The Bride Insists (8 page)

Jamie hesitated. His sisters stared up at him with the wide, hurt eyes of the unjustly accused. Clare avoided his gaze as if he were indeed the villain of the piece. “I must go and tidy up,” she added in a choked voice. She turned and fled up the stairs.

Should
he
go
after
her?
Jamie wondered. He'd only been trying to protect her. Apparently he'd been hasty, but… Perhaps his sisters hadn't been making mischief this time. But their history promised that they inevitably would be. Soon.

“We're going outside,” declared Tamsyn, her chin stuck out rebelliously.

“To get our blasted dog,” said Tegan.

“And roam the countryside like tinkers.”

“And if you take Randolph away from us, we will
never
come back!”

Before he could point out the illogic of that last comment, they slipped by him and out of the house. Jamie yanked the door back open and shouted after them, “Fetch your coats and hats!” Then he shut the door again, heroically resisting the impulse to slam it, and stalked off to the kitchen. There, at least, was a female he could trust not to rail at him. Anna Pendennis would be only too happy to feed him, no questions asked.

His pique sent Jamie south to the farthest edge of the Trehearth estate. There, he found that one of the tenant cottages had collapsed completely. There was no sign of its former inhabitants. Since he had not been able to employ an estate agent for some time, he had not been informed of this loss. But the family living in a neighboring cottage, also in very poor repair, was only too happy to tell the tale of an autumn storm, a constantly leaking roof that had at last given way, drenched children and possessions, and a flight to better prospects in the north. By the time he had heard them out, and assured them that repairs would be made immediately to their own dwelling, the sun was setting. He would never reach home in time for dinner, he realized. He'd tried to do too much too quickly. On top of the long journey from London, another day in the saddle had worn him out.

As he slumped over his horse's neck while the beast picked its way along the lane in the growing dimness, Jamie faced the fact that he didn't have a good reputation on his own land. He had heard friends speak of cordial dealings with their tenants and dependents—years and even generations of working together. But he'd maintained a distance from those living here at Trehearth, ashamed and angry, because he couldn't offer them needed assistance. And now they received him with skepticism and a litany of complaints. It would take time, no doubt, to change that.

The moon rose, fat and yellow, on the horizon. Jamie patted his mount's neck, thankful for the added light to guide him along. Lulled by the slow clop of hooves, he sank deeper into melancholy. He'd neglected his sisters for some of the same reasons, he admitted. They loved Trehearth so much. He'd known its loss would fall on them like a thunderbolt. How did you warn children of impending catastrophe? How to explain mortgages and creditors and your inability to do anything to save their home? He'd never been able to face that conversation. In their earliest years, he'd hoped; then he'd despaired, and the hovering doom had colored every visit home. And so he'd withdrawn, let the twins run wild. He knew he should have done more, though he couldn't conceive just what. His sisters, however, had taken that license and run with it. Those small heads could hatch more mischief than a gang of London apprentices. Their… eccentricity wasn't all his fault.

Or perhaps it was. He'd made mistakes. God knew he'd made mistakes. Jamie drew his coat collar closer against the night chill. He ought to feel triumphant right now. He
had
found a way to save Trehearth. Against the odds, he would be able to redeem it. But in this moment, he was simply overwhelmed by the extent of the disorder. It was too bad he hadn't put a flask in his pocket. He could really use a fortifying draught or two right now.

No one was about when he reached home, damp and cold from a mist that had risen from the wet earth. The Pendennises had gone to bed, for which he couldn't blame them. They rose early and worked hard, had for many more years than he'd been alive. And so, despite his fatigue, Jamie had to tend his horse himself. He found a covered dish of cold meat in the kitchen, and picked at it without much appetite. The knowledge that he must speak to Clare oppressed him. She'd fled in a huff this afternoon. She was probably still fuming, goaded by his lateness, primed to point out his shortcomings as a brother and host… no, husband. Husband. Jamie remembered a play he'd seen a few years ago in London, with a ranting wife whose voice cut like a razor. His bones ached. He longed to leave the confrontation till tomorrow. But he wouldn't. There would be no more evasions of responsibility.

Quietly he entered his bedchamber—the room that had been his since his father's death. The huge four-poster loomed in the light of his single taper, flanked by the massive wardrobe. He lit more candles, then went to the cabinet in the corner near his shaving stand. Pouring a drink from a bottle of brandy he kept there, he took a generous swallow, and then another. The liquor hit his nearly empty stomach and spread welcome warmth through his veins. The tension in his neck and shoulders relaxed somewhat.

