by Louise Allen
‘Ow!’ There was a thud and a muffled curse from inside. Not Ross, he was out and that was not his voice. The maids had finished this part of the house for the day and the footmen were all up ladders wrestling with curtain poles.
Meg pushed open the door with some caution. A young man was crouched, gathering up a pile of fallen books. As he heard her he straightened: six foot of gangling, black-haired, strong-jawed young male Brandon—Ross’s portrait come to life.
They stared at each other. ‘They aren’t damaged,’ the youth said and at the sound of the Cornish burr in his voice the spell was broken.
‘I can see it was an accident.’ But who is he? Then she saw his eyes were an unusual amber and realised. ‘You are Billy’s grandson, aren’t you?’ And Ross’s brother.
‘Yes, ma’am. William. His lordship…Ross, I mean, said I could borrow books.’
‘You may call me Mrs Halgate,’ Meg said. ‘I am housekeeper here.’ He was family, and should be treated as such. But did Ross mean to acknowledge him? ‘Can I help you find something?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen so many books all in one place.’
‘What do you like to read?’ Meg asked, wondering how well he had mastered his letters. Had he been to school?
‘Anything,’ he said with a smile, so very like Ross that she smiled back. ‘Newspapers, the Bible…Anything.’
‘I know.’ She took Gulliver’s Travels from the shelf. ‘Your brother likes this one.’ He showed no surprise at her description of Ross. ‘And I looked at this the other day, it is Cornish legends, the engravings are fascinating.’ She put them on the table and gestured to the seat next to her. ‘Come and see.’
One book led to another. Soon the table was littered with open volumes as they delved into the collection, reading snatches to each other. ‘Look at this, Mrs Halgate,’ William said and she came to look over his shoulder at an illustration of a whale, just as there was a sound behind them.
Meg turned. It was Ross, one hand on the window frame he had just stepped through, staring at the pair of them as though he had seen a ghost.
‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ Meg said, summoning up all her composure. ‘I will clear up directly.’ Beside her William scrambled to his feet.
‘That is all right,’ Ross said. ‘I told my brother he may use the library.’
‘But you did not tell me I could turn out half the bookshelves.’ Meg cast a rueful look at the table.
‘I’ll put them away,’ William said. ‘Mrs Halgate was helping me.’ She could feel his tension in case Ross was angry.
‘I know.’ Ross smiled at her. Meg felt light-headed. There was so much meaning in that smile, so much warmth in the caress of his eyes.
‘I will just go and see whether they have finished in your bed…bedchamber.’ She stumbled over the word. ‘We changed the curtains for something lighter. But I haven’t found the seascapes I was going to replace the portraits with yet. Excuse me.’
Ross watched as Meg whisked out of the door, her cheeks pink. He had never seen her so flurried before and it was both charming and, he was amused to discover, flattering, that he could put her in such a state.
But she was not the only one feeling disconcerted. He had stood at the window watching them—the woman who was his lover, the boy who could pass as his son—and had felt a shock of recognition, a premonition almost. They had looked right together, companionable, sharing and enjoying the books without the need to say very much. She must have known who William was, but she accepted him.
‘I like her,’ William said as Ross continued to stand looking at the closed door. ‘Mrs Halgate. I like her a lot.’
‘Yes.’ Ross turned back to the table and picked up Gulliver’s Travels, running his fingers over the leather binding as he pictured Meg sitting on the trunk in the cabin with it open in her hands. ‘So do I.’
Chapter Seventeen
Patrick Jago’s letter was short and brutally clear.
Dear Mrs Halgate,
I regret that I have been unable to find any clues as to the whereabouts of your sisters. I can be clear on only three points: the facts that I communicated to you in my last letter, the fact that nothing is recorded under their names in any parish register for ten miles around and the certainty that they are nowhere in the vicarage or its adjoining buildings, which I must confess to entering and searching on Sunday last during morning service.
