Wicked at Heart (40 page)

"I love
you, my dearest Gwyneth," he murmured against the soft flesh of her
breast, against her madly thudding heart.  "You have made me a very happy
man."

She felt him
probing her entrance, but she was so slick with moisture that, despite his size
and her own tightness, she felt no pain, only firm, delicious, stretching
pressure as he entered her.  He paused just inside her and cradled her face
within his hands, kissing her brow, her eyelids, her cheekbones.

"I promised
to be gentle," he said hoarsely, searching her gaze, "but there is
one pain from which I cannot spare you."

 "Do
it," she gasped, swept up in a fire of her own.

He lowered his
head, claimed her mouth, and thrust himself inside her.  She felt a brief pain,
a sharp tearing of virginity, then it was over, gone, behind her, and he was
surging fully into her, filling her passage, expanding it to almost unbearable exquisiteness
as he moved deeper and deeper inside of her.

This was
heaven.  This, with the blue sky above, the wind coasting over their hot
bodies, the sunlight warming their skin, and the forest of poppies and thistles
whispering and nodding all around, this, with Damon making love to her — this,
this was heaven at last.

He partially withdrew,
eased himself gently back into her, once, twice, over and over again . . . and began
to pick up the pace.  Her breathing grew heavy.  His mouth grew harder, more
demanding on her own.  Her legs came up to wind around his driving hips and her
own passion built as she matched his quickening rhythm, harder, faster, until
finally he raised his head on a guttural cry and with a deep shudder, found his
own release.  As his hot seed filled her, a third, crashing explosion rocked through
her, and she cried out and clung to him, sobbing with the sweet anguish of it
all.

It was a long
time before their shudders quieted and she once again heard the distant birds,
the wind through the poppies. They lay together for a long time, skin to skin,
just holding each other.  To Gwyneth, it felt as though she were home at last,
and this wonderful, windswept place was the one that had waited for her
forever.

Eventually, the
marquess raised his head and looked down at her, his iridescent eyes burning
with a love so fierce it pierced right through to her heart.

"That
surprise I have for you," he murmured, and stretching, reached for the
lunch basket.

Still clinging
to him, she turned her head on the blanket and watched as he withdrew a small,
silk-wrapped bundle.  And as the wrappings fell away, he held up a magnificent
ring, a ruby framed in diamonds which winked in the sun and shot prisms of fire
into her eyes.

"For
you," he said simply.  "The future Marchioness of Morninghall."

Chapter
25

Damon was not a
patient man.  He obtained a special license from the archbishop, and two weeks
later, in a small, private ceremony within the splendor of Morninghall's own
chapel, married the love of his life.  It was a beautiful, almost divine
affair, with morning light shining through the chapel's ancient panes of
stained glass, and only Rhiannon, Sophie, the loyal Britwell, and the great
house's staff witnessed the solemn event.

For Gwyneth, the
day passed in a blur.  Great tables laid with food were set up on the lawns
outside, the neighboring villagers were invited, and the dancing and feasting
lasted far into the night.  If she did not notice that the staff at Morninghall
were gradually warming to their long-absent master, she could not be faulted
for it.  If she did not notice her sister's cat-in-the-cream smile, it was only
because she was wearing one herself.  Indeed, the day passed too quickly to
recall much of it afterward, but her proud new husband made sure the wedding
night that followed was one she would never forget.  When at last Gwyneth fell
into an exhausted slumber some time in the wee hours of the morning, she felt
as though he had left no inch of her body unloved.

The following
day dawned dull and wet.  They awoke late and lay long abed, snuggled together
beneath the covers and listening to the rain falling outside until at last
their growling stomachs demanded attention.  Breakfast was brought to them by a
blushing maid — a tray of tea, toast, and marmalade which they ate while
sitting together on the window seat, the misty, rolling countryside spread
before them.  Afterward, when the pot of tea was empty and nothing but crumbs
lay on the silver plate, Gwyneth lay back against Damon's chest and luxuriated
in the feel of his arms wrapped securely around her, his chin resting atop her
head.  Together they watched the rain streaming down the pane just outside.

