by Jane Feather
“A little,” he agreed gravely. “I should be loath to feel another chill in the air in these parts.”
In other words, don’t do it again, Bryony understood wryly. “That is most unlikely, Mr. Clare. We are unused to cold snaps after the middle of March.”
He smiled. “I’m relieved to hear it.”
“Bryony, I have been looking all over for you to pay my respects.” Francis Cullum spoke with gentle raillery, and she turned, smiling, to greet him.
“Francis, have you met Mr. Benedict Clare? He is a guest of Lord Dawson’s, newly arrived in Virginia from the North.” She turned back to Benedict. “May I introduce Mr. Francis Cullum, sir.”
The two men bowed and murmured pleasantries. Then Benedict said, “I understand from my host that you have the great good fortune to be betrothed to Miss Paget, Mr. Cullum. May I congratulate you?” A smile flickered over the well-shaped mouth. “And, of course, Miss Paget.”
“You are too kind, sir.” She could not look at him as she wondered if possibly he had forgotten the agonizing problem that had led to her presence in the hayloft that memorable night, or whether he was merely responding as politeness demanded.
Francis felt the tension immediately and was puzzled by it. Bryony was as taut as a plucked string, and there was an air of containment about the Irishman that bespoke a type of strength, both physical and spiritual—the kind of strength that developed through long years of adversity, through confronting oneself and coming to an acceptance of what one found. It was a process that Francis Cullum understood, being deep in the midst of his own personal struggle.
“Let’s stroll down to the fishpond,” Bryony suggested, anxious to break the awkward silence and her own train of thought. “Do you accompany us, Francis?”
“If you will have me,” he returned with a slight smile, which conveyed both puzzlement and speculation, and Bryony felt herself shy like a nervous colt. She covered the involuntary movement by stepping hastily off the terrace onto the broad path running between the lawns. The high wooden heel of one satin pump caught in the gravel, and she tripped, seeing the path come up to meet her even as Benedict caught her, his arm an iron band around her waist, the contours of his body pressed against her own. The quiver that ran through her sparked against his skin. One hand was beneath her breast, his thumb splayed against the rising curve. Bryony’s breath seemed suspended in the agony of expectancy and memory as she felt his own breath, coming suddenly fast, whispering across her forehead.
Then he was putting her from him as she blushingly apologized for her clumsiness in a voice that did not sound like her own. Her legs were shaking so violently that for a moment she doubted whether they would support her.
She smoothed down her skirt with rapid little fluttering movements and pushed back her hair in the way Benedict remembered so clearly as denoting uncertainty or embarrassment. It wrenched at his heartstrings, and the urge to take her again in his arms, to rediscover the satin softness of her, the richnesses of her body, threatened to overwhelm him. For a second it showed in his eyes, then the control that had kept him alive in the last five years reasserted itself. “Steady, now,” he said quietly as if she was indeed a nervous colt. Then he turned to Francis, who was standing very still to one side of the path. “It amazes me how ladies manage not to break their ankles regularly with those heels, don’t you agree, Cullum?”
“Uh, yes … yes,” Francis muttered. “Bri, are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, of course. It was just clumsiness,” she insisted reassuringly, pulling herself together. “I am very grateful to Mr. Clare for his swift reaction. I was about to take a most undignified tumble.” She managed a tiny laugh. “Shall we continue on our way, gentlemen?”
“I have just remembered that I must pay my respects to Mrs. Hall,” Francis said suddenly. “I’m charged with a message for her from my mother. Would you excuse me if I left you to continue your stroll without me?”
“Of course.” Bryony bit her lip, her brows drawn together in a deep frown as he turned and disappeared among the throng on the terrace. Francis was intuitive enough to know that something peculiar was afoot.
“Stop frowning in that manner,” Ben instructed in a sudden urgent whisper. “You will have everyone looking at us in a minute.” He took her hand and tucked it firmly under his arm. “Smile and talk nonsense if you cannot think of anything sensible to say.”
