The Heart Denied (14 page)

The perfume of roses wafted his way on a western breeze. At times their scent actually quelled the stable odors of sweat, dung and leather--much like thoughts of Lady Neville quelled, for hours at a time, the stench of Hobbs' bitterness at his lot in life. With each passing day, he found himself glancing more frequently toward the Hall in hopes of seeing Thorne Neville's bride.

As Hobbs watched her ride Abigail down the Northampton road toward Beck's Hollow, an idea struck him. He was an excellent tracker, stealthy and keenly observant, on horseback as well as on foot.

He would follow her.

* * *

Descending the ridge, Gwynneth let Abigail pick her way at leisure over roots and stones, then brought the mare to an abrupt halt just inside the tree line.

Not more than a hundred yards to the west, Thorne Neville stood with his back to her. He appeared to be examining the trunk of an old ash tree.

Frowning, Gwynneth backed Abigail deeper into the woods and dismounted. First looping the reins over a decaying tree stump, she kept her eyes on the ground and headed for the boulder she and Thorne had used for their picnic. Pretending not to have spotted him, she doffed hat, boots, stockings and hairpins.

It was the sensual shake of her head that caught Thorne's eye. Watching her red-gold hair fan out over her back and shoulders, he stood rooted to the spot. Concealing himself was a lost option as Raven picked up Abigail's scent and neighed. Slowly, Gwynneth turned to meet her husband's gaze.

Thorne's mind raced as he strolled along the grassy bank. Reaching the boulder, he tried to sound casual. "Good morning, my lady. What brings you here?"

She hesitated. "A memory."

Thorne lowered his eyes. A memory had brought him here, too, though likely a very different one. He lifted Gwynneth's hand, fingered the rings on her limp fingers. "A pleasant memory, I hope?" He looked up to see her sulky expression.

"Quite pleasant--until you became angry with me."

"Angry?" Thorne frowned, perplexed.

"Yes. Just as you were that night in London, after you kissed me in the coach."

"You thought me angry?"

"Do not patronize me, my lord."

Thorne gazed into eyes as green as the moss on the boulder and as limpid as the beck waters, and shook his head. "If anger had any place in it, 'twas only at myself for nearly letting my feelings overcome my good sense."

"What feelings? Tell me. Don't leave me mystified again."

Thorne eyed her silently for a moment. "Very well, my lady, you asked, and I shall answer. I wanted you. I wanted you enough to take you there and then--in the carriage, and again on this very boulder."

Scarlet flooded Gwynneth's cheeks. She averted her eyes. "And what hindered you?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"You were not mine for the taking," Thorne said quietly.

Her eyes darted to his, then away again. Watching the tip of her tongue slide nervously over her lower lip, Thorne recalled with jolting clarity how those lips had closed so innocently around his finger that day, how hotly that small pink tongue had branded him with a single, reflexive flick. His groin tightened.

Gwynneth's shoulders lifted with an indrawn breath. "And now..." she began, a tremor entering her voice. "Now that I
am
yours for the taking, do you want me still?"

Thorne nearly laughed aloud at the sweet absurdity of her question, his manhood already straining against the confines of his breeches. "Aye, my lady," he said huskily, brushing his lips over her ear again. "I want you still." Feeling her shiver, he pressed the small hand adorned with the Neville ancestral emerald to his heart. "Do you not feel my life's blood pounding through my veins, Gwynneth? 'Tis stirred to boiling, here...and here," he said, lowering her hand and laying it over his hardness. "You, and only you, my lady, have the power to cool it."

He saw her lips part, heard her sharp little intake of breath, and felt his turgid shaft extend even more beneath her fingers. "Aye," he said, his voice thickening, "feel what you've done to me, Lady Neville. Feel what you've done more times than you know."

Affixing wide eyes on their joined hands, Gwynneth gave the bulge beneath them a tentative squeeze.

Thorne groaned, hips flexing involuntarily. Nibbling the velvet shell of Gwynneth's ear, he felt her hand go still upon him, but sensed no objection. Slowly, he traced the tip of his tongue over the delicate whorls of her ear, then touched it to the small opening. Hearing her gasp, he turned her face toward him.

In the brief glance they exchanged just before she closed her eyes in surrender, Thorne saw something he had only suspected until now--Gwynneth Stowington Wycliffe was a passionate woman.

He had only to convince her.