I am in London now. I enquired at all the coaching inns receiving passengers from East Anglia, in case one or both went to London. However, at such a distance in time I have not been surprised to find no one remembers two young ladies amongst so many.
I find myself detained by another, personal, matter, and will remain here at the Belle Sauvage on Ludgate Hill, where any correspondence will find me, for the foreseeable future.
Yours etc…
‘Et cetera, et cetera,’ Meg murmured, refolding the letter.
‘Not good news?’ Mrs Harris topped up Meg’s tea cup.
‘No. Not bad, either.’ She knew what Jago had meant by that reference to parish registers. He had been searching for burials.
‘Bless your heart.’ The cook’s homely face creased with concern. ‘And on top of the fright you had last night with those wicked smugglers, too. What a mercy you were on your way back to the house before they landed.’
‘I should never have gone swimming,’ Meg confessed. ‘I was feeling a trifle…agitated and thought it would be calming.’
‘And no wonder you were,’ Mrs Harris said comfortably. ‘All that worry about your sisters and then that big party to prepare for. Not that his lordship found anyone he likes the look of, not that I can see. I’d have heard if he’d gone calling on the ladies afterwards. We’ll be having another dinner party soon with another selection, mark my words.’
‘You can’t be wondering at it, Mrs Harris,’ Heneage observed. ‘He’s a man in his prime and he needs to be settling down and starting a family.’
‘Got more of one than I realised.’ Perrott piled clotted cream on one of Mrs Harris’s scones. ‘There’s a brother, I hear, and a serving of scandal with him.’
‘Half-brother,’ Mrs Harris corrected. ‘William Gillan, and a nice lad he is too, even if that old rogue Billy’s his grandfather. Lily, his ma, is a good woman and brought him up decent—no shame to her what his late lordship did, poor lass.’
‘Still, there’s not a lot of gentlemen who would acknowledge the family by-blows like that,’ Perrott observed, the jam and cream-laden scone halfway to his lips. ‘Getting a tutor for him and setting him up for the law and giving him the run of the house.’
‘Might make difficulties with a new wife,’ Heneage said. ‘What if she disapproves, which many might? Or thinks the boy’s his? He was wild enough as a lad, as I recall.’
‘Then his lordship would be better off without her.’ Meg replaced her cup in the saucer with a clatter and got to her feet. ‘If she puts appearance over family affection and doing the right thing and if she cannot take his word, she does not deserve him, whoever she is. Excuse me, I must go and think about Mr Jago’s letter.’
She was out into the passage, the door almost closed, when Perrott’s low whistle made her pause, hand on the knob. ‘That was a trifle vehement! You don’t think—’
‘I try very hard not to think, Perrott,’ Heneage said repressively. ‘It just leads to imaginings, and I don’t hold with that. Not about the family.’
Meg eased the door closed and walked blindly away from the kitchen. When she pulled herself together she was sitting in the shelter of the rustic arbour looking out over the rose garden. A light drizzle had begun to drift in from the sea, darkening the flagstones at her feet. Meg curled up on the seat and thought grimly that it provided an counterpoint to her mood that had slipped, in less than an hour, from confused happiness into miserable uncertainty.
It was easy to fall in love again, it seemed. Or had what she felt for James ever been real
love? Was that why it had been so quick to turn into affectionate exasperation? She had been very young, besotted, romantic. And the man she had left her sisters for had always been younger than her in every way except years. It was easy to see that now, when she loved a man, not a handsome, gallant, heedless boy.
So, where am I now? Meg broke off a pink rosebud and fretted at the tight petals with her fingernail, peeling them back with painful concentration. She loved Ross and she had made love with him and now, soon, she must leave him. Sooner than she had hoped, if she was to avoid bringing gossip down on the household. She had betrayed herself to the upper servants, it seemed. They would be loyal and discreet, but it would only take a whisper and the local families would think twice about their precious daughters. It was bad enough, the less charitable would think, that Ross acknowledged his half-brother, but an affaire with his housekeeper really would put the cat amongst the pigeons.
