Heather Graham (17 page)

She blushed crimson, trying to wrench free from his hold. “I can’t understand why I am obliged to stay here even now!”

“Because I may long for a wife again in the night!” he stated, staring at her. “It is amazing how easily a man can rest when he lies down beside a warm, tender—still!—body. Then that body starts to move and it seems to start his fires burning again.”

At last she was still. Very, very still. She lay down beside him, stiffly.

“If I weren’t so worried about Mary Kate,” she murmured miserably, “I might be able to sleep—still—beside you. I was told that she was put aboard a ship for home. If that is the truth—”

Pierce sighed. “So the king has told me. I’ve ships out to discover the truth. With my whole heart, though, I believe that your maid is well. She should soon be with your father in Virginia.”

“Can you find out for me?” Rose breathed, forgetting herself as she pushed up to stare at him, relief visible in her beautiful features.

A spasm seemed to touch his heart. She was wayward, far too proud. But she loved her servant dearly, and this, somehow, endeared her to him.

“Yes, I will do so.”

She seemed to realize that her bare breasts and torso were very visible to him, the way that she sat. She colored again, lowering her head and quickly sliding down to lie beside him. “Thank you,” she murmured awkwardly.

He grinned, staring at the ceiling.

“Was I that good?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He laughed out loud. “Never mind. Go to sleep.”

“That good …” she murmured. Then she gasped out, “Oh!” In a sudden flurry she swung around, a fist pounding down hard on his chest.

“Damn!” he swore, then grasped her wrists and pulled her against him, his eyes a blaze of silver. “Remember, my love, movement causes this great awakening …!”

“I will remember!”

She wrenched free from him, but seemed ready for no more argument that night. She lay beside him, touching him.

But not moving.

He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her tight against him once more. He closed his eyes. Rest. Dear God, he needed some rest.

But Rose wasn’t sleeping. She suddenly cleared her throat and murmured, “If you …”

“What?” he snapped.

“If you love Anne …”

“If I love Anne, what?” he demanded wearily.

“How can you be here with me?” she whispered.

Indeed, how could he? Since he had met Anne, he had never strayed. Not on journeys with the king. Not at court. Not when his friends jaunted from the theater to a night with the city’s finest paramours.

He had thought that he had loved Anne. But in all of his life, he had never known anything as overwhelming as his desire for the copper-haired vixen who had become his wife.

He owed Anne! He would have to ride out to find her, to assure himself as to her welfare. But he could certainly never explain the tempest in his heart to Rose. He’d be the greatest fool on earth to ever let her know the hunger she had created with him, the tenacious hold she already had upon his senses …

And his soul.

“Leave me be!” he told her, suddenly fiercely angry—

“But—”

He sat up. “No more! You, milady duchess, are my consolation, so it seems! A balm to ease the pain. And above all else,” he told her, his temper rising again, “through no great desire on my part, you have become my wife! You claim your innocence in it all—”

“I am innocent! And wronged! And if you were in any way kind, you’d let me return home to Virginia!”

“Oh, my love!” he said, his voice deep, trembling with emotion. “You are not going to Virginia. You are home; I’ve told you that; accept it. Now, leave it be!”

“It isn’t—”

“Keep me up much longer, and I swear to convince you that movement arouses me through the whole of the night!”

She inhaled, as if she was about to speak again. She caught the look in his eyes. Her own burned with fury.

But she fell silent.

A little sound escaped her as his arms wound hard around her.

She exhaled slowly. And at long last, lay still.

All that he could feel was the beating of her heart.

If he could only sleep …!

But he lay awake, his thoughts revolving.

In the end, he realized that she drifted to sleep long before he did. He breathed the perfume in her hair and held the silky softness of her flesh, and knew that he desired her again.

Her breathing was slow and even. She slept so sweetly. Soft and tender in his arms.

What had she done to him? How had she changed him so completely? Bewitched him?

Maybe the passion would burn itself out. Maybe …

He swallowed hard. Jesu, he wanted her again. He eased closer to her. Stroked her hair, touched her cheek. There was a touch of moisture there. Tears. Proud, defiant Rose! She had silently cried herself to sleep.

