A Figure of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  Gareth still held the hand he had captured, and he was massaging it absently, which did not make his erotic stroking any less distracting.

  He hesitated, and then nodded. “I understand.”

  “But you do not agree?” She could hear the reservation in his voice, but not outright condemnation.

  “No, I do not agree. But then I look at the matter from a different perspective. I never knew either my father or mother and would give all the wealth and possessions I have for just a few moments to confront them.” He looked and sounded as calm as ever, but the words made her soul ache for him. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “But that does not mean I think what you are doing is wrong.”

  The distinction he made was rather fine, but she could accept it. “Perhaps one day I will tell him. When he is older.” She gave him a look from beneath her lashes. “When he has brothers and sisters of his own to call family.”

  That got his attention.

  He took the hand he was holding and led it beneath the covers, until it rested on his hot, hard length.

  She giggled. “Are we done talking now?”

  “I am.”

  ***

  At first the sounds of distress were part of her dream, a low, desperate keening sound—somebody in distress, in pain. Serena ran through woods that became a house, the agonized sound getting louder, but no closer. She came to the edge, her arms flailing, launching her body upright in bed.

  Her breathing was coming in short harsh gasps as the room materialized around her. It was Gareth’s room—the bed with his sheets, a bed that was empty except for her. One candle guttered low on a table by the connecting door.

  And then that sound—the one from her dream. She pushed herself from her bed, not bothering to find her robe, and ran to the source of the sound—the connecting door.

  On the other side the room blazed and Gareth writhed in the bed. His rigid body was bent in half, almost in a ball. Sweat poured off him in rivulets and the horrible, gasping cry escaped from between his clenched jaws, his teeth chattering hard enough that she could hear them across the room.

  She rushed to the bed but then hesitated, her hand inches from his shoulder. How to wake him without startling him? While she dithered, the moans came faster. She laid a hand as light as a feather on his shoulder.

  His reaction was explosive, the word, “No!” tearing out of his throat so loudly the windowpanes rattled. His arm swung out and caught her in the shoulder, the glancing blow enough to throw her off the bed.

  Serena scrambled back up to find him cowering on the far corner, his eyes darting like those of a trapped, terrified animal. He looked nothing like the man she knew, his handsome features distorted by sheer terror.

  “Gareth, love. It is Serena. You are having a bad dream. It is only a dream,” she soothed. “Gareth.” She reached up and touched his foot. He jumped but did not pull away. Instead, his eyes settled on her, the irises bouncing wildly before settling, his pupils mere pinpricks.

  “Serena.” His voice was rough and hoarse, as if from prolonged yelling. “You shouldn’t be here.” He coughed after forcing the last word out, doubling over. She climbed up beside him and slid her arm around his torso, rubbing his back in firm circles, leaning close to kiss his head, which was soaked as if he’d been immersed in water.

  “Of course I should be here,” she whispered, holding his shuddering body tightly.

  She held him like that while his breathing slowed and his shivering stopped, until he freed himself without looking at her and left the bed.

  “Gareth?”

  He stopped in front of the door to the other room, his back to her while he leaned forward and gripped both sides of the door frame, almost as if he were propping himself up. His head sagged and he shook it back and forth.

  “I did not want you to see this. I do not want you to see me like this.”

  She shook her head. “See what? A nightmare? It is a normal part of life. We all have them now and then—”

  “No, Serena, this is not normal, and it does not happen now and then.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “And I don’t want you to. That is why I sleep alone.”

  “But I want to understand. I want to—”

  He wheeled on her, his expression almost as horrifying as the one he’d worn during his nightmare, wild and frantic and half-mad. “I cannot speak about this. You must understand what I am saying. I do not wish to grant it that power—to give words and sound to it. It is bad enough when I am trapped inside—it is—it is—” He rammed a hand through his hair and wrenched it so hard Serena winced. “It has destroyed the night, but I will not allow it into my days.” He stared at her, his eyes wide and entreating. “I cannot. I cannot.”

  She nodded shakily, brushing tears from her cheeks. He crossed the room and grabbed her, his arms crushing her until she could not breathe.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They left at first light. The atmosphere in the carriage was somber, and Gareth knew she had not forgotten last night. He had cursed himself in the hours since; he should have locked the door. But he knew that was weak thinking. Serena was not the type of woman to accept locked doors, separate rooms, separate lives. If he had married a true daughter of the aristocracy, as he had once planned, he would have gone to her once a week and then returned to his own bed and none would have been the wiser.

  He looked up from his thoughts to where she sat, facing the horses. She was waiting for him.

  She slid to one side of the narrow seat. “Will you not sit beside me?”

  Her words warmed him inside. “Will you not be cramped?”

  Her eyes flickered over his body like a heat wave. “Yes.”

  Gareth moved across the short distance and lowered himself beside her, her body warm and soft along his side. She put her hand on his knee and he took it in his. They both stared down at their linked fingers.