And what of Bella and Lina? She had carried out her plan and now the unthinkable had happened: her agent had not found them. Perhaps if she went to London, found some occupation there, she could advertise for them. If she could only think straight, work out how much money she had left, how long she dare remain here. Meg shivered; she was becoming cold, but it was hard to move. The rosebud, ruined, lay in her palm, the fragments of petal scattered over her dark skirts, clinging as the sea fret dampened the fabric. But the golden heart of the flower was revealed in all its complex beauty and when she lifted it to her lips the rich perfume still filled her nostrils with sensual delight.
She would go to Ross tonight and every night that he wanted her for one week. That was all she could permit herself, the gift of loving him for seven nights. Then she would go before she harmed him, go and devote herself to finding her sisters and making her own life.
The clock on the landing, five minutes out of time with the others in the house, struck one. Meg started, her fingertips sliding across the oak panel of Ross’s bedchamber door. Every sensation, the smell of the beeswax polish, the faint graining in the wood, the creak of the clock settling down again, was magnified by the sensual tension that had been gripping her ever since she had come in, damp and shivering, from the rose garden.
She had made a decision, set a limit, now she had only these days to create the memories that had to sustain her for all the years without Ross. Meg turned the handle and slipped inside, uncertain what to expect.
‘Meg.’ Ross got up from the chair by the fireplace, dropping his book unheeded on the floor. He was dressed in the splendour of a robe made from some exotic eastern brocade, gold and silver mingling and gleaming in the light of the candles that were blazing all around the room. ‘Thank you for this room,’ he said as she stood there, staring at him. ‘It is full of the sea—it reminds me of our voyage.’
‘Pain and boredom and a distressing break with the past?’ Her back was still flat against the door.
‘Never boredom. How could I be bored with you, Meg?’ He stayed where he was on the hearthrug, watching her. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ How could she touch him without letting him see how she felt? How could she explain to herself that she was staring at the most handsome man she had ever seen? Was it love that turned those harsh features into beauty? Then she realised. He was happy, home at last, and that contentment transformed him, even if perhaps it was only her eyes that could see it.
‘That is a very fine robe.’ Something safe to say.
‘An antique. Perrott has been delving deep into the wardrobes around the house.’
Under the hem of the robe his feet were bare and dark hair showed at the open neck. Beneath the heavy silk brocade he was naked, and the breath caught in her throat at the memory of his body last night. ‘Meg?’ Ross held out a hand and she understood. It was her choice. If she turned around and left, he would not pursue her.
Seven nights, my love. She walked forwards and put her hand in his, letting him draw her close so she could rest her cheek against the cool fabric. Ross smelled faintly of the sandalwood the robe had been stored in. Meg burrowed her face closer, searching for the real, familiar, scent of him, parting the lapels until she could press her lips against his shoulder. Oh, yes. ‘Mmm.’
‘Mmm?’ he queried, his lips vibrating where he was running them down the exposed curve of her neck.
‘You taste good.’ Meg touched the top of her tongue to the hot skin, then licked, drawing her tongue along the carved line of his collarbone.
‘So do you, and even better for an absence of salt and sand.’ Ross’s tongue was doing intricate, tormenting, delicious things to the whorls of her ear. Meg wriggled closer, insinuated her hand between them to search for the knot holding the robe closed, then tugged knot and robe open. He was hot, she found, stepping close so her whole length was against him. His skin was hot, his hands were warm, pressing against her shoulder blades through the fine muslin of her nightgown and the cotton of her robe, and the arrogant, heated thrust of his erection against her stomach made her gasp. Was he always so easy to arouse or could she dream there was something about her that brought him to this state?
Her own heat was flooding her belly, aching between her thighs, stinging her breasts as she rubbed, shameless, against him. But she dare not lower her hands from his chest, dare not let them slide over the bronzed skin, down to touch him as she yearned to.
‘This is unequal.’ Ross lifted his head to untie the cord around her robe. He pushed it off her shoulders and then attacked the simple ties fastening her plain and practical nightgown. His fingers were deft with the dexterity of a man able to load and fire a rifle at high speed, and when she stepped back and gave a wriggle the garment slid from her shoulders to her feet.