Bryony smiled obediently and said through her lips, “I must talk to you.” Except that I don’t really mean “talk,” she amended silently. Touch you, kiss you, become one with you again …
“All in good time, lass,” Ben replied, his voice neutral, his smile calm. “I will decide when that is, and you must wait patiently until then.” He pointed in the direction of a large, square bowling green sunk a little below the level of the garden. “Is that a game you play, Miss Paget?”
“Not really,” she replied. “My father is very fond of it. Why must I wait for you to decide?”
“I share Sir Edward’s fondness,” he said. “Because I am more aware of the dangers than you are and a great deal more experienced. Say no more!”
It was almost as if they were back in the clearing and he was asserting the mastery of one who knew his own business a great deal better than she did. It was quite true, of course, but Bryony could not help the tight bud of anger forming as she thought of the monumental disadvantage at which he had so callously placed her. He had been prepared to see her, but had not thought twice of the dreadful shock she would experience at the sudden, stupefying sight of him in her father’s house. It was a miracle that she had not betrayed him, betrayed them both, in that first paralyzing moment, and now he was giving her instructions as calmly as if she were a willing but inept accomplice in whatever dangerous game this was that he played.
The gardens were littered with strolling couples and small groups enjoying the warm spring air, butterfly bright in their gay dress whose richness of color and material drew no distinction between the sexes. Benedict Clare was regarded with the frank curiosity of a community that was required to rely upon itself for all forms of entertainment. A newcomer, particularly one so personable and well connected, was a considerable addition to their usual amusements. The presence of their host’s daughter at his side was considered quite right and proper, and Miss Paget, although only Ben could guess at what cost, played her part, word perfect. At one point, Benedict turned to look up at the gracious two-storied mansion, its many windows winking in the sunlight. There was a space in the eddying crowd around them, and he said softly, “Which is your chamber?”
“On the second floor, the third casement from the right,” she replied with equal softness.
“Do you have a bedfellow?”
“Not at the moment.” Her heart beat fast against her taffeta bodice as the possibilities of the exchange blossomed in her mind. But surely Ben would not take such a blatant risk? Not when he had forbidden her to behave in any way that could be construed as even slightly out of the ordinary. But then Bryony was coming to the conclusion that there was one rule for Benedict Clare and one for others on the knife edge that he trod with such insouciance.
The afternoon and evening dragged interminably, and Bryony’s head ached with the need to stifle the questions that surged and tumbled. Why was he here? Who was he really? What danger was he in? The backwoodsman seemed to have disappeared entirely, a figment of her imagination. In his place was this suave, elegant aristocrat. The clean lines of his jaw and the set of his mouth were clearly revealed now that the curly, burnished beard was gone. She did not know which she preferred. Her eyes were continually riveted upon his hands as she remembered the feel of them on her body, the wonderful deftness as they tackled whatever task came up, the strength of them. The same hands that now held the heavy silver cutlery and twirled the delicate cut-glass stem of his wineglass, had gutted fish and skinned rabbits, had killed at least one man to her knowledge, and in her heart of hearts she knew t
hat there had been others.
His voice, soft and carrying, was constantly heard during the long hours of dinner. Whenever he spoke, Bryony noticed, he commanded instant attention without once raising his voice. His political allegiances were assumed quite naturally to be those of his hosts—an assumption that, breathless at his mendacious audacity, she heard him confirm with every authoritative statement, blandly smiling, although the hawk’s eyes were flat and opaque.
Bryony shivered, realizing that she was seeing at work the Benedict whom she had known only infrequently—the man who had tied her to the bed an eon ago; the man who treated dead bodies and contemplated the dealing of death with a matter-of-fact, case-hardened indifference; the man who bore the marks of the whip upon his back and kept his own counsel; the man who carried a world of horror in the recesses of his mind, a world that could produce a terrifying transfiguration of the laughing, loving, gentle Benedict.
