The Heart Denied (29 page)

"Why not?"  

"Because
my
wife has made it quite clear that physical union is beneath her, altogether unpleasant. And I, being a gentleman for the most part, have vowed never to visit such gross indecency upon her person again."

Gwynneth felt her smile fade. A quick downward glance at Thorne confirmed that this was not going as it should. And shouldn't he have sounded bitter? Instead he seemed polite and matter-of-fact.

Apparently considering their discussion at an end, Thorne strode casually to the chaise, rolled himself onto it and flipped the blanket up over his hips.

Gwynneth grasped at the only weapon left in her limited arsenal: she began to weep.

"God's blood and bones," Thorne muttered. Rising, he yanked on his dressing gown, then came to sit on the edge of the bed beside Gwynneth.

She pouted, her lashes beaded with tears. "You only want to punish me for wounding your pride. But you cannot deny me a child. Indeed you once said to me that even my priest would tell me that begetting children was my duty...do you remember?"

He met her gaze levelly. "What I remember most, my lady, is that you informed me that the disgusting act of physical union was perhaps for others, but not for you...that you believed you were intended for 'a higher purpose'."

"I was
afraid
, can't you understand? For a woman, the 'act of love' is a degrading ritual, a trial to be borne all her married life. And I shall do so! But you, sir, must not try to pleasure me in any way, because 'tis pleasure that turns a mere trial of necessity into a sin of wicked depravity--a
mortal
sin, Thorne, and I do not want to go to hell when I die!" She closed her eyes, shuddering, and murmured, "And the pain...such dreadful pain, I wasn't prepared for that..."

He frowned intently at her. "What pain, Gwynneth? I caused you no pain. I warned you of it, damn my idiocy, but I never followed through."

Gwynneth's cheeks began to burn. "It sounded as if it would be dreadful," she said lamely.

"I tried to tell you the pain would soon be over, never to be endured again, but your fear had already made you deaf." He rose, but she grabbed hold of his hand and gave him a pleading look.

"I was yet a girl, Thorne, in many ways. I've since confided my feelings to Father Chandler, and-"

"But you couldn't tell them to me," he cut in. "I, who struggled to understand your reticence and did my damnedest to be gentle with you."

"You needn't curse!" She hurled the covers back. "Why must you resort to that whenever we disagree?"

"I apologize. 'Tis late and I'm tired...no doubt you are, as well. We'll discuss your maternal inclinations tomorrow. Whatever we say now will only alienate us further. Good night, my lady." Belting his dressing gown with a jerk, he strode through the arch.

"Where are you going?" she demanded, scrambling from the bed and trailing him into the sitting room, her stomach knotting.

"Where I can be assured of some rest," he said without turning around.

"But the storm!" she cried. "I shan't be able to sleep for terror!"

Already in the gallery, hand on the door, Thorne sounded wearily patient. "Then I'll send for Byrnes."

* * *

On the library settee, Thorne lay staring at the wavering shadows on the walls. The wind and rain had finally subsided, but sleep eluded him for the fact that in this room he could think of little else but Elaine.

Elaine?
When had he ceased thinking of her as "Combs," he wondered, startled.

A good name, Elaine--sturdy and brave like the women warriors of legend, yet feminine and refined. "Elaine."

Good God, had he just said it aloud?

He forced himself to consider Gwynneth's unexpected proposal. Even if he could somehow manage to perform--and performance it would be, no two ways about it--there wasn't any guarantee Gwynneth's womb would quicken at once. Few things made him queasy, but the thought of repeated attempts at coupling with a frigid shrew brought a bitter taste to his mouth--and of course the minute she knew she was
enceinte
, she would bring all physical relations to a halt, he was certain of that.

Until she wanted another child.

Hearing the clock strike one, he threw the blanket back impatiently, his stomach joining in the protest with a growl. And no wonder. Supper had been a strange affair for the second consecutive night, Gwynneth playing ingenue instead of nun and he wondering at the charade--though the objective was clear enough now--so he had eaten little and left the table early.

