Never Less Than a Lady (10 page)

And she wanted him. She
did
. The passion she’d cut from her life flooded back, hot and demanding as his large, strong hands kneaded her back and hips. Ah, God, how could she have forgotten…?

Her lips parted and their kiss deepened. His breathing was ragged. “You are so beautiful, Julia,” he said hoarsely. “So rare…”

His hand slid down, pulling her gown and robe from her shoulder. Cool air caressed her heated skin, followed by his searing hand.

Then he stiffened as he touched the hideous scars she’d tried so hard to forget. “Julia?”

Horrified memories erupted in a blaze of hellfire emotion as past and present collided in an avalanche of pleasure, passion, and pain.

She began to scream.

Randall’s delight in his bride’s eager response was interrupted when he felt the stunning, incomprehensible ridged scar tissue on her lovely breast.

His happiness splintered as she frantically wrenched herself from his embrace. She stumbled blindly away until she banged into the corner of the room. There she folded over onto the floor in a sobbing ball, her dark hair falling over her face.

The change in mood was as sudden and violent as cannon fire. He had been so sure that she desired him as he desired her. They would become lovers and mates with the intimacy he had craved since he first saw her.

Hope died in an instant as understanding sliced into his heart like shrapnel. But his pain was nothing compared to hers. Her anguished flight defined her first horrific marriage with visceral power.

He knelt beside her, sickened by the knowledge that Branford could still reduce Julia to anguished terror a dozen years after his death. “Julia, tell me what happened. I need to understand.”

She shook her head, her face buried in her hands. “It’s…it’s not you.”

No, but Randall must deal with the consequences. Her left shoulder was still bare, so he was able to confirm the atrocity he’d discovered by touch. The soft curve of her breast was marred by an ugly ridge of scar tissue that formed an irregular letter B.

Grimly he pulled the gown up over her shoulder. “B for Branford, of course.” His voice was unnaturally steady. “I wouldn’t have thought even he could be so vile.”

She seemed to shrink even further. “He carved a D for Daventry into my other breast,” she said dully. “The night I asked for a separation. The night he died.”

Hoping talk would pull her away from her inner hell, he said, “When you told me about that night, you said Bran was drunk?”

“Drunk and mad.” She drew a shuddering breath. “After beating me within an inch of my life, he pulled out his knife and pinned me down with his knee while he slashed off my clothing. He used an antique Saracen dagger he was particularly fond of. He loved all knives.”

“I know. He would sit around and sharpen them for hours.” Randall’s throat constricted as a long-buried memory surfaced. More than once, Branford had come after his younger cousin with one of his knives, but Randall was fast and he learned to fight back when speed wasn’t enough.

He glanced down at the thin white line that twisted around his left wrist and up his forearm. That was a remnant of the incident that made it clear he must fight to survive.

Forcing down his rage so as not to upset Julia even more, he said, “No one should have to endure what you’ve endured.”

“I was his wife,” she said bitterly. “He could do with me as he willed. He said that repeatedly. I was his possession, and he had the right to mark me as his. After he cut the letters into my breasts, he raped me.”

“Dear God, Julia!” Randall said, too anguished to pretend calm.

She laughed, a hysterical edge to her voice. “The rape was what saved me, actually. When Branford was done, he slumped down on me and I was able to push him off. I managed to get to my feet. Before I could escape, he grabbed at me, but I was slippery with blood and he couldn’t keep hold when I shoved him. He…he fell into the edge of the fireplace then. I don’t remember screaming, but when I thought back later, I always heard screams. Odd, don’t you think?”

“Branford was evil,” Randall retorted, unable to keep his voice calm. He took her hand. She tried to tug it free but he held fast. She needed to be tethered to the present so she wouldn’t drown in the past. “You are not to blame for his madness.”

“No, but I am to blame for my shameful stupidity.” Her unsteady voice was barely audible. “I never should have married him.”

“There is no shame in being young. You were hardly more than a child when you married. But you were never stupid.” He squeezed her hand gently. “That I know.”

“You think not? I told you I agreed to marriage willingly, but that was…less than the whole truth.” She laughed bitterly. “The beastly, shameful reality is that I was mad for Branford. He was handsome, charming, every girl’s dream prince. And I…I though the loved me, too. I was foolish beyond redemption.”

Knowing Branford, Randall understood. “So in the beginning, he was tender and loving. He would apologize sincerely if he hurt you, claiming it was accidental. He took pains to win your trust so that you would suffer the anguish of betrayal as well as physical agony when he turned brutal.”

She became very still. “How did you know?”

“He was much the same with me. But the relationship between two male cousins is less intimate than between a man and his wife.” Though the betrayal had been bad enough. When he had first been delivered into Daventry’s care, he’d looked up to Branford. He’d wanted to have a big brother who would be his friend. For a fortnight, he thought that he did. That belief had briefly eased his mourning for his parents.

