MC BIKER ROMANCE: Bad Boy Romance: BETRAYED: (New Adult Motorcycle Club Navy SEAL Romance) (Contemporary Military Romance Thriller) (55 page)

“Henry, please. I beg of you,” she said, and the penitence in her voice was enough.

I began again. She got nearly to the point of climax so quickly, but I was careful, so careful, not to push her over the edge. I held her there, in the moment of greatest pleasure, for as long as I felt she could handle. And then I brought her over, and watched her face as she felt it, and I felt myself nearly bursting.

I picked her up, and carried her inside, where
she
would satisfy
me.

Chapter 14

Emma

I woke at the first glimmer of light. I was draped across Henry, his big hands heavy on my back. He looked so peaceful in this light, in this place. And he looked strangely young, as he had been when we first met, when we were nearly children.

My entire body offered evidence of the night we’d just spent together. Every part of me felt used and worn out, as though I’d spent the entire night drinking and running, and dancing and jumping around like a fool.

And I was full of regret. I’d left it so cleanly yesterday. I’d explained it all so plainly. I’d made it clear what was and what was not to be. And he knew how much I had loved him. He had to know. But he knew what I needed to do, and if his anger meant anything, it meant that he accepted that the decision was made.

And now here I was, having destroyed all the clarity there was between us. I’d had things I meant to say beforehand. I meant to tell him that this was the last time, that the solicitor had told me that my grandmother was very much in the same way she had been before, and would not allow for his entrance back into my life even after her death. I had meant to say that this could be the one last time we could do this again, and that he must remember it, as I would remember it, for the rest of my life.

But I had said none of that. I had only let him work on me with his ways, and given myself to him, mind and body and soul, no less deeply for how temporary I knew it had to be.

And now he looked so peaceful. He looked calm, and all I could imagine was him waking, and being glad, and then losing all of that peace and happiness and having it all dissolve into anger and frustration and disappointment.

I’d never really been weak. You couldn’t say that of me. No one could. I was not a weak woman; I’d never have gotten very far at all with the sorts of people I often had to deal with if that were the case. But now, just this moment, I felt very weak. I could not watch his face undergo that transformation. I could not follow a night of tenderness with such anger. It could not happen.

And so, I began to gingerly disconnect us. I didn’t think through what I was doing as I was doing it. I only tried to be as quiet, and as smooth and gentle as possible, so not to wake him. Then I looked around and tried to find some paper. There were his scraps of ideas and reminders, but I didn’t want to touch any of those.

When I could find nothing more suitable, I took up a wine bottle, and found an old pen in his desk and some ink that had nearly dried out.

There wasn’t enough ink, nor enough room on the label to say one quarter of what I wanted to say. I could try. I could say as much as I could fit on the label, or write until the ink was out.

But the longer I stayed, the longer he would have to wake up, and the less likely it would be that I would be able to slink out of there without an argument.

“I’m sorry,” I wrote. And then, far below, added. “I love you, and I will always remember you.”

That would do what it needed to do. That would be enough.

I laid it on the table and slid out the door.

It had taken me some time to find the ink and paper and write the message, and the dawn was beginning to break. The path was lit in that soft dawn light that makes everything feel hopeful and private. But I felt watched, and judged, and not very hopeful at all.

When I got home, it would be better, I was sure. I would lie in my bed for a bit. And then, perhaps, I would tell Lucy. Not everything. There were some things that Lucy couldn’t know for her own sake. But I could tell Lucy about Grandmother’s will, and about Henry. She ought to know, really. I could see now that she’d set  up  our meeting, at least in part, though heaven knew how she had discovered he existed at all.

Money was no longer an issue. Now that I had returned home, I would not need to pay for lodging, and so I did not begrudge myself a cab all the way from Henry’s house to mine. The ride was long, but I needed the time. I wanted to have my head sorted out by the time I got home, if only so that I could make it to my room without arousing any suspicion of impropriety from the servants.