Jamie shed his mud-spattered boots and coat, and washed with cold water left from the morning. He started to build up the fire, then admitted he was only delaying the inevitable. In shirtsleeves and breeches, he went to the connecting door and listened. There was no sound from the other side. Perhaps Clare was already asleep, and he was reprieved. He tapped lightly, heard nothing, and gently opened the door.

On the far side of the room, Clare sat at the dressing table, brushing her hair with long, smooth strokes. In the dancing light of the fire and a pair of candles, the pale strands glowed like summer sunshine. A creamy nightgown foamed around her, nearly slipping off one white shoulder. Her illuminated figure, so bright against the darkness of the rest of the bedchamber, was delicate and lovely as a renaissance masterpiece. Jamie was struck speechless for a moment. He stood in the dim doorway and gazed at her as if she were a celestial vision that had materialized in his rundown house.

Clare enjoyed the feel of the brush running through her clean hair. Together, she and Selina and Anna Pendennis had set up the tin tub before the big kitchen hearth and filled it with steaming water. She had had as luxurious a bath as the household could currently provide, and she felt vastly better for it.

He was here to speak to his wife, not gawk like a schoolboy, Jamie told himself. He stepped forward. “Clare?” She jumped and turned, causing the gown to slip farther down her satiny shoulder. Jamie swallowed. “I'm sorry I was not at dinner. I rode farther than I meant to and got caught up with some tenant problems.” He congratulated himself on how reasonable that had sounded—only a little stilted.

It was startling to discover a man in her bedroom at such a late hour. No, not a “man,” Clare amended, her husband. A spark of excitement followed the thought. She'd been concerned, and yes, annoyed, when he didn't return for the evening meal. Beyond mere courtesy, she was full of plans for the house that she'd wanted to share with him. But just now, he looked very tired, and nervous for some reason. “It's all right.”

“It isn't. I shall do better in future.” Now that sounded pompous, he thought. The beautiful sight of her was scrambling his senses. “Also, I jumped to the wrong conclusion earlier today because my sisters have a habit of making mischief. I beg your pardon for shouting.”

“It's not…”

He hurried on, years of defensive arguments rising to his lips, weary of apologies. “It was wrong of me not to tell you about them. I do know that. It's just… I didn't know how to explain. I've never known what to do about them. You will say that they should have had better supervision. A governess or other teachers. Of course I have tried employing these.” His voice had gone accusing; he throttled it back. “The twins drove every one of them away with their pranks and intransigence. Even those who might have managed to tolerate their devilment found the condition of the house and the isolation intolerable. I looked for others, but…”

The spate of words touched Clare. Jamie looked so harried and guilty. Yes, he should have told her about his sisters. But what had she told him about her family? Next to nothing. They'd had no time for confidences. “I can handle the twins,” she said. Indeed, she was certain she could.

Jamie fell silent and stared at her. No one who had actually met them, in all their years, had ever said that, let alone with such confidence.

“I have all the experience of a hired governess and a number of advantages over an employee,” she added. She was prepared to explain further, but he was looking at her so oddly. Meeting his dark eyes, she nearly lost herself in them. A wave of heat passed over her skin.

Jamie had to move closer. He couldn't help himself. His universe had narrowed to that one smooth white shoulder, exposed by the slipping nightgown; he had to just touch it. He reached out. Her skin was as he'd anticipated, like warm silk.

A memory flashed through Clare's mind—that moment when he'd looked straight at her and declared that he required an heir. The same flush suffused her now: self-consciousness, curiosity, a hint of desire. The brush of his fingers was like a spark to tinder.

The scents of rosewater and lavender rose in warm, intoxicating waves around him. Jamie shifted his hand to her bright hair, lightly touching the soft strands and then letting his fingers drift down to rest on her bare shoulder again. When Clare shivered slightly, he could do nothing but bend and kiss her parted lips. They were as luscious as they looked. Grasping her upper arms, Jamie pulled his wife upright against him and guided her into a kiss that went much deeper.

It raced through Clare like wildfire. She felt his hands on her, his exploring lips, but more than that—a shock of sensation arced down her body. It spoke for her, arching up to meet him.

Enflamed by this encouragement, Jamie cupped a breast under the creamy silk of her nightgown, teased her with his thumb.

It felt astonishing. Following the cues of her own desires, Clare ran her hands up his shirtfront to enlace around his neck, pressing tighter, wanting more.

