Wolfsgate (10 page)

Brandon stopped at her side. Her heart pounded wildly outside her chest. Could they both hear it?

“When did this happen? You’ve only just returned. I thought—”

“What is it you thought?” Brandon asked.

Justine clasped her hands together. She had to intervene. “T’was in London, in fact,” she said. “We spent time together in London after Lord Graven’s release from hospital.”

“I see. Well.” He cleared his throat. “Congratulations to you both.” Andrew’s lips smashed together.

“Very kind of you,” Brandon said. He took Justine’s hand in his. Andrew’s eyes darted to the movement, his face tightening. The Graven ring Brandon wore ground into Justine’s knuckles.

“Well, I should take my leave.” Andrew bowed his head to them both. “Amanda will surely want to see you.”

“Will she?” asked Brandon.

Justine’s body stilled. She was quite sure Amanda would be fascinated by the news.

Andrew’s head snapped up. “Yes, of course. You’ll come to the house for dinner. We’ll arrange it. We are family after all.” Andrew shot one last glance at Justine, turned stiffly and strode off towards the village.

Dry leaves rustled in the breeze sweeping through the gated cemetery. “Did he really just say we are family?” Brandon asked. “Damn me, this homecoming gets more interesting every day.” He gripped Justine’s waist with his hand and twisted her towards him. His eyes burned into hers, and her breath audibly hitched. He really should control his temper, but to hell with that. “What was that really about then?”

“He must have seen me from the road and came over to say hello.”

“He came for more than hello, Justine.” He’d seen Blakelock kissing her hand, savoring it, and he’d seen her pleased smile beaming back at him at which point something in his head had detonated.

“He did not know about our marriage,” Justine said. “There has been no formal announcement, after all, and William must not have—”

“Of course he hasn’t!” His voice rose sharply. “You didn’t answer my question, Justine. What is between the two of you?”

“Nothing,” she said, her cheeks pink, her large brown eyes round. A shadow flickered over her features. “Well, not anymore.”

“Ah—is that honesty? How refreshing.” His shoulders stiffened as he loosened his grip on her waist. “Tell me.”

“There has always been a certain fondness between us over the years.” Justine cleared her throat.

“A certain fondness?” Icy stabs raced down his spine. Dear God, what now? Had they been secretly engaged? That prickling over his skin intensified. “Did he ever ask you to marry him?” He tried to restrain the thoughts rioting in his brain.

“No.”

“I don’t believe you. Why the hell not?”

She shifted her weight on her other foot. “Well, not formally, no.”

Brandon winced. “Not formally?”

“We had once or twice discussed the possibility, in the most indirect of terms, but…”

“But?” His breath came in shallow now, a cold sweat beading on his brow. His pulse raced in his temple. He knew Andrew and Justine had always been close as children, but dammit they hadn’t been children for quite some time, now had they?

“William wouldn’t allow it,” she said.

His cold fingers were on her chin and drew her face towards his. Her eyes widened. “William?” he asked. “But such a match would have been ideal, would it not?”

“So I thought. But he wanted Amanda, you see.”

“And so?”

“He didn’t want me connected to her family in any way. We would have been brother and sister yet again.”

“He refused Andrew?”

Justine shook her head. “No, he found another way.”

His brow snapped together. “What other way?”

“He made me tell Andrew no without any explanation and forbade me to ever see him again.”

Brandon cursed. William had forced Justine into rejecting Andrew for seemingly no reason, putting her into the role of the capricious, flighty girl, which she was not. The poor boy must have been gutted by it. And Justine?

Oh, sod it all!

“Did you love him?” Her gaze shot up at him. He took in her clouded eyes, her stiff jaw. An ache tore through his bad leg. “Or is the better question do you love him still?”

“I had a great affection for him, Brandon,” she replied. “He was a source of light, of joy for me in all this.” Her fingers gesticulated around her as she tossed her head. “He was my only constant and a dear friend for quite some time.”

