Unforgiven (The Horsemen Trilogy) (8 page)

She moved briskly.

*   *   *

AT
first, Kenneth thought she had merely gone for a few minutes to the ladies’ withdrawing room or to the anteroom for a drink. Then he thought she must be hiding out in one or other of those places. But the refreshment room, when he looked there, was deserted apart from one very young couple who were hovering in the vicinity of the mistletoe sprig. And a great-aunt informed
him when he asked that Miss Hayes was not in the withdrawing room.

Then he thought that she must have found her way to the bedchamber allotted her and blamed himself for not making sure that she had congenial company in the ballroom now that her neighbors and friends had left. But his butler assured him that he had not given Miss Hayes directions to her room, and when the butler went belowstairs to inquire of the housekeeper, it was to be told that she had not given that information either. And when Mrs. Whiteman went herself to discover if the room was occupied, she found that it was not.

Moira Hayes had chosen somewhere else to hide, Kenneth thought in some annoyance, and he spent a while going from one darkened room to another, a branch of candles held high in one hand. She would be cold. Most of these rooms were without fires. But he was interrupted in his search by the reappearance of his butler, who brought the news that Miss Hayes had left the house alone and on foot half an hour before. The footman on duty in the hall visibly quaked and grew pale when his lordship demanded to know why in thunder he had allowed her to go, but there was no real issue to be made of the matter. It was not a mere footman’s task to question the actions of his superiors.

“Fetch a lantern,” Kenneth told him curtly as he himself strode in the direction of the stairs. “And a heavy blanket.”

She would probably be at home almost before he could set off in pursuit of her, he thought as he changed quickly, without the aid of his valet, into warmer clothes and pulled on his top boots, his greatcoat, his beaver hat, and a thick scarf. He selected his warmest
leather gloves. He would go into Penwith Manor after her before she had a chance to retire and shake the living daylights out of her, he thought grimly as he strode from his room and back down the stairs. He
hoped
she was almost home, he thought anxiously as he tucked the blanket beneath one arm and took up the lantern, whose cover would perhaps prevent the flame from being extinguished by the wind. He hoped she would be there to shake when he arrived. His knees felt somewhat weak when he imagined arriving at Penwith to discover that she was not there. What would he do then?

He turned sharply in the direction of the stables and disappeared inside. He emerged only moments later with a wildly joyful Nelson, who pranced and cavorted with exuberance at the unexpected treat of a night walk and appeared quite undismayed by the snow.

Kenneth tried to persuade himself that the storm had abated somewhat since he was last out and that the snow was falling less thickly. But even before he reached the road and left behind the shelter of the hollow and the trees, he knew that he was deceiving himself. The wind whipped cruelly at him and took his breath away with it as he clutched at his hat with one hand and turned the lantern into the shelter of his body with the other. The snow was deep and all but obliterated the road. And it was still falling and swirling so thickly that he could see no more than a few feet in front of him.

He felt real fear. Not for himself. He had become hardened to personal danger, and he was accustomed to being outdoors for days on end in all sorts of weather. Spain had been a country of extremes. He was afraid for Moira, a woman alone in a storm like this. He
was too afraid to feel fury. He made his way along the road, noting with a sinking heart that her footprints—if indeed she had come this way—had already been obliterated. Nelson bounded along at his side, woofing with delight at the adventure.

The road to the valley descended steeply from the hilltop about a mile and a half from the end of Dunbarton’s driveway. It was impossible to know how far he had come or how far he had to go, Kenneth thought after wading onward for endless minutes. And he was not even sure that the road would be visible. He seriously doubted that it would be passable. If she had had a half-hour head start on him, would she have passed here before the storm became this severe or the snow this deep?

Was she safely at home or at least in the greater shelter of the valley? She would have about a mile to go once she reached the valley floor. But the chances were good, he knew, that the snow would be in deep drifts in the valley and that the wind would be howling along it as through a funnel. Besides, there was the bridge to cross. She would not be safe even when she was down off the slope.
If
she was down off the slope.

He found the road down only because by good fortune he stopped to catch his breath at the very top of it and Nelson went prancing forward and did not fall over a precipice. Had she found it too? He was quite chilled from exposure to the storm, but even so, he felt the sweat clammy on his back. Should he have organized a search party? It had not even occurred to him to do so. And had she come this way at all? Perhaps she had made for Tawmouth. But the village was almost as far from Dunbarton as Penwith was.

