Silent Melody (24 page)

The summerhouse was very warm; the heat of the day was still trapped inside. She left the door open and draped her cloak over the back of an upright chair. And she sat on the sofa and gazed out on the darkening scene beyond the window. After a few minutes she felt herself begin to relax. It was the first time she had relaxed since early in the morning when she had been sitting on the stile, wishing she had brought her paints with her.

Tomorrow, she thought, she would paint.

And then she felt the presence of someone else. Strangely, she felt no alarm. She turned her head and smiled. He was saying something, but the light was too dim for her to see. It did not matter. She did not want to talk. She did not want him asking her questions, discovering the answers in her eyes. She reached out one hand to him.

He sat beside her and held her hand. She could not have asked for more, she thought, than to be sitting here with him like this, quietly, peacefully, as they had done . . . was it just yesterday? Today seemed to have been a week long, a month long.

But the feeling did not last. Perhaps it had not been such a good thing for him to have come after all, she thought. Now that he was here, now that she was not alone to fight her own fears, she felt the return of terror, of the panic that had sent her hurrying through the library door and into his arms this morning. She leaned sideways so that her shoulder leaned against his arm. She rested her cheek against his shoulder.

He must have read the language of her body, she thought, as he could always read the language of her eyes and hands. He turned to her, transferring her hand from his right to his left, setting his right arm firmly about her shoulders, dipping his head close to hers. He was speaking again. She could not see what he said. She did not want to know. He had set two candles and a tinderbox on a small table as he came inside. She knew as soon as he moved that he was going to reach for them. But she grabbed his arm.

“No,” she said. “No, Ahshley.”

She did not want to talk. She wanted to hide, to be held close. She wanted to be a part of him, part of his strength. She did not want him to see her eyes. She closed them. She put an arm around his neck, urging him closer, and sought blindly for his mouth with her own.

His arm was firmly about her. His body was warm. His mouth was comforting, gentle. It was not enough. She parted her lips and touched his with her tongue. He drew his head sharply back and said something and got to his feet, drawing her up with him. She fit more comfortingly against him when they were standing. She linked both arms about his neck and leaned her whole weight into him. She could feel the barrier of his splendid satin evening coat and the heavily embroidered waistcoat beneath, and of his shirt and breeches. His arms were about her waist, his cheek against hers.

She realized she was sobbing only when he lifted his head and feathered soft kisses on her mouth. She could feel that he was talking or whispering to her. She pressed her mouth hard against his. Safety was close. So very close. A door had opened. All she had to do was step inside. But there was still the chance that the door would slam in her face or that danger would snatch her away from behind.

He held her with an arm while he caught up the folded blanket from one end of the sofa with his other arm and spread it on the floor. He tossed cushions at the end of it, then took her down with him until they were lying on the blanket, face-to-face. He held her close. She could feel the vibrations in his chest that told her he was still speaking.

He held her very close to him for a long time while she clung tautly, her eyes tightly shut. Then he turned her onto her back, sliding her almost beneath him as he leaned reassuringly over her. She could scarcely see his face in the darkness, but his hair was back, the length hidden inside the black silk bag, a ribbon bow holding it closed behind his neck. She pulled on the ribbon and freed his hair, so that it spilled about her face. He was lifting her skirt, removing undergarments, opening the front of his breeches.

For a moment she was reminded . . . And for a moment her mind touched upon sin and propriety and scandal. But only for a moment. She linked her arms loosely about his neck beneath his hair, and drew his mouth down to her own. His hand had parted her legs and his fingers were stroking her very lightly, very skillfully, so that the panicked need to make herself part of him, to hide in him, took on an ache of longing to be filled, to have the emptiness taken away.

“Ahshley.” She did not know if she had produced any sound to accompany the movements of her lips against his. “Ahshley.”

There was memory then. Memory of the hardness pushing slowly inside her, stretching her, of the man's body covering her own, much of his weight pressing down onto her. Memory of her own body becoming part of someone else's. Ashley's. Memory of the depth of penetration. Memory of pain. But there was no pain this time. She lay safe beneath him, felt him still and deeply embedded in her, and closed inner muscles about him.

