The Sins of Viscount Sutherland

by Samantha James

  Gray dismissed Rosalie once it was full. “I’ll tend her from here,” he said.

  She still wore her underclothes. Gray reached for them and she batted at his hands. “Let me,” she cried.

  Gray was undaunted. He peremptorily pushed aside her hands. His brow furrowed in concentration, he tugged her chemise down one shoulder, then the other. Ignoring her protestations, he dragged the gown from her shoulders.

  Claire quivered, not from cold, but shock. Mortified, she realized she stood naked. With a gasp, she clamped her hands over her breasts.

  Gray had already begun to strip. Piece by sodden piece, his clothing slapped on the floor beside hers. Shirt. Breeches. She was still dumbfounded when he stood as naked as she.

  A steely arm slid under her legs. He lifted her effortlessly from the floor and into the steaming water.

  What happened next made her heart leap. “What—what are you doing?” she cried.

  Gray didn’t answer. He was intent on warming her. Water sloshed as he climbed into the wooden tub. To her dismay, it was big enough for two. An arm about her waist, he pulled her naked back against his chest, between the vise of his legs. Her bottom was nestled intimately against his loins.

  But Lord above, her teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. She sank lower, beneath the surface of the water, not quite sure what warmed her most, Gray’s body or the bath. Nor did she know which was worse, his nakedness or hers!

  “Come,” he said finally. He rose behind her and brought her to her feet. Briskly, impersonally, he dried her, then pulled a robe around her. Claire had little memory of Gray donning his. She sucked in a breath—she didn’t want him to see the round swell of her belly where her child dwelled. Oh, Lord, her child . . .

  Fear consumed her. “My baby!” she cried. “My baby!”

  Gray’s reassurance was quiet and soothing. “I sent a message to Dr. Kennedy. He’ll come have a look at you as soon as he is able.”

  Briefly, there were others in the room then, and someone pressed a hot drink into her hand. Seated on a stool in front of the fire, a robe around her form, Gray brushed the tangles from her hair while it dried. Claire’s throat locked tight. She was reminded of the other times she’d felt his fingers in his hair . . . It now seemed more intimate than ever.

  He put her into bed, then dragged his robe from his shoulders and dropped it in a chair. But not before she saw him.

  His chest and belly were brazenly visible, matted with curling dark hair. She didn’t want to look down, but something commanded her attention, something she couldn’t stop. Her mouth went dry. Her breath caught. He was so— She cut the thought short. He was climbing into bed with her!

  Pulling up the counterpane, Gray brought her back against his chest once more. Burned into Claire’s mind was the memory of the night he’d taken her virginity. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird’s. Gray had seen her naked. Her stomach knotted. It was as if she could feel the heated strength of his fingers sliding over her skin again. Her breasts. Belly. The secret place between her thighs.

  Time hung suspended. They lay toe-to-toe. Thigh-to-thigh. Sharing warmth. Sharing breath.

  She could feel his sex, every inch of him—the spear of that part of him that had made her flesh sting and burn. Her thoughts were wild and disjointed. Every time she chanced to glance at his profile, she relived those unforgettable moments when his mouth trapped hers.

  His every kiss.

  His every touch.

  Her feelings were all blurred inside her. She was both fascinated and wary. She began to tremble again, not from cold, for Gray’s body was so very, very hot! She tried to speak, but no sound passed the lump in her throat.

  It was almost as if he knew what was in her mind. “Lie here with me, Claire.” He stroked the slope of her shoulder. The valley of her spine. “Lie with me. Don’t be afraid.”

  Little by little her trembling ceased. She nestled against him, her breathing deep and slow and easy.

  That wasn’t the case a few nights later. Claire was tired and decided to retire early. Gray was working in his study.

  In her chamber, she stirred the fire. Since that day at the lake, it seemed she hadn’t been able to warm herself. She crawled into bed, piling covers over her shoulders. Sleep came quickly, but it was a restless sleep.