The moment came when trays of nuts and raisins, bowls of olives, and baskets of fruit appeared on the table, together with the decanters of port and madeira, bottles of sherry and sauternes. Bryony felt a great stillness enter her soul as she waited, her eyes on Benedict’s hands, her body sensitive to every ripple of the powerful one beside her. Decanters were passed and glasses filled. Sir Edward Paget rose from his great carved chair at the head of the long mahogany table, where candlelight gleamed. A sea of smiling faces, roseate with his bounty, turned expectantly toward him.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, I give you the king.” He raised his glass.
“The king,” came the fervent response as chairs were pushed back and the company rose to drink the Loyalist toast. Benedict Clare rose with them, his glass went to his lips, and only Bryony saw the white knuckles on his free hand, clenched against his side. What was he doing here?
Laughing, mightily pleased with themselves, the company resumed their seats. The drinking of toasts was a matter both serious and amusing. The truly serious one having been attended to, they were now ready for amusement. Sir Edward glanced down the table and with a smile called upon Bryony.
“Daughter, a toast, if you please.”
Bryony nibbled her bottom lip for a minute, well aware that she was required to be both apposite and gracious if she was not to disappoint either her father or the company. She raised her glass. “When passions rise, may reason be the judge.” Her father’s eyebrows lifted with his glass, and she could read his mind without difficulty. While he could not fault her toast, he had expected something in a rather lighter vein. Bryony was not in general given to the pronouncement of precepts.
“A sentiment we must all carry in our hearts, Miss Paget,” declared Major Ferguson. “In such stirring times, passions may well run high to the detriment of good sense.”
“How very true,” murmured Benedict Clare, his eyes shaded with sardonic humor as they met those of his neighbor. “Passion makes a poor master, Miss Paget.”
“Indeed, sir, I believe it does,” replied Bryony with barely a flicker. “A most untrustworthy one, at least.” Then further exchanges became impossible as the round of toasts continued, and at its end the ladies left the table.
Bryony did not talk to Benedict again that evening. When the gentlemen were called to the drawing room for coffee and tea, he paid court to Eliza and offered gentle attentions to the matrons, rapidly earning himself the title of the most delightful addition to the county. Eschewing the pleasures of the billiard table and the card room, he remained in the drawing room, attentively listening to the various musical performances. On one occasion, to Bryony’s speechless amazement, he accompanied on the flute Miss Violet Drysdale’s indifferent playing of the pianoforte.
“What an accomplished gentleman is Mr. Clare.” Francis, soft-footed as usual, had come up beside her as she stood at the back of the room, listening and observing. “You look a little startled, Bri, at his accomplishments. It’s not very polite, you know, to appear quite so dumbfounded when someone comports themselves so well.”
Bryony flushed with an annoyance directed as much at herself as at Francis. “You must confess, Francis, that Mr. Clare does not strike one as a gentleman so at home in the drawing room,” she countered, opting for the near truth as being the safest with her uncomfortably perspicacious betrothed.
Francis smiled. “More of a warrior, I agree. There is a quality about him … a certain power, or do I mean ‘menace’?” He glanced at Bryony out of the corner of his eye. “He disturbs you in some way, doesn’t he, Bri?”
She tried for a light, dismissive laugh, but it sounded as hollow and unconvincing to her as it clearly did to her companion. “I find him interesting. But then, so does everyone else.” She shrugged carelessly. “You know how the county thrives on new blood, Francis.”
“I wonder if he intends to join Ferguson’s army,” Francis said thoughtfully. “I cannot imagine why else he would be a guest of Dawson’s, can you?”
“No,” Bryony prevaricated. “I cannot imagine why he should be a guest of Dawson’s.” That last was the absolute truth at least.
It was midnight before the evening ended. Lord Dawson and his party, together with Major Ferguson and his group, were escorted to the guest quarters in the separate house set some two hundred yards distant from the main house and furnished with the utmost luxury and elegance. Bryony finally reached the peace and solitude of her own chamber, having endured an hour on tenterhooks lest her mother suddenly decide that her daughter must sacrifice her privacy to the comfort of some young lady. However, either Sir Edward had stepped in or Eliza had decided that Bryony had done as much as should be expected of her for one day. At any event, all the guests were dispersed throughout the mansion, and none made an appearance in Bryony’s bedchamber.
