Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  Then his mouth swooped down to capture hers in a kiss that was fraught with longing and urgent need. Hungrily, his lips crossed hers, then crossed again, tasting, taking, giving everything his eyes had promised.

  Then he was bending to sweep her into his arms, carrying her to the bed they'd shared in celibate loneliness the nights before. Once there, he eased her gently onto the mattress, stood, and quickly undressed before he joined her.

  Ashleigh watched with greedy eyes as he shed his clothes, realizing she was finally as ready for the sight of his naked flesh as he had been for hers. Silently, her face full of wonder, she drank in the sight of the broad, massive shoulders, the muscular chest covered with whorls of dark chestnut hair, the powerful thighs, the hard, flat abdomen and lean hips, and— oh yes—the very bold and evident proof of his arousal!

  Brett caught her stare, and when he had stretched beside her on the bed, his eyes held gentle amusement as they found hers. "I take it I meet with Her Grace's approval?"

  "Oh, Brett," she cried, "I find you so—so beautiful!"

  His laugh was shaky as he drew her to him. "Sweetheart," he breathed, "beauty didn't exist until God made you!"

  He began to make love to her then, with a gentle tenderness at first, his hands and caressing lips repeating the message of his words; with kisses light as down, he found her eyes, her ears, the sensitive corners of her mouth; with a touch lighter than a butterfly's wing, his fingers traced the slim, white column of her throat, the satiny curve of her shoulder, the lush fullness of her breasts. But when they grazed the rosy peaks of her nipples and Ashleigh's eyes flew open, meeting his and telling him instantly of the potent response he'd wrought, his touch became more insistent, urging her passion forward to meet the growing hunger of his own.

  And Ashleigh responded wildly, arching her hips upward to meet his, pulling his head to hers as her mouth opened for his kiss. Eagerly, she met his questing tongue as her slender hands moved down the back of his head, his neck, and across the broad shoulders that, in her mind's eye, she could still see as he'd stood before her moments before. And when Brett's hands were slow to descend to her waist and lower, to her undulating hips and thighs, she reached for one hand and drew it to the dark triangle between.

  A hoarse, surprised gasp from him was followed by a warm murmur of approval as his lips moved to her ear. "So eager, little one?" he laughed softly. Then, "Oh, sweetheart, how it pleases me when you show me what you want!" Knowing fingers found the wet, delicious warmth of her woman's place... then caressed... and caressed....

  A maelstrom of yearning built in Ashleigh, blossoming beneath his touch, and she cried out with her need. "Brett! Oh, Brett, I want... I... oh, please!"

  "I know, love," he murmured, "I want it too... want you... only you...." With a quick movement, his hips met hers, his mouth at the same time hovering over her parted lips. "Open to me, love," he whispered, "...now..."

  And gladly, Ashleigh gave him what he asked. Thrusting her hips upward, she eagerly parted her trembling thighs and a moment later was rewarded by the bold, turgid heat of him filling her.

  A cry of rapture broke from her lips, and she reveled in the feel of his weight on her body, of his pulsing manhood inside her; meeting his thrust with her own, she took what it promised, crying out for more with every glad muscle of her body.

  And Brett exulted in the pleasure he gave her, taking it and making it a part of his own. Again he thrust, and again, until their candent movements built to a crescendo of driving passion.

  Then, in a high, soaring moment of pure joy, Ashleigh cried out his name, her pleasure breaking over them, through them, melding them as one.

  And Brett answered her cry with a harsh note of his own as his body convulsed with hers, shuddering its release while they clung together, aware only of each other.

  After a long time following, when their spinning senses had stilled to the point where they could at last begin to think again, he moved his lips in her hair, murmuring, "Ashleigh... never before, love, I swear... nothing I ever felt was like this."

  Ashleigh closed her eyes, savoring his words. What did it matter that there'd been other women, if this were so? If the ecstasy she'd felt were any measure of what he, too, had shared, surely he would no longer need to seek others... surely he'd find all he needed in her bed, just as she knew, for her, there'd never be another man. It was all she required right now. Love, if she was patient, might come in time, and as long as she had his body for her own, she felt she could wait. It would not be easy, and she would need to be strong, but she would do it; she must. And he would be faithful... wouldn't he?

