The Marsh Hawk (27 page)

His hands were warm, holding her through the thin batiste nightgown. Why hadn't she stayed dressed? She should have expected something like this. Why had she trusted him to keep his word?

In the moonlight streaming in through the window, she stared up into blue-fire eyes hooded with passion; meanwhile, in stark contrast, stiff muscles ticked along his broad jawline, and his lips had lost definition. It was like facing a snarling dog with a wagging tail. She didn't know which symptom to believe, and she fought to free herself from the white-knuckled hands locking her in their embrace.

Simon was breathing hard as he drew her closer. Was it rage, or desire driving him? His heart beat wildly against her through the silk dressing gown between them, with the rapid motion of his broad chest bearing down upon her; and his strong arms wrenched her closer, molding her to the hard, lean length of him.

He smelled of latakia, and of the brandy he'd drunk with Robert Nast in the dining hall earlier. Was the man in his altitudes? No, hardly castaway. But she knew that what he had drunk had emboldened him far beyond what mere wine might have done.

All at once, the sound of her name caught in his throat, and she was undone by the raw, feral voice—scarcely recognizable as Simon's—that delivered it. His sudden, almost desperate kiss weakened her knees. He deepened it, and she sagged against him, all reason lost as he gathered her up in strong arms and set her down in the center of the four-poster.

He loosened her nightgown, and his mouth slid the length of her arched throat. It hovered over the pulse at the base of her neck, his silken tongue seeking, probing. Was he feeling for the rhythm of the blood coursing through her? Yes. Her pulse quickened beneath his skilled mouth as he located her life force. It began hammering in her ears, pounding beneath his lips, throbbing against his teeth and searching tongue, resonating with the primal sounds coming from him then. It was a strange, almost ritualistic intimacy where sensual delights spiraled quickly into pure animal lust. Frightening, this forbidden pleasure beyond imagining, and she wanted it to go on forever.

His hands roamed her breasts. When his lips followed, a rush of moist, pulsating heat surged through her loins and raced along her thighs. His erection leaned heavily against her belly, its bruising hardness excruciating ecstasy. This was not the restrained Simon of her wedding night. This Simon held nothing back. His anxious sex entered her. It was like mating with a riptide, and she was undone.

Husky and breathless, her own throaty voice sounded back in her ears as in total abandon, she murmured his name. He groaned aloud, a deep, guttural explosion of sound that echoed in her soul, and her body responded, arching against him. All resolution dissolved in the heat of his kisses—in the fire of his passion. Nothing mattered then but those lips—those arms—that long, corded body molded against hers, promising fulfillment she never imagined.

All at once, he rolled on his back, taking her with him, and he slipped her nightgown down to bare her breasts. He cupped those in his hands, his thumbs stroking her nipples erect, his sex plunging deeper as he moved inside her, rolling her on her back again, grinding his powerful body against her.

There was no pain this time, only delicious waves of scorching sensation riddling her belly and thighs. There was no need for wine. Foxed by his passion alone, her head reeled dizzily. There was almost a desperation in their joining—a sexual feeding frenzy, as though he'd been condemned to die and was partaking of his last meal. Though she didn't understand it, Jenna responded, calling his name again and again until his hungry lips made an end to the litany. His silken tongue plunged deeper inside, coaxing hers into his mouth. She tasted him deeply, as she never had before.

His passion was palpable, then; his need overwhelming. There was no restraint in his crushing embrace, in the bruising power of his kiss. Like his kisses in the garden at Moorhaven had bruised her lips, so would these kisses leave their mark—on her mouth, her throat, her swelling breasts, and on her very
soul
.

He didn't speak as he loved her. Only his pleasured moans and rapid breathing broke the strained silence. His hooded eyes staring into her own held some message she couldn't decipher, but she knew what hers said to him:
Simon, I don't want to end our marriage
.
I couldn't bear to lose you now, after
. . .

Her rapture disengaged the thoughts hammering at her brain. He must have felt it, for he seized her closer and dropped his head down to her shoulder, shuddering as he clenched, erupting inside her . . . filling her, making her whole.

