Enter The Brethren (The Brethren of the Coast)

by Devlin, Barbara

  With great care so as not to wake his wife, Trevor stole from the bed. After ridding himself of his breeches and divesting her of the remaining unmentionables, he turned out the lamps. When he returned to the bunk, the mattress dipped from his weight, and Caroline fell into his side.

  An incoherent mumble passed her lips, and she rested her head on his shoulder and a palm to his chest. Soothing warmth filled his senses and caressed his skin, and he did not need a light and a mirror to tell him he was grinning like a giddy schoolboy. Had anyone ever told him that the mere act of embracing his bride could be as potent an intoxicant as their lovemaking, he would have called that person a liar.

  Just as quick, the gnawing hand of fear gripped his belly, and Trevor shuddered.

  Something was happening between them.

  An attachment unlike any he had ever known was growing, snaring him in a trap that he neither appreciated nor desired. He had known it, felt it before he stood at the altar with Caroline. It was born of the same endless torment that had devastated him when she climbed the rigging and when Cavalier threatened her. A nameless connection captured them in some ethereal prison he seemed helpless to escape. He spied the mystical attachment in her eyes whenever she looked at him and wondered if she saw it in his. The prospect bloody well scared the hell out of him.

  While he liked Caroline, admired her even, he would not love her. Trevor had seen what relationships based on emotions could do to a man and did not want any part of such evil. Never would he surrender so much unchecked power to a woman. He would provide for her, delight in her body, get children on her, but he would not share his heart.

  Nor was he interested in hers.

  Caroline snuggled closer and nuzzled his neck. “I love you.”

  His ears rang with shock, his palms dampened, and gooseflesh spread like the plague. Her declaration had been made without any hesitation. Trepidation turned to raw terror.

  Trevor desperately wanted to run.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The carriage rolled along the turnpike bound for Althrup, a quaint little village in Sussex and home of the Lockwood family estate. Caroline stared out the window but saw nothing of the countryside extending beyond her inner thoughts. At her side, the source of her quandary dozed.

  Although they had welcomed the day with a memorable breakfast that involved a predatory sea captain and fresh strawberries with cream, Trevor had not uttered a word since they enjoyed an afternoon repast at a coach inn. His mood suddenly sullen, he had perched in the corner, folded his arms, and drifted off as they resumed their journey. Caroline frowned at her reflection in the glass.

  Perhaps the honeymoon was at an end.

  Prior to their wedding, her chief concerns had centered on the fact that her future spouse had been forced to the altar. Now that the deed was done, her mind wandered in an alternate direction.

  How was she supposed to make Trevor fall in love with her?

  To her detriment, her lone experience with a man in the romantic realm involved an insincere declaration and an illusory courtship. Flirty glances, stolen caresses, and sweet nothings had been exchanged, and the chase had been unremarkable.

  And that was the problem.

  Caroline had been duped by the deception and had not guessed the truth behind the charade until it was too late. She had gifted her heart to an undeserving suitor and been devastated and shamed, with polite society an audience.

  But this time was different.

  The depth of devotion she harbored for Trevor was unshakable, rock solid. Never had her emotions been engaged in so forceful an attack. Not even for Lord Darwith. Of late, she had realized her feelings for the one who held the distinction as her first love amounted to nothing more than a girlish crush, a fancy.

  Yes, this time was different.

  Trevor might not be in love with her yet, but she would win him over. He would offer his heart on a silver platter, or her name was not Caroline Patience Elliott Marshall, Countess of Lockwood.

  “Why so serious, sweet?”

  She flinched. “I thought you were sleeping.”

  “I was.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her near. “But, as you see, I am awake.”

  “Indeed.” As he nuzzled her temple, she giggled and was grateful for his improved spirits.

  “Did you manage to rest?” Trevor inquired with a rub of his eyes.

  “No.” Caroline shook her head and mustered a smile. “The prospect of arriving at my new home is exciting and a tad disconcerting. You have an army of servants, and I wish to make a good impression.”

  “Darling, Althrup was built over a century ago, it is hardly new. And as mistress of the manor, you have nothing to fear.” With a peck to her cheek, he lifted her to his lap. “Besides, you have already met some of my staff, so there is no need for concern. And you did not get much sleep last night.”

  He was correct, and the recollection burned a path of embarrassment to her face. “My lord, you are incorrigible.”

  “You knew that when you married me.” Before she could respond, her husband gave his attention to the passing landscape, let down the window, and shouted to the coachman. “Oy, Thornton. Stop here.”