And then there was memory of the movements, of the repeated thrust and withdrawal of the body joined to hers. Movements that had hurt and hurt that first time, but this time did not hurt at all. She lay still, feeling safe, feeling cherished. Feeling the sheer physical pleasure of rhythm. It was slow and steady. Deep. Her hands played with his hair, her fingers twining themselves into it. She braced her heels against the floor and lifted to him and used her muscles again to match his rhythm. And the ache was back that his fingers had created. Except that now it was a raw pain that centered in the place where he worked and shot upward to tauten her breasts and farther upward into her throat. She moved her hips, urging him onward—and then her head lifted from the cushion to bury itself against his shoulder as the ache got beyond her. She felt every muscle tighten in her body before shuddering and shaking into a fall toward safety.

He was moving slowly again when she recovered herself. Ashley, making love to her. In the summerhouse. Still clad in all his evening finery. Making love to her because she had begged for it, demanded it. Because all day she had been terrified and lonely. Because this might have happened this morning with a stranger. It was not happening with a stranger. It was happening with Ashley because she had needed him and he had answered her need—as she had answered his more than a month ago.

She was warm, languorous. He felt good. So very good. He smelled good. He was Ashley. She pictured him behind her closed eyelids. The man who was so much a part of her heart that there would be nothing left of it if she ever tried to tear him away from it. She pictured him splendid and smiling as he had been this evening, dressed in a glorious shade of kingfisher blue with silver embroidery, his dark hair unpowdered, as she liked it best. He had looked not quite so thin, not quite so haunted tonight. It was he who was joined intimately now with her own body. He was Ashley.

She wondered what the morning would bring. Another offer of marriage? She would think of the morning when it came. She lifted her legs to twine about his. She would not be ashamed about this, though she knew he would be sorry. And she would always cherish the memory of this and the knowledge that it had been utterly wonderful. She would be able to put aside the memories of pain and soreness, and of guilt. And of failure. She had meant to comfort and had brought only suffering—to several people. This time she had been comforted. She would not feel ashamed.

His rhythm grew faster and he set a hand between them to touch her so lightly that she felt the effects more than the touch itself. There was that desire again, and that ache again. And the cresting and release of pain again—though it had not been exactly pain. But this time it was not quite mindless. She felt him hold still in her. She felt the gush of heat deep within. And she felt him relax his full weight on her.

She let herself slip into peace.

H
E
held her for perhaps an hour. He did not want to risk waking her. She had been so very distressed, and now she was sleeping peacefully. He wondered if she had realized, or if she would realize when she thought back, how reluctant he had been to do this to her. He had tried to soothe her, to comfort her, without violating her. He had tried to cling to what he had told her only a few days before, that he had brought her here to see her happy, to set her free. He had not wanted to enslave her again.

She had been distraught, clinging and sobbing, and yet she had been unwilling for him to light a candle. She had not wanted to talk. He had talked to her, but of course she had not heard. She had not wanted to talk about whatever it was that had frightened her. Finally he had known that only one thing would bring her any comfort. And so he had given her what she had given him at Bowden. He had given himself.

If there was one consolation, he thought as he held her afterward, it was that her fear could not have been occasioned by what he had begun to suspect. She would surely not have taken him into herself so eagerly if she had been violated just this morning.

He edged away from her at last, sliding his arm from beneath her head. She grumbled in her sleep and turned her head farther into the pillow. He found the tinderbox and blew a flame gently to life so that he could light one of the candles. He set it on the table and sat down on the sofa after covering her with her cloak.

There were going to have to be some answers, he thought, looking down at her. Tonight if possible. Definitely tomorrow. He was beginning to think that he carried his punishment with him wherever he went. His punishment was to watch all who were dear to him hurt by his presence, even when he was trying to show them love. Perhaps it was fitting that it was happening here at Penshurst. He should not have brought Emmy here.

There were answers that must be gathered, he thought. Answers about Alice's relationship with Verney. Answers about Gregory Kersey's death. Answers about Ned Binchley's retirement—why had he retired so soon after Kersey's death when he was a comparatively young man and had clearly loved his job, and when his retirement appeared to have impoverished him? And there must be answers about today. What had happened to Emmy?

There seemed to be no relationship among the questions, he thought. And he was not sure what could be gained from learning the answers—except that knowing the last would help him know what he must do for Emmy. He certainly could not see that there was any connection between what had happened here over the years, culminating today, and what had happened in India.