  She dreamed she was in her nightgown running blindly toward the lake. Her heart pounded. A woman raced at her heels through the snowy woods. In her arms was a small bundle.

  It was her baby.

  And the woman was Lily.

  There was nothing where her face should have been. She didn’t know why, only that the woman spelled danger. Then all at once she was at the water’s edge, ice beneath her bare feet. It cracked beneath her. She sank through the half-frozen surface, her lungs burning as the frigid waters closed over her head.

  Strong hands curled around her shoulders. “Claire! Claire, wake up!” She was still screaming when she realized it was Gray.

  “You’re dreaming. It’s just a dream, love, just a dream.”

  Her scream gave way to a fractured sob. A strong hand smoothed a long curl behind her ear. His thumb traced across her cheeks, wet with tears. It was as if she looked through him, not at him. His expression was grim.

  “What were you dreaming?”

  “I was running and I—I couldn’t get away.” Her voice was thready with tears. She didn’t want to tell him it was Lily.

  “From what?” He caressed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Tell me, Claire.”

  She shuddered. “My baby . . . My baby is in my arms. And I can still feel it, Gray. I can! And she wouldn’t stop chasing me. She wouldn’t!”

  “Who?” There was an odd note in his voice.

  Claire hesitated.

  “Tell me, Claire.”

  “It was Lily.”

  Gray’s skin had gone ashen.

  Claire shook her head. “I don’t understand, Gray. It was so vivid! Did Lily die at the lake? She did, didn’t she?” Her cry was jagged. “And now my baby’s dead. Now it’s my turn!” A sob welled inside her. Once again she could feel the weight of that small, lifeless body cradled in her elbow.

  “No, Claire. You aren’t going to die. I won’t let you.”

  Her eyes were half wild. “You couldn’t stop Lily and your baby from dying, could you? And now I can feel my poor, dead baby in my arms again!”

  He shook his head. Taking her hand, he pressed it across her belly. “No, Claire. Feel.”

  There was a reassuring—and unmistakable—kick beneath her palm. “You’re right,” she said haltingly. “Of course you’re right. It’s silly of me.” Her gaze moved over his face.

  “But I still don’t understand. I—I saw the portrait in the garret, the portrait of the three of you. And I went to the graveyard—and found their graves. I thought they both died—Lily and William—when William was born.” An eerie foreboding gripped her. “They didn’t, did they?”

  There was a heartbeat of silence. “No,” he said at last. “They didn’t die in childbirth.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  There was a painful heaviness in his chest. Gray didn’t want to remember. It hurt—like a blade thrust into the heart.

  He could never forget. Never. He had spent the last three years trying.

  “Lily and I had been married a year before she conceived. She wanted a child more than anything.” A remnant of a smile curved his lips. “She was like that, vivacious and excitable. She was so convinced she was barren—and ecstatic when she found out she was expecting a child.”

  Claire’s heart constricted. Clearly he had loved her deeply.

  “It wasn’t a difficult pregnancy. Oh, she would take to bed at times, but all in all it wasn’t a difficult pregnancy.

  “There was a thunderstorm the night William was born.” A sad smile curved his lips. “Dr. Kennedy couldn’t make it here through the rain.”

  “So you brought him into the world?” Claire was ge
ntly encouraging.

  Gray nodded.

  So that was how he’d known what to do with Penelope.

  “Lily was so happy. She tended most of his needs herself. Why, she could scarcely stand to let him out of her arms—even to me.”

  Claire had the sensation Gray was purging himself. Perhaps he was.

  “William was a good baby, a bit colicky at times. Nothing out of the ordinary, according to Dr. Kennedy.”

  A feeling of helplessness grabbed hold of her heart. Had the baby taken sick?

  Gray went on. “I had business in Kent one week. I don’t remember why . . . but I was eager to be back, so I rode hard. It was midnight when I arrived home.”

  A shadow seemed to slip over him.

  “William was four months old. He’d begun to sleep through the night. But that night . . . Lily was still awake.”

