The Borrowed Bride

by Jaye Peaches

  He stiffened, his handsome face marred by blatant frustration at her persistent questioning. “You’re his, there’s nought I can do to end your marriage without causing suffering.”

  “I don’t understand, Matthew. Do you not love me?”

  “Aye, I love you. I adore you.”

  “Then—”

  “It’s not your fault. I would have you here, by my side, if I could, but fate has played you into his hands, not mine.”

  Tears splashed down her cheeks.

  “Ah, lass, don’t,” he said, heavy-hearted. He reached for her with open arms and swept her up. Seated on his rocker, he settled her on his lap and held her in his bear hug. Eventually, the sobbing ceased and she regained control of her faculties.

  “Forgive me,” she said.

  “Tis hard for us both.” There were no tears for him, but she knew from the thump of his heart against her breast that he suffered in his own way.

  Why was he not fighting harder for her?

  She tumbled off him and knelt on the floor by his feet. “Tell me what troubles you, prove to me that your love is genuine. Treat me like your wife and share everything with me, as you should, tell me. I know you are keeping something back from me.”

  She held her breath, her hands clasped together.

  Matthew dragged himself upright and clutched the arms of the rocker with white-knuckled fingers. “Lord Coleman... Henry Coleman is my half-brother.”

  “What! You’re a bastard?”

  He glared at her, indignant at her swift accusation. “I am not a bastard. My parents were married.” He leaned forward, his eyes bright and piercing. “Henry’s father died when he was young and his mother, Grace, was expected to marry again. Her father would choose, just as he chose the Colemans. She took to taking long rides, escaping her responsibilities, hoping to stave of the inevitable. Henry was already being raised by nurses and tutors; he was a boy, after all, what could he possibly learn from a woman.”

  “Where did she ride?”

  “To this farm, like you, and she met my father. And they fell in love.”

  Dara smiled. “Like us.”

  “And like us, such a poor match is contemptible to the nobility. You see, Grace was a Barraclough, the daughter of the duke—”

  The nameplate in the book was his mother’s name; the Barracloughs were one of the most esteemed families in the country. “I assume permission was not granted.”

  “No. But my mother, disgraced by her request to marry beneath her, and having been cast out of Willowby Hall by Henry’s ageing grandmother, instead of returning to her family home, came here and stayed. They married in secret. Both Colemans and Barracloughs were furious when they found out. Grace, wanting to protect my humble father from the recriminations of more powerful families, struck a bargain. They’d simply live a quiet life as farmers, and say not a word about her origins. Other than the books, she took nothing with her, no fine gowns, or jewels, nothing—”

  “Your mother taught you French and—”

  “Aye. She tempered my wilder ways. She was wily, my mama. She insisted that they had more land. The farm was a tenancy of the Colemans. The Barracloughs bought it out, plus extra land and gave it to her. The deeds are safe in a bank deposit.”

  “To buy her silence?”

  “I don’t think my mother would ever had said anything to provoke a scandal, but the threat was useful, and the land brought her freedom from an awkward tenancy. However, she wanted to protect me more than anything. She died when I was fourteen. Before she departed, she made me promise not to mention her name or the Colemans to anyone. She wanted me to have this farm and make a life for myself. I was angry. Still am, that she was denied the chance to live openly as a happy married woman. Her father was vicious, far more than the Colemans.” Matthew gazed over Dara’s shoulder to the window.

  “Do you hate my husband?” She touched his sleeve. It was sinking in. Matthew’s maternal bloodline was nobler than Dara’s own and her husband’s. The title of master more than suited his personality; it was fitting and warranted.

  “I thought I did. I’m certainly jealous that you’re his and not mine. But in truth, I can’t blame him for what happened. He was a boy when she was forced to give him up. I know she thought upon this often and told me of her wish that her two sons might one day be better acquainted. I’ve never met Henry, and he knows only what his grandmother, a Coleman, had told him before she died. I suspect her opinion wasn’t generous in spirit,” said Matthew dryly. “As for Grace’s whereabouts, I don’t think he knows where his mother went. The duke arranged everything.”

