A Rose in Winter (52 page)

A long, wavering sigh slipped from her. Her heart seemed weighted with lead, and it yearned for a lightening of its burden. Yet no succor came. No dawning brightness lit her gloom. Christopher was gone and might never be back.

‘Twas Lord Saxton's standing order that none of the servants were to wait up if he failed to come home before the household was ready to retire. None did so this night, and the halls grew quiet and still as each found his bed. Candles were left burning to relieve the gloom that pervaded the darkened halls, and by their meager light the master passed like a ghost through the house. With painfully silenced tread, he climbed the stairs and moved down the corridor toward Erienne's room. Pushing the portal gently ajar, he leaned against the jamb and fed his hungry gaze on the form within the bed. Her gentle, even breathing marked her depth of slumber as she lay on her side facing the hearth with a hand tucked beneath her pillow. Her long hair streamed out into the darkness beyond, and he knew if he gathered her close the luxuriant mass would spill about him and fill his head with an intoxicating scent. The sight of her fulfilled the vision he had kept of her throughout the day, that of a stirringly beautiful woman who warmed his blood more than he could bear.

Careful to make no sound that would betray his presence, he crossed to the bed and pulled the velvet hangings closed to darken the interior. Moving to the far side, he doffed his gloves and mask. Soon he was a pale shadow in the night, slipping beneath the covers. Surrounded by the velvet hangings, he became only a movement in the blackness. A soft sigh escaped Erienne's lips as he pressed close against her back. He inhaled the delicate fragrance of her hair and brushed aside the silken strands to kiss the tender nape. His hand found its way beneath her gown and searched out the womanly softness of her.

Wavering between fantasy and awareness, Erienne lay pliant beneath the roaming hand while elusive grayish-green eyes flickered at the edge of her consciousness. An essence, not unlike brandy, filled her head as the warmth of the firm body penetrated her gown. She stirred against him, and his whisper filled her mind.

"I can't leave you alone." He touched his lips to the smoothly rising slope of her shoulder. "The thought of you stumbles the beat of my heart and arouses such a hunger in me that I must seek you out or groan beneath the torture of it. You have chained me to you, Erienne. The beast is your slave."

The gown was drawn over her head and banished to the darkness, with only a whisper of a sound evidencing its fall to the floor. Erienne's mind broke to the surface of full awareness as he pulled her close to the hard, naked heat of him. He was a man, fully roused against the coolness of her buttocks. Her breasts warmed beneath his caress, and the slow, languid strokes of his fingers upon their throbbing peaks plucked at the strings of her passion, sending bursting shards of excitement hurtling through her until her loins awakened with a hunger of their own. His caresses continued, following the curving arch of her hip, and her heart quickened its pace beneath his questing search. A husky moan escaped her as he became bolder, intruding into the privacy of her woman's flesh and setting her senses aquiver with expectant eagerness. She melted against his warmth, arching her neck as his teeth nibbled at the slim column.

With a hand on her shoulder, he pressed her back upon the bed, and Erienne caught her breath as his tongue moved slowly over a soft crest of a breast, setting her whole body ashiver. His kisses slipped downward to caress her waist and belly, leaving in their wake a fiery trail that fairly threatened to consume her. She lay willing and eager as he rose above her in the darkness. She welcomed his weight with open limbs, then gasped as the plunging hotness penetrated. Her hands slipped over his shoulders, finding the scar that helped to banish Christopher's countenance from mind. Then with hypnotic motion his loins caressed hers, slow and sure, sheathing the flaming blade and drawing away until it became sweet, ecstatic torture. In blissful response she arched her hips against him, and the grayish-green eyes came back as her hands slipped downward over the hard, flexing buttocks. In her mind the shining orbs gleamed in triumph, but she was past the point of chiding her will into obedience, and she did not care at the moment what image her thoughts conjured in the dark.