She had definitely come this way. After he had waded
downward a short distance, trying to move a little faster than caution advised, Nelson stopped to snuffle in the snow and emerged with a snow-encrusted object between his teeth. It was a black glove—a woman’s glove.

Oh God! Kenneth looked around him fearfully for unexplainable mounds in the snow, lifting the lantern high and shielding it from the wind as best he could.

“Find her, Nelson,” he said, shaking the snow from the glove, opening it back at the wrist, and holding it close to his dog’s nose. How had she come to lose a glove? And where was she now?

“Moira!”
he yelled in the voice Nat Gascoigne had always teased him about. He had missed his true vocation, Nat had said. He should have been a sergeant. “Find her, Nelson.
Moi-ra!
”

With every step, he realized the near impossibility of going farther. She would never have made it safely home, even with the half-hour head start she had had on him. How much farther had she gone? Had she stopped? Fallen? Strayed from the road?

“Moira!”
He could hear the fear in his voice.

And then Nelson veered sharply to the right, leaving the road and half bounding, half wading across the steep slope of the hill. He was whining excitedly.

Kenneth knew just exactly where his dog was going, even though he would not have known they were close and had not thought of it for himself. Was Nelson right? But his dog had no knowledge of the old hermit’s hut and no reason to move so purposefully in a new direction if he had not picked up a human scent. Kenneth followed, scarcely daring to hope.

The granite hut had been built and inhabited in earlier centuries
when Cornwall had been full of holy men. It was sometimes known as the baptistry because of its steep roof and pointed window and doorway and because it was built above a particularly pretty part of the river, where it flowed beneath a stone bridge before spilling over a short but steep waterfall. But if it had been a baptistry, it had been built impractically high on the hill. More likely, local legend admitted, it had been a mere hermitage. It was still used by the occasional hunter and wayfarer. Kenneth had played there a few times with Sean Hayes. He had met Moira there once.

Nelson barked enthusiastically at the closed door. After Kenneth had turned the handle with some difficulty and pushed the door inward, his dog bounded inside, still barking. He was obviously not sure yet whether he had been sent in pursuit of friend or foe.

M
OIRA
stood pressed against the wall opposite the door, her palms flat against it on either side of her body, fingers spread as if she thought to be able to push the wall outward and effect an escape. In the lantern light her face looked deathly pale.

“Nelson,” Kenneth commanded sharply, “sit!”

Nelson sat and panted.

She did not move a muscle. She did not speak.

“I should take a horse whip to you,” he said. Fear had converted to fury as soon as he set eyes on her.

Her eyes moved from his dog to him as he stepped inside, shut the door firmly behind him, and set the lantern down on the window ledge.

“How Gothic of you,” she said scornfully.

He looked her over from head to toe. She wore a cloak and hood that he supposed passed for suitable winter wear for ladies but were about as much use on a night like this as a fan would be in hell. Her half boots might have sufficed to keep out snow up to one inch or so deep. She was wearing one glove.

“What the devil made you decide to try to walk home,” he asked her, “when you had been given specific instructions to stay and sufficient reasons for obeying?”

“I did not wish to stay at Dunbarton,” she said.

“And so you risked your life,” he said, “because you did not wish to stay at Dunbarton.” He mimicked her voice.

“It is my life to risk,” she said. “And I am not one of your men to be mindlessly obeying
specific instructions
.”

“For which fact you may be eternally grateful,” he said.

She lifted her chin and glared. He disdained to show his anger in anything more than a cold stare.

“This,” he said, taking her glove from his pocket, “is yours, I believe? You removed it because you were too warm?”

She reached for it and took it from his hand. “The button of my hood came undone,” she said, “and I could not fasten it again with my gloves on. I could not find the one in the snow afterward. It was absurd. I knew it had to be there, but I could not find it.”

“Your carelessness has proved your salvation,” he said. “Nelson took your scent from it.”

She looked warily at his dog.

“He is not about to tear out your throat,” he said. “He has saved your life tonight. If it
is
saved. We have several hours of cold
to survive before daylight will make it a little safer to leave here. Do you see now where foolish defiance leads, Moira?”

“You need not suffer the cold,” she said, her nostrils flaring. “You may go home again. I am sure you will find your way. I shall be quite comfortable here on my own, as I was before you came.”