Mary fussed over her for an unconscionably long time, it seemed to Bryony, whose muttered complaints at having her hair brushed the requisite one hundred times were completely ignored. At last she was tucked up in the poster bed among lavender-scented sheets and embroidered pillowcases. Mary blew out the lamp as she left the room, and Bryony lay for a minute in the darkness. Then she hopped out of bed and turned the key in the door before relighting the lamp and opening the casement, letting in the cool night air with its river tang. Propping her elbows on the windowsill, she gazed out over the dark garden, where massive trees stood sentinel and not a shadow stirred.
She sat there for a long time, waiting as her eyes grew heavy in spite of mingled anxiety and excitement. The air grew chill, and she shivered beneath the thin covering of her lawn shift. It was not as if he had said he would come. All he had done was ask which was her chamber, and for some reason she had assumed that he would take the appalling risk of coming to her in the night, a reckless Lothario who would spring nimbly up the creeper that clung tenaciously to the brickwork, to drop into her waiting arms, as desperate as she to assuage the ache, to fill the void…. She was being ridiculous. Passion had obscured reason and common sense.
Bryony laughed in self-mockery, remembering her toast at dinner—one that had been intended as reproof to Benedict Clare lest he allow political passion to rule his head. Curiously, she had not then been thinking of this other passion that was threatening to deprive her of a night’s sleep. There was no reason, after all, to assume that Mr. Clare was a slave to it, even if she seemed to be.
Resolutely, Bryony went back to bed, for a second hesitating as she bent to blow out the lamp. Then, with a little shrug, she left it burning, flickering in the breeze from the open window, and snuggled down beneath the covers. Her eyes closed….
The dark-clad figure flung a leg over the broad sill and dropped soundlessly to the carpeted floor. He crossed to the bed and stood looking down at its sleeping occupant, a tiny smile playing over his fine mouth. He reached a hand to brush a tumbled lock from the wide, alabaster brow, and the thick dark lashes swept up, revealing a sleepy, startled pair of blue eyes.
“O, ye of little faith,” Benedict chided with gentle mockery, pl
acing a knee on the high mattress beside her. “My pride has suffered a sore blow, Miss Paget. I had expected to find you barely managing to curb your impatience, not lost in the land of dreams.”
She smiled, wondering why she had ever doubted that he would come. “I left the lamp burning and the window open.”
“So you did.” He leaned over her, bracing his arms on either side of her body, and looked at her, the hunger of the long deprived glowing in his eyes as they explored her countenance. She reached up a hand to touch the burnished copper hair where the lamplight set a series of flickering fires, then her fingers stroked down the smooth planes of his face to trace his jaw. “Will you miss your hirsute lover?” he asked, turning his head so that his lips pressed into her palm.
“The backwoodsman of no name,” she murmured, reveling in this moment when they were barely touching, except with their eyes. The postponement brought a deep, wondrous tension coiling in the pit of her stomach, prickles of pleasure darting across her skin, her nipples straining against the softness of her shift. “Who are you, Benedict Clare?”
“For tonight, simply a man who once knew you in the ways of love and lust and wishes to renew the acquaintance.” He drew back, bringing his other knee onto the bed astride her, then slowly pulled down the covers. Bryony quivered, the shape of herself in familiar space dissolving under the radiant heat of fast-spreading passion. The crowns of her breasts stood out, dark and urgent beneath the near-transparent lawn, begging for the touch that was a long time acoming. Slowly, so very slowly, he moved a fingertip to hover over the rounded silhouette, sketching in the air the contour and its keen peak. Her breath sped with longing; her blood ran hot in her veins under the swift rise of ardor; her body shifted slightly in an urgent movement beneath him.
Ben smiled, running a finger over her lips. “I am like a parched man at an oasis, sweeting. I must take my pleasure with care after such long denial, lest I founder and fail us both.”
