by Sophia James
The fire in her banked a bit, satisfied for the moment that the flames had done their job. She was at peace, Inigo’s arms about her, the world beyond this room obliterated. In these precious, quiet moments of absolute tranquillity, nothing else mattered and everything was possible. She let out a drowsy sigh, her head pillowed against the muscle of Inigo’s chest. The world could not touch them tonight. They were beyond it, in a place of their own.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Silly girl. Did she think she could outrun him? Outwit him? Had she not learned there was no place she could hide? Gismond Brenley crushed the letter in his hand, grinding it in unrestrained anger. This was not the triumphant homecoming he’d imagined when he’d left for Dover, on the brink of claiming Tremblay’s favour at last. But now, he’d been summoned home early, no proposal in hand, to find his daughter gone, run off with the very man who threatened to steal all he’d worked for.
Brenley’s temper flared again. How dare Inigo Vellanoweth threaten to have his title stripped? How dare he threaten to go to the King? Oh, he knew very well how the man dared it. There was little to fight Tintagel with. Dealing with Tintagel and the Cornish Dukes was different from dealing with regular men. Gismond had learned that last year during the situation with the Blaxford mines. He’d distributed a defamatory pamphlet to discredit Eliza Blaxland’s leadership of the mining conglomerate, only to discover that pamphlets might influence small folk, but they did not influence or stop the might of the Cornish Dukes. Inigo had simply ignored the pamphlet and arranged to have the mining board bought out, old members supplanted with those who would pay no heed to the rumours. Then Lynford had gone and married the chit and put her above any attempt at scandal.
Gismond tapped his long fingers on the desk in an irritated tattoo. There would be scandal aplenty this time, though. Inigo had upended his plans and attacked his hard-won social standing. There would be no marriage to Viscount Tremblay now. Tremblay would hardly want a bride who’d run off with another man let alone offer business opportunities to her father. The whole trip to Dover was now a complete waste. Had it ever actually been within his grasp? Brenley was starting to wonder now, a fresh wave of anger surging. Perhaps Tremblay had been brought in on it, a decoy to lure him out of town so Inigo and Audevere—he couldn’t discount his daughter’s role in all this—could act.
Vellanoweth had conspired against him on all fronts: financially, socially, and personally. He’d gone too far this time and it would bring him down. Brenley could not let this go unchecked. To do so would be to validate the threat. He didn’t doubt Vellanoweth would follow through either. One wrong move and he would make his case to the King. Brenley knew how that would turn out. The King loved the money he made for the coffers, but he loved the Cornish Dukes more. He would not risk offending them by siding with Brenley.
Brenley gave orders he was not to be disturbed and shut himself away to think. Vellanoweth had to be stopped. Quite often the key to stopping a man lay in his motives. Take away his motives and a man seldom had a reason to risk anything. He poured a drink and settled into his favourite chair by the fire. What motivated Vellanoweth?
Was this still about avenging that silly, weak boy, Collin Truscott, or was this about Audevere? Did Vellanoweth fancy himself in love with her? He wouldn’t be the first man to fall for her charms. Were they lovers? Business partners? Had he convinced her or had she convinced him? The latter seemed more likely, assuming Audevere had worked up the courage. He’d known his daughter was angry with him for some time. But he’d not imagined she’d have the fortitude to actually leave. Was she really willing to leave behind the luxury, the social standing, her reputation? True, he had made her work for those luxuries, but how else did she think to attain such comfort? Surely she understood running away meant embracing a life of limited means and poverty. She would never again live as she’d lived under his roof. And she couldn’t keep her name or else her secret would find her, he would find her. Unless…
Unless Tintagel had convinced her she could actually escape him without giving up all that. In order to get those promises though, she’d need to persuade him to fall in love with her first. The Cornish Dukes put much stock in the concept of love. They were known for their love-matches and thus far their heirs had made an awful habit of repeating those mistakes: Lynford with Eliza Blaxland and Trevethow with Lady Penrose. If Audevere was smart, she’d seduce Tintagel and then extract all nature of promises from him, starting with marriage. That could work in Audevere’s favour, but it wouldn’t change anything and it certainly wouldn’t stop him.
