by Kruger, Mary
He groaned, low, guttural, and caught her hand in a tight grasp, bringing it around to the front of his breeches. Oh, lord, he was hard and huge, and she couldn’t stop her fingers from exploring his contours. He made that strange sound again, and fumbled against her hand, and suddenly he was in her grasp, the entire hot, hard length of him. From instinct came the knowledge of what to do, of how to surround him with fingers and palm and caress him with the same rhythm as his fingers against her. The same rhythm that pulsed inside her, urging her to him, making her clutch at his shoulders with her other hand. Inside her, she wanted him inside her, completely and totally hers, but he was stronger, immovable, relentless. They moved in unison, now, her hand, his fingers, quicker, harder, separate yet together, and when at last the pleasure crested inside her in a great cataclysm that threatened to tear her apart, she felt his seed, warm against her hand, and knew, in her pleasure, desolating emptiness. She was his, oh yes, there could be no question. But he was not hers.
There was quiet under the trees, save for the horse’s occasional nicker or stamp, and their own breathing, growing slower, more regular. Simon was beside her, and yet not with her, on his back with his arm flung up over his forehead. She sat up, tugging up her chemise, lacing her bodice, smoothing her disordered skirts. And when she could bear the silence no longer, she turned to him. “Why?”
He lowered his arm, eyes grave. “Because you could get pregnant.”
“Oh.” Strange, but that hadn’t even occurred to her, and yet it would be a calamity for her to have a child, with no husband. Wouldn’t it? Simon’s child, with his father’s dark, penetrating eyes and hair several shades lighter, like cornsilk. A great yearning filled her, and she rolled toward him. “But I’d like—”
“To bear a bastard? I think not.”
She flinched. “How could you label your own child so?”
“As I was labeled? No, I’d never call him so. But others would.” Not looking at her, he rose, casually straightening his own clothes. “I can’t offer you marriage, Blythe.”
“I’m not asking it of you.”
“You will.” He looked at her, then. “It’s what you’re made for, princess. You were meant to be somebody’s wife, someone’s mother. Not the doxy of an escaped criminal.”
She flinched again. “You’re hard on yourself, Simon,” she said, ignoring the times she had reminded him of his status. “And on me. But you don’t know me.” She raised her chin, glaring at him. “I begin to think I don’t know myself.”
He returned her gaze, solemn, enigmatic. “This changes nothing. Come.” He held out his hand. “We need to go if we wish to reach Maidstone before dawn.”
Blythe ignored his hand. Could he really dismiss all that had happened between them so easily? “If you feel this way, why do you want me to come back?”
“I need help to clear my name.”
“Why should I help you, after all you’ve done?”
“Because”—he went down on one knee before her—“you will wonder for the rest of your life if I’m guilty, or innocent.”
She searched his face. “What I think shouldn’t matter to you, Simon.”
“It shouldn’t, but it does.” He got abruptly to his feet. “Come or stay, then, it makes little difference to me.”
That had the effect of making her stand, though she was stiff after their interlude among the trees, though little tremors still ran through her body. His back was turned as he freed the horse’s reins, and she could see that his shoulders were bunched, tight. “Then I’ll come.”
“Good.” With one fluid movement he mounted the horse; a moment later, he reached down and pulled her up before him. “At least this time you won’t have to walk.”
“Small consolation,” she retorted. She had no desire at the moment to be close to him, and so she tried to hold herself stiff, away from him, as they rode out onto the road. The lack of space and the horse’s swaying movement defeated her, though, and after a moment she leaned back against Simon. It was going to be a miserable ride. She doubted she had ever felt so confused, unhappy, or lonely in her life.
Dawn was breaking as Simon trudged wearily up the stairs to the rooms above the bakeshop in Maidstone. Blythe was elsewhere, in rooms occupied by other members of the troupe. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. What had happened between them in the woods—sweet Jesus, it had been heaven and hell all in one. He’d come close to consummating the act, so close, and he knew it confused her that he hadn’t. She had been very quiet during the ride back, and though he had been acutely aware of her, her breasts just under his arms, her bottom nestled intimately against him, still he had remained quiet, too. There were no words to explain what had happened between them; no words to describe his feelings.
Harry met him at the top of the stairs, a finger to his lips. “Did you find her?” he whispered
Simon nodded tiredly. “Aye, and brought her back, though mayhaps it would have been better had I let her go.”
Harry frowned, glanced into the darkened room behind him, and then closed the door. “There’s much you haven’t said about her, lad,” he said, settling on the top stair.
“I know.” Simon sat several stairs below him, leaning his head against the wall. “Upon my honor, I never meant to involve her as I have, but at the time I needed help getting out of London. She happened to be nearby.”
“You could have let her go once you were out of the city.”
“Circumstances,” Simon said, and related briefly all that had happened since he’d first seen Blythe on a quiet London street. Almost all. The night’s events were no one’s business but his. “She was going home,” he concluded. “I probably should have let her go.”
“Mayhaps. Mayhaps not.” Harry hunched with his hands loosely clasped between his parted knees. “There’s no way of knowing how she’ll be received. ‘Tis a long time she’s been with you.”