It would have been easier if Branford had tormented him from the beginning.

“He was the master of betrayal,” she whispered. “You can understand that as no one else.”

Sadly, he did. If that understanding helped Julia, there would be some value to the misery Randall had endured. “I wish I had been the one to kill the devil.”

She gave a dry laugh. “But I was the murderer.”

“An accident while you were trying to save yourself is not murder.” Though he understood that a woman dedicated to preserving life would feel that way. “Branford has wrecked years of your life already. Don’t let him destroy the rest.”

“That would be his triumph from the grave, wouldn’t it?” She pressed her tear-stained cheek against Randall’s hand. “He would love knowing he’d ruined me for any other man.”

She was shivering from shock like a battle-weary soldier. Randall asked, “Would you like some brandy?”

When she nodded, he said, “It’s time to come out of your corner.” He rose and used their joined hands to coax her to her feet.

Her fingers were icy and her face splotched with tears, but she’d mastered the shattering pain that had sent her flying away from him. In bare feet and her pale night robe, she was slight and beautiful and indomitable.

Glad he’d replenished his travel flask, he poured a small glass for her, then a larger one for himself. He wished he could block out the images of a bleeding, frantic young girl trying to escape her brutal husband, but there wasn’t enough brandy in the world for that.

After several sips of her drink, she said in a stronger voice, “I thought I’d buried the worst memories, but I was wrong. Now I’ve given you my nightmares.”

He shrugged. “They may be lighter for being shared.”

“Perhaps.” She finished the brandy, refusing when he offered more. “Tomorrow, I shall be sane again. I promise you that, Alexander. For now…I wish to be alone.”

Though he wanted to comfort her, he wasn’t surprised that she couldn’t bear his touch. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

She drew a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, but I meant—really alone. I’ll go to one of the other bedrooms.”

Once more he reminded himself that it was not really him she was rejecting. She must deal with her past in whatever way she thought best. But he wasn’t sure he could bear it if she decided she must leave her brand new husband. “You won’t run away?”

“No. My word on that.” She sighed. “I’m tired of running, tired of being terrorized by the dead hand of the past. I want to live freely again. I just wish that my struggles weren’t hurting you.”

“Together we can manage. Remember that, milady.” He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her safe against the terrors of the night, but that wasn’t possible. “Till morning comes.”

“Till morning comes,” she echoed. “Thank you, Alex. For everything. For understanding, for being here, and for going away.”

He released her hand, but couldn’t bring himself to leave before he brushed her thick glossy hair. The silken strands tantalized his fingertips. He dropped his hand and knotted it into a fist. “Sleep well, milady.”

He slid the brandy flask into the pocket of his banyan as he walked out the door and headed numbly downstairs. He was entering his old bedroom when Mackenzie emerged from his room just down the hall.

The other man was dressed for some nighttime prowl, but he stopped, surprise and then speculation showing in his eyes. “I thought I heard a woman scream earlier.”

“Probably courting tomcats,” Randall said tersely, wishing to hell that Mac wasn’t here to see that the bridegroom had left his bride.

“I would imagine that any woman who had been married to Lord Branford would require…patience,” Mackenzie said quietly.

Randall scowled. “I prefer it when you’re shallow and insensitive.”

Mac’s face smoothed into amiable blankness. “As you wish.” He turned to leave, but briefly touched Randall’s shoulder as he left. Sympathy from the devil.

Randall locked the door behind him. The draperies were open and admitted enough light to show that the bed had been stripped of linens, but blankets and counterpane were neatly folded across the foot. Wearily he stretched out on the bare mattress. His leg ached from all the walking, though not as much as his heart ached.

So Julia had loved Branford. That made everything worse. Randall had believed it was possible for her to overcome her nightmares and become a true wife. For a few fleeting moments, she had seemed willing, even eager. But the nightmares had won.

Could she ever recover from that betrayal of love so that she could love again? Her past might prove insurmountable.

He took a long swallow of brandy. The flask didn’t hold enough for drunkenness, but there was probably enough to take the edge off his pain.

Brandy wasn’t enough to warm the chill in Julia’s soul. After Randall left, she lit the fire laid in the fireplace, then curled up in a corner of the small sofa. The idea of crawling under the writing desk was appealing, but that lacked dignity. It was time she began acting like a rational adult rather than a terrified girl.

A small, cowardly corner of her mind longed to run away to a place where no one knew her and she could start over again. But she hadn’t the energy for that, or the strength to face such loneliness.

Since suppressing the past hadn’t worked, the only way forward was through the hellish wreckage of her first marriage. Which meant she must look at Branford and how she had felt about him.