  Her foreboding grew stronger. Gray stopped. She didn’t press him. It seemed he was gathering himself before he continued.

  “Lily was in the nursery with him. Rocking him. William was quiet—asleep, I thought. But Lily continued to rock him. I remember thinking she rocked him almost frantically—”

  Claire’s eyes were riveted on Gray’s face now. His voice was half choked. She hurt . . . as he was hurting. Never in her life would she forget his expression. His torment.

  It was as if he was cutting his heart out.

  “I tried to take William from her, to put him in his cradle.”

  The muscles in Claire’s throat locked tight. No, she thought. Oh, no.

  At some point she had taken his hand. He gripped it so hard his nails left marks on her palms.

  “She fought me. She didn’t want to let go. She just kept rocking William . . . rocking him, rocking him furiously. And when I took him from her—”

  It hurt to watch him. It hurt unbearably. She felt the exact moment his control began to crumble.

  “William was dead. I held my boy in my arms . . . and he was dead.”

  Nothing could have prepared Claire for what Gray said next.

  “Lily said . . . he wouldn’t stop crying. He wouldn’t stop crying, she said over and over and over.”

  And so was Gray now. He made no secret of it.

  “She shushed him, she said. She put her hand over his mouth to stop his crying.”

  His features reflected a helpless despair. It was as if she could see his heart breaking. He didn’t bother to wipe away his tears.

  “Lily didn’t know . . . she didn’t realize what she had done until later. She was horrified.”

  Claire couldn’t hold back her anguish. She couldn’t help but remember her dream.

  “No,” she cried. “Never say that she—”

  “She killed herself. She walked into the lake—and never walked out.

  “I remembered other episodes,” he said. “Times when she was melancholy.” His mouth twisted. “It was my fault. I should have known. I should have realized what might—”

  “No, Gray. No. You can’t blame yourself. How could you have known? No one could.”

  Claire was beginning to understand. It still haunted him . . . Was this why he was so wild? So reckless? His tarnished reputation . . . Was it his way of blotting out the past and all he’d endured? His wife’s death? His son’s?

  His mother’s voice tolled through her mind.

  He wasn’t always like this. So harsh. So cold.

  Now she knew what Charlotte had meant. Gray had loved his family deeply.

  His pain reached all the way into her heart. Claire bled for him, for she, too, was no stranger to heartache. And yet a violent tug-of-war raged within her. She, too, had endured tragedy. Oliver’s death could never be erased; his death had come at this man’s hands yet! Was his loss any greater than her own?

  Everything inside her was tied into a knot. Never in her life had she been so confused.

  Her mind clouded, she didn’t trust herself to speak. Her hands acted of their own volition. She drew his head to her breast and lay back against the pillow, stroking the dark hair that grew low on his nape.

  In time, they slept.

  Life fell into a pattern. Gray attended to estate matters during the day. Claire tended to household affairs. They dined together. After dinner, sometimes they played chess, or had tea and port together. She was not wan or pale, and continued to be in good health. But more often than not, Claire excused herself early. There were two months left before their baby was born and she tired early these days.

  Oh, yes, indeed, on the surface they might have been any country lord and lady. But like the waters of a stream, calm and serene on the surface, beneath lurked a swirl of unpredictable currents.

  They did not sleep together.

  They did not speak of that night.

  They spoke but rarely of the impending birth of their child.

  Nor did they speak of the future.

  And when Claire’s dreams returned—and they did return—she cried alone, too proud to let Gray know.

  A frigid February gave way to a rainy March. By mid-April bountiful flowers pushed through the earth. The countryside was vibrant with color. Wanting to enjoy the sunny day, she took her sewing basket out to the garden. She seated herself on a bench and lifted her face to the warmth of the sun. Remembrance touched her. Her mother had often taken her embroidery to the rose garden. If she were to stay here—

  “There you are,” said a voice. “I’ve been searching for you.”