“Aye, I know, and her reputation’s ruined. I know.” He rubbed his eyes. “What I don’t know is what to do about it.”
“There’s an obvious answer.”
Simon looked up, sharply. “You’re not suggesting marriage, Uncle.”
“There are worse fates, lad.”
“Not for her, there aren’t.” Simon straightened, face grim. “What kind of life would that be for her, the wife of a condemned man? Even if by some miracle I clear my name, I’m still naught but a strolling player. And a bastard,” he added bitterly.
Harry rested his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “You know that’s never mattered to us, lad.”
“It matters to everyone else.”
“Not to anyone who cares about you.”
“Huh. ‘Tis a word that’s been used against me many a time, Uncle. And a word no child of mine will ever hear.”
Silence fell between them. “I believe I’ve done you a disservice, lad, and I never meant to,” Harry said, finally.
“What?”
“Your parents met in Dover. Did I ever tell you that?”
Simon straightened. “No. You know damn well you didn’t.”
“‘Tis not something I’ve ever cared to discuss. As far as Bess and I are concerned, you’re our son.” He let out his breath. “And I had no liking for your father.”
“You knew him. You knew him? Did you? When all these years you’ve told me—”
“Hush, lad.” Harry’s hand was heavy on Simon’s shoulder. “No, I’ve not lied to you. I never met the man, nor did I ever know who he was.”
Simon sat forward, intent. In all his life Harry had rarely talked about Simon’s parentage. Simon had long ago learned to stop asking. “Didn’t my mother say?”
Harry shifted on the stair. “Of course she said, lad, but I didn’t want to listen to her, I was that angry.” He shook his head. “She had talent, did your mother. Most talented actress I’ve ever seen, except maybe Henrietta.” He nodded. “Aye, we’ll see about Young Harry. She has time yet. But Maggie.” His eyes went distant. “S
he could read a part once, know it immediately, and become that character. I’ve never seen the like. And she didn’t care.”
“I though she liked being on stage.”
“Not really, no. It was a way for her to live.” Harry passed a hand over his hair, sighing. “You know that our parents died young. You know that we became strolling players because our aunt was one, much as what’s happened to you. But what you don’t know is that your mother hated it.” His voice was quiet, emphatic. “She hated everything about the life, the traveling, the constant work, but I think what she missed most of all was not having a steady home. A family. Me, I thought ‘twas a great adventure.”
“And yet, she did well,” Simon said, loathe to interrupt this flood of reminiscence.
“Aye, that she did. I told you she was talented. It just didn’t mean much to her. Not the way it did to me.” His hands fisted on his knees. “I’d’ve given my eye teeth to have half her talent, and she’d’ve been glad to give it all away. We never did understand each other, and when we were older it caused trouble between us.”
“So she met my father.”
“Aye.” Harry’s voice was heavy. “Men had paid court to her before, but she’d never paid much heed. But this one—I don’t know what it was he had, but Maggie was besotted with him.”
“Was he really gentry?” Simon asked, remembering one of the few tales, or myths, he’d been told of his birth.
“I don’t know, lad. She said he was. Said he wanted to marry her. And I’d have none of it. None of it. She was a success on the stage, was destined for great things—London, even—and I wasn’t going to let her give it up. Not for some man who’d likely seduce her and leave her with child.”
Simon grimaced. “Which he did.”
Harry didn’t answer right away. “Mayhaps.”
“What do you mean?”
Harry rested his arms on his knees. “There’s something you’ve never been told, lad, something you should have known long ago.”
Simon leaned forward, trying in vain to catch Harry’s eye. “What?”
“Your mother...” He took a deep breath. “Maggie always said your father had married her.”
Chapter Eighteen
It slammed into Simon’s stomach like a blow. “That can’t be—”
“Oh, aye, so I said, since she didn’t have the marriage lines. But married good and proper, she said she was.”
“Who?” Simon’s hand gripped Harry’s. “Who is my father?”
“I don’t know, lad.” Regret was heavy on Harry’s face. “I’ve a temper, you know that. When she met this man—”
“How?”
“He was in the audience one evening.”
“Then you saw him?”
“Aye.” Harry leaned back, studying Simon. “You favor him.”
“God.”
“When she met him I was angry. I told her I was responsible for her, that she’d not be taking up with some strange man who’d seduce her and leave her behind. But she was stubborn, our Maggie.” He looked away. “When she wanted something, she went after it.”
“She went with him, anyway.”
“More than that. She ran away.” He looked at Simon. “With him. I didn’t know where, what had happened to her, if I’d ever see her again. And I searched. By God, I searched, but I couldn’t find her.”
“God,” Simon said again. His memories of his mother were dim, he’d been so young when she died. In his mind he saw her always as sad, her smile always distant and distracted, her voice lifeless. It had been Aunt Bess he’d turned to for mothering, Bess who’d patched up his little boy scrapes and given him a kiss to make them better, and when his mother died, he’d hardly noticed her absence. The only legacy she’d left him was the knowledge of his bastardy. Now even that was gone. “How did you find her?”
