Emerald Desire (Emerald Trilogy) (12 page)

“
It’s none of your concern.”

“
Where?” he persisted, anger in his voice.

She looked at him then, sorry for sparking his anger and not certain why she chose to be so evasive, but a part of her enjoyed seeing how far she could still goad him. “The forest!”

With a hard slap, she whirled the horse around and rode from the stables. She wished to escape him, needed to escape him, because he churned up the desire she thought she buried the night she gave Avery her promise.

Alone and flying fast on Darcie, the cool wind in her face, she seemed to gather strength from the beauty of the misty countryside.

She entered the forest, primal and silent except for the twittering of the birds in the bare branches above her head and the crunching of leaves beneath Darcie’s hooves. The forest belonged to Avery’s estate and was primarily used for hunting fowl and deer. Her isolation seemed acute and the forest at this time of year reminded her of her own life—solemn, lonely and unfruitful. She reined in Darcie and dismounted. In an unconscious gesture, she placed a slender hand on the flatness of her abdomen and longed for the children she would never bear. In her arms she imagined a small, bawling bundle, and at that moment she envied Lydia on the verge of giving birth.

“
Your husband is a foolish man to let you gallop off unescorted. The countryside is no longer safe, I hear tell.”

Dera started at Quint’s voice. She’d been so involved in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard his approach on Devil Man. He smiled at her, but the traces of his earlier anger hadn’t vanished from his face. His jaw was thrust forward in determination. Dera quickly dropped her hand from her abdomen and watched him dismount. “Has my husband summoned me?”

“
Nay.”

“
Then why are you here?”

Quint cocked a sandy eyebrow. “I think you expected me to ride after you.”

Heat rose to her face. She thought he was insufferable as well as impossible. Still, a feeling of anticipation seeped into her body. He stood so close to her that she found it difficult to breathe and cleared her throat in an attempt to mask her feelings. “That isn’t true.”

Quint laughed and in one swift swoop he ensnared her in his arms. “No? Then perhaps ‘tis only that you’ve grown more beautiful with each passing day, and I can not resist you. Marriage must be pleasing to you.” He nuzzled her ear. His breath, warm upon her skin, sent delightful shivers down her spine. “Tell me,” he continued, his voice husky. “Does your husband appreciate the great beauty in his bed each night? Do his hands wander over the smoothness of your buttocks and the swell of your breasts? Do you moan and push hard against him when he enters you as you did for me? Do you wrap your silky legs around him? Do you do these things for him?”

Frightened by the intensity of her feelings, Dera tried to shove away, but he held her firmer. “Stop, Quint! Don’t do this to me!” She was married to another man and had promised fidelity, but her body knew no such promise. She could feel her resistance melting away.

Quint forced her head back and looked into the soft, violet eyes which implored him to stop, yet begged him to continue. He had the sensation of drowning in a sea of heather. He had never known a more beautiful, desirable woman, and he doubted he would ever love any woman in the same reckless way he loved Dera. Constant thoughts of Dera with Avery Fairfax nearly drove him insane. He ached to love her; ached to hurt her for the secret pain he carried in his soul.

With a swift movement, he pulled off her plumed hat and tossed it upon the ground. “That thing looks like a scrawny bird," he said. "And this riding outfit, buttoned up to the neck . . ." Tugging roughly at the small buttons, he exposed her cleavage. "Now you resemble your old self. Wild and beautiful." He smiled, but his self satisfied smile died away as his attention was held by the fullness of Dera's breasts straining against the thin material of her jacket. Her heaving bosom excited him, and without meaning to, he tore at the remaining buttons until her breasts tumbled free of their confinement.

He tensed against her, and she attempted to pull away, but his mouth captured the soft, pink peak of a nipple. Rhythmically, he sucked it until it stood hard and firm; then he began his exploration of her other breast, loving the feel and smell of her.

He heard Dera give a low moan of pleasure. The desire to throw her upon the ground and make love to her engulfed him. He wanted to feel the sweet softness of her as he entered her. He pushed her onto a bed of dried leaves, his lips and hands exploring what she freely gave him. He could tell she wanted him, but suddenly she pushed at him with small, clenched fists.

"No, Quint! Stop! I can't."

"Be quiet, Dera, and let me kiss you," he whispered.

She wiggled free of him and sat up, her long, dark hair hanging in wild disarray about her shoulders. "I can't do this to Avery," she said.

He stared at her in stunned disbelief. He got up and spat upon the ground as if he were getting rid of a vile taste in his mouth. "Aye, I was right about you. You're not the same. You're a teasing witch."

"That's an awful thing to say to me."

'Tis only the truth. Just now, you were ready to give yourself to me until your so called conscience bothered you. But, aye, I do admit the fires of passion still burn brightly in you for me."

She stiffened. A fight with Quint would do no good. He had a way of belittling everything about her with his hot temper and cruel words. She cursed herself for being an idiot. He hadn't changed and she doubted he ever would. If he couldn't have his way, then he felt free to humiliate her. She buttoned her jacket. She looked straight into his eyes, hoping to catch a glimmer of the man she had loved so fervently, but it was not to be. "Think what you will of me," she said.

He regarded her quizically, then he smiled. "Don't forget to perch that ridiculous hat on your head. Otherwise, your husband might wonder what you were doing all this time in the woods.” He mounted Devil Man and rode out of the forest. Dera watched him go, feeling angry and hurt. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she returned home.

Avoiding Avery, she went to her room. She curled up on her bed and cried softly to herself. Quint had destroyed her fantasies of him once and would have exploited her again, except this time she had been strong and resisted. But she wondered what good strength was when she was unhappy and miserable all of the time.