  Gray stepped through a doorway on the verandah. He frowned.

  “You should have a wrap on, Claire.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. After such a dreadful winter, it’s wonderful to feel the sun shining down, isn’t it?”

  “Mmm.” A tacit agreement.

  He stepped close, so close that she had to look up to meet see him. Claire’s stomach lurched. Tight breeches tucked into his boots emphasized every powerful muscle in his legs. His loose white shirt was open at the neck, baring a tangle of dark masculine hairs.

  “What is that you’re sewing?”

  Claire flushed, remembering the day he’d taken the baby gown she was stitching and flung it to the floor. “It’s nothing,” she said, holding it tight in her lap.

  “Of course it’s not. May I see?”

  Before she could stop him, he took it and held it between both hands.

  “It’s for the baby,” she said defensively.

  “It’s—very tiny, isn’t it?”

  Claire had the sensation he didn’t know what to say. “Dr. Kennedy says it appears as if the baby will be small.”

  “You must take every care, then.”

  Her cheeks grew hot. Concern? She wanted desperately to believe it. All at once sudden yearning took hold of her. She longed for all the distance and tension to disappear, to be able to know him as a husband and father—nothing else—no remnants of the past between them.

  Quickly she tucked the cloth back in her basket.

  “You said you were looking for me.”

  “Yes.” He pulled her to her feet. “I wanted to tell you I’ve been called away. I have a small estate in Lincolnshire. The caretaker there has taken sick. I must secure a replacement until he recovers.”

  He paused. “I would ask you to come with me, but I don’t think it would be wise for you to travel now.”

  Claire nodded. She sensed a curious uncertainty in him.

  She moistened her lips. “Are you coming back?” she blurted.

  Gray looked at her sharply. “What?”

  She wished she’d never spoken, but it couldn’t be undone. “I . . . are you coming back?”

  He captured her chin between thumb and forefinger. “Do you want me to?”

  Conflicting urges had taken hold. A part of her longed to turn and run. She hadn’t known she would say that until it was already out! And now—now she wanted to lay her fingers against Gray’s lean cheek, feel the slight roughness of his beard against her fingertips.

  “Of course,”
she heard herself say. “How long will you be gone?”

  His pale blue gaze scoured her features. “A week. No more.”

  His eyes suddenly darkened. His voice went very low. “Will you miss me, Claire?”

  Before she had a chance to answer, a mask seemed to shutter his features.

  “No,” he said almost harshly. “Don’t answer that.”

  Powerful arms wrapped her close. His head came down. Their lips clung, an exchange both passionate and tender. Claire was breathless when Gray finally raised his head.

  He ran a fingertip down her cheek. “Think of me,” was all he said.

  When he was gone, she put a hand to her lips. “Hurry back,” she whispered. “Hurry back.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Claire missed her husband dreadfully. The days were long, but she tried to fill them with her usual activities. It had become her habit to take a bit of exercise daily, so one afternoon she bundled snugly into a warm cloak and hat and went outside. The cold was crisp and bracing, and the sun was out. It felt good. She didn’t venture far, but stopped at a spot that offered a view of the road—and the house.

  It was beautiful, the house sitting amidst trees that had begun to bloom. Winter was definitely receding. She paused, a faint smile on her lips.

  It was not quite spring yet, however, and after a while she decided it was time to return home before she took a chill.

  On her way back she spied a carriage rattling down the road and assumed it was Gray. Her brows drew together. Why was he coming home in a carriage? He’d left on horseback.

  Her heart lurched. Had he been hurt?

  Claire set out for the house.

  The carriage rolled to a halt in front of the double doors as she approached, hurrying as fast as she could. She stopped then, surprised when it wasn’t Gray who stepped out.

  It was Lawrence.

  Disappointment flooded through her. She hid it behind a smile.

  “Lawrence! How wonderful to see you!”

  “It’s good to see you again, Claire.” He smiled back at her, his gentle eyes crinkling. “Your note said so little . . .”