Their first day
of marital bliss, however, was destined for interruption.  As Gwyneth nestled
snugly in her husband's embrace, she became aware of distant hoofbeats.  She
didn't think much of it until the sound grew louder and a horse and rider burst
through the long alley of trees, moving steadily toward the house.

The rider wore a
naval uniform.

"Bloody
hell," Damon swore, tightening his arms around Gwyneth.

"Shall we
go downstairs?"

"We'll go
down when we're damn good and ready," he growled and, kissing the skin
just behind her ear, gently pushed her down on the velvet cushions.

~~~~

Dressed in a
loose, white shirt tucked into snug-fitting breeches, the Marquess of
Morninghall met Britwell at the foot of the stairs and strode into the library
just over an hour later.  His features were schooled to chilling calm, his
manner aloof and relaxed, but inside, he was fuming.  How dare they interrupt only
a day after his wedding!  How dare they trouble him in a place where he finally
had found peace and refuge!  Damn their eyes, every last bloody one of them!

The messenger
was sitting in a chair near the fire, trying to dry his clothing and staring up
in awe at the magnificent paintings that looked down at him from their lordly
heights.  By the look on his face, it was obvious he'd never seen such wealth
and opulence and was more than a little overwhelmed by it all.  As Damon
entered the room, he lunged to his feet, saluted, and offered a missive. 
Impatiently, Damon snatched it from his hand.

"I
understand congratulations are in order, my lord," the lad gushed, as
Damon ripped the seal open, his brow darkening as he read.  "And I trust
you're recovering well from your recent injuries —"

Damon's
withering glare instantly quieted him and he fell silent, hands clasped behind
his back and eyes downcast.

The contents
were as Damon expected.

We are given
to understand that you have sufficiently recovered from your recent injuries;
therefore, we have deemed you fit to command and order you to return to
Portsmouth
immediately.

It was signed
simply, "Bolton."

That was it
then.  Nothing about the Admiralty's decision regarding his competency to
command a prison hulk, nothing about the state of affairs on board
Surrey
,
nothing but a cold order to return to Portsmouth,
now
.  Damon clenched
his jaw, his fists, his muscles.  A familiar coil of rage started to build within
his chest, but then Gwyneth was there, her hand on his shoulder, and instantly,
the rage went away.

"As bad as
you thought?" she asked, gently.

"Worse."

He shouldn't
have expected they'd let him stay up here forever — away from the prisoners of
war, away from the petty hatreds and jealousies of his superiors, away from the
navy he so detested.  He shouldn't have expected they would have relieved him
of his duties.  After all, he was a marquess — they wouldn't dare.  How he
hated the irony of it!  Well, it was about time to pull rank.  He'd just return
to Portsmouth and tender his resignation.  After all, there was no reason he
couldn't
stay up here forever — the decision was his, really.

His eyes
resolute, he went to his desk.  There he penned a quick note to Bolton, folded,
and sealed it.  The waiting messenger looked at him, fearfully.  "Stay and
warm yourself by the fire," Damon said, handing the note to the lad,
"and I'll have Britwell bring you some lunch to sustain you before you
go."

He took
Gwyneth's arm and led her from the library, never hearing the messenger's words
of gratitude.

"Let me
guess," she said, looking up at his face as they walked down the long
corridor.  "You have to go back to Portsmouth."

"Yes.  I
should've known they weren't through with me yet."

"Will you
be long?"

"No.  I'll
hand in my resignation as I ought to have done years ago, tie up some loose ends,
and return to you just as soon as I am able."

"Why Damon! 
You speak as though you plan to go alone."

"Of
course."

She playfully
swatted his shoulder.  "Think again, dearest husband. 
I'm
going
with you."

