One Unashamed Night (15 page)

‘And blood,’ she answered, her tongue drawing a single wet trail through the stain on the skin of his hand.

‘I would not wish to hurt you.’

‘You will hurt me more if you do not come…’

‘Inside of you?’ No longer careful or limiting, the obvious stated, a balm to fright and hate and hurt.

In reply she held his finger to her lips and sucked in, the small noise thrilling and daring in a way that she had never been before.

Frankwell frowning at any enjoyment, the ghost of need always replaced by hurt.

Never again, she thought. Her body ached with the want of him, the air on her skin orange-glowed from the fire and the scars of her past disappearing into shadow, feeling and hot hard passion.

‘Call me Taris,’ he said. ‘Call me by my name.’

She wrote it on the back of his hand, in the wet of her tongue, and saw the way the hairs rose on his arm and the breath in his throat just stopped.

One second and then two. Suspended in time and place before beginning again, neither will in it nor choice.

A small touch here, a longer caress there. The music between them was heard in breaths and heartbeats and sighs.

Their music. A symphony. To life. To living. To danger. No past or future. Just now. Risking it all.

Beatrice wished the world might stop.

‘Love me, Beatrice?’ Barely his voice.

She laughed as she peeled back her nightgown before taking his fingers and placing them on to the warmth.

Chapter Twelve

S
he was sick into the china basin kept beneath her bed and then sick again as Taris stirred.

Swallowing, she could hardly hide her embarrassment. Such a far cry from last night’s loving and the first rays of dawn slanting through the gap in the curtains at her window.

Her stomach heaved again and she held back her hair, the sweat of exertion marking her skin with a glistening dew. She noticed that the grazes on her arms this morning had crusted, the first scabs of healing formed across open wounds.

Breathing heavily, she shut her eyes, shut everything out whilst she tried to find an equilibrium, the nausea receding as quickly as it had come and leaving a tiredness that was all encompassing.

‘Has this happened before?’ he asked when she turned towards him.

‘It has,’ she replied, wishing that she could have hidden it. Perhaps she was dying? Perhaps this was a sickness that had no cure, the exhaustion that accompanied the early-morning routine just another symptom of its severity. Frankwell had vomited often in the mornings in the last months of his life.

Taris didn’t look happy at all. ‘Hell,’ he said, pulling the length of his hair back off his face. Naked, the muscles of his chest stood out along the contours of his hard brownness. ‘Hell,’ he repeated when she did not say a thing.

Rallying, she tried to make light of her suppositions. ‘I am certain it must be something I am eating and—’

He interrupted her. ‘How old were you when your mother died?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘And you were close?’

Bea didn’t understand the meaning of such a topic change. ‘Very.’

His silence unnerved her.

‘Well, perhaps not as close as we had been when I was younger, but—’

‘I want you to come with me to Falder. I am repairing there today and Emerald and Asher will arrive later in the afternoon.’

‘I don’t understand?’

‘You need to be away from London.’

‘Because you feel that I might have another accident?’

His laugh was unexpected. ‘There are other reasons I have for asking this of you, but I would rather not discuss them here and now.’

Beatrice could not guess at what the ‘other reasons’ might be, but the fright yesterday had made her wary of being in the vicinity of a lot of people, and Falder with its isolated safeness appealed.

‘I should not wish to be a nuisance.’

‘The castle has one hundred and twenty-seven rooms! You would hardly be in the way and with Emerald and my mother as chaperons there could be no whisper of a scandal.’

Correct and careful! She wished he might have said that
he
wanted her to come, that
he
wanted to protect her, that the night they had just spent together had been the most wonderful in his life and that now he desired something more lasting…

But when she turned again he was pulling on his clothes with a haste that said he wanted to be gone.

‘Bates will return with the carriage in the midmorning and men will be sent to help with the lifting of any luggage. I am presuming that you will bring your maid with you.’

‘I am hardly an invalid and my luggage will not be heavy.’

‘No.’ He said this so angrily that she looked up at him in surprise. ‘You are not to lift anything, you understand? And do not go outside for any reason at all.’

Orders. Rules. Directives. Control.

Drawing in a breath, Bea turned away, the image of her late husband’s bluster and tyranny coming to mind.

Perhaps that was what happened with men. They took your body and wanted your mind as well. To own and shape and mould. A small interlude of bliss before getting down to the more serious business of obeying!