His brow was running with sweat. Slowly, he took command of his rapid breathing, though his heart still hammered against her like that of a horse in full gallop. After a moment he withdrew himself and pulled her nightgown over her breasts with painstaking control, just as he had done with her riding habit the day he proposed in the conservatory. All that seemed like a lifetime ago to Jenna now. She could scarcely believe it was only a few short weeks since he'd held her there, promising her a happy future as his wife. Instead, he had lied to her. He had broken her heart.

Climbing out of the bed, he struggled into his dressing gown and cinched the sash around his waist ruthlessly, but not before Jenna glimpsed his lean, naked silhouette against the shaft of light the moon laid at his feet. He took a ragged breath and raked his hair back. It was a mechanical motion. For a long moment he stood staring down at her in the moonlight, the blank expression on his handsome face maddening. Was he just going to leave her,
just like that
? A breathless gasp escaped her at the thought.

“As God is my judge . . . I didn't mean for that to happen,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, and strained. “Forgive me. I promise you, it shan't . . . ever again.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he spun on his heel and stalked off through his dressing room door, melting into the shadows beyond like a phantom in the night.

“Simon,
wait
!” Jenna cried. Surging to her feet, she started after him.

The echo of a key turning in the dressing room door lock replied to that, and stopped her in her tracks. There was a deathlike finality in the sound, and it riddled her with chills from head to toe. Shivering, alone in the darkness, she dissolved into tears. There was no way to prevent them this time.

The last person Simon wanted to face in that moment was Phelps, but the faithful valet was waiting as he always did until his master was settled for the night. Just how the man knew that Simon wouldn't settle when he'd entered the master bedchamber barefoot in his dressing gown earlier escaped him. Damn it all. It wasn't natural that anyone should know him so well, though deep down he loved the man for it.

“Don't give me that ‘I told you so' look!” he responded to the valet's arched brow and pursed lips. “I'm in no humor for it, Phelps, I warn you.”

“I haven't said a word, my lord,” the valet replied.

“Mmm,” Simon growled. “You don't have to. I know that look all too well. What made you so sure I'd be back?”

“It seemed likely, my lord.”

“Well, you can gloat over it after you make up the lounge.”

“It's done, my lord.”

“The devil you say! You really were sure of yourself, weren't you?”

“I didn't imagine your invasion of the sanctum sanctorum would sit all that well, my lord, considering.”

“No, it did not. I botched it, if you must know. Damn it all, man, you know how I get when I'm overtired. You know my . . . urges intensify with exhaustion.”

“I take it she wasn't receptive.”

“That's just the trouble—she
was
! I was well out of it . . . until my passions betrayed me. It's going to be difficult to walk away now.”

“You're sure you want to do that, my lord?”

“I haven't a choice.”

“There's always a choice, my lord.”

“Not in this, old boy.”

“Forgive me the observance, my lord, but you aren't exactly an expert when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“And you are, I suppose?”

“Hardly, my lord. I'm well beyond all that, thank providence, but I do have more of a perspective on things than you do at the moment . . . due to the wisdom that age has bestowed upon me, my lord.”

“And I shan't have peace until I hear that wisdom out, is that it, Phelps?”

“You might say so, my lord.”

“All right, my wise and learned sage,” said Simon, with a sweeping bow that he was well aware looked ridiculous executed in a gaping brocade dressing gown. “Since I do need some semblance of sleep tonight, by all means speak your piece.”

“This isn't your usual . . . liaison, my lord, as I have pointed out on numerous occasions. You've never needed instruction regarding your affairs of the heart, because in the past, heart and loins have always been disjoined, as it were. Here now, they are conjoined, and in such cases one can only expect . . . difficulties, since the gauze of love clouds the mind and defeats reason. Simply put, aside from the physical attraction that feeds carnal lust, you and my lady are hopelessly in love with each other. To make an end to such a union would be a grave mistake, my lord. Few men ever find such a love in their lifetime.”