In the softly glowing aftermath of their passion, Erienne was content to nestle in the warmth of the large manly form that curled against her. He lay on his side facing her, his legs drawn up beneath her buttocks, with the right foot extended well beyond the silken limbs that rested across his thighs. The only sound that intruded into the silence was the muted ticking of a distant clock. The heavy bed hangings forbade the smallest glimmer to shine through, cloaking them in intimate darkness. Even so, Erienne was haunted by faint and fleeting impressions of a chiseled profile and warm gray-green eyes.

"You've been drinking," she murmured softly.

"Aye," he answered in a rasping whisper and kissed her brow. "I fear I was quite besotted with desire for you."

She smiled in the dark. "Your desire has the smell of strong drink."

"My plight would not ease with a cup or two. The brew only sharpened my cravings."

"Why didn't you come home? I was waiting for you."

He responded with a low chuckle. "Aye, and to have returned to you in the light of day would have been disastrous indeed. Do you not ken how much of a temptation you are, madam?"

"I don't understand," she replied in confusion.

"I am trapped in darkness, Erienne. I can only come to you when the night will hide my face, and yet there grows in me a craving to take you in my arms while the sun is high, when I can see you flushed and warm with passion. 'Tis my hell that I must be a beast of the night."

It was much later when Erienne roused to the unfamiliar presence beside her in bed. Her husband's deep, even breathing assured her that he was asleep, and like thistledown wavering on a breeze her hand slipped hesitantly along his side, reaching his hip and sliding downward, ever so carefully, until she was halted by the feel of a raised, smooth scar, such as a burn would make, on her husband's thigh. How far it extended down his leg, she had no way of knowing, but the welt discouraged further exploring. She drew her hand away as a slight shudder went through her, and she wondered if she would ever come to the place where she would totally abandon her qualms.

Lord Talbot's ornate personal carriage drew up before the Saxton manse after a space of a week following the grand ball. The two footmen leapt to the ground, and while one ran to hold the horses, the other hastily placed a small stepping-stool beneath the door before opening it. A gold-buckled shoe reached out and felt cautiously for the step, then the richly brocaded form of Lord Talbot followed. Stepping to ground, he looked about arrogantly and adjusted his equally elaborate cloak with a shrug of his shoulders. The footman ran ahead to thump the large door knocker as his lordship fastidiously picked his way toward the tower entry with a silk-wrapped packet carried daintily in his gloved left hand.

Paine answered the summons and received from the footman the curt announcement of his lordship's presence. The butler seemed unaffected by the lord's arrival and handled himself with the usual dignified efficiency. After accepting the gloves, the tricorn, and the heavy cloak, he ushered Lord Talbot into the great hall, there bidding him to wait until the master was informed of his visit.

Though considerably less grand than Lord Talbot's manor, the hall of the Saxton estate clearly bespoke of its age and heritage. The high-arched, crudely carved trusses and the tapestries hanging from the plastered and timbered walls whispered of a time when chivalry and honor ruled the land. The chamber sharply contrasted with the grandiosity of the man's attire. Each would have been well suited to a score and ten years past, but now, while the manor remained undated, the lavish raiment of the lord appeared quite outmoded and ostentatious.

Paine came back to escort Talbot to the chamber beyond the common room, where Lord Saxton and his lady would receive their guest. The fancified gentleman marked his progress across the stone floors with a sharp rap of high heels. The butler stepped before him to open the door, then moved back, allowing the man to enter the withdrawing room. The masked one rose as Talbot pranced into his presence, and though the latter waited an appropriate length of time, there was no hint of a bow or even a nod of that stern, helmeted pate. Erienne sat rigid and unmoving, as her husband had bade her. As he had explained, the law ordained that the two lords were equal, and Lord Saxton would have it no other way. Indeed, if their individual worth were accountable by wealth of land, as it so often was, Lord Talbot might well be the one found lacking.

Talbot was piqued because the other did not accept a lesser status, but he managed to control his irritation to only a mild furrowing of his brow and a light twitching of his moustache. With a directness characteristic of the trained diplomat, he plunged into the matter that had brought him to the hall.