When she turned again he was at the door, his clothes replaced in a fashion that suggested his man Bates was close with a conveyance, his woollen cape merely draped across his arm.

‘The carriage shall be back in two hours to collect you, Beatrice-Maude. Please make certain that you are ready.’

Once again back at the Wellingham town house, Taris paced up and down in the library, taking a generous draught from the brandy glass and barely believing the turn that the day had taken.

Beatrice was with child, he was certain of it. His child? He counted back the weeks to the snowstorm in Maldon because with the slight swell of her stomach he knew that she must be at least three or four months into her pregnancy.

One part of his mind beseeched the Lord that it be his, the other mulled over her assertions of barrenness and all that such a state implied.

Barren with her late husband, but not with him? He counted the time in his head since Maldon.

A few weeks past three months! Enough time for a child to swell and the morning sickness to come. How the hell could she not know that when even his limited knowledge of childbirth encompassed such information?

The answer came easily. She had been a barren wife for all of the time she had been married, so why should the question of being otherwise occur to her now?

He felt a growing sense of worry after yesterday’s accident and knew that he could not just leave Beatrice in London. No, Falder represented the only chance of safety and sanctuary and perhaps there they could fashion a plan for the future. He kicked his leg against a chair that had been left out from under his armoire and swore soundly.

Blindness.

Barrenness.

Beatrice’s oft-stated penchant for independence and his own adherence to autonomy.

But a child changed everything. Everything! When the clock on the mantel chimed eleven he summoned men to bring down his luggage and walked out to the carriage.

She was ready, but she did not seem pleased. Indeed, when he took her arm to help her she snatched it away as soon as she was sitting in the carriage and placed a small bag in the space on the seat between them. Like a barrier! He could feel the leather when he brushed it with his hand.

Bates came with two maids. Both addressed him in greeting, and a new sense of quiet tension filled the space.

‘It should take us about three hours to arrive at Falder. There will be food and drink supplied to you on arrival there.’

He spoke to all those present in the carriage though no one responded.

‘The journey will take us east through Wickford and Raleigh.’

Still the silence was absolute.

Taris Wellingham was trying to make her feel better with his small talk, but Beatrice did not feel even remotely in the mood for chatter.

His orders from the morning still rankled, as did the way he made no mention of what had happened last night. A man who would take a relationship only up to a certain point, the control men valued more important than truth.

The truth of being together and intimate, nothing held back at all.

She ground her teeth and tightly clasped her hands together, the vestige of nausea still dogging her and the lack of sleep she had suffered last night making her feel heavy and cross. When tears pricked at the back of her eyes she willed them away by taking a deep breath. Perhaps if she tried to sleep the journey would go more quickly. Ramrod stiff and upright, she closed her eyes.

Her cheek was against a hard pillow, but the soft feel of an arm holding her close made her snuggle deeper, reaching for the comfort so thoughtfully provided.

‘Taris,’ she whispered, thinking that the night was still before them and they had all the time in the world.

‘We are almost at Falder, Mrs Bassingstoke. Perhaps now would be a good time to wake up?’

Mrs Bassingstoke? Falder? Wake up?

Horror hit her as she opened her eyes and realised the extent of her contact.

She was literally draped across him, her hand resting in his lap and her head on his chest. My God, had she snored, had she talked in her sleep, had her fingers crept where her dreams had lingered? Instantly she pulled away.

‘I cannot believe that I fell asleep. I rarely do so in any conveyance, my lord.’

‘Perhaps you slumbered fitfully last night?’ he questioned, and she heard the humour of complicity in his words.

Ignoring it, she made much of smoothing out the creases in her skirt. ‘How long was I asleep?’

‘All of three hours. Enough rest to improve anyone’s temper, I should imagine.’

She smiled despite the rebuke, for she did feel immeasurably better and far more able to cope. Her hat had all but been dislodged and she leant forwards whilst Sarah fashioned it into place, glad for the small interruption, though the interest in her maid’s eyes was unwelcome.

‘Falder should be coming into view in the next few minutes.’ Taris Wellingham’s voice interrupted her ministrations. ‘If you look to your right, you will be able see the sea off Fleetness Point. The finger of land jutting out into the ocean is Return Home Bay.’