He padded on bare feet to the great hall, past the glowing coals in the huge hearth and through the kitchen door. As the only light in that room came from the banked fire, he reached for the nearest candle. He'd no sooner struck tinder than there came a commotion from the direction of the larder, and then a muffled grunt.

A male grunt.

Thorne quickly lit the candle and, with his hand cupped around the flame, charged toward the disturbance. But just before he reached the larder, he heard the bolt being drawn on the door to the garden. "Ho there, halt where you stand!" he shouted, and ran for the heavy portal--which was slammed in his face.

"Bloody buggerer!" He kicked the door wide and ran out into the cold dampness. The mist was thick, and the intruder was well outside the weak light of Thorne's candle. There was no telling which direction he had taken.

Back inside, Thorne bolted the door and held the candle high; a close inspection revealed no evidence other than some spilled wheat flour, and none of it had hit the floor, where it might have exposed some footprints.

So the thief came from within, Thorne realized grimly. Tomorrow he'd tell Carswell, and God help the poor beggar after that.

Actually it had been rather a lark going after the fellow--more excitement than he'd had in a long while. He grinned ruefully, thinking it was surely a sad state of affairs when the master of the house had to resort to wee-hour cloak-and-dagger shenanigans for entertainment.

But the leftover roast hen he found had never tasted better.

At Arthur's insistence, he and Thorne were on the Wycliffe road heading east before seven of the clock next morning, tricornes pulled low and steaming scones inside their pockets. Three hours later they'd covered five farms and logged only minimal amounts of damage. On their way to the sixth, Thorne glanced southward and sharply reined in his mount. Arthur did the same.

"Who the devil would find that fit to live in?" he wondered aloud. They were staring down a dray path in a field of wheat stubble, where stood a run-down wooden shack, which had been uninhabited for years. But this morning the chimney was exhaling a slim plume of smoke.

"Likely some Gypsy." Thorne lightly flicked the reins. "Whoever he is, he's welcome to it. He'll wander along come spring."

"Perhaps he's your thief," Arthur ventured, urging his mount to a trot alongside Raven.

Thorne chuckled. "A far piece for a man to walk for his daily bread."

"Oh, I think he makes off with at least two or three days' rations in one heist," Arthur said with a droll expression. "Keeps it down to a couple of raids per week that way. I can always tell when he's come calling, he does get Bridey's dander up."

"Well, 'tis not the Gypsy," Thorne said, still smiling, "but apparently a member of my household, though none of the servants goes to bed hungry--that I'll warrant, or know the reason why. And at any rate," he added, suddenly sobering, "Carswell and Lady Neville will get to the bottom of the matter today."

* * *

"I have assembled all the servants in the great hall, Milady."

Gwynneth jabbed her quill into its stand on the desk in her day room. With militant stride and head held high, she followed the housekeeper as far as the foot of the central stairs, and there stopped to scan the line of men and women, young and old, that ranged along the walls of the great hall.

She began with an austere nod. "Good morning ladies, gentlemen...though one of you does not deserve that distinction...in particular, the individual who has been helping himself to the foodstuffs in the larder. I shall now address that person directly.

"Have no doubt that before the year is out, I will have determined your identity. From that time on," she declared coldly, "your wages will be withheld while you work until complete restitution is made...at which point you shall find yourself without situation or reference." She smiled with grim satisfaction. "You were nearly discovered yestereve by his lordship. 'Tis only a matter of time until you are exposed. However" --she looked at each servant in turn-- "if you, the thief, can find it in your meager conscience to report yourself to Dame Carswell this very day, you will be required to make only  partial restitution, and shall be given a passable reference upon dismissal." She paused expectantly, but the Hall was silent. "Very well then," she snapped. "Back to work. There is much to be done toward the joyous celebration of Christmas!"

* * *

"Come in," Thorne said shortly.

Gwynneth closed the study door behind her. "Pardon me for interrupting, my lord, but I thought now might be as good a time as any to discuss...that is, to decide-"

"Sit down, my lady, please. The floor is yours."

She gave him her most engaging smile. "We needn't conduct this discussion under Parliamentary procedure, husband. I'm simply your wife, come to consult with you."

"Gwynneth, in your case, 'simply' and 'wife' do not belong in the same sentence."

