‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘I would like that.’
In no time at all they had divested themselves of their clothes and slipped between the cool sheets. Melissa felt the strength of his arms and the warmth of his masculine body. She could feel the hard muscles of his broad chest and smell his maleness and the spicy scent of his cologne. A tautness began in her breast, a delicious ache that was like a languorous, honeyed warmth. She had missed his presence in her bed so much.
As he sensed the change in her Laurence’s arms slackened. His senses were invaded by the smell of her. It was the soft fragrance of her hair—the sweet scent of roses mingled with musky female scent—that made his body burn. Her body began to tremble with longing to be where it belonged, where it had always belonged had Laurence known it. Now he did as she placed herself in his protection, a safe refuge. Her body clung to his and they did not speak for there was no need of it now.
* * *
Melissa awoke the next morning to an enormous feeling of contentment, her body warm and rosy, drugged with love. Her eyes were dark and languorous with the unfocused stare of a woman who has been completely fulfilled—not only in the flesh, but in the heart and mind. They had made love repeatedly, a loving that neither of them had ever known, which they could swear had never been there before. It was a pairing of their hearts and bodies which had at last come together at exactly the right moment. When Melissa looked into Laurence’s eyes she saw an expression she had looked for every time they had made love and despaired of ever seeing. Now, at last, it was there, a difference in him. His eyes were clear and in them, shining and glorious and uncomplicated, was his love for her.
Without relinquishing their hold on each other, they talked of the days passed, of Violet, Melissa’s parents and the previous day’s memorial service.
‘It was good of Antony and Eliza to come,’ Melissa murmured. ‘Tell me what happened to Gerald after Eliza told him about Alice. I saw how devastated he was by the news that she was to have had his child.’
‘It’s hardly surprising. After what happened to Toby I would like to say he got what he deserved, but between that and how I really feel there is no connection whatsoever. We both lost a great deal and I am not proud of what I did. He did to me what I did to him by marrying Alice in the first place when he was already in love with her and had good reason to think they would marry. I took everything from him and it shames me to say that. I experienced no satisfaction at the outcome.’
He spoke with a solemnity that puzzled Melissa. ‘When he left Winchcombe, how did the two of you part?’
‘He left without saying a word. He was overcome with grief when Eliza told him about the child.’
‘It’s understandable. What will you do—leave things as they are?’
Shaking his head, he tightened his arm about her naked form. ‘I will call on him when I am next in London—perhaps when we return to Winchcombe. I am honour-bound to put things right between us. I believe he loved Alice as much as he was capable of loving any human being—and she loved him, despite being married to me. That was one thing I learned that night—something in my conceit I always doubted. I wronged him, I admit that.’ Looking down at Melissa’s upturned face, he drew her close, looking deep into her eyes. ‘It is time I laid Alice’s ghost to rest, although Toby will always be with me. Where Gerald is concerned—you do see why I must go and see him, don’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, I do,’ she replied. ‘And I’m glad. And now Robert has arrived we can think about returning to Winchcombe.’ Her expression was one of sadness. ‘It will be hard, though, leaving High Meadows and my family again. I had a happy childhood and all my good memories are here. All the things I associate with my brothers—they live here.’
‘Of course they do, but you will make new memories—at Winchcombe with Violet.’
‘And you.’
‘Yes—the three of us,’ he murmured. ‘From now on I intend to spend less time away—I will let others do my bidding. I don’t deserve you, my darling, or your forgiveness. I have treated you very badly.’ Combing her hair back from her face with his fingers, he tilted her face to his and kissed her lips tenderly, all the love that had been accumulating over the time he had known her contained in his kiss. ‘I love you,’ he murmured, his breath warm against her lips. ‘Though I would have been the last man to admit it, I think I have loved you ever since we met in the Spring Gardens.’
Catching her breath, Melissa raised her brows in amazement, silently questioning, hoping.
‘I have come to realise just how much you mean to me,’ he went on. ‘When I thought you had left me something died inside me. I have reflected long and hard on what you said about Alice—that you did not wish to hear her name mentioned ever again. I don’t blame you. I remember how angry I was that you had said that, but later I realised how difficult it must be for you when everything around you must remind you of her. When she died I told myself that I did not need any woman’s love—that I did not want it. But I can see now that I was wrong. I want your love, Melissa. All of it. So you see, my darling, you have caught me in the tenderest trap of all.’
‘You have it, Laurence. I have loved you from the moment I saw you arrive at the Spring Gardens. I had no experience of such emotions that compromised all my thoughts. I watched you to the exclusion of all others. I did not understand it, but it was as if some invisible thread connected us. The night was dark, but you shone in my sight. I watched you until I caught your eye. I had eyes for no one else after that.’