  “I have ugly hands.”

  Gareth spread her smaller hand open in his palm, turning it to view both sides. She had been working lately and there were hard callouses, a small slash on the pad of one finger, the skin chapped on the back, and the shape of her thumb proof of her hand’s strength and skill.

  He raised it to his mouth and kissed her palm.

  “I like your hands.”

  She nudged him with her shoulder. “You are supposed to argue with me, Gareth, tell me how lovely and dainty and delicate they are.”

  His mouth curved into a smile, as it seemed to do so readily in her company. “I am not adept at flattery or flirtation, Serena. I can tell you they are beautiful hands to me, because they are yours and because they are capable and create art and because they give pleasure when they are on my body.” Her cheeks flared at the last words, her eyes dropping shyly away. He tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You will find me a dullard, I am afraid. Laughter and smiles and jests do not come easily to me as they seem to with other men. Declan says that is because I do not exert myself, but that is not true. I have no capacity for poetry or flowery prose, anything so obscure tangles my thoughts. . . pollutes my reason.” He turned and slid an arm behind and beneath her, lifting her into his lap, her hip resting against his arousal.

  She gave him a smile of pure bliss, her emotions as easy to read for him as a book.

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “I have very little experience with women, Serena. And I have only ever loved one.”

  She cupped his jaw and brought his face lower to kiss him. “I don’t like to think of you with another woman. It makes me want to break things.”

  He brushed a kiss over her mouth, warmed by her possessive words.

  “I fell in love with you the way you are, Gareth. You can say more to me with a look than most other men can say in an entire volume of poetry.”

  “I don’t like to think of you with other men,” he said, his words an echo. “It makes me want to claim you again—
to take you and remind you that you now are mine.”

  She shifted in his arms, until she sat astride him, her eyes heavy and her smile lazy and hungry. “I have never made love in a carriage.” Her dexterous hands were already busy at the closure of his breeches and he lifted his hips so she could pull them down. Her hand closed around him and a low grunt of pleasure escaped him.

  She stroked him to slick hardness, her eyes never leaving his. “I will want to sketch you like this, you know.”

  He hardened even more at her words. “You have not paid me for my last sitting.”

  That made her laugh. “You are not a professional model, you should be grateful for the opportunity to become part of a great work of art.”

  Gareth thrust into her hand. “Even a novice should receive some payment.” He lifted her skirt and petticoats to her hips, his cock pulsing at the unbearably erotic sight of her serviceable stockings and the plain garters that held them just above her knees, nothing but smooth, naked thigh above them until . . . His mouth flooded with moisture at the sight of her curls.

  She lifted her eyebrows high. “Novice?” Her thumb swirled his hard, slick head and she grazed him lightly with her nails.

  Gareth jolted under the intoxicating combination of pleasure and pain. “Dammit, Serena!”

  “Language, Gareth.”

  He pushed away her hand and positioned himself at the hot, wet entrance to her body, bringing her down hard. They both gasped and then froze, reveling in their joining.

  The carriage struck a massive rut or bump and she grabbed his shoulders to keep from falling off, her sheath tightening around him while her lush bottom bounced up and down.

  Gareth groaned. “I love the road to Dover,” he murmured, guiding them both to pleasure while her laughter filled the carriage.

  ***

  It was barely light when they reached the long drive that led to Rushton Park.

  Serena tucked loose curls beneath her hat and straightened her crushed, wrinkled clothing. Naturally, Gareth somehow managed to look cool and unruffled, even though she’d ridden him as savagely as any Ascot jockey.

  “You know our arrival like this—” she gave a general wave to encompass everything, “alone and together in your carriage—will scandalize the neighborhood.”

  He cocked an eyebrow with puzzled unconcern. “Does that bother you?” The question showed even more than his expression that it did not bother him.

  “I do try not to leave scandal in my wake. But, no, I cannot say I am terribly bothered.”

  “We will be married soon and people will forget all about this.”

  She smiled at his bland tone and impassive expression. She loved knowing that only she—out of everyone—saw the real, passionate man beneath his tightly controlled exterior. Her happiness dimmed slightly when she thought of the part of himself he kept secret even from her, but she had a lifetime to learn about him and help him overcome whatever made him sleep alone.

  Gareth leaned forward, his eyes on the window, the skin around them tightening subtly.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. It looks like every servant on the property is out in front of the house.”

  “Perhaps Jessup has brought them out to welcome us?”

  “Perhaps.” He did not sound convinced.

  Serena leaned across him to look as they pulled up to the house. Dozens of eyes stared back at her, none of them happy or welcoming.

  Gareth opened the door and kicked down the steps before the carriage had even stopped moving.

  Declan pushed through the crowd toward them as Gareth assisted Serena down from the carriage, her eyes already flickering through the assemblage, looking for one small figure.

  Her heart staggered and beat so hard it felt it might knock a hole through her chest. Things slowed and sharpened and Serena felt as though she were moving through heavy air as her eyes swept back and forth ever more rapidly.