But when I returned home, I realized this was impossible. Not the lack of arousing suspicion, but rather the idea that I should be able to go quietly to my room and find a way around to peace with my decision again.

Three separate people came up to me and told me that my grandmother was awake, and lucid. Another told me that she knew I was in the house and was asking for me. I told them, as kindly as I could, that this was not an option. I explained that I had promised Mr. Burnham that I would not speak to her until he had had the chance to work out certain legal matters. And the servant masked his disappointment with me as only a servant is truly practiced at doing, and let me go to my room.

There I only entertained for a moment the idea that I shouldn’t go see my grandmother. Yes, I had promised Mr. Burnham that I would not see her. But he had not accounted for a sudden bout of lucidity in the midst of her ailing, failing mind and body. And besides, there were things he did not know. And it was time he knew them.

I called my maid to help me dress properly and tidy my appearance. I wanted a bath, to feel entirely clean, but this was the best I could do on short notice.

Grandmother’s suite was much the same as it had ever been. It was opulent to the point of poor taste, or at least it had always seemed that way to me. But for women of her age and of her time, that was the style, I was aware. There were people in the anteroom, just waiting, it seemed. Servants who must have had duties that they were better off doing, but no one would yell at them today for attending their matron, even if they were only in the room outside.

I strained my ears to hear. There was a conversation taking place inside. My grandmother
was
herself. I could hear it in her voice. There was not a trace of hesitation, or uncertainty. Her voice was measured and clear.

But then … what was that? Who was she speaking to?

It was Mr. Burnham, apparently come to speak with her in her moment of lucidity as well.

I hesitated. He meant to get Grandmother’s will discredited if he could. He could be an ally. Perhaps I should leave him to talking to her. Maybe he would succeed, though I doubted it.

My grandmother’s voice rose, to the point where I could hear her words clearly from the hall.

“I won’t hear of it! I know what is best for my granddaughter and I will have a say in what she does!”

The anger hit me like a stagecoach. I’d spent so many years trying to bury the anger I’d felt that night, the night before I’d acquiesced and made the agreement. I’d buried it deep – so deeply that I’d forgotten it was there. I had begun to think I had just made this decision for the benefit of both me and Henry, as an actor in a fixed universe, where my grandmother was a force not unlike God or Nature. She was immovable. She was constant. This was simply the way things were, and there was no use raging against it.

But it wasn’t so! It wasn’t the case at all! My grandmother was just a woman, bitter and obstinate, but just a woman nonetheless. And then I had been a girl, and a girl silly in the light of love for all that. But now I was a woman, and she was an old woman, touched in the mind much of the time, and hardly unimpeachable. She would not be allowed to do this. She must not! She could not hold Henry’s fortune captive as a hostage against me … what there was left of it in any case.

And after the anger came the joy. I would be with him! I would be with Henry. Whatever consequences there would be, there would be. It would be the work of tomorrow to unravel or defeat them. But today, I would return to Henry, and I would tell him what I had done and beg his forgiveness. I would beg him to hold me and keep me. And I would tell him everything, without holding back for the sake of a sense of fealty I felt to a woman who did not even respect me enough to think I could be trusted to make my own decisions.

Full to the brim with this anger and mad joy, I burst into my grandmother’s room.

“Emma!” she said, at the same time the Mr. Burnham exclaimed “Miss Cavendish!”

Something was strange. Something was wrong. She was not angry, or condescending. She seemed instead delighted and surprised.

“Here she is, Mr. Burnham,” she addressed the solicitor now, “and you will see, she is not in the slightest opposed to what I intend to put in my will.”

I was again at a loss.

“Grandmother…” I said, and then trailed off.

“You’ve not read it?” she asked me, surprised, and then shot an accusing glance at Mr. Burnham.

“Did I not instruct you, in the clearest of fashions, that you should make certain Emma reads the will? She must know what I want from her, before it’s too late for me to express it.”

