The Sins of Viscount Sutherland

by Samantha James

  Gray’s eyes were alight with laughter, a laughter reflected in his tone. “Will you hand me that sponge, please?” It was around at the far end of the tub, where an assortment of brushes and sponges had been laid out.

  Claire found it and gave it a toss. An odd sensation flitted in her belly. She sought desperately to still the pounding of her pulse.

  Drat! It fell far short, several feet from his right knee.

  Gray cocked a brow. “Hmmm. My dear, the way I see it, you have but two options. You can fetch it again, or I can stand and—”

  It had already landed with a plop near his chest. He laughed. “There! Now come have a seat on the stool beside me and tell me what is on your mind.”

  “I doubt you would wish to trouble yourself with my musings,” she said breathlessly.

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  She could tell by the way his brow arched that he would be insistent.

  “Very well, then. I was merely speculating as to this child’s appearance.” Claire’s hand rested unknowingly on the center of her belly. “If the babe is a boy, what will he look like? Me? You? I confess, a boy with your hair and eyes would be quite handsome. And a girl—”

  “I daresay a beauty like her mother.”

  Claire caught her breath. Did he truly find her beautiful? All at once it seemed almost impossible to breathe.

  Uncertainty clutched at her insides. She suddenly didn’t know where to look. Droplets of water glittered like tiny diamonds in the curly mat on his chest. His nakedness made him more handsome than ever. And his eyes were suddenly smoldering, as if in a fever. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t even move as she watched his gaze slide down her neck.

  All at once she needed to break this strange spell that had cropped up between them.

  “Perhaps you should finish your bath, my lord.”

  “I would much rather finish with you to share it.”

  She swallowed. Surely he wasn’t serious.

  The gravity of his long, slow perusal lent the truth to his statement.

  “Gray,” she said, the pitch of her voice very low, “please do not jest with me. When you say such things, I don’t know what to do. I . . . You know that I have no—” All at once she sucked in a breath.

  On his back, near his left shoulder blade, his skin was pitted and white with scars.

  She was aghast. “What is that?”

  His lips pressed together.

  “Gray! My word, gunshot?”

  He neither confirmed nor denied it. His withdrawal was almost palpable.

  “Were you in the war?”

  “No.” His tone was curt.

  She ran her fingers over the uneven edges. “What, then?”

  He did not shirk. Their eyes tangled.

  “Let it be, Claire.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do.”

  “No”—he cut her off—“you do not.”

  A sickening dread washed over her.

  “Oliver?” Even as she spoke, she knew it was true. “I don’t understand.” Her fingers touched his back. “This—this is where the bullet came through, isn’t it?”

  Again that oppressive silence.

  Claire was still reeling. “We were told there was only one shot—yours. Tell me what happened, Gray.”

  No words.

  “Tell me!” she almost screamed. “We were never told that Oliver fired.”

  “I wanted it that way, Claire.”

  “Why? What did it matter?”

  His mouth twisted. “Surely you know how a duel plays out, Claire. We chose seven paces. There was an exchange of fire. He turned, I fired. Oliver had no choice but to shoot in return.”

  “Did you intend to kill him?” It hurt to say the words.

  His mouth twisted. “Isn’t that the purpose of a duel?”

  He reached for a length of toweling and threw it about his naked form.

  “Who shot first, Gray?”

  “I did.”

  Liar! screamed a voice in her mind. Yet if she believed Gray, it was a betrayal of her own brother! If only she could be sure.

  A rending ache sheared her soul. Never had she been so conflicted!

  Gray set his lips together. “If I could take back everything”—his tone was gritty—“if I could give back anything, I would—”

  “You can’t, Gray. You can’t.”

  All the closeness of this afternoon was bled dry. Claire felt as if her very soul lay naked and exposed.

  “How much better if I had left well enough alone. My need for revenge . . . it brings no satisfaction.” She touched her swollen belly. “This babe . . . should never have happened. This marriage was for naught. Now both can never be undone. I should have left well enough alone, Gray. I should have left well enough alone!”

  Gray had donned his robe. “Claire, for heaven’s sake, don’t look like that.”

  Her skin had turned pale. He read the bleakness inside her. She turned, as if the weight of the world was hers to bear.

  His jaw clenched. “Dammit, Claire, stop! Listen to me. It’s too late to change what happened. But we must do what we can to make it right.”

  Sudden tears welled in her eyes. “Nothing can ever make this right, Gray. Too much has happened,” she said tonelessly. “So leave me be. I just want to be alone.”

  Gray’s hand fell to his side. There would be no talking or reasoning with her just now. His expression grim, he watched Claire enter the hallway. He let her go.

  The door between their rooms closed. Claire stopped just inside the threshold. There was something wet between her thighs. Frowning, she lifted her hem and gazed toward the floor.

  A tiny puddle of bright red stained the periwinkle carpet.

  “I’m bleeding,” she said, puzzled. Realization dawned. “Gray,” she whispered, then it was a scream . . . “Gray!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Never in his life would Gray forget Claire’s stricken cry. Ice ran through his veins. Terror filled him, a frantic terror that he would never forget in all his days.