"I must apologize for the tardiness of our meeting. I can only plead the press of other business and a lack of cooperation from the weather."

The hollow, whispering voice replied with equal forthrightness. "Welcome to Saxton Hall." The gloved hand indicated a chair near his own. "Will you join us here by the fire?"

As Nigel Talbot accepted the proffered seat, his eyes settled on Erienne and warmed considerably, having such a wealth of beauty to feast upon. " 'Tis good to see you again, Lady Saxton. I trust you've been well."

"Very well, thank you." She nodded stiffly as she returned the greeting.

Talbot's gaze lingered overlong on the soft swell of her bosom displayed above her gown, and when he finally remembered himself and looked to the lord of the manor, he found that one facing him in the stilted silence of the room. Though the leather visage remained void of any human expression, he had the distinct impression that he had just foolishly trespassed where he should not have. It caused him to wonder how the Yankee could manage to escort the lady about the countryside when her husband seemed so possessive of her.

"I have brought some records of the rents I collected in your absence," he stated, bringing forth the ledger. "Of course, you must understand that there have been expenses we've had to deduct, and they amount to a goodly sum. We've had to elect some officers for the protection of your lands and properties. The scavengers would have torn this place apart stone by stone, and then, too, there are not many folk who fancy having traitors in their midst."

The masked head snapped up, and the rasping voice sounded sharp as Lord Saxton questioned, "Traitors? What do you mean?"

"Why, everyone knows your father sold his favors to Scotland. He married that old chieftain's daughter..." Talbot waved his hand as he tried to recall. "What was her name? 'Twas so long ago, I fear I've forgotten."

"Seton," Lord Saxton answered bluntly. "Mary Seton."

Nigel Talbot's jaw sagged slightly in surprise. "Seton? You mean the same as Christopher Seton?"

"Aye." The master of the house inclined his head. "The same. Kin by blood, they are."

"Are?" Nigel caught the significance of the word. "You mean your mother is still alive?" He closed his mouth as the other nodded and tried to recollect his thinking, murmuring distantly, "I'm sorry, I thought the lady was dead."

Lord Saxton leaned on his sturdy cane, commanding the other's attention with his awesome appearance. "Though the miscreants sought to find and kill us all, we managed to escape. My mother lives."

Talbot frowned slightly. "And the sons? What of them?"

Erienne's interest perked, heightened by the singular word, sons. She had been under the impression there was only the one son, and now, once again, she was aware of how little her husband had told her of his family. He seemed most secretive about it, as if reluctant to share with her that part of his life. Though she continued to sit quietly through the exchange, she hung to every word of their discussion, hoping to glean some knowledge that she might otherwise not hear.

Lord Saxton answered the inquiry as he turned aside. "They escaped with her."

"I must assume you are the oldest since you are the titled lord," Talbot replied. "But what of the younger? Does he still live?"

The shadowed eyes flicked over the man. "I believe him to be in fine health. You will have the opportunity of meeting him face to face at a later date."

Nigel Talbot managed a nod. "Of course, I would enjoy that."

Lord Saxton waved a gloved hand to the ledger. "We were talking about the rents you collected. If that is your accounting of them, I shall look it over at my leisure."

Talbot seemed reluctant to hand it over. "There are some expenses I should explain."

"No doubt I'll have many questions to ask after I study your figures," his host responded. "My steward has kept his own accounting of the sum the tenants said were paid. 'Twill be interesting to see how well the two compare. 'Tis not often that a royal decree is handed down giving authority for one lord to collect rents for another. If you still have the dispatches issuing that directive, I should like to inspect the various seals and signatures. My steward has been unable to find a record of such a writ, and 'twill be helpful if he had the names of those who issued it." Lord Saxton reached out a hand expectantly. "The ledger please."

Erienne observed Lord Talbot's struggle for control in the tensing muscles in his face. The man was obviously incensed, but his host left no options open to him. His nostrils were pinched, his mouth downturned as he grudgingly handed over the book.