The Wyndham Legacy (20 page)

“They were holy men,” Mr. Burgess said in a voice to rival a bishop's. “They didn't want their monastery's wealth to fall into the king's rapacious hands.”

“As I recall,” Marcus continued, “most of the monks were set adrift in the world after Henry sold off their monasteries to anyone with the money to meet his price. Many starved, for they had no notion of how to survive.”

“Aye, 'tis true, the poor buggers, beggin' your pardon, my lady.”

Bugger was a versatile word, she thought. If the monks were buggers, then surely it couldn't be so very bad, could it? Did monks bugger themselves as well as being buggers?

Trevor said, “So, you have a clue to tell where some monk buried his abbey's wealth?”

“Not exactly, Mr. Wyndham. What I have is the proof that there was a treasure buried.”

Mr. Burgess turned another page. There was only script on this one. It was in Latin. He ran a blunt finger beneath the words as he said slowly, “The monk says that it was Beltane—the celebration of Beltane or the first of May is an ancient rite, still practiced in Scotland and here in northern England,” he added to Trevor, then continued. “Aye, the monk writes that it was Beltane and the night was dark as a dead man's eyes, and the winds blew strong across the dales and whistled through the crags, threatening to uproot the trees in the maple forests. The fires burned too brightly and many became uncontrolled, the winds whipping the fires and the people into a frenzy. Many were burned and
killed but they stayed, swaying with the ancient rhythms of the past and crying out in blind ecstasy, and performing the heathen rites of fertility that heralded the growth and rich heat of summer. He says that he and six of his brothers dragged the chest from the abbey, staying in the shadows as best they could for they'd heard that Cromwell had sent men there to prevent just what they intended to do. Look here. It also seems they were carrying a body with them, a large bloated body, he writes. This is very odd. What body?” He pointed back to the following text. “He writes they promised their Holy Father that the king would not have their abbey's wealth for his immoral uses.”

The page ended. Mr. Burgess slowly lifted the page and laid it carefully down. The next page was a drawing of the raging Beltane fires, their flames shooting heavenward with wild-faced people staring upward at the shooting flames. And then it changed. The people were still pointing, or perhaps reaching for something, but now, strangely, they seemed to be inside a room, not outside with the Beltane fires. And they were looking upward.

Mr. Burgess gently lifted and turned that page. There was nothing more, only the obvious proof that someone had torn out one or more of the precious pages. Gently, as if he were touching the most precious of gems, Leonardo Burgess lightly traced his blunt fingertips along the jagged rips. “Someone tore out the next pages, all of them.”

“I'll be damned,” Marcus said.

“Indeed,” Trevor agreed.

“But who?” the Duchess asked. “And when?”

“A long time ago,” Mr. Burgess said. “There's yellowing at the edges. See?”

“I do wonder who,” Trevor said. “In any case, the thief didn't find the treasure, else it would have been the news of the decade.”

Marcus said suddenly, “You, sir, look very familiar to me. It's the way you hold your head, the way—”

“Aye, my lord. I believe I would be your half-cousin, and yours as well, Mr. Wyndham. Goodness,” he added, smiling at the Duchess. “You're all my kin. My mother was born on the wrong side of the blanket, begging your pardon, my lady, thus she was a half-sister to your grandfather. Thus it wasn't difficult for me and your father, Mr. Wyndham, to be friends as boys and to keep that friendship once he'd left for the Colonies. The earl, naturally, didn't acknowledge me.”

Marcus shook his bastard half-cousin's hand before they left the shop, assuring him of acknowledgment.

“Good God,” Marcus said, shaking his head, as they walked back to where the young boy was patiently tending their horses. “I believe that there is some sort of precedent here.” He said to the Duchess, “Do you think I am expected to continue in the tradition of producing offspring out of blessed wedlock? Will my ancestors' ghosts haunt me if I don't populate the area with my bastards?”

“That is all well and good, Marcus,” she said, frowning at him, “but not to the point. What we learned makes me believe there is more to this treasure than fevered brains making up stories.”

“I wrote it all down,” Trevor said.

“And you,” Marcus added to her, “sketched those drawings very nicely. I had no idea you had a lady's talents. You continue to surprise me. I don't like it.”