The joke would be on Vellanoweth. If he married her, she’d bring him down. Brenley chuckled to himself. Audevere’s beauty was her only asset. She was a ticking time bomb waiting to go off, her very own worst enemy. How would Tintagel react once he knew the truth about Audevere’s birth? The real question was when to tell him: before the marriage or after. Which would be the most devastating? Which would offer the greatest opportunity for blackmail?
While all that would be sweet revenge, it did not resolve the larger issue of protecting his title and his status. If he didn’t marry her, if she was to be his lover but not his wife or if he had only spirited her away for financial gain or for revenge, Tintagel’s threat remained dangerous. He needed to make Vellanoweth look like the villain in this piece.
A few strategies came to mind. First, he could spread rumours that Tintagel had stolen his daughter and publicly demand honour be satisfied. That was the best gambit: to force Tintagel into marriage with her. Even now, her chastity would be in question. She’d been alone on the road with a man for days. He could paint quite a defamatory picture of Tintagel: the man who’d absconded with his dead best friend’s former fiancée, stealing her from her father’s home while her father was out of town on business and then been alone with her for days.
Brenley chuckled to himself. He quite liked the idea of making Vellanoweth look like a bride stealer. He also liked the idea of appearing as the wronged father. A duchess as a daughter would be delightful. It would force Tintagel to give him entrance into the circle of the Cornish Dukes. By fighting him, Tintagel actually ended up giving him everything he’d ever wanted. He could already see Cassian Truscott’s face when he came home from honeymooning, could already imagine the looks on the Duke of Bude’s and the Duke of Hayle’s faces when they had to greet him as an equal, as family. Nothing mattered more to those Dukes than family and now their nemesis would be part of theirs.
Brenley pulled out his stationery and began to write. He’d see what Inigo Vellanoweth made of that. Marry his daughter or else… The ‘or else’ part was a bit ambiguous. Refusing to marry Audevere gave Brenley every right to act the aggrieved parent. He could defame Tintagel, but then Tintagel might go to the King anyway. That had to be prevented at all costs. He had men who could see to that, although he’d rather have the satisfaction himself. He smiled coldly to himself. A duel wouldn’t be amiss. Sanctioned murder among gentlemen. He’d shoot the bastard and put an end to his interference once and for all. It wouldn’t be as lucrative as marriage, but it would be a lot more decisive. Well, he’d be magnanimous and let Tintagel choose: marriage or death. Meanwhile, he’d slowly make his way to Truro and await Tintagel’s answer there.
* * *
She had died and gone to heaven. Audevere stretched, her body and her mind reluctant to leave the peace of half-sleep, both replete with memories of the night before. Inigo had been an exquisite lover, gentle and passionate by turn, matching his prowess to her need. She was pleasantly sore, memories of last night returning to her now in the early dawn: the skill of his mouth, the ability of his body to exact every ounce of pleasure from hers.
No, not exacting. Her mind stumbled over the word. Exacting described what other men had taken from her. It suggested that Inigo had claimed by force what she’d offered freely. To recall his passion was to recall her own. She’d not dreamed such pleasu
re was possible. Her own response had equalled his in all ways. Such a consuming, uncontrollable response was entirely new to her. Collin’s kisses, Tremblay’s kisses, and certainly not the advances made by her father’s so-called friends had ever elicited such a reaction from her. It was something she wanted to feel again. Perhaps that made her wanton. At the moment, she didn’t care. She was sleepy, safe and warm with Inigo’s arm draped about her, protectively, and perhaps possessively, too. A man like him would be. A woman could get used to being loved by such a man. He had handled everything with such ease and elegance: the lap robes, the picnic basket, the stops along the way to stretch her legs, the speed with which dinner had been served and a private parlour arranged.