‘There we are, then.’ On a sigh and with a whimsical smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Laurence admitted the truth of it. Love tightened his throat. What he felt was so exquisite it pained him to draw breath. ‘What we have transcends all else. I want to give you the world because you have given me so much in return. You are a rare being, Melissa Maxwell, and I love you.’
Melissa kissed him gently. ‘Thank you, Laurence. That is the nicest, most wonderful thing you have ever said to me.’
Epilogue
Melissa and Laurence stood looking down at the grave where Alice and Toby had been laid to rest. It was the fourth anniversary of their deaths. Though it was winter the weather was mild, with primroses and violets pushing through the soil, soon to be followed by daffodils. Violet carefully placed a small posy of flowers beneath the headstone. Standing back, she tilted her head on one side to see if she’d done it right.
Melissa held the much-welcomed new addition to their family in the crook of her arm—Thomas Henry Maxwell, a lusty boy now three months old, who bore a strong resemblance to his sister. Standing by her side, Laurence put his arm about her waist and kissed her cheek before caressing his son’s brow with his fingertips. He then laughed as he watched Violet return to the grave to rearrange her posy into what she considered to be a better position.
Melissa smiled up at her husband, into his eyes which were shining and clear, his face uncomplicated by the past and filled with happiness, contentment and his love for her and their family, which was returned by her with all the fierce joy in her heart.
* * *
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A Mistletoe Vow to Lord Lovell
by Joanna Johnson
Chapter One
1817
T
here was someone in the house.
Even in the frozen darkness of a December night Honora Blake could sense it. A thrill of instinctive caution had roused her from her sleep, but she was not afraid.
She possessed courage to match any man’s—as well as a flintlock pistol on her bedside table, and she was an excellent shot. A childhood spent in the shadow of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains under her father’s tutelage had seen to that. Felling a bear at twenty paces did wonders for a girl’s confidence.
Honora lay perfectly still, ears straining to catch another tell-tale creak of uneven floorboards. Usually the tired old house of which she despaired gave her nothing but trouble, with its leaking roof and draughty doors, but tonight its groans were allies, helping her track the steps of whoever was moving about downstairs.
They weren’t even bothering to try to keep quiet, she thought with a flicker of irritation. Would they have been so brazen if she still had a husband? Did they imagine a woman on her own was too weak to challenge them?
If that’s what they’re thinking, they’re due a surprise. Whoever it is creeping around my parlour will soon wish they hadn’t.
The mournful keening of the wind outside her window covered the sound of Honora’s light step as she slipped from her bed and threw a shawl over her nightgown. Her hand was steady as she retrieved the flintlock and checked the muzzle, holding it up in the dim moonlight filtering through ill-fitting shutters.
Since her husband had vanished into thin air she’d had to fend for herself, the wretch having disappeared without a backward glance when the money he’d been counting on showed no signs of appearing.
She cursed herself daily now for allowing him to turn her head, travelling with him to England and actually thinking herself lucky to be his bride. Frank Blake was so handsome, so dazzling with his charm and wit and way of making a person feel they were the only one in the room and he’d come along just as Honora was beginning to believe nobody would ever place a ring on her finger. Ma and Pa had tried to reason with her, sensing he was not all he seemed, but Honora had loved Frank so hopelessly that their pleas only made her more determined to prove them wrong and nothing would satisfy her but crossing the churning Atlantic to become Mrs Blake.
The wedge that Honora’s stubbornness had driven between her and her parents only increased over time, that final bitter argument on the day she’d boarded the boat and sailed away from them more painful than ever now that Honora had to admit they’d been right. How could she ever face them again, knowing how poorly she had repaid their concern—with angry words and defiance, wounding the two people who loved her more than anything else in the world? How could she return to them, knowing how little she deserved the heartfelt welcome they would give her?
I can’t, that’s how—which is why I still find myself here. Thousands of miles from home, the mistress of a house crumbling all around me and a good-for-nothing husband I haven’t seen in three years. If only I’d listened, hadn’t thought I knew best, I could have saved myself this misery—a naive bride at twenty-something, now a worn-out cynic of thirty-five. And now there’s an intruder in my parlour. That’s all I need.
Steeling herself against the cruel chill of the night, she crossed the room and pressed an ear against the bedroom door. From the other side of it came the vague sounds of someone blundering in the darkness. With her full lips pressed into a tight line, Honora eased open the door, wincing at the squeak of its hinges. Whoever was below evidently didn’t hear, however, and she slid from the room without a further sound, one hand holding her shawl close to her chest and the other firmly grasping the flintlock’s wooden grip.
Careful now. Go slowly.
She crept down the landing towards the stairs and peered through the banisters. The hall below was shrouded in darkness and for the first time Honora felt a shiver of apprehension prickle up her spine. Brave or not, she was still entirely alone at Wycliff Lodge, half a mile of Somerset countryside lying between her and her nearest neighbour. Her maid, Mary, had gone back to her cottage for the night and wouldn’t return until the next day, the only help Honora could still afford and, after years of service, now more a friend than a servant—which was just as well, for nobody else seemed particularly interested in getting to know her.