Brandon’s rioting thoughts broke free from any restraint and made him dizzy. He was not the only one confused by this marriage. What an arrogant, egotistical ass he was assuming Justine had gladly and willingly agreed to their marriage as if she were desperate to hang onto him for his money or his title or simply desperate for a husband. Her thoughts and feelings lay elsewhere all this time.

Of course, he was no longer the great catch he used to be, and his present looks and behavior left much to be desired. God, he was a pathetic fool, wasn’t he? Justine didn’t want this either. She was a casualty of William’s war against him as well. What she really wanted had been denied her, taken away from her.

His head pounded and a scraping feeling gnawed over his skin, his lungs constricted. He needed a fix.

Right the hell now.

“I didn’t let it go on, Brandon. After William insisted it end, I stopped accepting his attentions and requested my letters be returned. They were, and I destroyed them and returned his letters to me. I avoided Andrew after that, in fact, I rarely left the house in all that time. He has been traveling on the Continent since then from what I understand. This is the first I have seen him since…since all of that.” She inhaled a short breath through her pale lips.

Attentions.

Letters.

Destroying.

Avoiding.

The words whirled through his fried brain from the second they left her sweet mouth. Andrew had left England for an extended tour of the Continent? Apparently, he had not taken the rejection lightly. Blakelock had loved her all right, and from what he had just witnessed, he loved her still.

“And then you and I were married.” Justine’s strained voice sheared through his haze.

The fingers of his one hand traced a trail up the side of her soft throat. Her pulse drummed under his fingers, her uneasy gaze pinned on his. He was making her anxious, uncomfortable, apprehensive of his next reaction. This delicate, sweet creature who was pulsing with life should belong to a kind, blond boy like Andrew Blakelock.

As children Blakelock had always had a special affection for Justine and Annie. He would insist on including the younger girls in their games and would take the time to entertain them by making silly drawings of animals or caricatures of people they knew. Oftentimes he stole sweets from the dessert trays in the kitchen for the girls when they hadn’t been allowed downstairs during a dinner party.

After Annie’s death, if William went too far in his perpetual annoyance with Justine, Andrew would step in and come to her defense, and then Brandon would chastise William for overreacting. Andrew would pull the girl out of William’s way and send her off in the opposite direction, often following her himself. Amanda, not one for confrontations, never paid much attention and tended to drift away during these incidents. Before leaving the room, Justine would often look up at Brandon and Andrew with her soft, brown eyes, a slow smile lighting her face, then turn and run off. No pouting self-pity, just delight and genuine gratitude would shine in that innocent face.

Yes, he was not for a girl like her; he was ill, used up, a strain. His existence had robbed her of her ideal knight in shining armor. Here she was putting on a brave face for him and for Andrew.

Even now he could still feel her heart beating through his chest from when he had held her tight in his arms last night, when he acted like an animal in heat. Justine hadn’t pulled away from him, though. She hadn’t shown any disgust. She had tensed up for a brief moment, but then she had opened to him, and he had drowned himself in her. Her innocent, breathy noises had cut through his selfish, libidinous fog and made his release all the sweeter, in fact, the memory of them was making him hard right this very minute.

The lavender from the soap she had used in her hair still lingered, just like the sensation of her full breasts and hardened nipples pressing against his chest. A thousand currents had roared through his veins straight to his demanding cock which had flourished under her tight grip. When she had groaned his name with her neck arched back against his shoulder, her softness melting around him, that’s when he’d spent himself. He hadn’t even seen to her pleasure, imagine when…

Had he been dreaming? Was last night real? Did she truly feel that good in his arms?

The desperate need to taste her again erupted within him. His hands wrapped firmly around her neck, and he drew her to him. She let out a soft gasp as his mouth crushed hers, his tongue sliding between her full lips. Her hands pressed into his chest, pushing their bodies slightly apart. Her beautiful brown eyes searched his, as his thumb stroked her now swollen lower lip.