She whimpered as he slanted his mouth over hers, her body rising like an ocean wave against the rigid dune of his shores. As she slid her arms about his neck, Thorne slowly went to his knees, bringing her down with him, and stretched out with her on the boulder. There was no place on earth, he realized, where he'd rather make Gwynneth his wife.

A fierce, sweet joy replaced the caution he'd felt of late toward his new bride. Reveling in her scent and threading his fingers through her silken hair, he tasted the dewy skin at her nape before delving again into the warm honey of her mouth. One hand cupping her head, he let the other roam the planes of her back and the dip of her waist before slipping it between them, where it moved to cover one full breast through her frock.

Gwynneth's earthy moan nearly unmanned him. As her lithe body began undulating against his own hard angles and sinew, Thorne gritted his teeth, feeling the moist precursor of a much-anticipated climax. It had been so long.

He slid her fock down one shoulder, tasted the curve between it and the slender column of her neck. Gwynneth threaded her fingers through his hair and gripped the back of his head--which swam with near delirioum as she guided it down, down to the damp valley between her breasts. Freeing one supple breast from her bodice, Thorne fastened his mouth over the puckered peak.

Gwynneth clutched him to her as he suckled, her breath coming in gasps, her back arching and hips writhing as she mutely begged for completion.

And this time, Thorne swore to himself, she would have it. As would he.

* * *

Halfway up the ridge, Tobias Hobbs dropped to his knees.

The lying little whore.

Moaning, he deliberately struck his forehead against the trunk of the oak beside him, but nothing could match the pain in his loins.

If the girl had said she was meeting her husband, he would never have followed her. The sight of Neville's hands on her, was more than he could bear. Why, why had she lied to him?

Leave!
But he couldn't move. Oblivious to the ropy roots and broken acorns pressing through the worn knees of his buckskin breeches, he stayed, his burning eyes riveted on the lovers.

But when Neville freed the other breast from the girl's velvet bodice, and she herself cupped the firm, round, taut-tipped globe in her hand to offer it up to him, Hobbs could watch no longer. Gripping rough bark, he arose with a groan, then realigned the throbbing appendage in his breeches and forced his trembling limbs to climb to where Bartholomew waited high on the ridge. After three curse-filled attempts to mount the big gelding, who shied away from his master's unusual clumsiness, Hobbs heaved himself onto the saddle and gave the horse a desperate kick.

* * *

"My lord!" Thrusting Thorne away, Gwynneth clutched her wadded bodice to her breasts and catapulted to a sitting position.

Groaning, he rolled onto his back and shielded his eyes against the sunlight. "God have mercy, what is it now?"

"I heard something." Ignoring his swearing, Gwynneth searched the wooded ridge with her eyes.

"The horses, no doubt."

"No. 'Twas a person, I'm certain!" She yanked her bodice up over her bosom and shoulders.

With a sigh, Thorne rose on an elbow and perused the ridge, but even Gwynneth saw nothing but the dense foliage of late summer. Only birdsong and babbling beck intruded on the peaceful stillness.

Hiding her flaming cheeks behind a curtain of hair, Gwynneth donned her stockings and boots, keeping her skirts down as much as possible. "I must get back to the Hall." For what, she couldn't have said. She hoped he wouldn't ask.

"I'll ride with you."

Gwynneth darted her eyes at her husband. Seeing his pleasant expression, she nearly sighed with relief. How close she had come to trading her soul for the temptations of carnal pleasure! But he had caught her off-guard today. Next time she would be prepared.

She gave no thought to Thorne's escorting her up the stairs when they returned, or even to his opening her chamber door for her. Realization did not strike until the bolt slid into the jamb and she heard his long, easy stride behind her.

Dear God. So
that
was the reason for his patience--he'd only the ride home to endure! Now he would exact his due.

She whirled about, hoping she'd only imagined his step, but there he was--and behind him, the closed portal, bolted tight against prying eyes.

Denying the thrill of fear that surged through her veins, Gwynneth stalked into her bedchamber and tossed her bonnet onto the bed.

But when Thorne sauntered to the curtained archway, her resolve wavered. No pirate could have looked more dangerously dashing--black hair falling over his unlaced shirt, razor stubble shadowing his jaw and upper lip, his eyes as blue as the Caribbean in a painting she'd once seen, and bathing her with a heat to rival that of its tropics. All he needed was a cutlass between those impossibly white teeth.

She shivered as she imagined him slicing off her buttons with one precise flick of his gleaming blade. Her buttons! Holy Mary, she'd never manage the tiny loops at her back alone.