"My lady?"

Anna stood by her bedside, concern on her face. "I knocked but you didn't hear me. What's the trouble?" Anna sat beside her and gathered Dera in her arms until Dera finished weeping. She wiped the tears away with a fresh kerchief which she took from her pocket. "No need to say your problem is a man."

"How do you know that?" Dera sniffled, regaining her composure.

"Most women's tears are shed over men. My guess is the man you're weeping over isn't your husband."

"I'm so ashamed," Dera said. "But I love him so much."

"No need to feel shame for loving. Now, tell me about it. Sometimes our problems are big until we let it out to another person."

Dera looked at Anna's gentle countenance and knew she could be trusted. She told Anna about Quint, then about her marriage to Avery. Anna sat patiently and quietly until Dera had finished. Afterwards, she shook her head sadly. "Mr. Quint's heart must be blacker than the pits of hell."

"That isn't true. He's driven by a dream," Dera said. He had wounded her deeply, and a part of her did wish to believe the worst of him, but she remembered the love and passion that had bound them together. "Thank you for listening. I feel much better," Dera said.

“
Whenever you need me, I'll help you. Now, clean your face, my girl, or Lord Fairfax will wonder why you've been crying."

Dera washed her face, thinking that in Anna, she had found a loyal friend. She also knew she must stay away from Quint Flannery or risk more suffering at his hands.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Timothy’s new farmhouse was situated in a secluded area of the estate. In the spring and summer, trees would shroud the house in long, cool shadows; but now in the waning days of winter, the stark limbs stretched above the roofline, seeming to enclose it like the dome of a church. He liked the largeness of the rooms; it was the perfect place to raise a child.

What he didn't like was the bog a short distance away. In his mind's eye, he could imagine his toddling child wandering blindly into that dangerous spot. He determined to speak with Lord Fairfax about having it drained as soon as warmer weather returned.

He had just finished the evening meal when the pains struck Lydia. One moment she was clearing the table, the next she was doubled over. "Oh, Timothy," she gasped in surprise. "The baby's starting to ready itself." He jumped up and quickly carried her to their bed. She held her legs to her chest, unable to straighten them for the pain.

"I'll send word to the midwife," he told her in a trembling voice. He had never seen a woman in labor.

"There's no time. Run and fetch Dera. She'll know what to do."

"Dera? I can't ask her. Lord Fairfax will object. And what does she know of babies?"

Lydia bit down hard on her lower lip as a contraction struck her. "Please. She always knew how to handle things. I want Dera." The tears rolled down her cheeks. Timothy couldn't see how Dera could be of much help, but she was a woman, and it seemed to him that women always knew what to do at such times.

When he was gone, Lydia attempted to straighten her legs, but each time a hard wave of pain assaulted her. She was frightened but strangely contented. Her baby was coming. The child she had thought about for so long was about to enter the world. From the moment she knew she was pregnant, she knew she would have a son. Her son. Never mind that Timothy had implanted her with his seed, for she already had decided her son wouldn't be red haired and freckled.

Her son's hair would be blacker than the night, so black it would cast a blue sheen; and his eyes would be grayer than the sky on a frosty morning. He would grow tall and strong, his skin tinged with a golden hue. Already she had chosen his name and she didn't care if Timothy objected. If things had turned out differently, the child wouldn't be Timothy's but Gavin's. Her Gavin.

God, she had loved him! From their very first meeting in her father's boot shop, her heart had belonged to him. She remembered waiting on him in self consciousness when she measured his feet, but he hadn't seemed to notice. He only smiled at her. She liked the way his dark hair curled over his forehead and touched the tips of his long lashes; she liked the striking way he wore the velvet breeches and coat. She realized that the clothes were expensive, as were the boots he ordered.

"You're a very pretty colleen," he had said in his deep, lilting accent. Lydia blushed and stifled a small giggle. Men had complimented her on her looks, but this man made her feel like a silly, little girl. His gray eyes caressed her; she was entranced by this stranger.

"Are you from Athlone?" she asked, though she had never seen him and knew he wasn't.

"Belfast."

"I've heard it is a fine town."

"Aye, but I'll not be in a hurry to return."

She looked at him in perplexity and he smiled again, saying, "Now that I've seen you, my sweet." She felt the heat creeping into her face and lowered her eyes as he laughed lightly. "Don't be ashamed. Blushing becomes you." Gently he lifted her face, and almost as if she knew it were destined to happen, she gave her soft mouth to him for a kiss. "I shall see you soon," Gavin had told her.

And so it went. Each day after she tidied up her father's shop, he had waited outside for her. She didn't care that her behavior was improper. She only knew she loved the handsome Gavin, and when she allowed him to make love to her, she felt that her life had a purpose. With Gavin, she blossomed almost overnight from a pretty, hardworking girl to a beautiful and desired woman.

Gavin told her that he loved her. She believed him, certain they would soon announce their marriage. But suddenly he stopped coming to the shop. She worried he might be ill and unable to send a message to her, so she asked the innkeeper at the inn where Gavin kept a room.

“
He's been gone almost a week, Miss Lydia," the man informed her. "Didn't he tell you about the wealthy widow in Belfast he was marryin'?"

"Gavin got mar …" The room spun dizzily before her. The next thing she was aware of was lying on her bed, her parents bending solicitously over her. For weeks, she stayed in her room, barely eating, wasting away. Then one day her father ordered her to stop her brooding, put on her good dress and join the family and their guest for dinner. She obeyed him, not out of fear, but because she was growing tired of her melancholy.