He came to stand directly in front of her. “Sometimes, Moira,” he said, “you can be very childish. There is no wood or kindling in here, I see. A pity. We will have to do without a fire. This will help for the moment, but only for the moment.” He drew from his pocket the flask of brandy he had thought to bring with him. He unscrewed the cap and held it out to her. “Drink.”

“Thank you,” she said, “but I do not.”

“Moira,” he said, looking steadily into her eyes, “you may drink voluntarily or by force. The choice is yours. It makes little difference to me. But you
will
drink.”

“By force?” Her eyes widened and her teeth chattered. She snatched the flask from his hand and set it to her lips. She tipped her head back almost vengefully. The next moment she was coughing and sputtering and clutching her throat.

“At least I know,” he said dryly when she had caught her breath again, “that you did not defy me by merely pretending to drink.” He took the flask from her hand and drank from it himself. There was the satisfying sensation of heat coursing down through his throat into his stomach.

“Apart from the brandy,” he said, looking about the hut, “we have our clothes and one blanket and the combined body heat of the three of us. It could be worse, I suppose.”

“You may have the blanket,” she said angrily. “I shall have the cot.”

It was rather narrow. It was covered with a straw-filled mattress that looked old and lumpy and anything but comfortable. It was better than the dirt floor.

He laughed. “I do not believe you understand,” he said. “We are not talking about dignity or propriety now, Moira. We are talking about survival. It is cold. Cold enough to cause severe illness. Cold enough even to kill. People do die of cold and exposure, I assure you. I have seen men frozen and quite dead on the picket line after a cold night.”

He saw momentary fear in her eyes. But she was made of stern stuff. She had not changed in that way. She had still not accepted the inevitable.

“Nonsense,” she said. Her teeth chattered.

“We are going to share everything,” he said. “Including body heat, Moira. And if you are embarrassed or repulsed or outraged, good. Any emotion is better than no emotion at all. Presumably death deprives one of emotions.”

She had nothing further to say. He could tell from the slight slump of her shoulders that she had realized the wisdom of what he had said. He started to undo the buttons of his greatcoat. She watched him warily.

“Open your cloak,” he said.

“Why?” Her eyes flew up to his.

“We are going to share body heat,” he said. “We are not going to dilute it with layers of clothing between us when that clothing could better be used about us. Your cloak, my greatcoat, my coat,
my waistcoat we will wrap about the two of us as best we can. But inside them all, we are going to be
close
. This is no time for maidenly modesty or even for family feuds. We will share the blanket. Lie down on the cot before I extinguish the light in the lantern. We do not wish to risk being burned to death. It would be ironic, would it not?”

“Kenneth—” she said, her voice wavering slightly. She swallowed. “My lord—”

But he had turned away from her to see to the lantern. How many hours were there until daylight broke? he wondered. He had no idea what time it was. And would they be able to leave the hut even when it was light outside? But it was unwise to look ahead. In any situation of crisis the present moment was everything. He had learned that over the years. Handle the present situation and let the future—whether the next hour or the next day or the next year—look after itself.

He put out the light of the lantern and turned toward the cot.

*   *   *

HER
first feeling was one of utter mortification. If she had not been so dreadfully foolish—and that was a mild way of describing her behavior—she would be at Dunbarton now. She would be hating it, but at least she would be warm and safe behind a closed door—and alone. She lay on the cot and backed as far in as she could until she was pressed against the wall. As soon as the light went out, she reluctantly opened the buttons of her cloak and was horribly aware of the flimsiness of her gown. It was flimsier than any of her nightgowns.

Her second feeling was one of acute embarrassment. He lay down beside her and almost on top of her—it really was a rather narrow
cot, intended for only one sleeper—opened back her cloak with firm, quite matter-of-fact hands, slid one arm beneath her neck, and hauled her very firmly indeed against him. From forehead to toes she was welded to him, only her thin evening gown—it felt even thinner now—and his shirt and pantaloons between them. He was very solid and felt and smelled alarmingly masculine. He arranged their garments about them like some sort of cocoon and then somehow arranged the blanket on top of all. Then he spoke, but not to her.

“Nelson,” he said, “up.”

And the dog crashed down on top of them, breathed noisily in their faces, and proceeded to twist and turn until he found a comfortable position across their legs.