  "Brett," she whispered, just as she felt him slipping from inside her. She paused for a moment, regretting the loss.

  "Yes, sweet?" he murmured, turning on his side to pull her close again.

  "Will—will you stay with me?" she ventured, not knowing how to voice her lingering doubts more clearly.

  Misreading her question, Brett laughed softly, saying, "All night long, sweetheart. Wild horses couldn't pull me away!"

  Dismayed that she hadn't gotten through, she lost the courage to question him further. With a sigh, she snuggled against his warmth, promising herself to approach him again... soon.

  They slept then, with Brett's arm wrapped possessively about her as their sated, naked bodies took a respite from their passion.

  It was many hours later, during the time they call false dawn, that Ashleigh awoke to find Brett thrashing about on the bed beside her. His voice split the air with an anguished cry.

  "But what did she look like? Won't you tell me...? Please! Tell me why she would leave without even saying goodbye.... I beg you... please, I need to understand—"

  "Brett!" Ashleigh reached for his shoulder to give him a shake. "Brett, wake up! You're dreaming!"

  "Mother, don't go! I—" Suddenly Brett sat upright, his face an anguished mask, beads of perspiration along his brow.

  "Brett, it's all right," Ashleigh soothed. "It was just a bad dream."

  Picking up on the crooning note in her voice, he stiffened, fully alert to his surroundings now, and yet deeply suspicious of what, in his sleep, he'd revealed. "What did I say?" he asked sharply.

  Bewildered by his tone, Ashleigh withdrew her hand from his shoulder. "It was nothing," she told him. "You were merely having a—"

  "For Christ's sake, Ashleigh! What did I say?"

  Not comprehending the fear that fed his anger—fear of his own vulnerability, that he might have exposed to her some deeper part of himself without knowing it—she reacted only to the sting of his tone. "You spoke of someone leaving you... a—a woman... of her going without any farewell, I believe."

  "And...?" Brett's lips were drawn into a hard, straight line and his eyes scrutinized her face with unwavering coldness.

  Hurt that he should behave toward her in this manner, especially after what they'd shared just hours before, Ashleigh reacted with an anger of her own. "For God's sake, Brett! You question me as if I have been privy to a confession of murder! Leave it alone! What is it to me that in your dreams, you cry out for your mo—"

  "Damn you!" he shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Damn you to hell, Ashleigh!"

  "Me? Damn me?" she responded incredulously, shaking free of his grasp. "What have I done? I only sought to wake you, that you would cease to be tormented by—by childhood pain at your mother's desertion. Damn you, I say! Yes, you! Brett, I am not your mother!"

  Brett's face turned white with emotion for several long seconds. Then, without saying a word, he left the bed and quickly donned his breeches; pausing only a moment to gather up the rest of his clothes, he went to the door without a single glance in her direction, opened it, and left, slamming it behind him. A second later Ashleigh heard the sound of the lock turning, and, choked with disbelief, she crumpled to the mattress with a sob.

  * * * * *

  From her position at one of the tall drawing-room windows, Margaret watched Brett's ph
aeton leave the drive. She'd risen early, awakened by the sound of a door crashing shut, down the hall from her chamber. Aware neither of their servants would have dared to slam a door, she'd guessed it was her grandnephew departing, and from his wife's chamber—in a fury!

  Smiling slyly to herself, she turned from the window. It was a perfect time to effect a plan that had been growing in her mind since her discussion with Brett yesterday. She could not chance waiting until he—perhaps—came around to her way of thinking on what to do about his disastrous marriage. The situation warranted action.

  Hastening toward the stairs, Margaret thoughtfully fingered the key she'd taken from the ring the housekeeper had left in the pantry: the key to Ashleigh Sinclair's chamber—she would never refer to her as anything but Sinclair; just the thought of the creature as a Westmont was anathema to her. Margaret's smile reappeared as she reached the upstairs hallway. If she hurried, she might still find the girl immersed in the tears she'd heard her shedding earlier when she'd listened outside her door, and that would help; she wanted Ashleigh Sinclair at her most vulnerable.