  Henry was perhaps a victim of the duke’s schemes as much as Grace had been. His mother forced to abandon him and leaving him alone in his mansion, he’d been driven by a restless spirit to travel and never settle. “How awful... did your mother not try to make contact with him?”

  “The duke sent men, the worse kind, and they threatened her, brandished fire sticks at the farm and promised to exact a terrible revenge if she went near her son.”

  “Her own father did this?”

  “As I said, vicious. He cared only for his name. He’s dead now. Thank God. But, so is my mother.”

  History need not repeat itself in quite the same way. “I shall stay with you, like your mother—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “Except we’re not married. The circumstances aren’t the same.”

  She shook her head free. “Would the Barracloughs care? Time has passed and Henry is a grown man. Shouldn’t he have full possession of the facts?” She closed her eyes. It was a stupid idea. “He would not look upon us kindly.”

  “No.”

  “He would ruin me, like you said...”

  “For years, she lived not ten miles from him. His grandmother brought him up to despise his own mother. Your fate is now wrapped up in mine. Say nothing about meeting me, for tis bound to cause him great anger, and I fear he’ll take it out on you.”

  “I promise.”

  Matthew took both her hands in his sturdy ones and held them. “There might be a way to resolve this, but you must go back to him until I can think of what to do.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do as I ask. Maybe something will happen; there has to be a reason why he’s delayed consummating your marriage.”

  There was one thing she had learnt since living with Matthew; when he wanted obedience, he expected it. He was, and would always be, her master.

  “I can’t bear to think of us not together.” She rested her head against his thigh.

  He stroked her hair. “Me neither, lass. But he’ll always travel, tis his nature to keep moving. He cannot stay where he is for long, and when he does, you can try to see me, but you must be careful, make good excuses. I’ll not have you treated like my mother was.”

  “Then I will go back to him.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Matthew held Mary’s reins and walked alongside the mare. Perched on top, the sun beating down on her bonnet, Dara rode out of the farmyard. Ezekiel and Lemuel waved goodbye, looking suitably morose at her departure. They would miss her food. Kurt kept Barnaby on a leash, fearing the dog might follow and refuse to return home. She had become overly fond of the dog, feeding him titbits from the kitchen table without Matthew’s knowledge.

  Matthew planned to stay with her until they were in sight of the house, then he would leave her to make the last part of the journey alone.

  “This feels strange,” she said, swaying from side to side as the horse plodded along.

  “Tis for the best, lass.”

  “I’m leaving the man I love for one who cares little about me.”

  He said nothing to contradict her.

  “I thought you a simple farmer when we first met.” She guffawed. “A beast, almost savage. How wrong I was in my judgement.”

  “I did act that way at first, perhaps.” He
tightened his grip on the reins. “‘Twas not my intention to scare you, though.”

  She laughed. “Far from it. It seems it was exactly what I desired. Still desire. I hope Henry is less inclined to be so. I would prefer he was a simpleton in the bedroom.” She ceased her prattling. It would not do to bring up the subject of bedrooms.

  Without warning, Matthew tugged on Mary’s bridle and pulled her off the lane into the shadow of a cluster of trees.

  “Matthew, what are you doing?” Had he changed his mind?

  He lifted her off the saddle with an ease with which she had become familiar. She weighed nothing in his massive hands.

  “Matthew—”

  He pressed her against his chest and melted his warm lips onto hers, silencing her. Drawing further into the shade, he pushed her against the smooth bark of a tree, and ruffled up her skirts until they reached her thighs.

  “Spread them, lass. I mean to remind you before we part company that whatever awaits you, you’re still mine in here.” He thumped his chest with his other hand.

  She swallowed a lump of sorrow. “I’ll come back and visit when I can, I promise.” However, if Henry moved her to another house, perhaps even London, she would lose any chance of seeing Matthew.