"Which is what I want to remedy. I've come to beg your forgiveness, my lord. I have not been a complete wife to you. You are a man who deserves...attention."

Her face was slowly reddening, but her eyes remained on his, and in them Thorne saw the determination she was trying to conceal with her smile and sweetly rueful tone.

"Henceforward I shall be an attentive wife...if you will allow me, dear husband."

Thorne leaned back in his chair. "If nothing else, I'm curious to know what prompted your sudden largess. Is this a self-imposed penance for some wrong you imagine you've done me?"

Her pale lashes fluttered. "I denied you what is yours. My confessor has helped me see the error of my ways."

"The good Father Chandler."

"Yes."

"How benevolent of him to be concerned with my marital rights."

Gwynneth's smile was wearing thin. "He is more concerned with your right to have an heir than your right to have...me."

"Ah, yes, procreation versus recreation."

"Thorne, must you make a case out of everything? I am asking you, once and for all, to forgive my past behavior."

"And to join you in the marriage bed."

"Aye." She blushed scarlet.

"And once it is confirmed you're to be a mother, how stands the marriage bed then, my lady?" He paused. "Empty, I'd venture, from the look on your face."

"Thorne, please." The requisite tears surfaced. "I've always thought you a fair man, a kind one. Was I so errant in my judgment?"

"I wouldn't know, Gwynneth. Judgment is your forte, not mine." Seeing her lower lip quiver, he casually gave her his handkerchief and went to stand before the fire. He looked into the flames for a while, before saying quietly, "Gwynneth, I won't lie to you."

He turned to see her clutching his handkerchief and watching him expectantly.

"'Tis a biological fact that a man must feel desire in order to bring on...the necessary physical condition for child-getting. But desire is diminished by strife, Gwynneth, and there has been so much of the latter between us that the former is, I fear, entirely obliterated." He paused, but saw no sign of comprehension. "I mean to say," he pressed gently, "that I cannot force my anatomy into the state that is necessary to...sow my seed. I'm sorry, but I must be honest."

Her tears were starting again; she finally understood.

"Do what you must," he said with sincere regret. "Stay or leave as you please, continue as you have, or demand annulment of our marriage...but I can't give you a child."

Gwynneth was shaking her head. "'Tis not true, Thorne. You
can
, indeed you
must
...I don't know what I shall do if you don't..." She was starting to look wild-eyed. "I deserve another chance...
we
deserve it! You may do whatever you wish with me, I shan't give you any resistance...please!" Her voice was breaking. She stood, holding her arms out to him. "Please, Thorne, say you'll at least try...you
must try
!"

He was struggling for words when she suddenly flew toward him, yanking the fichu out of her bodice. "Here, you see?" She crushed her ripe décolletage against his shirtfront, her small hands gripping his shoulders. "I am yours to do with as you please!" Frantically she tried to pull his head down and press his mouth to hers, at which point he gently extricated himself from her clutches and held her at arms' length.

"Gwynneth, please...don't make this any more difficult than it is..."

She threw off his hands, blinking furiously. "Keep off then! If
you
won't give me a child, perhaps another man
will
!" As Thorne stared at her, shocked into silence, she laughed through her tears, ending on a bitter sob. "You think no other man would want me? Well, you are wrong, husband!"

Thorne felt a slow burn in his gut. "I've no doubt Hobbs would take you riding in a trice, my lady...without a horse."

The Hall seemed to hold its breath and the walls to suck inward, as all color drained from Gwynneth's face. With the flat of her hand, she struck Thorne hard on the cheek.

He took the blow without flinching. "Forgive me, Gwynneth, but you do make it hard for a man to pity you."

"
Pity
?" Her wet eyes blazed. "I've no need of your pity,
you
are the one to be pitied...a man who
cannot please his wife,
who
cannot
give her
a
child! You might as well be a eunuch!"

"Hush, Gwynneth. You're making a fool of no one but yourself, and the servants are bound-"

"I don't care if they hear, I hope
every single one of them
hears! They should know their master for the pitiful, impotent wretch he really is!" Her laugh verged on hysteria.