She tried to sound firm. "My lord, I require a maid."

"Yes, and we shall find one presently."

Her heartbeat quickened at the smooth readiness of his reply. "I...I meant just now." She swallowed hard. "Can you please have Carswell send someone up?"

Smiling, Thorne shook his head. "
I
shall be your maid this afternoon." He cocked an eyebrow at her soft gasp, adding in a low drawl, "I assure you, my lady, I can get you out of that riding frock faster than any maid from here to London."

Gwynneth's mouth went dry.

Abandoning the archway, her husband approached with the feral grace of a stalking panther, his eyes burning hotter into hers with each step. Paralyzed at first, Gwynneth sprang into motion--only to be reminded the bed was just behind her.

She veered to her right and positioned herself between the hearth and the fireside chairs.

Thorne halted, his smile going awry. "Am I reduced to chasing my own wife about her chambers?"

"Only if you move, sir," was her breathless quip.

Slowly, he shook his head. "What's your game, my lady? Not an hour ago you were sighing with pleasure in my arms, yet now you play the nervous maiden. Hot one minute, cold the next." His smile faded. "Tell me whom I married, Lady Neville...friend or foe?"

* * *

Thorne's heart sank as Gwynneth pressed her mouth into a thin line. He had asked rhetorically, never dreaming she harbored some grudge. It appeared he would have to risk her ire, perhaps even another scene, to discover its nature.

But she beat him to the draw. "First, you tell
me
," she said, a tremor in her voice even as she narrowed her eyes, "how long you have been in love with
Caroline
Sutherland
."

If Thorne had caught Gwynneth off-guard at Beck's Hollow, she had just paid him back in full. And then some.

"Sit down," he said.

"I'd rather not."

"Please."

Elevating her chin, Gwynneth perched stiffly on the edge of a chair.

Thorne took the other seat. "Forgive me if I seem stunned, but I'm having difficulty digesting the bizarre notion that I could be 'in love' with...your friend." He'd hoped the name would roll off his tongue.

"I used to think," Gwynneth said in a brittle voice, "that you disliked Caroline immensely, that you could scarcely bear to be in the same room. I never knew the reason, yet somehow I couldn't bring myself to ask. But then, on our wedding night-"

Thorne started to speak, but she held up a hand.

"To find you
sitting on the edge of her bed
, bent over her so solicitously, with your
hand in her hair
--oh yes, I saw that! I had pulled the curtain aside to see her face. I only wanted to know what was the matter, no one had bothered to inform me. Why was I not summoned? And lest you protest your chivalry was mere pity, I am quite aware that you also brought Caroline home from the
public alehouse
the night before--or rather early that morn!"

"Aye, and 'twas pity on that occasion as well."

"Then why say nothing of it? Did you also carry her to her chambers?"

"'Twas either that or drag her. She was in no condition to walk, I assure you. The maid let us in, and I promptly took my leave. As for our wedding night--if one can term it such," Thorne added wryly, "I can only plead a long-standing state of affairs, that being a household with no mistress. I'm accustomed to taking charge, my lady, to doing what must be done. I apologize for my negligence. Rest assured in future I shall use better sense."

Gwynneth folded her arms. "And why did you not mention escorting Caroline home?"

"Damnation, Gwynneth, 'twas our wedding day. Why spoil it?"

She gasped. "And now you utter a curse to mark the occasion?"

Biting off another curse, Thorne shot out of his seat. Gwynneth's surfacing tears failed to move him, because in all of this recrimination, one glaring detail had been overlooked.

She shrank back as he bent over and caged her in the chair with his sinewy arms.

"If you thought I was 'in love' with your friend, why the deuce did you then beg me, badger me, indeed leave me
bloody little choice
but to accompany her to London and
stay in her house
? And worse yet, commission me to
assuage her grief
? Did you not fear that under the guise of consolation I might seduce her? Were you testing my fidelity already?"

"Aye," Gwynneth cried, braving his fierce perusal, "but I had to know!" The tears spilled over. "I was tormented by the thought that you were secretly enamored of Caroline, that you married me only for convenience!"

"I put up a bloody good fight at the prospect of leaving you, did I not?"

"Aye, for the sake of appearances!"

Shaking his head, Thorne crouched down in front of Gwynneth and covered her clenched hands in one of his. "If you had only asked," he chided, "I would have told you."

She eyed him hopefully. "Told me..."

