawing room. Unceremoniously, he shoved the door open, and Miranda followed him inside.

Beatrice Thornwood, small, pinched and cadaverously thin, sat embroidering at a seat beneath the window. When they came inside, she looked up, a look of pure disdain crossing her narrow face.

“So,” she said to Miranda. “You’ve come back, have you? And where’s that murdering brother of yours?”

“Ah,” said Jason, very softly. “But William didn’t murder anybody, did he, madam?”

Beatrice turned to him, her cold gaze assessing. “And who are you, sirrah?”

“I am Jason Blakewell, madam.”

“I have no idea who you are and this is none of your concern,” said Beatrice. “Carlisle will show you the door.”

“No, I don’t think he will,” said Jason reflectively. “Not until we clear this all up. I understand you have had the local magistrate hunting Lord Thornwood for the murder of his uncle, have you not?”

“The ungrateful brat did murder my husband,” said Beatrice, her eyes flickering. “He deserves to be brought to justice, does he not?”

“But in point of fact,” said Jason pleasantly, “your husband is not dead at all, is he? I believe he is recovering quite nicely from his ordeal.”

Beatrice Thornwood sucked in her breath. “What?” Jason looked amused. “I am fully aware your husband is currently quite comfortably ensconced in that old cottage in the stable block.”

Beatrice managed to recover immediately and drew herself up. “Even if my husband did not die, we intend to see him charged with assault.”

“I do not think you would care for the consequences should you decide to press charges,” said Jason silkily. “If you do, I shall see to it my lawyers sue you for every penny of Miss Thornwood and Lord Thornwood’s inheritance that your husband and son have squandered.”

“That is calumny, sir, and I certainly shall not stand for it—”

“Furthermore, my lawyers shall charge you, your husband and your son with attempted murder,” Jason continued. “You see, in a drunken stupor at my club last night, your son informed me he would soon have the blunt necessary to pay the rather large debt he owes me because he is to become the next viscount. When I asked him how this was possible, he indicated that after William and Miranda had fled, you had come up with the rather brilliant plan of bribing the magistrate to find William Thornwood on charges of murder, and then having the boy ‘accidentally’ shot during the arrest. With the boy dead, the title and estates would pass, naturally, to your husband and then your son. Not only I, but a certain Mr. Murray, would be willing to testify to that effect in court.”

Beatrice stared at him, her mouth dropping open and giving her the appearance of a landed fish.

“Finally, madam,” he said to Beatrice, “if you do not depart Thornwood Hall at once, your son shall find himself in debtors’ prison. Unless, of course, you can produce the fifty thousand pounds he owes me?”

Beatrice snapped her mouth.

“Excellent,” said Jason. “I shall expect you and your husband to be gone from the house by morning.” He smiled thinly. “My footman, Mr. Briggs, shall supervise the packing to ensure no Thornwood silver or china finds its way into your luggage. Now kindly take yourself off. My forbearance has its limits.”

By late afternoon, Beatrice and Clarence, furious at Jason’s high-handedness but helpless against the steely force of his will, had departed the grounds. When they were gone Miranda sent a message to her brother and her old nurse Hannah, bidding them to return immediately to Thornwood Hall. They arrived from Jason’s estates in Buckinghamshire in the early evening, bumping up the long drive in an elegant carriage.

“But what happened, Miri?” William demanded, once the first round of embraces and greetings had been exchanged, and brother and sister had retired to the lovely airy chamber known as the Peacock Room, which their mother had made especially her own. “Uncle Clarence wasn’t dead after all? I should have hit him harder!”