  Claire was white as mist. She was bent protectively over her middle.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m bleeding,” she cried. “I’m bleeding!”

  Gray had already noticed the growing pool on the carpet. Her knees gave way. Swearing violently, he caught her and swung her shaking form high in his arms. “Hold tight to me, love, hold tight.”

  He called for the servants, who soon scurried to and fro. One dashed for clean sheets, another with a message for the stables. Rosalie spread a blanket over her bed and helped Gray to disrobe her. A messenger tore out the front gates to summon Dr. Kennedy.

  “It’s too soon,” Claire sobbed. “It’s too soon. He should not come for over a month.”

  “Ah, and what if this wee one is a girl?” Gray tried to tease as he helped Tina pull a nightgown into place. They wadded clean cloths and packed them between her legs to staunch the bleeding.

  “It’s a boy. The firstborn is always a boy.”

  Now was not the time to debate the point, Gray decided.

  She flung out her hands. “Gray?”

  “I’m here, sweet one.”

  “Please. Don’t leave me.”

  “I’m here, Claire. Feel me.” With one hand he stroked her cheek to quiet her, the line of her jaw. He squeezed her hand, cupped possessively in his.

  When Dr. Kennedy arrived, he banished everyone from the room to examine Claire.

  “All of you, out. Let me have a look at my patient.”

  Gray didn’t budge.

  The doctor peered at him over his spectacles. “My lord? It’s been my observation that husbands do not cope well in situations such as this.”

  Gray set his teeth. “I’m the one paying your fee, Doctor, and I am not leaving.”

  “Very well, then.” He frowned his disapproval. “You may stay, but sit across the room t
here and don’t interfere with my examination.”

  Gray nearly lost his temper with the man but finally relented.

  Dr. Kennedy nodded and stroked his mustache from time to time as he examined Claire. At the conclusion of his assessment, he patted her shoulder.

  “The bleeding has nearly abated, my lady. A good sign. Now tell me . . .” He took off his spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief. “. . . what were you about when this bleeding began?”

  “Nothing—that is to say, I had just arisen”—Claire glanced at Gray—“and when I did, there was a peculiar . . . I do not know how to say it . . . heaviness . . .”

  “A sensation of pressure?”

  “Yes, yes. A feeling of pressure from within. Doctor, surely that was not the pains of labor?”

  “No, child. I don’t believe so. If this child can come to within two weeks of when he is due, with the best of care I believe all will be well. However,” he propped his glasses on his nose, “there are certain things you must do, and others you must curtail.”

  Gray reached for Claire’s hand where it lay on the counterpane. Her fingers curled tightly around his. He wondered if she was even aware of it.

  “You must rest as much as possible. A nap in the morning. At least two in the afternoon. You must curtail your walking. And no stairs, by any means.”

  “No, of course not,” Claire hastened to assure him.

  “There are other things you must refrain from as well.” He glanced pointedly at Gray.

  “What? What things?” Claire tried not to panic.

  “My good woman, how shall I say this with regard for your tender ears—you must refrain from . . . conjugal relations.”

  Claire’s mind was slow to respond. “Conjugal relations?” she echoed blankly.

  Gray rescued the good doctor—and had a laugh at the doctor’s expense. “My love,” he stated smoothly, “I believe Dr. Kennedy means that we must refrain from the same marital relations that resulted in your condition.”

  She shook her head. “My con—” she started to say. Her eyes went suddenly huge. Her face flamed.

  There were a few more instructions, then the good doctor left.

  Gray gripped both her hands within his own.

  Very quietly he spoke. “You frightened me, love.”

  “Gray, Dr. Kennedy is gone. There is no need for pretense, for silly endearments.”

  “Of course, sweetheart.” An unexpected grin played at his lips. “But what makes you think they are silly?” He suddenly realized how naturally they had come to him.

  Claire stared down at their joined hands. “Do not jest with me,” she said, her voice very low. She paused, then lifted her eyes to his. “You know what this is, don’t you?”

  Gray frowned. “What?”

  “I know why this is happening. This is our fault, Gray. Our penance. For all the lies. He punishes me for my desire to avenge Oliver’s death. He punishes both of us for Oliver’s death. For my sins. For yours.”

  “Claire, stop this at once.”

  “You didn’t want this baby. Neither of us did. We have to pay for all the lies. We weren’t married when we lay together. Both of us are sinners.”

  “You are distraught, Claire.”

  “No! Don’t you see? This is what He intends. For my babe to die. Because I don’t have anyone but him. I don’t have anyone but my baby and that’s why He will take him.”

  Her fingers twined in the front of his shirt. There was fear laden in her voice. Her mouth was tremulous. His heart twisted. She was wrong, he thought. She had him.

  “I don’t want my baby to die, Gray. I don’t.”

  Her agitation was growing.

  The doctor had left a draught containing laudanum in case she needed it. Gray reached it on the bedside table.

  “Drink this.” Coaxingly, he tipped the glass to her lips.

  She sipped, and had finished nearly all of it. But suddenly her hand came out and she knocked it from his hands.

  “No! It’s poison, isn’t it? You want my baby dead! You want me dead. Then you will be rid of both of us.”