She snuggled down into the blankets, her buttocks wiggling against Inigo’s groin, his length stirring against her in response. He murmured, coming awake, his arm tightening around her, drawing her close against him as he took her into the curve of his body. It was an intimate reminder that the confessions of yesterday and the acts of last night had altered her lens of understanding everything between them. This relationship was no longer a partnership focused on her escape, or on merely bringing down her father. This was now a partnership in which she and Inigo harboured unexplored passions for one another. Last night had been only the start of that exploration, but it raised the question: did they dare go further? Was it enough that curiosity had been slaked? She didn’t believe for a moment last night had been about curiosity, though. It had been about purging guilt, about confession and absolution, about putting the past behind them, about starting over with a clean slate. Hadn’t they both needed to know they were worthy of happiness? Deserving of love no matter how fleeting? Whatever had been put to bed last night, it didn’t change the future. She still had to disappear.
Inigo’s mouth tugged gently at her earlobe and she gave the thought up for later. It was far more pleasant to think of the present when it involved being buried beneath quilts, Inigo taking her with tantalising slowness from behind, his hands at her breasts, his mouth at her ear whispering decadent promises she couldn’t let him keep as he drove her wild, pushing her relentlessly towards full waking. But oh, what a delicious way to awake.
She knew intuitively this was how mornings should always begin. Just as she knew that autumn afternoons should involve a carriage ride on dry roads, a roadside picnic, followed by a walk beneath the crimson leaves of an oak grove turned shades of red and russet and vermilion in one last burst of glory before winter.
* * *
‘When we were growing up, Eaton’s father would take us truffle hunting in the Trevaylor Woods.’ Inigo regaled her with stories of his childhood in Cornwall, how Eaton’s father had taught them to cook out of doors over a fire, how Eaton’s hound was a special breed of dog who could smell truffles, how he and his friends would spend the autumn nights sleeping beneath the autumn sky, the stars bright against the darkness. ‘We’d stay up half the night looking at constellations.’ Inigo laughed and she laughed with him.
She hugged his arm tight as they walked. ‘I like you this way, happy and laughing.’ She’d liked it so much there’d been times today when she’d forgotten to worry about her father, about where they were going, about what she would do once she got there, what the rest of her life would look like once she cut this last final tie. Perhaps that was why he’d been so entertaining. Maybe he was also trying to forget the things that lay ahead. In the forgetting about the past and the future, they could enjoy the present.
Audevere slid him a sidelong glance from beneath the brim of her bonnet, taking in the strong, stark planes of his face, and the firm mouth that was curved up in a rare smile. He was turned out today in the same clothes he’d worn yesterday, as was she. Audevere gave a little laugh. ‘How simple life can suddenly be. Here we are, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, miles from civilisation, miles from any sophisticated entertainments to keep us busy, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been.’ It was true. She didn’t need cupboards full of gowns, or invitations piled up in the hall. She just needed this: the peace of walking in nature, talking with a friend, distance from the life she’d led in London, distance from her father. Or, her mind prompted, was it that she just needed him? Inigo. Was it the distance that brought her the happiness she felt today, or was it the man beside her? If it was the distance, she could have that always. That was what escaping her father had been about. But if it was the man, she would lose him. She could have this only for a little while, just like the brilliance of the leaves.
‘I’m glad, Aud. You deserve to be happy,’ Inigo’s hand covered hers where it lay on his sleeve as he turned them back towards the coach. There were still miles to cover before they reached their destination tonight. Yet she would delay their return for a little longer.
‘As do you.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘Do I make you happy, Inigo?’ Had last night meant as much to him as it had to her? Among the many things they’d not discussed today was last night. Here was a man who’d carried feelings for her, hidden away for so many years, and yet last night he’d served her, worshipped her, put her before the claiming of his own pleasure, the fulfilment of his own fantasies. ‘Did I disappoint you?