Julia forced herself to pull down the loose fabric of robe and nightgown so she could stare at her scarred breasts. As a girl, she had taken her healthy young body for granted. Despite her lack of inches, it was a good body. Not extraordinary, but graceful and well-proportioned, worthy of male admiration. Nature designed young men and women to appeal to each other.

That natural acceptance of herself had been destroyed by her first marriage. The occasional sensual pleasure she had experienced in the early days was soon overcome by loathing for his body, and for hers.

The letters he had carved bloodily into her breasts had set the final seal on her self-hatred. She was ugly, mutilated. No man could want her, just as she wanted no man. For years, she had done her best never to view her scarred body. Her bedroom held no mirror, and she became expert in dressing herself without seeing or thinking about her physical form any more than was absolutely necessary.

Looking back, she realized that time, life, and her nursing work had mitigated much of her hatred of the human body. She had delivered so many babies who were conceived in love. She’d seen deep, satisfying sexual bonds between husband and wife. And she’d heard her share of bawdy, happily lascivious jokes, because married women didn’t hold their tongues around a widowed midwife.

Branford’s sprawling, irregularly shaped initials were about two inches long and carved on the upper curves of her breasts. It hadn’t been easy for her to overlook them. Over the years, the angry red letters had faded to dense white ridges of scar tissue.

She felt no particular sensation when she traced the forms. “B” for Branford, gone from her life and from the world. “D” for Daventry. It was ironic that in the fullness of time, she might still become the Countess of Daventry. But with a mercifully different husband.

Julia pulled up her nightgown and robe and settled back into the sofa, her absent gaze on the flickering fire. She had been barely sixteen when her father announced that she was to marry Daventry’s heir.

She’d been raised to expect such an arrangement because of her high rank. Though she would have resisted if she’d met Branford and found him repugnant, she had been delighted by her father’s choice.

All too clearly she remembered the way Branford smiled when they first met. He was dark, handsome, and fashionable, and he’d professed himself rapturous to have such a beautiful, elegant bride.

Julia had wanted to believe she was beautiful and elegant. What young girl wouldn’t? By the time he kissed her to seal their betrothal, she was halfway in love with him. Their wedding had been the grandest of the Season, attended by no less than seven members of the royal family. It was no more than the Duke of Castleton’s daughter deserved.

With the benefit of hindsight, she could see there were early signs that something was very wrong with Branford. His glittering, dagger-edged charm sometimes made her profoundly uneasy. He would be oddly amused for reasons she didn’t understand. Yet she had blindly ignored her instincts.

Her deflowering had been shockingly painful, but afterward he had held her tenderly and said that was normal. She hadn’t realized until much later that he’d made no attempt to be gentle, and that under his false sympathy was pleasure in her pain.

She was a normal young woman, and at first there were times when she found some pleasure in intercourse. But more and more often, she had ended up weeping. Branford would apologize with apparent sincerity, and she would be left feeling that the fault was in her. She was too young, too small, too stupid to be a proper wife.

She found the situation too shameful to discuss with anyone else. She was Lady Julia Raines, Viscountess Branford, and she would not reveal her weaknesses.

Only gradually had she come to notice the unholy gleam in his eyes when she was suffering. Later yet came the recognition that he’d sometimes exerted himself to pleasure her so that she would become optimistic about their marriage. She would start to believe that her weaknesses were almost cured and that everything would be all right.

When she believed herself in love with him, she was vulnerable. Easier to hurt.

Julia had been devastated the first time he told her he’d lain with another woman who was an infinitely more satisfying bedmate. Yet soon she felt relief in the knowledge that he had mistresses. Unfortunately, he couldn’t ignore his legal wife since it was their duty to produce an heir.

She welcomed his trips to London, when she was left at peace in the country. Alone, she was able to think and to recognize the wrongness of her marriage. She began to avoid him when he returned to their country home. Her growing immunity to his emotional manipulation infuriated him.

That was when the beatings began.

Her pregnancy was the breaking point, and also her door to freedom. Praying that she would bear Branford a healthy son and heir—and that she would have most of the raising of the child until he was old enough to be sent to school—she asked for a separation. That request triggered the excruciating violence that left him dead and her close to it.

Could she have done anything differently? She was too well-bred to cause a scandal so it had never occurred to her that she might run away. It wasn’t uncommon for aristocratic couples to live separate lives. Her duty as a wife was to give her husband an heir. Since Branford despised her, surely he would be happy to allow her to keep her distance once he had a son.

But he hadn’t wanted that civilized solution, and he’d tried to kill her. She began to shake as scenes from that last horrible night burned across her brain.

The glowing coals in the fireplace collapsed, and triggered a harsh realization. She was glad he was dead.

The knowledge that she’d caused his death had been a heavy burden for all these years. She would never have chosen to hurt another living being.