Perhaps it was the colour of Honora’s skin that troubled those living nearby, a soft tawny bronze courtesy of her father’s African heritage, or the fact she’d survived alone in the crumbling old house ever since Frank abandoned her. Only her presence stopped it from falling down completely, the sole reason Frank allowed her to stay on in a property he had no intention of revisiting. Hadn’t the doctor’s wife even caught her chopping firewood once, a strange display from the equally strange young woman Mr Blake had brought home from the Americas? Whatever stopped her neighbours from coming to take tea was nothing she could change and as the years went by Honora found herself growing accustomed to solitude, her independence blooming with her fierce vow never to depend on a man again...
Another bump, louder this time, came from downstairs and Honora swallowed a jolt of unease. Beneath the thin linen of her nightgown her heart began to jump, the pistol’s grip sliding a little as her palm grew damp with sweat. Searching through the gloom, she clamped her fingers tighter around her shawl and descended the stairs, hardly daring to breathe in the now silent night.
Have courage. Think what Ma would do.
As always, even after five years, the thought of her mother gave Honora a pang of homesickness and longing for the woman she missed more than any other. Pa might have taught her to shoot, but surely much of her natural spirit came from Cicily Jackson. It had been the stuff of scandal, a white plantation owner’s daughter wedding a freedman, and Honora’s grandfather had cut the couple off without a cent. He’d mellowed a little when his granddaughter was born and tried to make amends, but by then the damage had been done. Ma wanted no part in a family that wouldn’t welcome her husband, so blinded by their prejudice they would cast out their own flesh and blood.
She and Pa had made their way alone, opposite in so many ways and yet coming together to create Honora, who bridged the gap between them. Her mass of curling black hair and tapered chin came from her father while Ma had contributed wide-set hazel eyes, the best parts of both parents combining to make a striking face not soon forgotten. Mr and Mrs Jackson had hoped their cherished daughter would find a man deserving of her when she came to wed, their pride and joy sure to attract the very best of husbands...but instead it had been Frank Blake who came to call, damn him, his lies and false promises blinding Honora to all good sense and tearing the family apart.
She reached the hall and stood for a moment to collect herself. The parlour lay to her left, the door slightly ajar and footsteps muffled by tattered carpet just audible above the rapid beat of her heart. If it pounded any harder she feared the trespasser might hear it, the hand that clutched her shawl to her chest feeling how it railed against her ribs. On the other side of that door lurked who knew what, perhaps a thief or perhaps something altogether more frightening, and the only way to know for sure was to push it open and look inside—
The first glimmer of light took her by surprise, flaring round the edge of the door frame and faintly illuminating the chilly hall. Surely nobody could be so brazen as to break into the Lodge and then light a fire, making themselves quite at home—could they? Hardly able to believe her eyes, Honora stiffened as the light grew stronger, the only explanation one she could hardly credit.
They’ve lit the candles? They’ve come into my house in the middle of the night, made a fire and lit my good candles? The ones I have to ration to last out the winter? How dare they!
A spark of temper erupted in her chest, warming her despite the cold draught that crept beneath the front door. Whoever this person was had gone too far in their arrogance and, with anger masking the fear of moments before, Honora gathered her courage and burst in
to the room.
‘You can stay exactly where you are!’
Honora held the pistol so firmly her knuckles stood out beneath the skin, aiming the muzzle squarely at the strange man kneeling before her fireplace. He started at her sudden appearance and made as if to stand, evidently reconsidering when she waved the flintlock threateningly.
‘One more step and it might be your last. You’ll tell me who you are and what you mean by skulking around here at this hour.’
The intruder settled slowly back down again on his haunches, never taking his eyes from Honora’s rigid face. His own features were difficult to read, although in the light of the dancing flames he didn’t look the least bit afraid, instead a decided jaw and straight chestnut brows set in an expression of complete composure. Honora might as well have been holding a bouquet of flowers for all his lack of concern and she felt a gleam of irritation that he was so unmoved. Did he think she was to be trifled with? That because he was handsome she would hesitate to run him off? She had to admit that particular fact, sour though it tasted.
The stranger’s dark eyes shone like deep pools in the firelight and his hair, scattered with sparse grey at the temples, was interestingly disordered. It was impossible to tell how tall he was as he crouched on the ground, but he looked around her age, perhaps a few years off forty, with a lean physique beneath expensive clothes that a much younger man would have been proud of. If Honora had seen him five years previously, she couldn’t deny he was the kind of man she might have slid a smile, but that was before Frank had taught her the error of her ways, and now she glared at the trespasser so coldly it was a wonder he didn’t turn to ice.
Wedded for His Secret Child Page 22