  “What is it?” Confused, Caroline scooted back to her seat. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Come with me.” A footman opened the door. Trevor exited and then turned to provide assistance. “I hope you do not mind, but this vantage shows the estate at its best.”

  Smoothing the wrinkles from her skirts, she lifted her chin.

  And her jaw dropped.

  Trevor escorted her to the verge. “Lady Lockwood, I give you Althrup.”

  “Oh, my.” Caroline swallowed hard. “It is lovely.”

  An emerald valley spread wide before her, and nestled in a crescent of mighty oaks was a charming village. Marked by thatched rooftops and a majestic Wren steeple, the rural community conveyed an invitation of which no words were required to welcome a recent addition.

  But the pièce de résistance commanded a hilltop just beyond the village, as though a spectacular sentry, and quite took her breath away. An opulent residence constructed of red sandstone with mullioned windows spanning the front, Althrup soared to life as clouds reflected in the glass, lending the manmade structure an ethereal quality that was the stuff of dreams.

  “The grounds are ringed by a Saxon moat, and a topiary garden sits amid the boxed hedges.” With child-like enthusiasm, Trevor pointed as he spoke. “Over there are the rose gardens, with arches and pergolas encircling a lily pond. The waters of the Channel are visible from the rear of the main house, and our chambers have a stunning view.” With a countenance that begged approval, he asked, “Well, what do you think? Can you make it a home, a place to raise our family?”

  As Caroline recalled the sadness that marked his childhood, she thought it incredibly unfair for such glorious beauty to be overshadowed by unimaginable pain. “Althrup is more than I could have hoped for, as are you.”

  Trevor cupped her chin and brought her gaze to his. At length, he searched her eyes. “Can you be happy here?”

  Ghosts from the past marred his handsome visage, and Caroline stretched on her toes and pressed on him a kiss filled with promise. “I already am.”

  After returning to the coach, they continued their journey. In silence, she ticked off a mental list. While supervising the redecoration of her chambers in their London residence, she had met the housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, and the cook, Mrs. Coomb, matronly figures she liked in an instant. Roberts, his butler, had been hired before Trevor’s father died. Winton, his valet, was a grey-haired stodgy character that reminded her of Jennings, the butler at Elliott House. There was Thornton, the coachman, and Jones, the groom. And she had not yet been introduced to the gardener, the undergrooms, and the footmen, not to mention the housemaids. And in the event her memory failed, tucked inside her reticule was a sheet of paper on which she had written several names.

  When
the coach passed through the gates of Althrup proper, she bit her lip and squeezed her fingers.

  “Stop worrying.” A brow arched, Trevor covered her hands with his. “You will do fine.”

  In the forecourt the coach halted, and the countess of Lockwood disembarked with her earl.

  The servants stood in line, waiting to greet their master and new mistress. As she crossed the threshold into the grand foyer, Caroline gazed at the high moulded ceiling and, at its center, a magnificent crystal chandelier. An oakwell staircase opened to a wide landing, and she spied what appeared to be an immense gallery. Mrs. Porter and Roberts made the introductions, and she expended considerable effort to address those she could remember by name.

  “Your ladyship, perhaps you would like to freshen up after the long ride and rest before dinner?” the housekeeper inquired once the staff had been dismissed. “May I show you to your room?”

  “An excellent notion, Mrs. Porter. Ring for a bath.” Caroline turned to her unusually quiet husband. “My lord?”

  As a Greek statue, Trevor seemed fixated on a large portrait of a proud looking nobleman that she surmised, from the noticeable resemblance, was his father.

  With tentative steps, she neared. “My lord?”

  His brow a mass of furrows, he said nothing. As though chiseled in stone, his features appeared tense.

  Perplexed by his abrupt change in demeanor, she inched closer and tugged on his coat sleeve. “Trevor?”

  “What!” he barked. “What do you want?”

  Startled by his harsh outburst, she jumped. “Forgive my interruption. Are you unwell?”

  “No.” His tone was pure acid.

  Anger radiated from his body, and she was confused to find herself the target of his ire. “I beg your pardon, my lord. If you have no need of me, I should like to retire to my apartments.”

  Nodding once, Trevor said, “Go.”

  Shock shivered over her flesh. Caroline hugged herself and made for the stairs. “Lead the way, Mrs. Porter.”

  The housekeeper cast her a sympathetic glance, then averted her stare. “Perhaps I should have the painting removed to the gallery, your ladyship.”