But if he had survived, her life would never have been her own. Was her guilt because of her relief? Perhaps. But guilt wouldn’t change the past, and if one of them had been fated to die that night, she was glad that it was Branford.

Vile, tragic, half-mad Branford. She tossed another scoop of coals on the fire and watched sparks flare up the chimney. Her anger and pain were like those burning coals, scorching her soul. She imagined the anger consumed by flame, the ashes flying into the night. One by one, she fed her memories of pain into the flames. Branford could hurt her no longer, unless Julia allowed it.

She would allow it no longer.

A fragile sense of peace unfurled deep within her. She settled back in the sofa, knowing she owed that peace to her new husband’s kindness and his acceptance of her flawed self.

If she had met Randall when she was sixteen, would she have been drawn to him? She imagined him as thin, blond, quiet, and intense, not yet tempered into the formidable man he would become. How deplorable to think that at sixteen, she might actually have preferred the more dashing Branford.

But now she a woman grown, seasoned by life. What did her instincts tell her about her new husband? That he was an honorable man who would never intentionally hurt her. Branford had smiled when first they met. Randall had scowled. An honest scowl had served her better than Bran’s charming, lying smile.

Though she had accepted Randall’s proposal with the intention of bolting out the back door if the marriage went badly, she had underestimated the power of wedding vows. She had pledged him her word, both at the altar and again tonight before he left the room. For better and worse, there would be no easy way out of this marriage.

Would Randall be better off without her? He said he didn’t mind her barrenness, but that might change now that he had left the army and was settling into a normal life. Perhaps she should leave him so that he could find a whole, undamaged wife.

No.
She didn’t have the right to make that decision for him. For whatever reason, she was his choice, and her abandonment would hurt him. He didn’t deserve that.

Since she was dealing with truth, she admitted to herself that she would rather have him for a husband than any other man. She liked his dry humor and intelligence, and the companionability growing between them. More surprisingly, she liked his taut, powerful body and that handsome, sculpted face that was so good at hiding his feelings.

He had scars of his own. Together, they might find healing.

Since Randall’s belongings had been moved to the bridal suite the day before, he had no choice but to head upstairs the next morning. He wasn’t sure what he’d find, but at least Julia had given her word not to vanish in the middle of the night.

“Come in.” Julia’s voice seemed normal enough. He entered the room to find her dressed for travel in a neat blue gown. Her expression was calm, with no signs of the previous night’s breakdown.

“My clothes are here,” he said apologetically.

“I know. I was expecting you.” She gestured to a tray that held a steaming teapot, cups, and scones. “A maid just delivered this. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Please.” He closed the door, glad that normality had been reestablished. “How are you this morning?” The question was not routine courtesy.

She reached for the teapot, her mouth curving wryly. “I spent the night wrestling ghosts, but I believe I won.”

He girded himself for what must be said. “Do you want an annulment? Since the marriage hasn’t been consummated, that wouldn’t be difficult. Our initial agreement was that I could touch you daily, and you could say no when you’d had enough. Perhaps…that was too much to ask.” As his words hung painfully in the air, he added, “Whatever you decide, I will do my best to shield you from Daventry.”

Julia’s hand froze, halting the teapot in midair. “Do
you
want an annulment? That would be…understandable under the circumstances.”

It would be gentlemanly to defer to what the lady wanted, but if ever there was a time for honesty, this was it. Conscious that what he said could change the course of his life, he said, “I most certainly do not want to end our marriage. But if you can’t bear for me to touch you, perhaps that is the only solution.”

Julia set down the teapot and crossed the room to stand in front of him. Her gaze searching, she cupped his face with one hand. He hadn’t shaved, so whiskers must be rasping her palm. She looked very grave, and unbearably lovely.

“I’m sorry for last night, Alex,” she said quietly. “It won’t happen again.” Hesitantly she leaned forward and slid her arms around his waist. She shivered a little as she settled against him, one soft section at a time. Her breasts molded against his chest, then her torso gently pressed into him. Finally her head came to rest on his shoulder.

He was moved to wordless tenderness by her trust. A soldier assaulting a walled city was no more courageous. The top of her head just reached his chin, and when he stroked her hair, it released a tangy scent of lavender. “Last night was interesting in an educational sort of way,” he murmured. “But I’d just as soon not repeat it.”

She laughed a little, her breath warming the shoulder of his banyan. “There are still hurdles ahead. But I think that one was the worst.”

After that, neither of them spoke. They just held each other. Randall’s right hand stroked gently down her back, feeling the arcs of her ribs and the steely strength of her spine. He closed his eyes, content to absorb the essence of his wife. Sweetness and lavender.

This wasn’t the wedding night he’d hoped they would share. But it was a start.