Her third feeling was one of relief. There was definite warmth. His greatcoat was heavy. So was the blanket. The dog was heavy and warm. Kenneth’s body was warm. Of course he had arranged matters so that she had the best of it. He had pressed her head down beneath his chin and covered her almost completely. Her hands were spread on his chest as on a warm stove. She could hear his heart beating, strongly and steadily. She had not realized quite how cold she had been until warmth began to replace it.

It was a matter of survival, he had said. She concentrated on that thought and tried to hold all other thoughts at bay. His shocking proximity, for example. The musky smell of his cologne, for example. Tomorrow, for example.

“Relax and try to sleep,” he said, his breath warm against her ear.

How would she be able to look him in the eye tomorrow? For the rest of her life? How would she look Sir Edwin in the eye? Gracious heaven, Sir Edwin! Would he construe this as neighborliness too?
As friendship? She was alarmed by the nervous giggle that she only just succeeded in suppressing. This was no time for hilarity. She felt anything but amused. He had been quite right to call her childish.

“How ridiculous even to consider sleep as a possibility,” she said into his neckcloth.

“All things are possible,” he said. “Believe me.”

And she must indeed have dozed, she thought suddenly and in some surprise. She was cold again but had not noticed getting cold. Their clothes and the blanket no longer seemed so deliciously heavy, and the dog had moved down to their feet. She could feel herself trembling with the chill and although she clamped her jaws together, she could not quite stop her teeth from chattering. She tried to huddle closer, but there was no closer to go. Or so she supposed.

“It
is
confoundedly cold,” he said, and the quietness and closeness of his voice were somehow reassuring—until he continued. “There is only one other way that I know of to get warmer. We are going to have to share bodies as well as body heat.”

She did not even for a moment misunderstand him. His words were plain enough, heaven knew. But she did lie still for a moment, waiting for the alarm and the outrage that would surely follow such a suggestion.
Share bodies?
She felt nothing except the discomfort of the cold. It was a matter of survival, he had said. People died of the cold. She was not sure their situation was as drastic as that, but she was not convinced otherwise either. Would it bring them warmth? He should know, she supposed.

“Yes,” she said and wondered if she had given the matter enough consideration. But she did not withdraw her acquiescence. And already it was too late to do so.

His hand was between them doing something to his own clothing and then pulling up her dress and disposing of her undergarments as if it was something he was well accustomed to doing—as she had no doubt it was. She already felt warmer, she thought foolishly—much warmer. And agitated. What had she agreed to? She needed time to think. But she was too cold—and heated—to think.

She was on her back then and he was lying heavy on top of her, his legs pushing hers apart. He covered them carefully with her cloak and the blanket.

“Just relax,” he said quietly against her ear. “Enjoy it if you possibly can after the initial pain is past. Enjoying this is the best way to build heat.”

She already felt rather as if she were on fire. Her mind knew one moment of appalling clarity as she felt his hardness push against her and begin to enter her. The future—tomorrow, the rest of her life—flashed before her eyes just as the past is said to flash before those of a dying person. But then her mind recognized the irreversible nature of what was happening—and the appalling carnality of it—and closed in on itself again. He was inside her, stretching her to the point of alarming discomfort. He was going to hurt her. And then he
did
hurt her and came even more deeply in. It was too late to think now. She could not stop thinking.

Sharing bodies certainly did bring heat with it. It was a very, very intimate thing. It was painful. No, it was not. It had been painful for a moment. She was no longer cold. How could she be? The weight of his body was a very effective blanket. Where had Nelson gone? Poor Nelson—he would be cold down on the floor. She was not cold. Her mind tried to focus on such trivial thoughts.
They were
not
trivial. She was doing this for
survival
, not for any other reason. And then the most appalling thought of all came. He was
Kenneth
. Oh, dear God, he was Kenneth and he was inside her body. She pushed the thought aside.

“Let yourself relax,” he said. “We will make this last as long as possible. We will have you warm again by the time it is over.”

This? It?
They would make
what
last as long as possible? She was incredibly naive, she thought over the coming minutes. She had thought the uniting of bodies was all. At the elderly age of six-and-twenty she had congratulated herself on not being subject to maidenly ignorance. She had known exactly what to expect in the marriage bed. She had known
nothing
. And he obviously knew
everything
. What a foolish thought. Of course he did. He was a man and she did not doubt that he was very experienced indeed. A man like Kenneth would be. He was moving slowly, firmly, rhythmically in her, pumping into her until the uncomfortable friction of dryness gave place to smooth comfort.