  “Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.” He understood her situation too well. “Hush.” He kissed her tenderly, and with his free hand, unbuttoned the flap of his breeches with a twist of his fingers.

  She shifted her legs apart and hitched up her skirts. He slotted himself between her thighs, clasped her buttocks, and lifted her bodily onto his cock. She gazed, half-focused, on the leaves above her head. They were already turning gold and amber; the autumn had arrived in spectacular shades of colour. Her summer was nearly over.

  He entered her, rising up with a measure of force that she had come to love, and so not to scare Mary with her cry, she bit down on her lower lip. Each thrust was his gift to her. They tempted her to come quickly. But she held the climax at bay until he was ready, which was her gift to him. Although frantic in pace and rough in nature—he had offered her little comfort in the choice of location—the coupling was a perfect farewell.

  Pausing to tease her more with his hands, he panted into her ear, “I’ll miss fucking you, lass, and your chicken pie.”

  She giggled and he nipped an arse cheek with finger and thumb.

  “I’ll miss giving this a good hiding too,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. “I doubt you will.”

  She stroked her palm down his flushed cheek and met his gaze. “It might surprise you to know, I shall miss it too. What we had was special, Master. I shall cherish it always.”

  He resumed his thrusts, delving deeper with each one, until she signalled with a fierce clench of her thighs that she needed him to finish.

  He squeezed her bottom hard, stroked her with one thrust and came. She shivered, fearing she had missed the chance to snatch her climax, but to her delight, the delay merely heralded a potent orgasm. He smothered her cries with his hand.

  “Why, lass. You’ll scare the birds off.” He lowered his arm and gathered her to his chest. Her skirts dropped to the ground and once more she was modest in appearance.

  While Mary grazed on the grass, Dara curled herself into Matthew’s embrace and stayed a while there until he nudged her.

  “Up, Dara. Tis midday already.”

  She rode one more mile by his side. The distant windows of Willowby Hall glinted in the sunlight.

  Matthew handed her the reins. “I’ll not watch you go.”

  They had agreed he would simply walk away and not look back, and neither would she.

  “Goodbye, Matthew.” She fought off the tears; they wouldn’t stay away for much longer.

  “Farewell, sweet Dara.” He paused, as if he wanted to say something, but the words failed him.

  He struck Mary’s rump and the horse broke into a canter. Even if she had wanted to, Dara couldn’t look back. She had to cling onto the mane while she wept for him.

  By the time she reached the gates of Willowby Hall, her tears had dried and she had regained her composure.

  She had a few days to reacquaint herself with the house and staff, make up stories about her cousin, and ensure the tasks left by her husband were completed to a good standard, then he would be home and she would play the role of wife to the best of her abilities. What else could she do?

  Chapter Twelve

  Her fate was sealed the moment she crossed the threshold of the gates. Servants came running; there were shouts, almost pandemonium.

  “My lord, my lord, she’s back!” The cry went up.

  Standing among the marble statues of the hallway, she dropped her saddlebag and nearly wept. He had returned early. Her ruse was destroyed in an instant.

  Henry, Lord Coleman, strode across the tiles to meet her, his dogs yapping at his heels. But instead of welcoming her with an embrace, which she partly wished for in the hope their future together would not be entirely miserable, he glared at her, his fist clenched around his walking stick.

  “Where have you been, wife?” he demanded, his eyes searing with anger. “I have been back five days, your whereabouts a mystery. I sent a rider to your cousin’s house and the reply came yesterday. She has not seen you in over a year. The letters you wrote to Estelle are a fabrication. Don’t deny it.”

  She was too stunned to speak.

  “Well?” he bellowed. Towering over her, he lifted a loose leaf from her hair, which had tucked itself under her bonnet. “Playing in the fields? With whom?”

  She finally plucked up the courage to speak. “I shall not say. You left me, husband. I have merely kept myself busy for the duration in a distant city; I preferred to stay anonymous, nobody need know and the letters were to simply keep Estelle happy.”