‘Let me look at you.’ He gestured for her to be still as her hands lifted in the instinctive feminine gesture to shield the delta of her thighs, the erect buds of her nipples. ‘You are so delicate. Why did I not realise that? You held my weight in the river, you coped with all the privations of camp life. Even last night when you were naked, I did not see.’ Ross reached out, stroked gently over the modest curve of her breast, down to the swell of her hip. ‘And I took you, hard and fast and without care.’
‘No. Not without care.’ Meg caught his hand and lifted it to cup one aching breast again. ‘I wanted you just as urgently and you made me feel so good, so very good.’ She had never felt that passion, that rightness before, but she could not say so, it felt so disloyal to the man who had, it proved, shown her no loyalty. She reached out and circled Ross’s erection with one hand, loving the way he closed his eyes at the touch, the sharp intake of breath as she caressed down and then up again using the flat of her thumb to tease the head until he moaned.
‘It will be fast and urgent again if you do that.’ He opened his eyes, dark and hot and full of wicked thoughts that spoke to her own desire.
‘We have all night.’ Meg sank to her knees on the discarded nightclothes and placed her hands firmly on his slim hips. She had never done this before, never wanted to; now all she desired was to pleasure Ross, show him, without words, how she felt.
‘Meg! Oh, my…Meg, stop that.’ Ross’s voice trailed off into a husky groan as she took him fully into her mouth to torment him, tongue and lips and teeth merciless. His hands locked into her hair as she gave herself up to wringing groan after groan from him. His breath was panting now, she could sense his fight to control himself, not to thrust. She was determined to overwhelm him, thought she had succeeded until his hands fastened over hers and he pulled himself free, dragged her to her feet and fastened his mouth over hers.
He lifted her without stopping the kiss, carried her, hands tight at her waist, until he lowered her to the bed, coming down with her to pin her to the heavy satin of the coverlet before sliding down between her legs, angling her with implacable gentleness until he could kneel and part her legs to kiss her, deeply, intimately, while she writhed and sobbed and begged for mercy.
But she had shown him
none and now that he had her, Ross was the stronger. Meg gave up struggling, let him take her and drive her into a completely mindless frenzy of delight, once, twice, before she was dizzily aware that his weight was over her again.
‘Ross.’ Somehow she forced her eyes open, looked into his.
‘You are a wicked woman.’ He settled himself between her legs, teasing her with small thrusts of his pelvis that sent shock waves through the sensitised folds he had been tormenting so exquisitely.
‘Stop teasing me,’ she managed to gasp, curling her legs around him to hold him close.
‘Tell me what you want.’ He nudged, pressing just a little, withdrawing, bringing her to the brink again and again.
‘You know what…Ross, please!’
‘Please what?’ Now she could hear the strain in his voice, see the veins standing out on his temples, feel the tension racking him.
‘Fill me. I need you, all of you.’
And then he gave her all, surging into the warm, wet heat that was aching for him, sobbing her name as she clenched around him, hungry for him, sheathing him as he drove her up and over the edge into mindless pleasure, staying with her until she screamed his name and somehow, despite her limbs locked around him, managing to pull free and find his own release, shuddering against her.
Ross heard the clock strike three and stirred, feeling the weight of Meg’s head on his shoulder, enjoying the tickle of her hair as it slid over his chest. His right arm had lost all feeling, her elbow was digging into his side and his body ached. He felt wonderful. And his thoughts were clear, not at all like those of a man who had just roused from the deep, dreamless, sleep that follows passionate lovemaking.
He knew what he wanted, he realised, and it was obvious that it was just under his nose. Literally. It was madness to make himself miserable by marrying a young woman with whom he had nothing in common simply for the sake of marriage and equally foolish to stay unmarried in the hope of falling in love. He was not convinced such a state was anything but a temporary brainstorm in any case.
