by Shawnee Moon
“The least you could do is scrub my back,” he said.
Cailin stared at the crumbling plaster wall and tried to ignore the sounds of sloshing water coming from the tub. “I dinna find this funny,” she replied.
“The water’s still warm, mistress,” he teased. “It feels good to wash off the dust of the road. I’ve real French soap, scented with lilac. A pity you’re missing—”
“Stop it!” She whirled around. Sterling was crouched in the barrel so that no more of him was visible than when he’d removed his shirt. “I dinna ken what game you’re playing with me,” she cried. “I’m tired, and I’m sore, and I’m not in the least interested in your naked body.”
He grinned lazily. “You’re sure? I’ve not had many complaints.” He lifted a dripping arm and soaped his shoulder. “I can’t say about your body—since I’ve yet to see it—but I doubt I’ll find much to complain about.”
“I’m getting in the bed,” she said angrily. “I’m going to sleep. And if you so much as touch me, I swear, I’ll have your black heathen eyes from their sockets.”
“For one so small, you’re as fierce as a Seneca.”
“I mean what I say, Englishman,” she threatened as she kicked off her shoes.
“Sleep. I’ll not trouble you. As I said before, I like my bed partners willing. You are my wedded wife, and you’ll not be able to resist my charm for long.”
“Don’t count on it!” His laughter burned her ears as she pulled back the covers and flung herself into the feather tick fully dressed.
“Sweet dreams, wife.”
She shut her eyes and drew up her knees, pulling the covers over her head. If he laid one hand on her, she’d kill him. Marriage lines or not, she’d nay be raped again.
“This water will be cold by morning,” he added.
“Damn you,” she muttered. But images of her husband’s naked body rose behind her clenched eyelids to trouble her fitful attempts at sleep.
Chapter 8
Oxley Hall
Surrey, England
Ten days later, Sterling faced the full force of his father’s rage in the quiet opulence of the great library in Oxley Hall. Sterling and Cailin had arrived at the baron’s country home late the night before, after having ridden through rain for a week. Sterling had insisted that she breakfast alone in his chamber that morning while he went to confront the old lion in his den.
Years had added weight to his father’s powerful frame. Henry Gray’s snow-white hair was shoulder-length, in flagrant disregard for current fashion, which dictated that gentlemen shave their heads and wear wigs at all times. His eyes had once been piercing blue; now the intensity of their hue had faded, but they’d lost none of their fire when he was in high temper.
Henry, the Baron Oxley, had just launched into his second tirade. The first had begun when Sterling entered the room and had ended with the shattering of a delicate Chinese teapot that Sterling estimated would have cost the equivalent of a month’s salary as a captain in His Majesty’s dragoons.
“... ungrateful bastard pup!” his father roared. “Better you’d never been born than to shame the Gray name with...”
Damn it, Sterling thought. Why do I let him rant on like this? He makes me feel sixteen years old again.
But Sterling knew why. His Indian heritage made him straighten his shoulders and stand there while venom spewed from his father’s lips. Reverence toward his elders had been bred into Sterling for a thousand generations. It was bone and sinew of his soul. As much as he wanted to release the full force of his own pent-up anger, he bit back his words and let the filth spill over him.
Shifting his booted feet, Sterling allowed his gaze to stray through the wavery panes of the old casement window to the formal boxwood gardens that stretched out over the site of a ruined priory. King Henry, his father’s namesake, had seized Oxley from the white monks centuries ago and given it and a title to a wealthy merchant in exchange for a large donation to the Crown treasury. Thus, Martin Gray, a commoner had become the first noble Lord Oxley.
“Worthless red-skinned whelp. The worse mistake I made in my entire life was to bestow a Christian name and birthright on you.”
Sterling didn’t need to listen. He knew his father’s speech by heart.