“You seem to think I have a choice. It is my lady who seeks to make an end to this union, Phelps.”

“You've lost me, my lord. How can that be? Didn't you just say that she was receptive? She said she wanted to end the marriage did she, then?”

“Not in so many words, no, but Phelps, there is no trust. She didn't trust me enough to turn to me; she went to Rob.”

“Mr. Nast is a man of the cloth, my lord. That is his function.”

“Yes, yes, I know, but she should have come to me. I am her
husband
.”

“She is very young, my lord, and it's plain that she has no family example to follow or seek counsel from in such matters. I think you ought to take that into account.”

“Hear, hear. On that fine point, I do agree. That mother of hers!”

“A harridan to be sure, my lord. If you would spend your energy, I should think you'd best invest it thanking God that my lady's fallen far enough from that tree not to be blighted by it, if you take my meaning, sir, rather than chastising her for making bad judgments heeding her own inexperienced counsel.”

“I have my pride, damn you, man!”

“‘Pride goeth before destruction.' So says the Bible, my lord.”

“Then we're right on schedule, old friend, and it's too damn, bloody late!”

Jenna poured all her energy into the come-out ball preparations over the next few days. She kept to herself, avoiding Evelyn and Simon altogether. That, however, was no great feat. Except for meals, the two were seldom seen. Simon made no more attempts to visit the master bedchamber, as Jenna knew he would not, and there were no more lights in the tower. Though, on more than one occasion, she saw a sliver of candlelight seep under his dressing room door well into the wee hours, and heard the hollow echo of his ragged footsteps pacing to and fro over the creaking floorboards.

Adding to the tension that reigned supreme as Saturday drew nearer, Jenna and her mother did not share the same vision for the ball. The dowager's elaborate concept called for months of preparation to bring to fruition, not the few short days at their disposal, and it was no small matter for Jenna to convince her that realistically, a simpler plan was needed.

The staff was summoned, and each servant was given particular tasks to perform in preparation for the event, and specific duties for the ball itself. Since there wasn't time to engage a florist, the groundskeeper Tobias Heath and his wife were put in charge of the decorations for the Grand Ballroom. There were to be countless bouquets of fresh flowers from the Kevernwood gardens set about in tall porcelain jars. Graceful garlands and festoons would be draped about the vaulted ceiling and mantels, as well as the food tables in the dining hall, where an endless array of hot and cold viands would be set out for the guests. The dowager took charge of the food, and spent much of the time in the kitchen instructing Cook in its preparation. She insisted upon French cuisine. Exclusively. And more feathers than partridge and squab were ruffled in the larder over her strict attention to detail.

On Thursday, Evelyn's ball gown arrived from London. It was a lovely frock of white silk gauze over satin, with fetching puffed sleeves and a low décolleté edged with porcelain pink silk ribbon rosettes. But there were fitting problems. Evelyn had all but stopped eating since her last fitting in town. Olive Reynolds was summoned from Newquay village, and literally held hostage by the dowager, who assured her she would remain in residence until the alterations were completed to her satisfaction.

When Robert Nast arrived that afternoon to find Evelyn closeted with the dressmaker, and Simon gone to the village to arrange for the musicians, Jenna found herself alone with the vicar for the first time since her confession. She decided that a stroll in the garden would be the wisest choice for the interview. That way, if the conversation soured, she could easily excuse herself and retreat inside. Receiving him in the Hall would give him an advantage she wasn't about to tender. Besides, there were just too many ears that might overhear them indoors.

White and purple-red foxgloves, delphinium, and blue speedwell genuflected in a salt-laced breeze that would soon turn to a gale force, driving mountains of diaphanous spindrift over the head of Kevernwood cliff. A telltale, jaundiced sky was bearing down upon the afternoon. Soon the servants would be skittering every which way, fastening shutters and battening down for the flaw. But now, the storm brewing between herself and Robert Nast was paramount, and it was the vicar who broke the awful silence that hovered like a storm cloud between them as they traveled the garden path.