~~~~

The journey
seemed to take forever.  With the Marquess and Marchioness of Morninghall traveling
in the long-unused but freshly polished family coach and Rhiannon, Sophie, and
Mattie in another that followed behind, they made the slow trip south to the
coast.  The rain that had started the morning after the wedding continued for
several days, and the roads were rutted and muddy all the way to Portsmouth. 
Certainly the rain did nothing to lift spirits that were already low, and try
as she might, Gwyneth could not coax her new lord out of his brooding,
melancholy mood.

She couldn't
tell whether he was furious about having his honeymoon interrupted, annoyed
about having to return to an environment he plainly hated, or was just
wrestling with something private and deep — indeed, she suspected it was a
combination of all three, with heavy emphasis on the latter.  She could not
help but notice the preoccupied, faraway look in his eyes, the lines of tension
around his mouth, and last night, as they'd crawled into their bed at a
roadside coaching inn, she'd gently asked him what was troubling him so.

"The Black
Wolf," was all he'd said, and all he
would
say, surprising Gwyneth
with the admission.  Why on earth was he thinking about the mysterious rescuer,
of all things?  Perhaps it was due to their growing proximity to Portsmouth. 
He was probably not looking forward to being reminded of the embarrassment the
Black Wolf had caused him.  Obviously, it was a sore subject with him, and out
of respect for his feelings, Gwyneth decided to say no more about the Black
Wolf.

She could not,
of course, know that her husband was wrestling with his own conscience, and
wanted nothing more than to talk to her about it.

The time just
wasn't right.

~~~~

They arrived in Portsmouth
on a dismal, rainy afternoon which hung a ragged cloak of fog and mist over the
old city.  Damon had the coach brought round to Gwyneth's rented house, where
he saw the women safely inside, and then, promising to return to them that
evening, he made his way back toward the harborfront to start taking care of
those "loose ends."

He stopped at Bolton's
office first, and found the admiral out for the afternoon.  But there was a
sealed envelope for him, and in it were Bolton's orders forbidding him to take
any prisoner away from the prison hulk — not even the thirteen-year-old
American lad, whom he'd heard all about from "certain parties." 
Fuming, Damon climbed back into the coach and ordered the driver to take him to
the docks.  Shortly afterward he was in a boat and on his way out to HMS
Surrey
.

Wrapped in a cloak
against the weather, he sat on the damp seat, quietly watching the old ship
rearing up out of the fog like a long-forgotten ghost.  He wasn't sure what he
had expected to feel at his first sight of it after all that had come to pass. 
Surprisingly he felt no tension or fear, despite that last memory of the
prisoners charging into his cabin and bringing him down with their blows. 
Certainly there was no nostalgia, and the only emotion that stirred his breast
was a heavy sense of despair, for he knew that no matter what he did, no matter
how he had tried to help the poor unfortunates aboard the hulk, it would never
be enough.  The suffering would end only when the war did.  It was a sad and
simple truth.

Radley met him
on deck, his eyes full of contempt and dislike.  He did not inquire after
Damon's health and Damon, acknowledging him with a cold nod, did not volunteer
any information.  He merely strode past the assembled marines and crew to his
cabin and shut the door.

He stood there
in the quiet room, the rain trickling down the windows.  There was his bed,
neatly made up as though he had left it just this morning.  There was the
window through which Gwyneth had hurled the oar, now repaired and spattered
with rain.  And there was the spot on the deck where the prisoners had brought
him down, the little knothole in the wood against which his face had been
pressed as they'd beat him, kicked him, slammed his skull over and over until all
had gone hazy, then gray, then mercifully black.

He sat down in
his swivel chair and looked pensively at the spot.  He looked at it and felt no
fear, none at all.  Nothing, in fact, but a strange, restless emptiness.

I don't
belong here.  I never did.  I just want to finish what I must and go home.

And home was
with Gwyneth.

There was a rap
on the door.   "Damon?"

"Ah, Peter! 
Come in."

The door swung
open, and the chaplain stood there.  He looked at Damon for a long moment, his
eyes strangely moist.  "She did it, then," he murmured, looking Damon
up and down as though he were Lazarus raised from the grave.  Then he broke into
a wide, uncontainable grin.  "As God is my witness, she did it!"