How many times had he stood here and listened to this? he wondered. In the past, he’d usually suffered the indignity with a smarting back from the caning his tutor—and in later years his father’s footman Edgar—had administered before Sterling entered the library. It had been Edgar’s pleasure to lay vigorous strokes across his bare back until blood ran. His brothers cut their beatings short by crying out; he never had. Keeping silent was his single triumph.
Sterling glanced back at his father, waiting for the old man to sweep the inkstand and papers off the inlaid walnut writing cabinet that served the baron as a desk. And, as usual, Sterling wasn’t disappointed. His father sent ink, quills, holders, and parchment flying with a fresh round of curses.
Now it was time for Father’s tears.
“I treated you like a son. I raised you as though your skin was white,” the baron proclaimed.
And the old wound ached anew, as Sterling had known it would. His father’s words never failed to find a weak spot in his armor and dig deep.
He swallowed against the constriction in his throat. I am as white as you, he wanted to protest. But he never had.
In truth, he’d always been somewhat ashamed of his dark skin and exotic eyes. He’d wanted desperately to have a long, narrow nose like his brothers, but the mark of his Shawnee blood was indelible and became more evident with each passing year.
Sterling drew in a slow, deep breath. Only a few more minutes and his father would begin to lose his wind. He’d rally with a few choice insults against Sterling’s Indian mother before turning to the current sin at hand.
“... not only proved your cowardice by resigning your commission in time of war,” Henry continued, “but have the audacity to bring that... that...” He sputtered, gasping for air. “That Scottish whore back ... and tell me that she is your lawful wife.”
Sterling blinked. His torpor vanished. “What did you say?”
“A traitorous Scot! A common savage. No better than the bitch who bore you.”
“Father, shut up.”
The port-wine flush of anger in the old man’s face drained away, replaced with stark milk-white. “What? What?” The words came out in a strangled whisper.
“I said shut up. I owe you some measure of respect because you are my father and an old man. That’s the only thing that’s keeping me from smashing your ugly mouth in.”
“You dare ... ” Spittle sprayed from his lips. “You dare to speak to your sire in that fashion?”
“I should have done it long ago. You’ve no right to condemn my mother when your sin of lechery was as great as hers. And you’ve certainly no right to impugn my wife.”
“Traitorous pup!” Henry yanked a bellpull. “Edgar! Edgar!” he shouted, summoning his footman.
Edgar sprang from his post outside the library door with more agility than Sterling would have supposed he possessed. “Yes, Your Lordship. What is it?”
Henry pointed a trembling forefinger at Sterling. “Thrash this ungrateful whelp!”
Sterling glanced at the tall, thin footman and laughed. “I wouldn’t if I were you, Edgar,” he warned. For all his determination, Edgar was older than the baron, and it had been many years since he’d set his hand to anything more demanding than climbing the grand staircase in the hall.
“Thrash him,” Henry ordered.
Edgar stood rooted to the floor, mouth open.
“Touch me,” Sterling said quietly to the startled footman, “and I’ll toss you through the window into the box garden.”
“Get out of my house,” his father roared. “Out, I say! You and your Scottish strumpet.”
Sterling heard a sharp intake of breath behind him and turned to see Cailin standing jus
t inside the room. “Go back to my chamber,” he commanded her. “There’s no need for you to hear this. This is between me and my esteemed parent.”
“No longer your parent,” his father proclaimed. “I disown you! I’ll have your name removed from the family Bible. By God, if you—if the two of you think to come here and extort money from me, I’ll—”
“That’s a lie!” Cailin said hotly. “I didna ask to come here. I dinna know why your son brought me to this place. But I want nothing from ye. And from what I ken of him, I doubt he does either.”
“Don’t dare speak to me, woman,” the baron cried. “Edgar, get her out of—”
“Don’t touch her, Edgar,” Sterling warned. “She’ll throw you through the window.” He turned on his father. “I have no intention of staying. I only came to retrieve some personal belongings, to arrange to repay some loans with my own savings, and to say goodbye. I’m going to America, and I’m taking my wife with me.”