Accosting her so swiftly she'd no chance to back away, Thorne wrapped his arms around her, pressing her face to his waistcoat.

Slowly she pounded a fist on his chest. "You have broken my heart," she said through her muffled sobs. "For shame I shan't be able to hold up my head."

Still he held her, and after a moment said quietly, "Gwynneth, I'll do everything possible to ensure your comfort and your happiness in any other way, but I cannot be your bedmate." He gently kissed her brow. "I wish to God I could."

She wrenched free of his hold. "As if you ever wished anything of God!" she said vehemently through her tears. "Take heed, Thorne Neville. In denying me my God-given right to be a mother, you might well have reserved your place in hell this day." Her lip curled. "And I hope you rot there."

She flung the door open and fled up the hall.

Feeling cold all over but for his numb cheek, Thorne sat back down at his desk. The framed miniature stood just inside his peripheral vision, and his focus was suddenly drawn to it. The beautiful, enigmatic face of Catherine Neville looked back at him.

"Caroline," he murmured, startling himself.
Caroline
.
This time it was in his head, whispering...beckoning, teasing, promising...and he was both amazed and dismayed as his body responded to the mere thought of her, in the very way it no longer responded to the flesh-and-blood presence of his wife.

Caroline
.
Again, the soft whisper. He felt light-headed, almost drunk.

Suddenly, Christmas in London seemed a very desirable prospect.

* * *

Gwynneth shot the bolt on her chamber door and threw herself on her knees before the small creche her father had sent as a Christmas gift.

"What shall I do?" she cried softly. She snatched up her rosary beads and threaded them through shaking hands, then pressed them to her lips to quell a rising scream.

"I
hate
you, Thorne Neville," she whispered when the impulse had passed, her nose stinging with fresh tears. "You've ruined my life, you and Hobbs...may God rot his soul with yours! Oh God," she moaned, "why didn't you leave me in peace at Saint Mary's? I hate this accursed place, and I hate my
father
for bringing me here!"

With one mighty jerk of her hands the rosary snapped. Jet beads scattered and danced madly all around her. As the last bounce dwindled to stillness, she looked down at her tight fist, and loosened her fingers, one by one. In her sweating palm was all that remained of her beloved rosary: the worn sterling Crucifix inlaid with mother-of-pearl, on it the likeness of the Christ in pure gold.

Her eyes darted, widening, to the porcelain figurine of Mary kneeling in the straw next to her babe. A startled sound escaped her lips.

"You're telling me then, Mother, that this is my cross to bear?" Her breathing slowed; her trembling eased. She took in the peaceful sight of the creche as a whole--mother, father and child in a lowly stable, the animals and shepherds, angels and wise men looking on with vacant stares.

The stable! Of course.
She almost smiled.
The family, together in the stable.
It was a humble scene, but beautifully appropriate. The Christ was born in a stable;
her
child was conceived in one. And if it was good enough for Him, it was certainly good enough for her babe...whose father, after all, was a stableman.

* * *

"Master'll not be here to dine this eve," Bridey announced, up to her elbows in a bowl of dough.

Susan glanced up from the silver she was polishing. "He'll come later, then?"

"Not likely," the cook grumbled. "He's gone to London town."

"What?" Hillary was indignant. "With Yuletide nearly upon us?"

"Aye." Bridey gave the dough a hard punch. "The master gone off, and the mistress shut away in her chambers, no guests invited--leastways none that Her Prissiness bothered to tell me about, after all, I'm only the cook and have to feed them. By the saints, I'd reckoned on a merry Yule', what with his lordship home and wed in the bargain...ha! 'Twill be no different from the
last
four, more's the pity."

"Oh, Mister Pennington'll see to the gold for the tenants, and our wassail bowl as well, like he has since the old baron passed on," Susan said placidly. "At any rate his lordship could return ere the day's upon us, and who knows, he might fetch some company along with him...now wouldn't that be grand!"

* * *

The coach rolled to a stop, its crystalline-dew-covered windows giving no indication of their whereabouts. Thorne only knew that not enough road had been put between him and the Hall. His coachman was soon at the door, his breath puffing in steamy clouds.