He hadn’t been dreaming. She bloody well felt amazing.

The thought of Justine holding someone else’s hand, sharing stolen kisses with…

He
wanted to possess her, claim her, be the one to make her desperate with fire. Greed took hold of him, and he tilted her head closer to his face. His tongue plundered her warm mouth, and she whimpered softly. Sweet Jesus, that sound was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. Her hands glided around his middle and pressed into his back. The ache in his chest spiraled.

“Graven, you hound! Respect for the dead, man!”

Throaty laughter rose behind them and Justine froze, her fingers curling into his frock coat. Brandon muttered a curse as he twisted around, his hands gripping Justine’s arms.

“Charles?” His close childhood friend, Charles Montclare.

“You bastard, alive and kicking are you? The rumors are true. And there we all were, mourning your loss for some time. Ironic, though, finding you now in a graveyard, don’t you think?” Charles threw back his head and laughed. His golden brown eyes swooped over Justine and settled on her face. “And who is this adorable creature?” She lifted her chin, her cheeks still pink, her lips swollen from Brandon’s kiss. Charles raised an eyebrow, and a wicked smiled curled the edges of his mouth.

“Come now, Montclare, you remember Justine? William’s stepsister,” Brandon said.

“I’ll be damned.” He bowed his head and a grin brightened his fine sharp features. “Just a slip of a girl last time I laid eyes on you. Have they been hiding you in the attic all this time, my dear, because I haven’t seen you about at all? Nor in London…no, I haven’t seen you.” His voice dropped. “I would have remembered.” He bowed his head, his golden brown gaze remaining intense.

“I have been home at Wolfsgate, Mr. Montclare.”

“Under lock and key then,” his eyes glinted. “What a waste.”

Charles Montclare hadn’t changed a bit. He still used that raw, cool charm of his to great effect. There was a time when the two of them had been the most popular and appreciated young gentlemen in the county. Only Charles’s brand of charm was a bit chillier, more sardonic than Brandon’s, and his flirting knew no bounds. Brandon used to find Charles’s
esprit
amusing. Right now, however, he didn’t find it amusing in the least, and his palm itched to smack the smirk off Montclare’s handsome face.

“Justine and I are married,” Brandon’s voice cut through Charles’s thick attention on Justine.

“What?” Charles shook his gaze from Justine to Brandon and back to Brandon again, his eyes widening. “How did I miss the wedding of the year? Did I not merit an invitation?”

“We were in London and had a quiet, low-key affair,” Brandon said. Justine aimed a small smile at Charles.

Charles tilted his head at Justine and grinned. “Well, one less fine local lady for me. Congratulations to you both.” His hand clapped on Brandon’s shoulder. I’m damned glad you made it out of that shipwreck alive and come back to us, old friend. Nothing like a resurrection.”

“Come by the house, Charles, let’s catch up,” Brandon said.

“Indeed I will. Just got in from town myself. Errands for father, don’t you know. It’s never-ending.” He exhaled. “I’ll be by soon, though I wouldn’t want to interrupt the newlyweds.” A slow grin lit up his face, and he was gone.

IT WAS PAST TEN O’CLOCK AT NIGHT
, and Brandon found himself at the Fang & Feather. Again. He had come to the tavern often in the wilder days of his youth with Charles, William, and so many others at his side. Now he was alone. Married and alone. Pathetic. He threw himself into a free seat in the corner and signaled for an ale.

“Lord Graven t’is you? I’d heard, but seeing is believin’, sir!” John the tavern owner had stood before him when he had first made his entrance some nights ago, his big belly shaking, his hands held high. From the moment Brandon had walked through the door the first time, they had all stared at him. The din had temporarily diminished then rose up again with cheering and some confusion as they’d raised their mugs of ale towards him, the word “resurrection” rustling about the hot room. Buxom, sweaty girls took turns refilling his mug, smiling at him. He laughed at their saucy quips. Yes, it was good, all this noise, diversion, merriment.