And yet, he thought, sitting here in the summerhouse, surrounded by darkness and silence and gazing down on a sleeping Emmy, something deep inside him seemed to be telling him that everything
was
connected. It was an absurd thought. What could possibly connect the horrifying accident in India to Emmy's fright today? Or to Binchley's retirement? Or to Kersey's accidental death?

God, he thought, gazing down at Emily, her face and shoulders all but obscured by her tangled hair. God, but he loved her. And another long-suppressed memory surfaced in his mind. He remembered saying good-bye to her when he had been on his way to India. It had been on the driveway at Bowden. She had been leaning back against a tree and he had been standing in front of her. Touching her with his body. Kissing her lips. And feeling desire for her. He had been horrified at the time—hence the repression of the memory. He had felt like a man lusting after a child. But she had not really been a child. She had been halfway to womanhood. She had been fifteen years old.

Even then, he thought, part of him had known that he loved her totally—as a friend, as a brother, as a man. Most of all as a man. He had been afraid of such a vast, all-encompassing love. And so he had repressed it. Until now.

She was looking up at him. He did not smile at her or she at him.

“I will not allow harm to come to you, Emmy,” he said, not at all sure he was capable of keeping such a promise. He used signs along with the words. “I will always protect you, even with my life. Will you not trust me?”

Yes, she told him with a slight nod of the head.

“I do not like to see you frightened and vulnerable,” he said. “I have come to see you as a woman of strong character and indomitable will, Emmy. I have come to believe that you are stronger than I. 'Twas seductively sweet to be able to comfort you tonight as you comforted me not so long ago. But I would rather take away the source of your fear if I might. Something happened this morning?”

No, she told him with a slow shaking of the head.

“But something
might
have happened?” he asked her. “You escaped from it?”

Still the shaking of her head. But her eyes told him this time that she was lying. Her eyes had become opaque—deliberately so. Why would she not tell him? Or even Luke? Was she afraid of causing trouble? Among neighbors, perhaps? Did she think it better to keep her secret and contain her fear as best she could? It would be so like Emmy to do that.

“I begin to realize,” he said, “that I should have stayed in India, or that at least I should have come here and stayed away from Bowden. You would have been happy, Emmy. You would have been preparing for your wedding to Powell.”

She sat up sharply, reached out a hand, and touched his knee. She was shaking her head. “No,” she said. “No, Ahshley.” He must not blame himself, her eyes and her hands told him. He must not blame himself.

“Well.” He patted her hand. “Come then, Emmy. I will take you home.”

No, she told him. No, she was going to stay here.

“All night?” he asked her, frowning.

“Yes.”

He might have expected it, of course. Where would one expect Emmy to go if something had upset or frightened her? To where there was the comfort of other people? Certainly that had happened this morning—she had come running to him. But it was more likely that she would go running to the source of all that had brought serenity and happiness to a life that most people would have found impossibly difficult. Yes, it made sense when one knew Emmy to understand that she would spend this night up here in the hills rather than in the safety of her room at Penshurst.

“Very well.” He curled his fingers about hers. “Then I will stay here with you, Emmy.”

She did not argue. She got to her feet and drew him to his. She led him outside. As he had anticipated, the sky was bright with moon and stars. The moon was shining in a bright band across the river below them. They stood outside the summerhouse for a long time, gazing at the sky and the land, holding hands until he released hers and set an arm loosely about her shoulders and she rested her head on his shoulder.

He wondered if the love she undoubtedly felt for him could possibly grow the one extra dimension. But it was not something deeply to be wished for, he supposed. He had not earned forgiveness and perhaps never would. His life was still full of darkness and perhaps always would be. He seemed to have been a blight on those he loved since his return from India and was perhaps incapable of ever bringing happiness to another person. Especially to Emmy.

Though, of course, he knew he must offer her marriage again. Once more there was the chance that she would be carrying his child. He did not know if he hoped more that she would accept him or that she would reject him.

But tonight was something of a time out of time. He turned his face into her hair and kissed the top of her head. She sighed. Tonight, he thought, she was in love with him because she had needed him and he had brought her comfort—and pleasure. He had never had a woman take that kind of pleasure from him before tonight. He had been awed by it. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow would bring back the safety of daylight and would be a new day. Tomorrow she would be strong again. She would love him in her own sweet, strong way again.