"That you were far off the mark to think I harbored any such sentiment for Caroline Sutherland." There, he'd said her name, and with a fair amount of ease. Gently brushing Gwynneth's tears away with a thumb, he was glad to see no flinching. "I'll admit to pitying the woman--until I saw her in action in London," he amended dryly.

"She will survive, then?"

Thorne smiled. "She will thrive, my lady. Mistress Sutherland is a force with which to be reckoned. Her agents and solicitors have their hands full."

"Then I can cease fretting. On
all
accounts."

"You can, indeed," Thorne said, rising to his feet. "Now, I'll send someone up to assist." He silenced Gwynneth's polite protest by playfully pressing a finger to her lips. Then, still feeling the warmth of those lips as he reached the door, he stopped to give her a long look. "After we've dined this eve, I shall attend you myself."

Did he only imagine the fleeting panic in her expression? Her reply sounded quite poised.

"As you wish, my lord."

* * *

"I'm going home." Radleigh tore a morsel of roast pheasant off the bone and chewed it with obvious relish. "I'd hardly be worth my salt as lord of the manor if I didn't oversee at least a portion of my harvest. After that, I've business in London."

Gwynneth cast an alarmed glance at Thorne. "Do stay on with us, Father. You've a capable steward to manage all your affairs at Radleigh Hall, and an agent in London." 

"Radleigh," Thorne spoke up hastily, "I'd be glad to have you on harvest rounds."

Radleigh drained his tankard, then shook his head. "My thanks, Neville, but I'm a man who yearns to touch his mother-soil from time to time. Surely you understand."

Thorne nodded, ignoring Gwynneth's glare. "You'll depart soon, then?"

"In a day or two."

"I'll have your coach readied. But we'll expect you to return as soon as possible."

Nodding his thanks, Radleigh said gruffly, "So, Daughter, will you be sorry to see me go?"

"'Tis not your going that concerns me," Gwynneth snapped. "'Tis the doubtful prospect of your returning once you've indulged in London's night life again."

The bushy eyebrows collided. "Neville, this chit wants taking down a peg, don't you think?" Seeing Thorne's ill-concealed smile, Radleigh scowled at Gwynneth. "You'll think twice before giving your
husband
such sauce! Take no nonsense from this sharp-tongued wench, Thorne. Exact all due respect and devotion."

Still looking at his father-in-law, but feeling Gwynneth's wary gaze upon his own countenance, Thorne smiled wryly. "Your advice is well-taken, sir. I've every intention of following it."

* * *

Leaving the men to their cigars and brandy in the library, Gwynneth fled to her chambers and found a filled tub awaiting her. Struggling yet again with the fastenings at her back, she heard a knock at the door and froze, until a woman's voice said that Combs was indisposed and Dame Carswell had sent her instead.

"Byrnes" proved eager to please, but clumsy. "Do hurry," Gwynneth fretted. "I must be out of the bath and into bed as soon as possible."

Rejecting Byrnes' awkward attempts to wield the sponge, she instructed her to turn back the bedcovers instead. Hence it was only the maid who saw the curtain move in the archway, and who stared wide-eyed at Thorne as he slipped through the velvet panels.

Putting a finger to his lips, he held the curtain aside. Byrnes shot a quick glance at her mistress, now immersed to the neck in her bath, before curtseying to the master and making a silent exit.

Lazy flames licked the applewood logs in the grate, their rosy light tinting Gwynneth's creamy skin and burnishing her upswept hair with copper. Thorne watched her in silence, reluctant to disturb the enchanting scene, but as she moved to rise from the sudsy water, he spoke up quietly. "Before you stand, my lady, be aware I stand behind you."

She gasped, gripping the tub's edge.

Thorne approached slowly. "Good evening, my lady."

He saw her glance downward, where her body was well hidden by the thick suds, before she met his eyes. "How do you do, my lord?"

The greeting was so breezy and unexpected it was all Thorne could do to keep a straight face. "I do quite well, thank you."

"And my father...inebriated as usual? I trust he's safely retired for the night?"

"He is indeed, and has left me quite at odds for a way to fill my leisure time this evening."

Gwynneth's gaze lowered to Thorne's lips. "'Tis a shame, my lord."

"Perhaps you could propose some task for me."

"I shall think on it."

Thorne drew off his waistcoat and laid it over a chair, then knelt beside the tub.

"You might hold my bath sheet up for me," Gwynneth said hastily.