“You have no idea of many things, Marcus,” she said. “Or perhaps you do, you just don't want to accept them.”

He saw the half-smile on her mouth and wished devoutly that Trevor was in Algiers. He wanted her. Quite simply, he wanted to jerk up that riding skirt of hers, brace her against a tree, and bury himself inside her.

He trembled. Damn Trevor.

She turned then to look up at him. The half-smile froze on her face but she didn't look away. She simply stared at him, unconsciously taking a step toward him. Marcus cursed.

Trevor, eyeing the two of them, quickly mounted Clancy and dug his heels in the stallion's sides. He called out over
his shoulder, “Take care not to fall off a cliff.”

Marcus cursed again and helped her to mount Birdie. “Just wait,” he said. “Just wait.”

She said slowly, not looking away from his blue eyes that were glittering brighter than the summer sky overhead, “I've a mind to find that treasure, Marcus.”

“Which treasure?” he said, his eyes on her breasts.

M
ARCUS SAID ABSOLUTELY
nothing throughout the two-hour ride back to Chase Park, staring straight ahead between Stanley's ears. She didn't look at him either, but her thoughts were of him, all of him and what he was thinking, what he wanted, what he would do to her. She spurred Birdie to a faster pace.

When they reached the Chase stables, he nearly jerked her off Birdie's back, grabbed her hand, and said low, “Come on. Now.” He grabbed her hand and nearly ran to the stables, kicked open the door to one of the tack rooms, then slammed it shut again with the heel of his boot. There was a key in the door and he turned it, still not releasing her right hand.

She had never imagined that a man could be so very urgent in the middle of the day. And here they were, not five minutes from his bedchamber and his bed. He'd waited two hours, but no longer? It was fascinating. Maybe this had something to do with that
beyond
business.

She devoutly hoped so. Suddenly, she was doing more than hoping.

“Now,” he said, turning to face her. He pulled on her hand, bringing her against him. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes narrowed, focused entirely on her. “Hurry, Duchess.”

She was pressed to his chest, feeling the deep pounding of his heart. She closed her eyes, those two simple words of his roiling through her. “What do you want me to do?” She was whispering, feeling suddenly so urgent she could barely talk. She flattened her hands against his
chest, felt the pounding of his heart beneath her palm, and rose on her tiptoes. “Marcus, tell me what you want me to do.”

He stared down at her, his look intent. “Just be you. I want to see if you will moan for me again, if you will scream and nearly buck me off you. I want to see if you will become frantic for me again.”

She felt his large hands pulling open her riding jacket. He was holding his breath, she realized, when suddenly his hands cupped her breasts through the thin white lawn of her blouse. He closed his eyes, throwing his head back as he kneaded her through the soft material.

“Marcus,” she said again. He hugged her to him. He pulled off her jaunty riding hat, then tugged the pins from her hair. “Ah,” he said, and kissed her ear, blowing tendrils of hair from his mouth, his breath warm against her flesh, his fingers tangling in her hair.

“Do you want me, Duchess?”

She pulled him more tightly against her. She let her hands go down his back to his flanks. “I think that's quite the stupidest thing you've ever said.”

He had to grin at that, but it was difficult. He had her undressed and flat on her back in a matter of moments. He stood over her, pulling off his boots and his buckskin trousers, looking at her face all the while he jerked off his clothes, and she lay there on her back, her riding clothes spread out beneath her, watching him, excitement rippling through her as he removed each piece of clothing. When he tossed his trousers aside and stood over her, his legs slightly spread, his sex free of his clothes, full and heavy, she said, “Please hurry, Marcus.” She stretched out her arms to him, her eyes darkening. “Oh goodness, you're more beautiful than your stallion.”

He cocked an eyebrow at that and came down on his knees beside her. “Stanley would hurt a mare when he took her. I would never hurt you. And I won't hurry, Duchess, at least I'll try my damnedest not to.”

He leaned down as he spoke and his last words were a whisper against her breast.

She cried out, arching up against his mouth.

“Easy,” he said, pushing her back, his hand flat on her belly. “Easy. It will be all right. Just be open for me, Duchess. Just open.”