Jamie danced her back toward the great four-poster, kissing her neck, her bare shoulder, her responsive lips once again. He lifted her onto the bed, pulling at his shirt to be rid of it.

Firelight gleamed on his skin as he loomed over her; his eyes were black as the night. Clare felt an instant's nervousness, and then he was kissing her again, and it fell away. When he slipped his hand under the lacy hem of her nightdress and let his fingertips slide lightly up her leg, she forgot everything but the aching fire that had blazed to life at her core.

She was lithe curves wrapped in softness, the taste of peppermint, the scent of flowers. Through a haze of desire, Jamie reminded himself to consider her inexperience, to go slowly. But when his fingers reached their goal, he found her ready. She moaned at his touch.

Roused to a fever pitch, every inch of Clare opened to him, silently urging him to continue his delicious attentions. Her husband obliged, drawing her further and further into a torrent of sensation, until there was nothing left in her world but the two of them, in the firelight, together. The feeling became almost unbearably intense, and then it burst into waves of delight that shook her to the depths.

Feeling her response, Jamie plunged into the mysteries of marriage like a madman diving off the sea cliff behind Trehearth. A flash of vertigo, and then he was immersed, riding a tide of pleasure that carried him far beyond the realms of rational thought.

Clare felt a flash of pain, a mere nothing compared with what she had just experienced. She held Jamie as he moved within her, and felt an odd sort of pride when he cried out in an ecstasy of release. She'd made him lose control, just as he had done to her. There was a sort of reciprocal power in it, as well as delight.

He held her in his arms, their hearts pounding together, breath gradually slowing. Then Jamie slipped away to lie beside her on the white pillows. He didn't speak, and after a while Clare grew self-conscious. “I suppose we are truly married now,” she said. When he didn't reply, she risked a glance. Jamie was asleep in a tangle of limbs next to her. The long days of riding had caught up with him.

Freed now to look as much as she liked, Clare turned on her side and watched him. The planes of his face were smoothed in repose, and he looked younger and more vulnerable. She wanted to brush his black hair back off his forehead, but she didn't dare disturb him.
What
would
it
be
like
to
trace
the
outline
of
those
skillful
lips
with
a
fingertip?
she wondered. Or to explore all the contours of his male body with her hands, as he had hers? A thrill went through her as she realized that she could soon find the answers to those questions. There would be a thousand other nights like this. More than a thousand. She'd feared that her unorthodox marriage would make this part of life difficult. She was very glad to have been proved quite, quite wrong.

Waking just past dawn, Jamie was at first disoriented by the angle of light filtering through the ancient curtains. The bed was on the wrong wall. Then his perceptions realigned, and he remembered he was in Clare's room. She lay beside him, gleaming hair scattered across the pillow, breath soft and even. Her face, which could sometimes seem remote in the waking world, was an image of peaceful beauty. He hadn't woken once in the night, he realized. It was years since he'd slept that well, a seemingly endless period of bolting upright in the small hours, sweating with fear about the future. He had Clare to thank for that in a number of ways.

She was so lovely, lying there, unconscious of his gaze. His hand reached out to touch that silken skin. If last night was any measure, she would welcome him with open arms. He imagined those pale eyelids lifting, her tiger eyes meeting his, and his hand pulled back. Jamie Boleigh had never been in a relationship with an adult woman that he could not easily break off. His liaisons had been pleasurable and fleeting—with no occasion to wonder what a lover might think of him. Night and morning were such different creatures. He didn't want to put a foot wrong. His stomach growled, protesting yesterday's near fast. His head throbbed with an echo of its usual morning ache. He had so much to do.

Jamie slipped out of bed, quietly added wood to the coals of the fire, and gathered his scattered clothing. He eased through the connecting door to his own room, fruitlessly wishing that he would find a can of hot water there. And a cup of strong tea. He would have done much for a simple cup of tea.

Clare felt precisely the same longings when she woke a while later. In the households where she'd lived, even a governess received those small luxuries. Today, she would absolutely find Mrs. Pendennis some help. And tomorrow, perhaps, the cup of tea would be forthcoming. She threw back the covers and rose. She felt full of energy, and as she dressed, she realized that she was humming. Meeting her own eyes in the dressing table mirror, Clare saw that she wore a secret smile. Last night lingered in her memory like a gentle caress. When she was ready to go down, she tapped on Jamie's door and then looked in. He wasn't there.

In the dining room, Clare found a young girl bent over two somewhat tarnished chafing dishes. “Good morning.”