“I didn’t. She came back.”
“Alone?”
“Aye. Alone, and several months gone with child.”
“Did she say—”
“She never would, lad, never. I yelled at her, raged at her, God help me, I even struck her, but she would never say. She told me she was married and I wouldn’t believe her. And after that, she’d not tell me a thing.” He took a deep breath. “But after you were born, lad, she left again, carrying you, and when she came back she was different. All the anger was gone, all the spirit. All she would tell me was that she was a widow, and so who your father had been didn’t matter.”
“It matters.” Simon’s voice quivered with the force of restrained anger. “If I had a legitimate father, if I’ve family somewhere—”
“We’re family, lad.”
“My father’s family.” It exploded out of him. “God, all these years I thought I was a bastard, I was told it enough, and now I find...” He stood, abruptly. “I have to get out of here.”
Harry was behind him on the stairs. “Where are you going?”
“Out.” Simon turned in the doorway, fingers shoved into his hair. “Just—out. I have to. I have to think. Damn it!” He took a step outside and then whirled to face Harry. “Why didn’t she ever tell me?”
Harry lifted his hands, helplessly. “I don’t know, lad. But I think it was to spare you pain.”
“Pain. My God.”
Harry held his hand out. “Simon—”
“I have to go,” Simon said, and, turning on his heel, stalked out into the gathering day.
He was legitimate. All those years he’d thought, believed otherwise. All those years...Anger sliced through him, making him pound his fist against his palm. Bloody hell, why hadn’t his mother told him? Why hadn’t Harry told him? All these years, with their shame, their pain, and now to find out he’d endured them for naught. His father, the man he’d always refused to think about, had married his mother.
The thought made him slow his pace; made him glance about, as well, as caution returned to him. It didn’t matter how earth-shattering the revelation he’d just received was. It had nothing to do with his present situation. He was legitimate, aye, but he was also still an escaped convict, with a cloud over his name. If he had family he’d never known about, what good did that do him? They’d not be eager to claim him now.
Heart heavy, arms and legs heavy, he turned and trudged back to the bakeshop. The past was past. No good in mourning something that never was. Beside, hadn’t he had a fine life with Harry and Bess? Hadn’t they been about the best parents a boy could have, and hadn’t they helped him find his talent? Aye, and yet they’d never told him the truth. Never, until now, and he wondered why Harry had chosen today, of all days, to do so. Today when he had to decide once and for all whether to make the possibly fruitless, and definitely dangerous, effort to clear his name, or to flee.
But that decision had already been made, he reminded himself, when he’d suddenly been given a second chance at life. Too many people had risked too much for him to waste this opportunity. He wanted his old life back, and that meant finding out what had really happened in Canterbury. If he failed, and that was possible, at least he’d know he’d tried.
Determined, and at the same time lighthearted, he walked into the garden of the bakeshop, checking to make sure that no one noticed him. He had a purpose now, a goal. He would not let anything distract him from it. Not even Blythe, sitting now on the stone doorstep, chin propped in hand. Especially not Blythe.
“Good morrow, princess.” He dropped down beside her, stretching out his legs and propping his elbows on the threshold behind him. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
Blythe shook her head. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous thing to do.”
“Mayhaps. But I couldn’t sleep.” Not with the memories of their time together in the woods running through her mind, over and over. Not when she had tossed and turned and yearned so much that the actress who shared the bed with her had given her an uncompromising thump on the back. “What of you?”
He shook his head, his brow furrowed. “Too
much has happened.”
“I know.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You do realize that the only way to clear your name is to find out what really happened.”
Simon straightened so fast that his back slammed against the edge of the threshold. “What did you say?”
“Someone killed that man, Simon. Maybe it was you, but maybe it wasn’t. And if it wasn’t, we have to find out who did.”
“My God.” He stared at her. “Did Henrietta talk to you?”
“No. Why?”
“She’s thinking of a plan—”
“I’m not sure ‘tis a good idea to involve your family in this.”
“I need help, princess.”
“Of course you do. I’m offering it to you.”
“My God,” he said again. “Why?”
She shrugged. “What else is there for me to do?”
“Oh.”
That had made his frown return, she noted. Good. Let Simon feel as off-balance as she did with him. In the last weeks she had let too many other people tell her where to go, what to do. If she had complied, it was partly because she had always complied, always seeking acceptance and approval. And where had it got her? Into some very strange circumstances. She could not change the past. She could, however, control her future. She was not going to run away. “If you didn’t commit the murder, someone else did.”
“So you’ve pointed out,” he said, dryly.
“And to find out who that is”—her brow wrinkled—“we need to find out why. Why would someone have wanted the man—what was his name again?”
“Miller.”
“A true Miller’s Canterbury tale, then.”
“Ha.”
That, too, had made him frown. Very good. Let him know how it felt to have someone making sport of his life, as he had with her. Petty of her, but satisfying. “Why would someone want to kill Miller?”
Simon looked at her a moment longer. “Mayhaps I had reason.”
“Don’t dismiss me so lightly,” she scolded. “I’m trying to help you.”
“You’re trying to condemn me.”