“Taking me where?” Cailin cried.
He glared at her. “I told you to leave the room.” He directed his attention to his father again. “I can see it was a mistake to try and deal with you rationally, so I will be blunt. I want the deed to the land my mother gave me.”
“You do, do you?” His father was shaking from head to toe, and Sterling was afraid the old man might have a stroke.
“Calm yourself. I ask for nothing that is not mine by law. If you remember, I asked you for the deed when I reached twenty and one. You put me off. This time, you’re not getting away with it. The land is rightfully mine.”
His father whirled and yanked open the upper doors of the writing cabinet, then began throwing papers right and left. “You want what she gave you, do you?” he sputtered. “Well, you shall have it! And not another penny! I’ll cut you from my will. I swear I will. You’ll be disinherited from this day forth.” His fingers closed on a cylinder of rolled oilcloth, and he held it high. “Your precious mother’s legacy. Naught but useless wilderness. Little good you’ll have of it, boy. Nothing but trees and savages.” He grimaced and threw the deed on the floor between them.
Sterling’s eyes burned. “What have I ever done to make you hate me so?” he finally managed.
The baron swayed on his feet and caught himself on the corner of the desk, supporting his weight. Suddenly, he looked old and tired. “You make me ashamed every time I look at you,” he said with disgust. “You remind me of her and of a period in my life that I’ve never ceased to regret.”
Sterling’s chest felt tight, and his head throbbed. The room had become stuffy, and it was hard for him to breathe. “I’m sorry, Father,” he said. “It seems the biggest mistake was yours. A mistake for you to ever bring me to England. Why did you do it? Why didn’t you leave me with my mother’s people?”
“Because of your Gray blood,” the baron answered hoarsely. “Because I thought good English stock would triumph over barbarian—”
“Enough,” Sterling said. “There’s no need to continue.” He noticed that Cailin had come to stand at his side, and he grasped her arm firmly. “We’ll take our leave of you, sir.”
“Damned right you will. And if you ever set foot on Oxley again, I’ll have you shot!”
Sterling took a step toward the door. Cailin broke free of his grasp, darted back, and picked up the oilcloth cylinder from the floor.
“You’ll need this if you’re going to America,” she said.
“We will need it,” he replied.
“Go straight to hell, both of you,” Oxley flung after them as they left the library.
“We’ll save ye a good place near the fire,” Cailin quipped. Then she scowled up at Sterling. “Be this English hospitality?” she asked. “When ye call us savages?”
“My father’s idea of hospitality,” he answered softly as he strode down the hall, pulling her along with him. “He was ever a man sentimental toward his children.”
“Stop pretending to be asleep,” Sterling said. “I know you’re awake. I asked if I can trust you alone here long enough to secure passage to Maryland for us on the Galway Maid.”
Cailin rolled over in bed and opened her eyes. It was true; she had heard his question. But she had been summoning her wits to try to deal with him.
They had been in the seaport of Dover for the best part of a week. Sterling had rented two rooms in a private home on the outskirts of the town for them. The accommodations were plain but clean, and Cailin could find no fault with their landlady’s cooking.
Since she’d witnessed the angry scene between Sterling and his father in the library at Oxley Hall, Cailin couldn’t help feeling some sympathy for the man she still considered her captor. It was obvious that whatever his reasons for becoming entangled in her life, Sterling Gray was a complex and basically decent man.
“Ye canna force me to go with you to America,” she said quietly. She was close enough to feel his breath on her cheek. As unnerving as it was to live in such intimacy with her unwanted husband, he’d made no improper advances toward her, and she had begun to trust him enough to catch hours of fitful sleep at night.
“You are a vision in the morning with your hair loose around your shoulders and your face all dewy soft.”
Shivers ran down her spine, and she sat up, clutching the light coverlet to her chest. She looked away toward the window, where mastheads showed against the robin’s-egg-blue of a cloudless morning sky.