He kissed her damp cheek, and held her ever more tenderly.

And tried to deny the fact that he had already fallen just a little bit in love.

THE SUN FELL UPON
Pierce’s ancestral estate, Castle DeForte. It was a true castle, in every aspect, built along the Conqueror’s trail when he had first come to England, a fortress begun of earth and stone to discourage any Anglo-Saxons lurking in the forests after Hastings. Over the years, the place had been greatly modified. As the threat of attack from outside forces had diminished, windows had been created, and the family had used its wealth toward the comforts of the home. Now rich, elegant tapestries covered the cold stone walls. Persian carpets and woolen rugs lay about the floors. Oak and mahogany furnishings were amply upholstered, and stained glass added color and elegance to many of the windows.

DeFortes had survived much through the generations. Through the bloody reigns of the last Plantagenets to the Tudors and into the Stuart days, DeFortes had managed to keep their hold upon most of their possessions. Even when Cromwell had become Lord Protector, even when Pierce’s own father had gone to the scaffold for his support of Charles I, the DeForte lands had been left alone. The people themselves would have revolted if Pierce’s kind and elegant mother had been ousted from her home, and Cromwell had—with the innate wisdom that had brought a commoner to the rule of all England—chosen to look the other way, and let the Lady DeForte alone. She had quietly maintained the estate, writing Pierce constantly of affairs in England.

He hadn’t even known that she was ill until he had returned home in triumph with the king. It was as if she had merely waited for him all those years. She had greeted him in the entryway in the great hall, and then she had fallen into his arms. Fevered, she had talked the night away, stroking his face, telling him that God had let her see him again, and that she could die easy, assuring his father that all was well.

He had the king’s finest physicians at his beck and call. But no one had been able to save her, and he had held her in his arms, rocking her, as she had drawn her last breath.

Perhaps that was why he and the king had always been so close. They had both felt the bitterness and pain of losing loved ones in times of great trial. Charles was aware of what the DeFortes had suffered for him. That was perhaps why he was such a friend.

Friend indeed! The king had forced him to marry, Pierce thought.

And he had now spent several days of matrimonial bliss, and if anything, his emotions were even more in a tempest than they had been.

He stared out one of the windows in his counting house, a place that was uniquely his, much more than his immense bedroom suite, for here he kept his books, ledgers, and logs on all the ventures he now engaged in, including his tenant lands, farm stock, and ships. He did business here, and he escaped here. His desk was huge and of oak, solid and sturdy. When he was weary he could cast his feet upon it, stretch back in his chair, and close his eyes. The drawers contained all manner of writing utensils, and a fine selection of liquors acquired from all over the world. Against the wall was a yellow brocade daybed, a gift from the Prince of Orange, Charles’s brother-in-law. Some of the paintings on the walls were Van Dykes, gifts to his father from the king’s father.

He gazed over this realm that he loved so much, then turned back to the man speaking before him. He was a tall fellow, nearly as big as Pierce himself, with steady brown eyes and a cap of hair to match. His name was Geoffrey Daraunte. He had been born in Bruges, and become a mercenary in many an army. Once, in a skirmish, Pierce had slain the fellow about to slice through Geoffrey’s throat. Since then, Geoffrey had been his man.

Pierce had brought him to England because he was intelligent and strong, a good man to have at his back, and one in need of honest employ. He was tenacious and determined, and merciful, all excellent qualifications for a right-hand man.

“The captain of the
Lady Fair,
heading westward, did catch up with the
Yancy
out of London. She reported that there was indeed a woman on board who was a servant to your wife. The seas were rough, so it seemed most prudent not to attempt to retrieve the woman, especially since she will be taken to her home in Virginia. I waited at the docks and just received this information, and of course, my lord, rushed here immediately.”

“That’s good news,” Pierce said.

“Jamison Bryant is really just a fool in all this,” he added softly, only a touch of bitterness to his voice. He could speak freely. Geoffrey knew the circle of nobles in which Pierce moved well enough to understand what his master was saying. “But then there is Jerome! I always tried to tolerate him for Anne’s sake! I just pray—”

He broke off.