He wanted her mouth immediately and she gave him her warmth as she parted her lips and he touched her tongue. She arched again and she felt him trembling against her, his hand now moving from her breasts to her belly, kneading her, spanning her with splayed fingers, gently caressing her pelvic bones, then going lower, circling her, lightly touching the warm flesh of her thighs, then finally cupping her, his fingers caressing and so very gentle until he found her and began to move in a rhythm that made her forget everything but him and those fingers of his and his mouth on hers and the heat of him as he moved over her. This time, though, his mouth never left hers, and it was his fingers that brought her to a tension that threatened to shatter her, so intense it was. And just at that instant when she knew, just knew there could be no more for her, he came into her, hard and deep, and her body exploded into blazing light, sparking a pleasure so strong, so urgent, she screamed, her hands clutching at his arms, at his back. It was too much.

He was driving into her, drawing her upward to meet him again, when she managed to look up into his face, harsh in the dim light of the tack room, his eyes glazed, and suddenly, it seemed that he was in immense pain. His jaw was locked, his cheeks flushed, the flesh taut over his bones. He grew still. She could feel him deep inside her, heavy, jerking slightly. Then, in the next instant, he wrenched away from her, heaving, groaning as if he were in pain, cursing, his hands digging into her hips to support himself, and she didn't understand, couldn't begin to realize what he was doing until she felt the wet of his seed on her belly, felt him jerking over her until finally, he was on his
knees between her legs, his head bowed, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged.

She said nothing, merely stared at him, the pleasure from such a short time before now as cold as ashes on a summer grate. She felt nothing but a vast emptiness that would consume her, she knew it as certainly as she now understood him and what he had planned the previous night but had failed to carry out.

She saw his seed on her belly. She held perfectly still. If she remained perfectly still, said naught, not a single word, maybe the pain would diminish, maybe he would say something that wouldn't tear her apart.

He rose, standing naked over her. “I'll get my handkerchief.” She closed her eyes and turned onto her side, drawing her legs up. She didn't care that she was naked, that he would look at her, it just didn't matter. She felt him coming back down on his knees, felt his hands on her shoulder and hip, turning her back to him. She felt the handkerchief wiping his seed from her.

“Don't you dare cry, Duchess,” he said low, his face bending close to her head. “Don't you dare weep your damned woman's tears and say that I abused you, that you didn't gain pleasure from me. You had great pleasure if your screams were any measure, and believe me, they were. I didn't cheat you out of anything save my seed, but you know I intended to do that. If you didn't understand what I meant, you do now. I told you that you won't bear any child of mine to follow in that bastard's footsteps. It is done. Get up now and get dressed.”

He tossed the handkerchief beside her on her riding skirt. She watched him as he dressed, his movements as graceful as they always were, oblivious of her now, as if she had been naught but a receptacle for his man's lust, and since he was through with her, why bother then regarding her anymore. Then she saw his hands, hard and large, yet when they touched her, they . . . she closed her eyes. He was in full control, both of himself and of her. She had no control
at all, indeed, at that moment, she had nothing.

Slowly, she sat up, drawing her now wrinkled chemise over her head. She stared at a beautiful Spanish saddle as she said, “Badger is preparing dinner himself tonight.”

Marcus eyed her with some surprise. He shouldn't be surprised, he thought, no tears for the Duchess, no sign of anything, except when she wanted him to pleasure her. No, no sign of anything because emotion was too messy, it would reduce her in her own eyes to show anyone anything save her immense calm, that damnable aloofness of hers. He said, “What is he preparing?”

“Roasted lamb with apricot sauce. He says it takes too long a time to hash a shoulder of mutton properly so instead he has marinated the mutton all day.”

Marcus grunted as he pulled on his coat. He walked to a chair, sat down, and pulled on his boots.

“He is also making a cherry and almond cake. It was always one of my mother's favorites. And cassia biscuits. They have castor sugar and currants in them.”

He rose then and looked down at her sitting cross-legged on her riding skirt, his damp wadded-up handkerchief beside her, her chemise pulled over her head to fall only to her thighs, those white legs of hers so beautifully shaped. Her hair was tumbled about her head. She looked so lovely and yet so desperate in her calmness, he felt a stab of alarm. He shook his head. No, not the Duchess, she wouldn't feel anything that would interfere with the smoothness of her breath, save when he took her and stroked her. And that gave him power over her. That pleased him. He could shatter her calm in those precious minutes. He took a step toward her, then stopped suddenly, frowning. “Do you not think it a bit odd to speak about Badger's recipes so soon after having sex with me?”