  Ashleigh raised her tear-stained face from the rumpled bedclothes as she heard someone approach. Thinking it might be Higgins with her breakfast tray, she hurriedly slid off the bed and retrieved the sheet she'd been wearing, barely managing to stave off a new flood of weeping when she recalled how the sheet had come to be on the floor. She had just finished wrapping it about her when she heard a key turning in the lock, and wondered at this, for Higgins always knocked before entering. With a quick swipe at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, she tried to assume a dignified stance as the door opened, but when she recognized the black-clad figure who entered, her attempt at composure fell apart.

  "Lady Margaret! What are— I mean, I—I beg your pardon, but I didn't know you were here."

  "I've just arrived... a few moments ago," Margaret added mendaciously. It was important to her plan to have the girl think she'd been summoned after the scene that had prompted her weeping. "I—ah—had been staying with a dear friend in town... she's been ill, bedridden, that is, and therefore I remained in her home rather than here, for I wished to be available to read to her, to cheer her up, you see, while she was recovering." The door closed behind her, Margaret stepped closer to Ashleigh.

  "I see," said Ashleigh, wondering what any of this had to do with her.

  Not yet, my dear... but you will, thought Margaret. She continued speaking, eyeing Ashleigh's tear-ravaged face as she did so. "Brett was aware of where I was, so it was quite easy for him to ask me to come by this morning..." Margaret allowed her words to trail off suggestively while she watched Ashleigh's face for a reaction.

  "Brett sent for you just now? But, why?"

  "Well, I suppose it was because he couldn't attend to... things himself, my dear. When he dropped by, he was in a frightful hurry... something about a riding engagement with Lady Pamela Marlowe, I believe."

  Ashleigh gave a short, involuntary gasp of dismay at the mention of her husband's mistress. Oh, dear God, no! How could he? she cried inwardly. The bed we shared last night still bears the imprint of his body while he— Hastily taking a breath in an attempt to regain her composure, she made a deliberate effort to focus on what else Margaret had told her. "Things, Lady Margaret? What things? I'm afraid I don't—"

  "You look a bit pale, my dear," said Margaret. "I understand you've only Higgins to wait on you, and he's presently busy in the stable. Shall I send my abigail for something in the kitchen? Would you care for some tea or—"

  "Oh, no, no, thank you," Ashleigh replied hastily, for she was anxious now to learn why her husband had sent for his great-aunt with such apparent urgency this morning; she had an uneasy feeling it had something to do with her, for why else would this woman, who had clearly never cared for her, have come to seek her out? "But Lady Margaret," she continued, "you mentioned some 'things' Brett wished attended to...?"

  "Ah, yes," said Margaret, turning deliberately toward the fireplace so Ashleigh couldn't catch the look of satisfaction she feared her face might reveal. Appearing to study the Turner landscape that hung over the mantelpiece, she added, "Well, I was speaking of the immediate arrangements Brett wishes to make—for the divorce, that is."

  There was a deadly silence in the room, punctuated only by the steady ticking of the mantel clock beneath the painting, while Ashleigh closed her eyes in a futile attempt to blot out what she'd heard. So he was seeking the divorce at last.... Well, it was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? But then, why did she feel as if she'd been cut to the heart? Because, after what he shared with you last night, you'd assumed there was a chance for this marriage! a small voice answered. Yes, but that was before that insane quarrel this morning, another voice countered. That was before he showed you he carries some demons inside that will never allow him the peace to be happy with a woman, to love a woman! Face it, you foolish girl! He wants to be rid of you. Margaret's being summoned is the final proof.

  Opening her eyes, Ashleigh met the older woman's cool blue gaze. "I understand," she said softly. She hoped Margaret couldn't see the absolute act of will it took to keep her voice from revealing anything more than a tone of quiet resignation. It was all too obvious she'd been crying before the older woman came to her chamber, but she'd die rather than allow her to see her succumb to such emotion now.

  Forcing her face to remain blank, Ashleigh asked, "Am I to be allowed to leave, then?"