He did not look himself, she noticed. Memory was as potent a force as any sight and the land of your birth would be an easy recall. Still, she thought, as the peninsula he spoke of came into view, he had an uncanny ability to place himself in the landscape he was in and as her maids craned their necks to look she could not help but admire such a characteristic.

The castle was huge and rambling with turrets and gables and it dominated the grassland around it. The Wellingham family seat for centuries. She imagined what it must be like to belong to a place where your ancestors had roamed and where the family still gathered for the celebrations and tribulations thrown at them.

Taris. Emerald. Asher. Their children. Lucinda. The Dowager Duchess. What must it be like to be a part of a group of people who would see to your back and protect you for ever?

She bit down on the poignant memory of her own parents’ deaths and the aloneness felt since. No one had ever looked out for her. If they had, then perhaps…? Shaking away memories, she concentrated on the moment.

A large group of servants were waiting as they pulled up into the circular drive, white pebbles clattering beneath the wheels of the carriage. She saw how Taris clasped his ebony cane and placed his fist against the handle, a habit she supposed of realising the exact moment when they stopped and when the door might open.

Always in control. Always cognisant of the slightest change in circumstance so that he would not be surprised.

The old man who opened the carriage door looked delighted by Taris Wellingham’s arrival.

‘Master Taris.’

‘Thompson.’ Instant recognition and his hand thrust forward. ‘I trust you are faring well up here.’

‘Better than in the city, my lord.’

‘And your wife, Margaret. Is she keeping well?’

‘Indeed, my lord. I will tell her that you asked after her.’

Another man strode up to join them and the same sort of conversation ensued. Taris Wellingham was a lord who would take the time to know old retainers on a familiar basis. Frankwell had never made an effort to learn the name of even one servant and consequently there was a never-ending stream of them through the house. Another thought occurred to her. Perhaps the ploy had been deliberate on his part to keep her isolated from any friendships? Loyal servants might have bolstered her revolt and led her to believe the fault did not lie entirely within her.

How naïve and stupid she once had been. That was the worst of it. The knowledge that a man had kept her so trapped and down-trodden made her feel diminished and guilty. A woman with a secret of shame.

Following Taris down the line of servants, she was surprised when he stopped and brought her to his side to make introductions to the housekeeper and the head butler. This was what a husband might do when first bringing a wife to his family domain, and she was hardly that. The strangeness of it all was confusing and she was glad when they walked up the front steps and came inside.

The entrance hall was beautiful. A wide staircase wound its way from the ground to the first and second floors, the banisters of old polished oak. Off the hall to all sides were numerous doors.

When one opened suddenly she saw an old woman sitting in a wheelchair, a blanket across her knees and a very fine gold-and-ruby necklace resting in the folds of her heavy woollen gown.

‘The Dowager Duchess is waiting in the blue salon, my lord.’ Bates’s voice was quiet and as he walked away Bea was surprised that Taris turned her aside with a whispered confidence.

‘My mother can be a little overpowering sometimes, but as she is old I usually humour her views.’

‘ You sound worried that I might not.’

He laughed. ‘It is not her I am trying to protect with such a warning, Bea, but you.’

‘I am not a green girl…’

‘She has some knowledge of your past.’

‘Oh.’ The wind was quite taken from her sails and where interest had been before, there now lingered dread. How much did she know and who had told her?

‘Mama.’ Taris leant down to kiss her forehead. Here in Falder Beatrice noticed his new ease of movement. He had even placed the cane at the front door with his cloak and hat.

His mother’s hands came across his and she held them close, the look on her face one of love and then considerable interest as her gaze fell behind him.

‘And you have brought a visitor…?’

‘Mama, may I present Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke. Beatrice, this is my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Carisbrook. I have asked Beatrice down for a few weeks in the hope of showing her Falder.’

‘I see.’ The woman’s eyes slid across her face, missing nothing. ‘I was sorry to hear of the recent loss of your husband, Mrs Bassingstoke.’

‘Thank you.’

‘My own husband was incapacitated for his last few years and I know how very difficult it can be.’

Beatrice nodded.

‘Did you have much help with him?’ Inside the question Beatrice sensed knowledge.

‘I did not, Duchess.’

‘No mother or father? No sisters or cousins?’

She waited as Bea shook her head.

‘No one?’

The silence stretched out until the old woman gestured her forwards. ‘Then you are in need of a good holiday, my dear. A long overdue holiday, I should imagine. Do you play whist?’