Thunder and Roses (47 page)

Admitting her love for Nicholas had opened the gates to her heart. She had always known, in her mind, that her father loved her the best he knew how.

It had been her life’s great sorrow that what she needed was different from what he was able to give. Now, finally, she was able to accept her father as he had been, and to love him without resentment.

She felt reborn, alive as never before in her life. By attempting to transform Nicholas’s pain, she had also transformed herself. She wanted to laugh aloud for the sheer joy of it.

She also wondered, without anxiety, what would happen next. The fact that she loved him did not mean that he would ever love her back. Her stroking hand stilled. She would miss him dreadfully when their singular relationship ended. But she would survive, for her heart was finally whole.

The fire was almost dead and a cold draft gusted through the open window. Even Nicholas was not enough to keep her warm, and she began to shiver. With a soft exhalation, he pushed himself to a sitting position and looked down at her. Though his face was
somber
and rather distant, the wild anguish was gone.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he touched a finger to her lips, hushing her. After tugging her garments loosely into place, he got to his feet and adjusted his own clothing.

With swift, economical movements, he closed the window and the draperies, turned out the single guttering lamp, and collected his crumpled shirt. Then he knelt and scooped her into his arms and carried her from the library, leaving no trace of what had happened between them.

Her head pillowed drowsily on his shoulder, she was content to let him take her to her room. After laying her on her bed, he stripped off her clothing before tucking her under the covers. Though modesty was foolish after what had just passed between them, she was glad they were in near-total darkness.

She expected him to leave, but to her surprise she heard the sounds of the key turning in the lock and clothing being removed. Then he joined her in the bed and pulled her into his arms. She found that, while she might be modest about being looked at, she was quite shameless about twining her bare body around his.

Conscience clear and spirit at peace, she slept.

 
Clare woke at the sound of someone wrestling with the doorknob. It was early morning, time for Polly to bring in her tea, and for a moment she couldn’t understand why the door was locked. Then memories of the night before flooded her mind.

Polly, clever girl, gave up and went away. T
hank
heaven she wasn’t local. She was also discreet; if she guessed that Clare had not slept alone, she would hold her tongue.

Clare reached out an arm and discovered that she was alone in the bed. But if Nicholas had left, why was the door still locked? She sat up and looked around.

He stood by the window, arms folded across his chest as he gazed into the valley. He was gloriously naked, his skin glowing like warm bronze in the pale dawn light.

Hearing her movements, he turned his head and their glances met. He wore an expression she had never seen before: not the despairing guilt of the night before, nor the wild fury he had sometimes displayed. Certainly not the playful openness she loved. Instead he looked—determined? Resigned? He seemed almost a stranger, and one who was a little frightening.

Hesitantly she asked, “How do you feel this morning?”

He shrugged. “No less guilty, but much less crazed. I’ll survive.” His gaze drifted over her. “You seem remarkably calm for a ruined preacher’s daughter.”

Realizing that, except for her long hair, she was as bare as a baby, she quickly pulled the sheet over her breasts.

“It’s a bit late for modesty.”

Defiantly she let the sheet drop to her waist and tossed her hair back over her shoulders.

Some of his composure dropped away and his breathing quickened. With visible effort, he raised his eyes to her face. “Obviously we’ll have to get married, and the sooner the better. I’ll send to London for a special license today.”

Calm vanished and her mouth dropped open. “Marriage? What on earth are you talking about?”

“I should think it would be obvious,” he replied coolly. “Legal matrimony. Husband and wife. Till death us do part.”

Though her spirit might be reborn, her mind was still capable of utter confusion. “Will-what?” she stammered. “You swore that you would never take another wife. Why on earth would you want to marry me?”

“For a very basic reason—you might be carrying my child.”

Ruthlessly she suppressed the spurt of joy the thought gave her. “You told me once that there are ways to prevent that.”

“There are, but I wasn’t thinking about them last night,” he said dryly.

“I suppose it’s possible I might have conceived,” she admitted, “but the odds are that I didn’t. Surely it would be wiser to wait and see rather than do something rash that you’ll soon regret.”

“It might be weeks before you would know for sure.” His brows rose. “Do you want to have a `seven month baby,` with everyone in Penreith knowing that you had to get married? As a virgin, your conscience was clear, which gave you the strength to face the condemnation of those who believed the worst. That is no longer true—I’ve made you vulnerable, and there is only one way I can remedy that.”

She fell silent. Though she was not ashamed of solacing him with her body, she loathed the idea of gossips condemning her act of love as cheap and wicked. Finally she asked, “Why were you so set against marriage?”

His lips tightened and he looked out the window so that she saw only his dark profile. “The great passion of the old earl’s life was the succession to Aberdare. Refusing to sire a legitimate heir was my way of thwarting him. Since he is beyond caring whether there will be a sixth Earl of Aberdare, it was a childish kind of revenge, but the only one within my power.”