“The serving woman hadn’t been hurt,” Geoffrey assured him. “Surely the man would not harm his own sister.”

Pierce was not so certain. They’d all been such idiots! Once Anne had married Jamison, he gained control of her lands. And now that control would be shared with her brother. Jerome had always been thirsty for power and money.

Jamison had been thirsty for Anne.

It was all a dull ache within him now.

“You’ve found out nothing more on that matter?” Pierce asked.

Geoffrey shook his head. “I believe, milord, you discovered the best lead the other day when you came upon that small tavern just south of here where the innkeeper mentioned the rider who had demanded food in such haste. It seems that they have traveled somewhere closer to the Channel.”

“But where?” Pierce mused softly.

He clenched his fingers into fists at his back as he walked over to stare out the mullioned window to gentle hills that stretched behind it. His home was beautiful. An hour’s ride from London, another few hard hours’ ride to the English Channel. The landscape was low, but rolling endlessly in a beautiful array of colors, rich emerald fields, purple dottings of heather, yellow sheaves of wheat.

To his absolute amazement, he suddenly realized that the field before him was not empty. A rider, clad in a hooded cape, was starting the climb up the slope that led into the forest.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint why the rider appeared so furtive. Perhaps because it seemed that the horse pranced, and paused, allowing the rider a quick look back. Maybe it was the hooded cloak the rider wore. Rider. Damn!

It was his wife, he thought, amazed, amused—and furious. He turned to Geoffrey. “Excuse me, will you. I will return directly.”

He hurried out of his office, and out the great entry to the castle. He ran down the stone steps and across the courtyard to the stables, nodding grimly to the groom who rushed up to assist him. “I shall manage on my own, lad,” he said, quickly sweeping Beowulf’s bridle from a peg on the stall. “Tell me, did the duchess come for a mount?”

“Aye, milord. She said she wanted to see the estate.”

The estate indeed! She wanted to see a ship bound for the colonies, he was certain.

“Milord!” the young groom said anxiously. “I beg your pardon if I’ve done anything foolish—”

“Nay, lad. You’ve done nothing foolish.” I underestimated her! he charged himself. He didn’t bother with Beowulf’s saddle. When the horse was bridled, he leapt atop it. Beowulf seemed to know his mood. The horse pranced and thundered from the stable.

She was well ahead of him. His advantage was that he knew the terrain like the back of his hand. And she did not know that he was in pursuit.

Within minutes he had crossed the fields and come to the forest. He slowed his wild gait before a slender trail leading through the trees. Numerous branches were broken off. It was the way that she had come.

He nudged Beowulf to a canter again. The woods were canopied with green, and here the day was darkened and cooled. He rode swiftly until he saw her before him at last. She had paused at a break in the trees, trying to gauge her direction.

Then she heard the snap of a twig beneath Beowulf’s great hoof and seemed to panic, nudging her horse hard. She didn’t even look back; she couldn’t have known that it was him. She began a wild race through the trees.

“Headstrong little idiot!” he muttered aloud, following hard. Thanks to Beowulf’s great power and speed, he was abreast of her in seconds.

“You’re going to kill yourself!” he roared to her. She glanced his way at last. Her eyes widened. Her horse was panicked, too, and heading straight for a cove of trees. She might be the best horsewoman in all the world, but he didn’t think she could possibly have the strength to rein in the terrified creature before she reached those trees.

“Dammit!” he swore, reaching out. She screamed when his arms wound around her, sweeping her from her runaway horse to his own. The mare she rode thrashed on through the trees. Beowulf dutifully pranced to a stop. They would have been fine.

Except that Rose was wildly fighting his hold, something he hadn’t expected, and hadn’t prepared for. Together they toppled from the great war-horse. Fuming, swearing, and falling, he still tried to catch her weight atop his own. He managed to do so and they came to rest with him supine upon his back and Rose stretched out atop him.

“What on earth are you doing?” she gasped.