“Would you prefer that I said nothing?”

“It is what you usually say. Holding cold and detached is your specialty. It is what I expected.”

“I spoke about food to break the silence, to give you background noise while you dressed again. Would you rather I had spoken of something else?”

“Yes. Of me and what I did to you, of what I gave to you. Of yourself, and what I will teach you to do to me. Right now you are taking, Duchess, naught but taking. Are you willing to give as well?”

She looked beyond his right shoulder. “Do you know how pippins and plums are candied?”

“No, I don't know.”

“You mustn't forget that a good cook, which Badger is, also knows how to use foods to prepare remedies for illnesses.”

He hunkered down beside her. He took her chin in his palm. “Shut up.”

She became still as a stone.

He kissed her, forcing her mouth open, but he didn't savage her, no, not at all. She felt his tongue gently come into her mouth, lightly touching hers, demanding nothing. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to ignore the burgeoning warmth deep in her belly. It was humiliating, that damned warmth that he drew so effortlessly from her.

Then he was gone, rising to stand over her. “Dress yourself. I imagine that all our stable lads know exactly what we've been doing. Come, I'll help you. There is straw in your hair. I suppose I should take that handkerchief. It smells of me and of you and I wouldn't want to make you remember that you are as wild as a mare when a stallion comes over her.”

Suddenly, something else shattered deep inside her, broke wide apart, and rage such as she'd never felt in her nineteen years poured through her. She knew it was rage even though she'd never recognized it within herself before. Ah, yes, she knew, and she let it feed on itself, let it grow stronger and stronger still. She could feel the rage pounding in every part of her body, unleashing itself in her, pushing her and pushing harder and harder.

The stillness, the hard-won calm and serenity she'd shown to the world since that long-ago day when she'd heard the upstairs maid tell the Tweenie that she was a bastard flared bright and hot in her mind. She could see the two of them, hear their voices talking about her. She saw herself, small and so very frightened, so utterly alone in this huge mansion, seeking out her father's wife, knowing she would tell her the truth, just not realizing the depths of the countess's hatred of her, of her very existence. It was more than just hatred, it was vile and cold and contemptuous, what the countess of Chase felt for her, a nine-year-old girl who'd just found out she was a bastard. It spewed over her, drowning her in it and she hadn't been able to bear it.

And then Marcus had named her the Duchess and all that calm, that stillness, that haughty reserve that others applauded in her, indeed poured approval upon her because of it, seeped into her very soul. And she nurtured it as she would a precious rose in her mother's garden, until it was, quite simply, natural. It became her, and she a reflection of it; she was it. She became the Duchess.

Until now. The rage bubbled and flamed. She was stripped, everything in her naked and hard and cold and eager for violence. She stared at him, letting her rage at what he'd done to her continue to build.

She rose slowly to her feet, smoothing down her wrinkled, soiled chemise. She saw that her hands were shaking, but not with timidity, but with the cleansing sweet anger. And it was sweet, that rage that she'd buried deep as her very soul so many years before. She watched him as he walked back to his chair and sat down. He crossed his legs and his arms over his chest.

“Dress,” he said. “You might try some feminine wiles on me, I'd like to see if you have talent for it. You don't understand, Duchess? Well, dress slowly, tease me with a toss of your head, raise your breasts, perhaps show me some cleavage, move your hips in a seductive way. Are you capable of such a thing? I wonder.”

She just stared at him, this man to whom she'd given herself, this man she'd saved, truth be told, she had saved him, saved the future of the Wyndham line, and he was a tyrant, a fool, a savage who had humiliated her more than she'd believed one human being could humiliate another. He'd withdrawn from her because of his hatred of her father. He'd treated her like nothing more than a vessel for his lust and even that he hadn't allowed. He scorned her womb because it represented a tie to the uncle he hated so very much. He scorned her for it, even though she'd been naught but a bastard, and perhaps that was why he did. He simply didn't care what he did to her. And he knew she would simply accept whatever he meted out to her.