"You're a fast thinker, my lady. Fast on your feet. I'd like to see how fast." Thorne dipped a hand into the water, and grinned at Gwynneth's alarmed expression. Still she didn't budge. "Very well then," he said, lazily swirling the suds. "We'll watch your metamorphosis instead."

"Into what?" she asked warily.

"A prune, if I know my physiology. It should be quite a sight."

"My lord!" she exclaimed indignantly, and lobbed the waterlogged sponge at his head. Laughing, Thorne dodged and then retrieved it. Gwynneth actually giggled as he sauntered toward her holding the dripping sponge away from his shirt and breeches.

"Carswell will have your hide, young lady, for water-spotting her floors."

"Her master will protect-" Gwynneth broke off with a gasp as Thorne fired the heavy sponge into the tub, spraying her squarely in the face. "Oh, you wretched man!" she sputtered. She shot up from the bath in an avalanche of suds and water, then shrieked as she remembered her nakedness.

"Ssshh." Thorne's eyes twinkled as Gwynneth plummeted into the water again. "You'll have the servants all a-twitter, my lady." Fetching the bath sheet, he gently blotted her face, then spread the snow-white cloth in wordless invitation for her to rise again.

She eyed him dubiously. "You won't look."

"Won't I?"

"My lord! Promise you won't look."

He grinned, shaking his head. "Sorry, but a white prune is a curiosity I cannot resist."

Gwynneth shot to her feet and grabbed the sheet, her body a blur.

No matter. Time and patience were Thorne's allies tonight. Chuckling, he steadied her as she stepped from the tub, then stayed her as she made to retreat. "I'll attend you," he said, his gaze holding hers. "We agreed, remember?"

She nodded, surprising him, then closed her eyes while he gently blotted her shoulders and back dry.

She stiffened when he untied the ribbon in her hair, and as he threaded his fingers through the silky length to smooth out any tangles, she clutched the corners of the bath sheet securely at her throat. Smiling behind her, Thorne knelt on the rug. Barely grazing her bottom, he resumed his blotting motions on her thighs, her knees, calves, ankles and feet.

Rising, he slowly ran his hands over the sheet, up the entire length of Gwynneth's body, his palms just skimming the fullness of her breasts. With deft but gentle fingers, he traced the curve of her shoulder and neck, then cupped the back of her head.

She opened her eyes.

Thorne had to swallow hard at sight of the sultry light in those green orbs, as they moved to his throat and then to his lips.

"You're dry, Milady," he said, his voice husky. "What would your maid do next?"

Blushing, Gwynneth gazed up at him through golden eyelashes. "She would fetch my shift. There, on the bed."

Without taking his eyes off his wife, Thorne picked up the length of embroidered lawn and held it over her head. The bath sheet dropped to her ankles just as the shift billowed downward, briefly exposing her thighs and calves. She started to tie the satin ribbons at the yoke, but stopped as Thorne shook his head. He took his time tying them for her, letting his fingers brush often against her skin. He noted the erratic pulse in her throat, the spreading stain in her cheeks. The seemingly innocent brush of his knuckles over one thinly covered nipple elicited a gasp, and through the diaphanous material he watched the tiny bud harden to an unmistakable point. Gwynneth's eyes swept downward.

The moment Thorne let go the ribbon, she turned to the sideboard, her shift fluttering about her bare ankles, and proceeded to pour a brandy. Accepting the glass, Thorne cocked an eyebrow. "'Tis a fortunate maid I am, to receive such service from my mistress."

Gwynneth smiled, apparently more comfortable at play, and settled herself regally in a chair at the hearth. Bowing, Thorne did the same. "Forgive me for neglecting your bath water, Milady, but I should like to drink my brandy first." He raised his glass in salute.

Gwynneth shook her head. "Beware, Maid," she deadpanned. "You risk your situation for such impertinence, and for your lack of ambition. I'd better see a curtsey in place of that bow you just gave me."

Thorne quaffed the fiery liquid, thumped the glass down and sprang from his chair to kneel at her feet. "Please, Milady, don't give me the sack!"

Gwynneth giggled, then resumed a prim expression, her eyes twinkling. "If you truly desire to keep your situation, you must prove your worth."

"Whatever Milady asks shall be done."

"Then I should like to be kissed."

Ignoring the quickening in his loins, Thorne frowned and sat back on his heels. "Strange behavior for the mistress--requesting a kiss from the maid? Milady, I am shocked indeed!"

Gwynneth laughed softly in spite of her blush. "Thorne, for shame! You mustn't tease about such perversity."