  “Which city? With whom?” He snapped his fingers in her face. “I see the lie in your eyes, madam. You will tell me. No lady lives alone. You need maids and money.”

  She pressed her lips together. How much she had changed in so short a space of time. Money and maids were of little consequence compared to the loss of her lover. However, with her scheme unravelling, she felt the danger immediately; his cold voice chilled her bones.

  He stepped back and signalled to the butler. “Take Lady Coleman to her bedroom and lock her in. Estelle—”

  “My lord—”

  “See that she has nothing. The boredom will drive her to speak. Bring her to me in a few hours and I’ll hear her pitiful confession.” He stormed off, the dogs chasing after him.

  Dara submitted to the humiliation of the servants escorting her to her bedroom, having anything of pleasure removed from the chamber. The tearstained Estelle, quietly begging forgiveness, stripped off Dara’s gown and took away her saddlebag of clothes.

  “So sorry, so sorry,” Estelle repeated.

  From that moment, dressed only in a shift, Dara also assumed that he meant to visit her forthwith and claim her, perhaps with violence. But to her surprise he came not the first night, nor the next. He remained only her husband in name.

  At four o’clock on the fourth day of her isolation, she was summoned to the library and he asked her again—where had she been for three months. With whom had she been? The same questions asked over and over. His anger had not abated. She was numb to it now.

  She said nothing. The shame of walking through the house in the skimpy gown was as abominable as being locked in her room.

  He sighed heavily. “I should send you back to your family.”

  The numbness swiftly changed to sheer panic. “Please, you cannot. They will throw me out if I have sullied the family’s good name.”

  “And you think keeping silent is not the same for me?”

  She hung her head. “I cannot say where I have been, my lord.”

  “Then what solution do you offer?”

  She played a different tack to previous meetings. She had to know if he intended to force himself upon her or not. The wait was cr
ippling her nerves. “I only ask that you bed me. I wait for you, and you still do not come to my room.”

  “I see.” He frowned, creasing his tanned face. Wherever he had spent the summer, the sun had shone brilliantly. “I do not understand you, Dara. You run off, will not say where, leaving me to assume you have been with another man, but then plead with me to consummate our marriage? Would you not prefer an annulment?”

  Under any other circumstances, she would say yes. But the scandal of both annulment and the possibility of carrying another man’s child would bring her nothing but shame. Her parents would not send her a penny and Coleman might simply forgo anonymity and decide to reveal her name for further humiliation. As for Matthew, having witnessed his mother’s treatment at the hands of her own family, he would not countenance Dara’s reputation being dragged through the mud, and he would expect her to respect her vows. He also remained determined to protect his mother’s secret life. Both brothers had many traits in common—stubborn, controlling, and stern in manner, while at the same time, dignified and strangely honourable in their own ways. The likeness of personality was more obvious than in the faces, which was subtle and unlikely to be noticed.

  She sank to her knees. “Please, my lord. I do not expect you to love me, or even care for me, but should not a man claim his wife to be wholly his?”

  He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Your humility is beguiling. Where have you been, Dara? Tell me.”

  “I will not tell you, sir.”

  He thumped the desk. “Damn it, girl. Don’t you understand I must have authority in this house? I must know what you have done that warrants such secrecy.” He rubbed his fingers along his brow. “Of course, I could bring a doctor to your room and have him divulge the state of your maidenhood—”

  “No, please, my lord, do not,” she said swiftly.

  He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “That really frightens you, doesn’t it?”

  “Just take me, as roughly as you like. You can tie me down and—”

  “Good grief. I am not going to force myself upon you. What kind of education did you have? Were you tormented with stories of hell? Damnation,” he said with gloomy irony. “This was not what I had planned. I wanted to give you time to adjust to marriage, to living here while I travel. Then, when I came to you... well... as I said, it need not be a matter of love, only duty, which we are both agreed upon.”