  “Oliver. Where is Oliver?” The words were mumbled, as if her lips were numb. “Oliver.”

  “It’s the boy,” Declan said, his face like a wall of granite. “He has been taken. We found this only a quarter of an hour ago.” He held out a grubby folded slip of paper.

  Serena’s arm wouldn’t obey any commands of her brain so it was Gareth who opened the piece of paper. He looked down at her. “It’s Bardot. He has taken Oliver and will not tell us where he is until I pay him £5,000.”

  Only when Gareth’s arm came around her did Serena realize she was falling.

  ***

  Gareth was not surprised Serena’s mind had simply shut down. He knew as well as anyone how one horror heaped on another and another would eventually trigger the body’s best response to save itself from madness. He had wondered at the fortitude she had exhibited after her escape from a week-long incarceration. Her face had been thinner, a sure sign of suffering even if her smiles and apparent strength might have led him to believe she was untouched. He knew she had believed she would die in that shack—and the guilt of leading him there to join her must have been overwhelming.

  Her French servant, a hatchet-faced woman who appeared to give even Jessup reason to pause, had shooed him from Serena’s room like a bothersome fly. “Go away. If you want to help her, bring back her son.”

  Gareth agreed, so he’d left. But part of his mind was still back in that room with her, when he needed all his wits with him now.

  “I’m not alone in this. We’ll be watching you closely, so don’t attempt to send messengers to either the authorities or your man in London, Steele,” the brief letter read. “Tomorrow you may send one rider to withdraw the money from your bank in London. A messenger will arrive the following morning to tell you where to take the money. Once you have delivered it, another messenger will arrive to tell you where to find the boy. Do not deviate from these instructions.”

  He looked up at Declan. “Tell me again what we know.”

  Dec nodded and took a deep breath. “One of the housemaids saw him arrive. He must have left his carriage or horse hidden somewhere and walked to the house.” He scratched his head and frowned. “That was the first thing we did—look for any sign of him or any trace of a possible accomplice. We found nothing.”

  Gareth did not think that was surprising. The property was vast and there were hundreds of places a person could hide.

  “Who was the last person to see Oliver and when?”

  “The old nurse. She said he finished his work at three and said he was going down to the library to find some book he had been searching for over the course of the last few days.”

  Gareth nodded. Bardot had come into the house. “So, he has been gone . . . ” he looked at his watch, even though he had looked at it so often he knew already what time it was, “perhaps four hours. Oliver must have gone willingly. I cannot imagine Bardot dragging a struggling ten-year-old down the drive without anyone noticing.”

  “Yes, that was our conclusion, as well. He could have gotten into the house through the sunroom, the orangery, the library itself, or any of a half-dozen other ways. He must have been fairly comfortable with the house.”

  Gareth thought of what Serena had told him. She might have stopped Bardot from roaming that night he stayed, but who was to say he did not come back some other time? He was a lifelong criminal who must be a master of escaping capture to even be in England after his actions during the War.

  “I am going to assume he has conspirators. I am also going to assume they are watching our comings and goings. It is moonless, so we could not send anyone against his instructions even if we wished. With the servants all in position I believe we will see anyone before they can see us.” As soon as it became dark enough, Gareth had positioned servants at various points around the house, including the roof. If anyone approached the house from any direction, they would be noticed.

  “Have you considered this is all a ruse and he may have men waiting on whomever goes
to collect the money in London?”

  He had. “I think it possible. But part of me thinks they would not wish to have a solitary rider with so much money, a perfect target for thieves, unless they were planning to be those thieves. That is why I will go tomorrow.” He could not send a servant into such danger.

  “No, I will go.”

  Gareth opened his mouth, but Declan held up his hand.

  “She will need you here, Gareth. And if something goes wrong—if we are wrong in thinking they will rob the courier. Or if the courier gets robbed by some other thief. . .” Worry twisted his harsh features. “You will need to help her and it might be you will have to make some difficult decisions.”

  Gareth knew he was right.

  “Let me do this for you, Brother.”

  Who else could go? Who else did he trust more than Declan? Nobody.

  He nodded.

  “Good. I will leave at the first crack of daylight. I was thinking I might—”

  Declan’s voice faded away as the idea struck him. Of course! What a fool he’d been.

  He stood and headed for the door.

  Declan’s chair scraped behind him. “Where are you going?”

  “The dogs.”

  ***

  Serena resisted the pull toward consciousness, but she had to swallow the liquid or drown. She gulped convulsively and coughed—and then gulped again.

  “Bon,” a voice said.

  Serena was not dreaming, nor awake, but in some in between place. She was hiding. From something bad.

  Oliver.

  She sat up abruptly, frantic. “Oliver!”

  “Shh, now, you are doing yourself no good.” This in French, the words harsh yet still soothing. Nounou stood on the other side of the bed, her hands busy with a glass on the bedside table.