The girl started and turned, revealing a lighted taper in her hand. She dropped a brief curtsy. “Ma'am. Er, milady?”

“I'm Lady Trehearth. And you…?”

“Gwen, milady. Mrs. Pendennis spoke to my mum about a position here at the house?”

“Indeed. Welcome.”

“Thank you, milady. She got out these warming dishes. I'll have them lit in a tick.”

“Splendid. Is there tea?”

“Yes, milady.” With another bobbed curtsy, she went out.

By the time Gwen returned with a pot, Selina had come down. They enjoyed a steaming cup together as the girl got the chafing dishes warming. She was filling them with eggs and sausages when the twins arrived, stopping in the doorway to stare.

“Tamsyn, Tegan, this is Gwen. She's come to help out in the house.”

“You live in the village,” said Tegan. She made it sound like an accusation.

“Yes… er, miss.”

Gwen couldn't be blamed for the hesitation, Clare thought. The twins were again dressed as boys, though they did look fairly clean. Jamie walked in as they took their seats, and although Clare felt self-conscious, she was also proud to be able to offer him a proper breakfast. As he dug in with a gratifying appetite, she looked around the table, for the first time feeling like the mistress of her own household. At last, things were going well. “I've been making plans for some changes to the house,” she said to Jamie. “Is there anything you don't want touched or altered?”

“Changes?” asked Tegan.

“What sort of changes?” said Tamsyn. Both twins frowned at her.

It was enough to make Jamie say, “No, it is entirely up to you.” He couldn't bring to mind any sentimental attachment to bits of furniture in any case.

Clare answered the girls' scowls. “Well, first off, a thorough cleaning. We'll begin as soon as Anna and I can assemble enough hands.”

“There will be a lot of new people in our house?” asked Tegan.

“Yes.” Clare spoke firmly. This was not negotiable.

“Absolutely.” Jamie backed her up.

The twins exchanged a frown, as if suspecting a new governess might be included in this influx. “They won't have anything to do with us!” declared Tamsyn.

“Or our room,” confirmed Tegan.

Clare spoke before Jamie could utter the reprimand she saw in his expression. “And then I want to install a bathroom, so that we don't have to bathe before the kitchen hearth. I thought the smallest bedchamber on the courtyard side would do very well for the purpose.”

Jamie nodded his consent as his sisters considered this fresh intrusion.

“New curtains, rugs, furniture, of course.”

“Not in our room!” repeated Tegan.

Clare had not yet been granted sight of this sanctum. The twins' tour had not included it, and she was not stupid enough to enter on her own. She tried to imagine what the room might look like, and failed. “You can choose what you would like to have done in your room.”

“I'm not sure that is a good—” began Jamie.

“Whatever we want?” said Tegan.

Clare looked her right in the eye, aware of the risks, and said, “Yes.”

Jamie decided this must be part of the handling she'd promised. Did she really understand what his sisters were capable of? Though full of doubts, he left her to it.

Selina, who more than shared his uneasiness, decided to add, “Within reason.”

The girls' heads swiveled to Selina, then back to Clare. Clare decided that a hint of restraint wasn't a bad notion. “A dash of reason never did anyone any harm.” She continued before they could speak. “I thought I would take the solar as my own sitting room. The light is so pleasant there.”

“There's nothing to sit on,” Tegan pointed out.

Clare smiled at her, relieved that the twins had not voiced any particular attachment to the solar. “Which is why we need new furniture.”

“It will make a comfortable parlor,” said Selina.

Jamie rose. “I must go. I'm meeting with a local builder this morning.”

“Could you ask him about installing a bathtub?” Clare said.

He wondered what old Jenkins would say about such a project. Or he didn't have to wonder; he could easily imagine the man's derision. “Repairing the tenant cottages has to be the first priority.” Around the table, Jamie saw disappointment on Clare's face, smirks from his sisters, disapproval in Mrs. Newton's expression. How had he ended up in a household of females? Wife, sisters, an older woman who might as well be a mother-in-law from the way she regarded him. He edged toward the door.

“Can Randolph come back in the house today?” Tegan called after him.

“He's
used
to
living in the house,” said Tamsyn.

“And he's very lonely in the stables.”

“He howls.”

“Didn't you hear him last night?”

Fortunately, the stables were a good distance from the house. Jamie paused. He hadn't heard anything when he put his horse in the stall last night. That should have roused the dog. No, it definitely would have. “
Was
he in the stables last night?” His sisters evaded his gaze. “And where is he right now?”