Perhaps I had been wrong. Perhaps all the servants had been mistaken, as well. This woman was not lucid. She did not know what she was saying.

“Mr. Burnham has told me that you intend to make my inheritance contingent upon a romantic attachment, Grandmother. And you know as well as I do that I am well aware of what attachment you insist must not ever occur.”

At this, it was Mr. Burnham’s turn to be surprised.

“Miss Cavendish, what do you mean must
not
occur? Your grandmother’s will is very insistent that you must enter into at least a process of courtship with a certain Lord Henry Headwidge, if he is willing. Except that there has never been the hint of a relationship beyond passing familiarity between you, and he is a well-known rogue and scoundrel.”

My anger didn’t leave, although it should have. And my joy was still too thin to be accepted and realized. I was uncertain, so uncertain. What did they mean by this? What was the meaning of the words coming out of Mr. Burnham’s mouth?

I looked to my grandmother. She was contrite, and apologetic. She seemed deeply, deeply regretful.

I stepped to the side of her bed and sank down onto it.

“I have made mistakes in my life, child. I regret them. And none so much as the mistakes I have forced onto you.”

I had believed my grandmother was a force that could not be changed. And perhaps that was correct. No one could change my grandmother’s mind. But I had never stopped to consider that my grandmother might change her own.

“Do you know what has become of him?” she asked me now, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I have seen him,” I said, and my sly smile must have given away the whole of it, for my grandmother laughed.

“Well, then,” she said, and left it at that. She held my hand.

Whether or not I could abide the idea of forgiving my grandmother did not seem the right question to ask myself. It was such a long time ago. All that was left now was to accept with joy the gift that she had given me in changing her mind.

“Oh!” she said, still holding my hand, but now addressing Mr. Burnham. “And have you any news on that other matter?”

My heart began to beat faster. I had spent such time mourning the lack of my own happy ending, I had not even thought of anyone else’s.

Mr. Burnham seemed off balance still. My understanding with Grandmother had convinced him, perhaps, that the woman was not so entirely touched as she seemed. But still he seemed hesitant to divulge the information in front of me.

“Oh, it’s quite all right, Mr. Burnham,” she said, sensing his trepidation. “My granddaughter already knows. But so that you are quite at ease, I will tell her myself.”

Then she turned to me, and said, with a comical ease, “My dear, many years before you were born, I found myself in a wild and unforgettable affair. The man in question, much to my misfortune, was a servant, and when I became pregnant there was no path to legitimacy for the child, nor for me should it become known what had occurred. Lucky, the man I loved was a servant to Lord Headwidge, grandfather of
your
Lord Headwidge, and in his service my lover had learned certain useful facts that, if they came to light, would ruin the Headwidge family. I used knowledge of these facts against Lord Headwidge to procure his assistance and discretion in concealing my condition and secreting away the child. And from that day forward we were held in a state of mutual distrust, with each having the keys to each other’s destruction.”

This speech completed, she turned again to Mr. Burnham.

“You see?” she said. “She is not the least bit shocked, nor is she traumatized. My granddaughter knows a great deal more, and can know a great deal more than I believe you give her due credit for. Now if you may permit me, I must insist you give me some account of your efforts. The time I have is uncertain.”

Her manner was short and to the point, but this sort of shortness and impatience was stock and trade of Mr. Burnham’s world, so he paid it no mind.

“Madam,” he said, “I am afraid I do not have good news to tell you. We were successful in finding your daughter. I … I have visted her grave myself. She lived, so far as can be determined by an onlooker, a pleasant life. She married and had a child. They were of middling means, but never poor.”

“And the child?” my grandmother asked. Only those who knew her well, as I once had, could sense the disappointment in her voice after learning the fate of her child.

“I’m afraid we are having no luck thus far in tracing her. She appears, some years back, to simply have vanished.”