He turned toward her again. Since he was silhouetted against the morning sun, she could not read his expression. “My responsibility to you must
supercede
my meaningless revenge against my grandfather. Though my conscience wasn’t troubled at the prospect of ruining your reputation and taking your virginity, accidentally impregnating you would be unacceptable. Hence, marriage.”

There was nothing on earth she wanted more than to be Nicholas’s wife, but before this morning, the idea had been literally unthinkable. She wondered if his decision to marry her was a way of expiating the guilt he felt over Owen’s death. “Ever since we struck our bargain, you’ve been doing your best to seduce me,” she said. “I’m having trouble understanding how your success could produce such a sudden change of heart.”

His glance was satirical. “I didn’t seduce you—quite the contrary.”

Her face burned. “I wasn’t trying to trap you into marriage.”

“I know that, Clare,” he said quietly. “You gave me a great gift, from the most generous of motives. But accepting it imposed certain obligations, and I always honor my obligations.”

She suppressed an involuntary shiver. “That’s a cold basis for marriage.”

“Oh, it’s not the only one.” A familiar light gleamed in his eyes, warming his icy detachment. “For example, now that I’ve finally had my wicked way with you, I want to do it again. Often.”

As she hesitated, he said, “I see you need persuasion.”

In two long strides, he was on the bed. Before she had time to catch her breath, she was flat on her back and he was kissing her, one hand twined in her hair and the other caressing her breast.

Her husky gasp must have sounded like surrender, for he lifted his head and murmured, “Do you have any special requests for the wedding? A small one would be best, I think, but the thing should be done properly.”

She struggled for common sense, not easy when he was doing such marvelous things to her eager body.

“I … I haven’t said that I’ll marry you.”

His face was scant inches from hers, and she saw his eyes grow even blacker. “Why not?” he demanded, harshness in his voice. “You don’t seem to dislike my lovemaking. Of course, there are women who will sleep with men that they would never receive socially.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said acerbically. “You’ve gotten it backwards. Earls don’t marry village schoolmistresses.”

“Just as the sons of earls don’t marry Gypsy girls? Your father was a vicar, an educated son of the gentry, and your mother of respectable yeoman stock. There are many who would think those better bloodlines than mine.” His expression lightened. “You really must marry me, Clare. You owe it to our unborn child to give it a name.”

A choke of laughter escaped her. “I’m by no means convinced of the existence of this unborn child.”

“You should be.” He skimmed his palm lightly down her belly, then began toying with the soft curls between her thighs. “We’re about to double the chances of its conception.”

“Stop it!” She slapped away his hand. “I can’t think when you’re doing that.”

Undeterred, he replaced his hand and continued what he had been doing. “It doesn’t take much thought to say yes.”

She grabbed his hand and immobilized it. Dead serious, she said, “I can accept the fact that you would be marrying me without love, but not that you might come to hate me for trapping you in a marriage that you didn’t want.”

“I could never hate you, Clare,” he said with equal seriousness. “I am going into this with my eyes open—I won’t punish you for a situation that was of my creation.”

She hesitated, hating the necessity of her next question. “There’s something else.”

He raised his brows encouragingly.

Her gaze slid away from his. “It has been said that you were not faithful to your first wife. Is that true?”

His face shuttered. “It is.”

“I understand that aristocrats feel differently about such things, but I am no aristocrat,” she said with difficulty. “I … I couldn’t bear it if you had other women.”

The silence stretched. His face was unfathomable, and when he finally spoke it was in a voice of cool neutrality. “I’ll propose another bargain. I shall be faithful to you as long as you are faithful to me. But if you should ever visit another man’s bed, I promise you that I shall also look elsewhere.”

Dizzying relief flooded through her. “If you agree to that bargain, you are destined to have a long, dull life, my lord, for I will never turn to another man.”

“Dull? With you? I don’t think so.” His expression eased. “Does this mean you accept my proposal?”

She closed her eyes, wanting to clear her mind so that she could hear her inner voice. Instantly a tide of certainty began rising in her, as it had the night before. This was right—what she was born to do. Since she did not think he would welcome an outright declaration of love, she opened her eyes and contented herself with saying, “Yes, Nicholas. With all my heart and soul.”

He rolled from the bed, went to her desk, and rummaged in the drawer. When he came back, she saw that he was carrying her penknife. As she watched in mystification, he raised his hand and pierced his wrist with the sharp, narrow blade. A deep crimson drop formed on his dark skin, quickly followed by another. Then he lifted her hand.

Guessing what was coming, she managed not to flinch when he made a similar incision on her wrist. Holding his wrist to hers so that the blood flowed together, he said quietly, “Blood to blood. The deed is done, wife.”

She stared at their joined wrists, feeling a deep, primal sense of connection. Blood to blood, till death did them part. “This is a Romany rite?”

“One of many. The Rom are a varied lot.” He smiled. “Typically the wedding feast ends with a mock abduction. It’s considered bad form for the bride to look too willing to leave her family. Since you were coerced into coming to Aberdare, we can count that as the abduction.” He raised her wrist to his mouth and licked the blood away, his tongue soothing the sting of the cut. “Shall we proceed with the consummation?”