  Her accusation pierced him to the quick. “You are overwrought, Claire.”

  “No!” she screamed. “You never wanted him in the first place. You never wanted either of us!”

  “This is not good for you or the child. Calm yourself, sweet.”

  She fought him. Tears slid unheeded down her cheeks but she fought him with all the strength she possessed, until he had no choice but to wrap his arms around her and hold her until her struggles began to subside.

  But all at once she twisted again. “I’m strong,” she burst out. “I’m not weak like Lily. I won’t kill my baby like Lily. I won’t!”

  Gray froze.

  I won’t kill my baby like Lily.

  Pain ripped through him. He felt as if someone reached inside and squeezed his heart. Claire quieted in his arms while the laudanum took hold. He stroked her back, the shallow groove of her spine, the movement of his fingers monotonous. He held her, his mind beset by haunting images of the past.

  Lily’s face spun through his mind. Shame pricked him deeply; he hadn’t thought of her for oh-so-long now. And William. His boy. His son. To this day he wondered what had gone wrong. How he could have changed the outcome. Somehow, he had failed her. Failed them both.

  His child kicked. Kicked strongly against his father’s hand.

  Claire was right. No woman could have challenged him as she had. She was strong and brave and he’d never known a woman so courageous.

  She fell into a light sleep, her hair tickling his chin. But there was no such release for him. There was no peace. He knew only that he couldn’t lose her, too.

  Because then he would be forever damned. Forever lost.

  Forever alone.

  Claire was not a good invalid. She disliked being treated like an invalid. To pass the interminable time, she read. She played cards. She played chess with Gray when he was able. She sewed for the baby, who surely had enough little blankets and gowns until he was ready for small clothes—she was still convinced she carried a boy.

  By the end of two weeks she was at wit’s end.

  Perhaps Gray and the household were as well.

  He walked in one afternoon to find her sitting on the window seat, gazing outside.

  His brows shot immediately up, his mouth down. “Did you summon Rosalie?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Claire, do not test me. Did you summon Rosalie or Paulette?”

  “I did not.”

  “Did you summon anyone?”

  “No, good sir.”

  He glanced pointedly from the bed to the window seat. “Then how, pray tell, did you get there?”

  “How do you imagine I got here?” she asked with amusement.

  Gray scowled.

  “Very well, then. The usual way,” she replied, wrinkling her nose. “No, wait. I have it. I ran as quickly as I could.”

  He leveled on her a shrewd consideration. “Were you cheeky as a child, my love?”

  “I daresay I was. Were you, sir?”

  Her pulse had picked up its rhythm. She was rather enjoying the banter.

  “I daresay I was, as well. Now, then, I thought you might like to go downstairs for dinner tonight.”

  Gray had been taking a dinner tray along with Claire every evening thus far. Her eyes glowed. Her little trill of delight warmed him to his soul.

  “A little persuasion might be in order,” he said.

  “Persuasion?” Her tone turned breathless.

  “Mmmm.” He was studying her mouth.

  Claire’s heart began to pound. She wet her lips. “Please? May we have dinner tonight in the dining room . . . please?”

  “That was not the kind of persuasion I referred to.”

  “It was not?” Her cheeks were flushed a most becoming shade of rose, Gray decided. “What sort of persuasion did you mean?”

  A slow smile c
rept across his lips. “Perhaps I should show you.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Perhaps you should.”

  Bending low, strong fingers curled around her nape. His thumb beneath her chin, he brought her mouth to his. There was a low sound deep in his throat. He lifted her upright, enough so he could lean back, angling her against him, pulling her atop him.

  Snug between the vee of his legs.

  It was a kiss that began with melting sweetness. Only moments after their lips touched, it turned hungrily fierce. Claire’s lips parted—yielded—to the demand in his.

  She shivered. Every fiber of her body clamored. She loved the scent of his cologne; relished the wide plane of his chest against her breasts.

  It spun through her mind that she didn’t want to go downstairs. She didn’t want to ever leave his arms.

  All at once he shifted. Her heart nearly stopped. His mouth demanding, almost wild now, he guided her against his rod, the rock-hard measure of desire.

  It was Gray who broke away. His laugh was shaky. “I am hungry, Claire, so hungry that I think we’d best go down for dinner.”

  Thus began their to-and-fro wordplay.

  Gray encountered Claire one afternoon, halfway down the stairs.

  She bit her lip. “I only meant to dash down to the library. Five minutes, no more.”

  “You won’t be dashing anywhere,” he said sternly. “Most certainly not up and down these stairs. You should have rang.” An arm beneath her knees, he swung her up and into his arms.

  Claire pouted.

  One of his brows climbed high. “Is this a display of temper?”

  Claire locked her fingers around his neck. He had stopped at the landing, halfway up the stairs.

  She glanced pointedly to the top of the stairs. “Is this a display of strength, milord?”

  “I am prepared, dear lady, to hold you this way forever.”

  Her heart constricted. She wasn’t certain how to take that.

  “And what if I said that I am prepared to let you?” she asked daringly.

  The truth was, she loved being near him like this. She loved the feel of his chest, the power of his arms as he held her high, seemingly with no effort.