But tonight was a time out of time. A time to be silent and at peace. Silent . . . Silence, he realized, was more than an absence of speech. One could be silent and yet have one's mind so teeming with words that the silence was loud with inner noise. True silence involved a letting go of words, both spoken and thought. It involved abandoning oneself to one's senses. It involved . . . merely being.

He stood with Emily for a long time while the inner noise and turmoil gradually ceased their clamor and he became part of the beauty of the night with her. Part of the beauty of being.

“Let us go back inside,” he said to her at last with a sigh, tipping her head back with a hand beneath her chin so that she would see his lips.

“Yes,” she said.

He knew that she was consenting to a night of love. No frenzied reaching for comfort by either of them for the rest of the night. Merely a mutual giving and taking. A night of love, even if tomorrow brought denial and a harsher reality.

•   •   •

As
bad fortune would have it, Roderick Cunningham was wandering in the garden early in the morning and saw them returning, even though they had headed for the side door rather than the front entrance.

Ashley, who had an arm about Emily's waist, felt her tense and shrink against him. But it was impossible to cover up the truth. He tightened his arm reassuringly, kissed her swiftly on the lips, and opened the door for her.

“All will be well,” he said quietly to her before she turned and disappeared up the stairs. “There is nothing to worry about.”

Poor Emmy. He would have saved her from the embarrassment and humiliation if he could have. She would not realize, of course, that Rod was the soul of discretion. Ashley turned to look rather ruefully at his friend, who was smiling back at him.

“If there had been a tree to duck behind, Ash,” he said, “I would have discreetly availed myself of its services. I trust you have had a good night's . . . sleep?”

Rod did not understand. “She had need of me,” Ashley said more curtly than he had intended. “I do not know what happened yesterday. She does not frighten easily.
Something
happened. We are not involved in any sordid affair.”

Major Cunningham looked instantly contrite. “I never for one moment thought you were, Ash,” he said. “She appears to be a sweet lady. 'Tis too bad she suffers from such an affliction. She has been unable to explain what it was that happened?”

“Not unable,” Ashley said. “Unwilling. I mean to wring some answers from someone else today, though. It will mean deserting you for an hour or two this morning, Rod. I trust you can amuse yourself?” He grinned. “But help my brother and sister-in-law keep an eye on Emmy, if you will be so good.”

“'Twill be my pleasure,” the major said. “She is relaxing on the eye, Ash. Perhaps she will confide in me, a virtual stranger. Does she have any means of communicating?”

“She can write,” Ashley said.

“If I were you,” his friend said, looking him up and down, “I would follow Lady Emily through that door, Ash.
I
might believe that those clothes are suited to a morning ride, but I am remarkably gullible.”

Ashley slapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “Right,” he said. “My brother is decidedly not.”

He let himself in through the side door, looked about to make sure there was no one in sight, and ran up the stairs.

•   •   •

The
Duke of Harndon was reclining comfortably on a nursery chair, watching his wife suckle his youngest son. He had been there for only a few minutes.

“All is well,” he said. “They have returned.”

“All is well!” She looked up and met his keen gray eyes. “Were we foolish, Luke, to agree to bring her here?”

“As I remember it, my dear,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “Emily was invited to come here and accepted and we were invited and accepted. We did not bring her as we brought Joy and George, James and Harry.”

“Oh, Luke,” she said, “you know what I mean.”

“I do.” He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. “But it has come to my notice, madam, that Emily is not one of our children. Or a child at all, in fact. And that Ashley is no longer a boy in need of my guidance and discipline. They are adults, both of them.”

“But—,” she began.

“We cannot bear the burdens of other adults on our own shoulders, my dear, much as we love them. I cannot escape from the conviction that Theo somehow maneuvered this—with his lady as an eager accomplice. And I cannot help wondering if they have not been wise. There is something between those two, Anna, something they must work out between them. Happily, 'tis to be hoped.”

“Oh, Luke,” she said. “If only—”

“But we can do nothing,” he said firmly. “Our son is going to grow fat if you continue to so indulge him.”

She smiled fondly down at Lord Harry, who was sucking lustily. “You have said that of each child,” she said. “But none of them are fat.”