For an instant, memories of the rape swept over her, and she saw the hungry eyes of soldiers and heard their foul words.
“Dinna fash me with such lies,” she said. Sterling was not like the men who had hurt her. In her heart of hearts, she knew it. “I am not a beautiful woman, and I am past the age to believe such nonsense.”
“Cailin.”
He touched her bare arm between elbow and shoulder, and her shiver became a flood of sensations that she’d vowed she would not let herself feel for this man.
“Cailin,” he repeated.
Her name rolled off his tongue like warm honey. There was no anger in his speech, no naked lust. Sterling was an Englishman, but he was nothing like the soldiers who had raped her. She could not prevent her gaze from straying back to his naked chest ... his muscular, tanned arms... his intense face.
“We are enemies,” she murmured.
“Our countries are enemies.” His lean fingers caressed her shoulder.
“I hate you.” The words came out all wrong. She did hate him, she did, but her tone wouldn’t have convinced a lackwit. And Sterling Gray was far from slow-minded.
“You think you do.” He stroked her hair with feather-light movements, and pinwheels danced in the pit of her stomach. “Wife,” he whispered. “I’m not made of steel.”
“Ye knew from the first I didna want you.”
“No?” He buried his fingers in her hair. She wanted to tell him to stop touching her. She wanted to leap out-of bed and run from the room, but she didn’t. She was so surprised that his touch didn’t repel her that she waited until he lifted a heavy lock of her hair and kissed her neck.
“Don’t be afraid of me.”
She wasn’t. The fear she’d expected didn’t come. Instead, she felt what could only be desire. “Sterling.”
“Aye,” he teased, then kissed her again beneath the ear. His lips were warm and moist. His hand slid down to caress her shoulder and collarbone. And when he pulled her closer to him, she had not the strength to resist.
“Dinna ...” she began, but the rest of her words were lost as his mouth pressed against hers.
His kiss was tender. His lips were as beguiling as the devil’s lies.
“Wife,” he said. “Let me love you.”
“I dinna ...” Her protests died away as she found herself inexplicably kissing him back. She sighed, a long, soft sigh. This felt good. It felt right.
She had been so afraid that the rape would keep her from wanting this ever again. But it hadn’t.
He kissed the corners
of her mouth, her throat, and her eyelids. She laughed, and he found her mouth again. She knew she was lost when the tip of his tongue parted her lips.
Suddenly, Sterling was no longer the man who had murdered her father or stolen her away from her homeland. He was only a desirable man, and they were together in a warm bed on a late summer morning.
It had been so long since anyone had held her this way, so long since she’d tasted the sweet nectar of a lover’s kisses or felt his hands on her naked body. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the pleasure, letting herself savor the velvet heat of his tongue and the response of her own love-starved body.
Cailin was vaguely conscious of putting her arms around his neck, of meeting kiss for kiss... of letting him push her back against the feather tick ... of feeling the length of his hard body pressing against hers.
His black hair fell forward to brush the bare skin above her shift. “It tickles,” she whispered.
He laughed and pushed the hair away, kissing the spot with his lips while his hand gently cupped her breast.
She arched her back and sighed, remembering the joy of a man’s mouth on her nipples... Remembering ... One of the dragoons had bitten her. Her right breast still bore a scar from his teeth. But Sterling wouldn’t hurt her. She knew he wouldn’t, and she needed his lips, his mouth to wipe away the memories of horror. “Kiss me there, please,” she whispered.
“You’re a bold piece,” he teased. But he did as she asked, and it was all right. She felt her nipple tighten and swell. She felt a heat coil in the pit of her belly.
Tears sprang to her eyes ... tears of joy. What those men had done to her was over and done with. She didn’t have to carry the shame for the rest of her life.
Outside the open window, a bird trilled. A warm breeze carried the scent of the ocean to the bright bedchamber. Cailin closed her eyes and blocked out the ugliness and the pain. Sterling’s head lay against her breast, and she felt safe.