Inigo frowned, his brow furrowing. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? Of course not. Aud, how could you ever disappoint me? I’ve waited for you for so long. I’ve vacillated between wanting you, giving you up, hating myself for the wanting, convincing myself I didn’t want you, couldn’t want you, and then, just when I thought I was safe, there you were on the Bradfords’ veranda in that cranberry silk and the wanting started all over again…and the doubt, and the misery of being trapped between the two, and I knew I’d never be safe from you.’
The woods were silent, as she stood beneath the trees in awe, overwhelmed by his confession. But, of course, Inigo was always intense, the very personification of still waters running deep, so deep that she might drown in them. How easy it would be to let go and allow the current of Inigo’s words to take her away from her resolve for a new life, a new name. ‘And now?’ she whispered. ‘Are you safe from me now?’ Perhaps now that his fantasy was fulfilled, the sharp edge of desire would be dulled. Men were like that. They loved the hunt, but once the prize was caught, they quickly lost interest.
‘I don’t want to be safe, Aud. I want to be with you. To show you—’
She pressed a finger to his lips. She didn’t want to hear what he might show her for fear they would argue over it. She could guess very well what those things might be and how much she wanted them, too.
‘I don’t want to be safe either,’ Audevere breathed her own fantasy to life, the one that had been seeded this morning in his arms and had put down roots throughout the day with every glance, every story, every touch. She wanted to seize these days of pleasure and hold them against all the lonely days to come. If only he would grant them to her.
‘I want to be like the leaves on the trees, Inigo. I want to burn my brightest just before I die.’ A sensual smile played across her lips. She watched his eyes light with desire at her words. She would not wait for him to bring the fantasy to her. She would issue the invitation to him. ‘I want to burn with you for however long we have. Will you burn with me, Inigo?’
‘God, yes.’ His voice was a husky rasp as he reached for her and lit the match.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Inigo took her mouth in a hard kiss, his body on fire at her words, her touch. The very sensuality of what she asked of him left him aroused and aching. He would take the invitation to be her lover. There was no dishonour in it. He would do more than burn with her. He would protect her, he would keep her safe always. She was his now even if she did not understand it yet. But she would. He had time. Two more precious days on the road to persuade her she didn’t have to disappear, two days until they reached Boscastle, and she would see anew that he could offer her what she’d never had: the unconditional support of friends and fa
mily. She was not impressed by riches or elevated society. He would give her something far more valuable: his family, his name, his protection, his body, and his heart, if she would take them.
She gasped in excitement at the roughness of their kiss and answered with a fierceness of her own, her teeth sinking into his bottom lip as desire ignited, flaming to life between them. He pressed her back against the broad trunk of an oak, her hand dropping between them, seeking the hard root of him through his trousers. They were not being safe now, they were being reckless, letting passion consume them as it had last night, letting passion become an excuse for not looking ahead.
He lifted her then, taking her legs about his waist, her skirts falling back, helped by the rough sweep of his hand up her thighs. Her hands worked the fall of his trousers open, freeing him to thrum erect against her damp core. Her arms wound about his neck, her body pressed to his, her head tilted back, mouth open and pleasure purling in the back of her throat, a sensual mewl that set his blood afire with proof that she was burning, too, for him, for the possibility of all they could be together.
All else ceased to matter. He pushed away consequences and complications. For the first time in his life, now was all that mattered. It was heady and liberating. He claimed her in a swift thrust that wrenched a cry from them both and then the rhythm of taking and giving began, her hips hard against his, the intensity of the encounter driving them fast and furiously to pleasure’s edge and over. This passion would be short-lived and explosive, but no less brilliant, no less powerful for its brevity. Climax swept them, Audevere’s sharp cry breaking the silence of the woods and he buried his head against her shoulder as he spent himself, his own body sweat-slicked despite the cold, his breath coming in frosty pants as he set her down.