  "Oh, His Grace did not say," replied Margaret as she turned toward the door, "but I'm sure you will be shortly, my dear. Just as soon as our solicitors... well, you know how these things are... preparations need to be exact—to avoid any hint of a scandal, you see." She turned back to Ashleigh when she reached the door. "That is where you can be of some help, I should think. Perhaps the next time you see the duke, you can quietly insist he reach your brother. Ah, he does maintain a residence in London, does he not? It shouldn't be too difficult to convince Brett that the best way to avoid unpleasant talk would be to have you accompany your sibling back to America. Out of sight, out of mind, you know." Margaret turned and opened the door.

  "Well, my dear, I can see this hasn't been easy for you but I'm sure, in the end, you'll realize it was the wisest thing. In the meantime, have a spot of tea. It does wonders for an upset. I'll send someone up with a tray. Good day."

  She stepped through the door, closed it, and after turning the lock, left Ashleigh alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The large brougham turned into the paved courtyard of the Georgian town house on King Street, then pulled up behind a barouche that was already standing there, its calash lowered in obvious deference to the warm weather, a liveried driver nodding sleepily in the sun while he loosely held the reins.

  "That would be Lady Bunbury's carriage," whispered a male voice inside the second vehicle, "just where Higgins said it would be."

  Megan looked up at Patrick from where she sat, dressed in seaman's clothing, on the floor of the closed carriage. "How clever or alert does the driver look?" she asked in a low voice.

  Patrick chuckled. "He looks neither, and might even be snoring. That old windbag's probably kept him out here for an hour. But even so, not to worry, love. Thornton's ready to distract him if we need it." He gestured in the direction of the driver's seat where Abner Thornton, the Ashleigh Anne's first mate, posed as their driver. "Now, the important thing for you to remember is not to run for the side of the house until I've been inside for at least five minutes. That way—"

  "Patrick St. Clare! D' ye take me fer a bosthoon?" Megan fumed in a rough whisper. "We rehearsed this half the night! I can surely remember t' give ye time t' distract the old crone so she doesn't see me makin' fer the bushes outside o' the chamber where they've incarcerated the wee one!"

  Realizing Megan had deliberately included a detailed description of where she was to go, just to show him she recalled everything they'd rehearsed, Patrick grinned. "No, love, I'd never think you a chi
ld." He gave her trousers an arch look. "Not even in those, do you appear anything but a full-grown woman."

  Megan flushed, then glanced at the seat opposite Patrick where Suzanne Gautier sat wearing one of Megan's carriage dresses. "'Twas never meant t' fool anyone," she muttered, "merely t' make it easier fer me t' climb that tree and throw Ashleigh the— Patrick! Where's the rope?"

  "I believe ze peeg 'as eet," whispered Suzanne while gesturing at the pink wiggling mass on the floor beside Megan.

  Megan clamped an arm over Lady Dimples, who was pushing her snout above the seat where Suzanne sat and appeared to be of a mind to join the well-dressed redhead.

  "Megan, for God's sake, keep that pig out of sight!" Patrick muttered.

  "I'm tryin', Patrick, but she's atop the rope, ye see, and I've got t' get it—out! Ah, here we be!" she exclaimed, holding aloft the piece of ship's rigging they'd brought along as a rescue ladder.

  "I see," said Patrick, trying his best to keep his voice down, "but the damned pig—"

  "'Tis churlish o' ye t' be swearin', Patrick St. Clare," Megan sniffed, "and besides—" Suddenly her attention veered to Lady Dimples, who, grown to a goodly size by now, had managed to wriggle her way out of the Irishwoman's grasp, thrust her bulk onto her lap and, from there, plop both forelegs on the seat beside Suzanne.

  All at once the floor of the carriage became a tangled mass of arms, legs, rope and squirming pig.

  "Lady Dimples, no!" Megan hissed. Then, "Dammit, Finn! Can't ye keep yer porker in line?" She glared at the wolfhound who was stuffed into the floor space on the other side of her, looking miserable about the whole business.

  "Tsk, tsk, Megan O'Brien," muttered Patrick, "it must be that seaman's outfit leadin' ye on t' such churlish behavior!"

  It was his turn to be the recipient of Megan's glare, but in the next instant he dropped his mimicking accent, saying, "Oh, no! She's sitting on the seat!"

  And Lady Dimples was, indeed, sitting on the carriage seat, with one of her forelegs braced against the squabs, doing her best to peer out the window like any fellow traveler.