“Everything's spoiled since you brought
her
here,” replied Tegan.

“Randolph's atrocious manners have nothing to do with Clare,” Jamie replied. “Take him out to the stables and leave him there.” He hurried away before they could argue. But he hadn't counted on Clare following him.

“Have they always kept their dog indoors?” she asked when she caught up with him in the hall.

He had no choice but to pause. “I suppose so. But Randolph clearly belongs outside. He's no lapdog, for God's sake.”

“You think he's dangerous?”

“No, no. He's docile enough, in his overbearing fashion. I wouldn't have allowed them to keep him if he hadn't had a good temper. And to make sure, I had the farrier treat him as we do the surplus bull calves.”

“As…? Oh.”

“He won't be repeating his sire's indiscretions and making trouble with the neighbors. Er, I didn't mention this to my sisters.”

Clare nodded.

“That wretched dog is up in their room right now, you know. I told you they were incorrigible.”

“We'll come to some accommodation on Randolph. But about the builder?”

“Many of my tenants are living with leaky roofs and backed-up drains. Several cottages are uninhabitable. One at least has completely collapsed. I can't put work on my own house ahead of those repairs, Clare.”

“But it is such a simple…”

“This estate had been neglected for forty years. Everyone in the neighborhood knows it. For most of my life I've been bombarded with complaints and criticisms that I could do nothing about. Now I can. This comes before any other work.”

The reminder that he had married her for her money felt like a slap in the face. Of course, she knew it. She had arranged the matter. But this morning it was harder to hear.

“Fripperies will have to wait,” Jamie added. Could she imagine how it rankled, to see neighboring landowners eye him with pity and, from some, contempt?

“A bath is not a frippery,” she murmured, though of course she understood that its lack didn't compare with rain on your head or noisome drains.

“Buy whatever you like. Those decisions are up to you.” Jamie felt he was being eminently reasonable. He couldn't hear the trace of bitterness in his tone. “But I can't ask Jenkins to work on a ‘bathroom' just now.”

He said the word as if it were indeed just a piece of foolishness. Clare swallowed the sense that he was throwing their agreement back in her face. She'd wanted control of her money. She had it. She
could
buy whatever she wished. And if she wanted to search for another builder, she could do that, too. It needn't have anything to do with him. She'd imagined that he would have some interest in the refurbishment of his—their—home, but if he did not…

The stiffening of her face made Jamie uneasy. She didn't seem to understand his point. “I must go. Jenkins will be waiting.” With guilty relief, he made his escape.

***

Selina Newton sat in the sewing room simply holding a piece of mending in her hands. Needlework had always soothed her nerves, comforted her even, perhaps because she'd learned the skills at her mother's knee. Whether it was repairing a tear, neatly finishing a long seam, or embroidering a garland of flowers onto a cushion cover, there was something deeply satisfying about the process. Occasionally, she felt it even rose to the level of art, as she created a new gown from a raw length of cloth.

This room was just the sort of place she loved, too. The wide table, now pushed against the side wall, was ideal for laying out and cutting fabric. The shelves against the whitewashed walls held spools of thread in all manner of colors, boxes of pins and papers of needles, several sizes of scissors, measuring tapes, and tailor's chalk. Early morning sunlight poured through two windows, giving plenty of light to work by. There were sconces for candles as well. And the place was wonderfully quiet, well separated from the bustle of the household. No sullen children glowered across a dining table at her. No arrogant young men gave her dark looks.

Selina sat there, relaxing, and asked herself if she really could not endure any life but the careful routine of aged women whose days were mostly past? Had her long years as a companion, often anxious and precarious, made her unfit for anything else? When she set up her own frugal household, was that to be the extent of it? Days designed to be all the same, acquaintances who were guaranteed to be predictable? If so, she was not going to be any help to Clare, and she might as well leave this house right now.

Selina gazed out at the undulating cliff and the surging sea below it. So much had happened to her in the last few weeks. It was only just sinking in. For perhaps the first time in her life, she had the luxury of doing as she pleased. What was that to be? She looked around the silent room. She thought of years that ran together in sameness. She considered the excitements as well as the upsets of the past month. Her jaw firmed, and her spine straightened. She would not run back toward narrowness and routine. She would try to expand her horizons.

Selina Newton put aside the torn sheet, rose, and shook out her skirts. In any case, she couldn't abandon Clare. Those clever and devious children were obviously up to no good, and Lord Trehearth clearly had a temper.