  At the landing, they turned left and navigated a long hall. Caroline said in a low voice, “Has his lordship not made such a request before?”

  “Before--what, my lady?” the servant asked as she opened a door.

  “I was referring to one of his lordship’s previous visits.” Caroline swept into a chamber that immediately made her feel at home and doffed her gloves. The countess’s suite had been decorated in the same creamy white and deep blue, the latter chosen because it reminded her of the sea and her captain, she had selected for her quarters in London. “Has he not already declared an objection to the portrait?”

  “I do not follow, your ladyship.” Standing at the center of the sitting room, Mrs. Porter appeared surprised. “The present Earl of Lockwood has not been in residence at Althrup for over twenty years.”

  #

  After washing away the road dust, and donning a shirt and buckskin breeches, Trevor stalked the earl’s apartments. As he paced along the sidewall, the chamber seemed to collapse on him from every angle, and his knees weakened. Everywhere he looked, memories evoked his father’s visage. Echoes of rejections, the vehemence of an embittered and broken sire, haunted his every step. Raking a hand through his wet hair, he lowered his chin and stared at the floor. The successful sea captain still carried the wounds of the little boy who had departed Althrup, unwanted and unloved, so long ago.

  And he hated himself for it.

  “Why did I come back to this hell on earth?”

  Gooseflesh pricked his arms, and he stomped toward the bed and flung himself onto the mattress. For a few minutes, Trevor studied the ceiling, until it spun out of control, swirling into a black chasm that mirrored his hollow existence. Hideous laughter, mocking and taunting, roared in his ears, nausea rolled his belly like the tide, and his palms dampened with perspiration.

  When he had given his bride a brief overview of his ancestral home from a distance, he had thought the fiery ache in his heart, torments of his youth, had been extinguished by years of hard work, loose women, and bad ale. But the second he entered the foyer and faced his father, albeit via a portrait, the agony of his childhood struck him as a bullet between the eyes.

  “I need to get out of here.”

  He leaped from the large four-poster and stopped.

  “But where could I go?”

  His gaze lit on the door adjoining his suite with his wife’s. A balm for his soul was always to be had in her warm embrace. A tumble might be just what he needed. Trevor was already in her room when he realized he had moved.

  By the window, Caroline reclined on a chaise. As he approached, he discovered she was asleep. With her cheek resting against her palm, and classic features sublime in repose, she could pass for one of Botticelli’s angels. Though a quilt covered her body, his imagination supplied a vivid picture of the svelte form he had spent the better part of the night surveying with his tongue. Careful not to disturb her slumber, he eased to the foot of the chaise. Slipping a hand beneath the blanket, he stroked a shapely calf.

  “You never should have married me.”

  Guileless, unafraid of her own raw vulnerability; he could not fathom why she wanted him. Beautiful, sweet, and generous, she deserved more than a shell of a man, yet that knowledge did not dull his desire to sate his senses in her velvety flesh, nor had it kept him from the altar. Walking his fingers along the curve of her leg, he caressed the back of her knee.

  “You do not know what I am.”

  Caroline shifted, and he froze.

  On a moan, she wrinkled her nose, and then appeared to relax.

  “One day I will hurt you.” In an unconventional warning, Trevor gripped her ankle. “And you will leave me as has everyone else.”

  A soft cry passed her lips, and he released her just as she opened her eyes.

  “My lord, is something wrong?” Caroline sat upright and yawned. “You look quite pale.”

  The quilt dropped to her waist, and, to his delight and much needed distraction, his wife was clothed only in a sheer robe. “What have we here?”

  “Hmm?” His blushing bride peered at her state of dress, or lack thereof, and reached for the quilt. “Oh, dear.”

  “No, do not hide from me.” He clutched the end of the blanket and tugged in the opposite direction. “I am savoring the view.”

  “Trevor.” With a half-hearted kick, more playful than serious, she yanked on the cover. “What will the servants say?”

  “Who cares?” The lusty feminine cry with which she never failed to herald her release would provide his staff with plenty of juicy gossip. He wanted to hear her shout with ecstasy--now. After wrestling the quilt from her grasp, he tossed it to the floor. “We are married.”

  “But, is it proper?” Caroline licked her lips and appeared to have noted that his shirt was open. “We always have...relations in the dark. Should we not wait for night?”

  “You little fraud.” In one swift move, he scooped her into his arms. “You do not want to wait, do you?”

  As he carried her into his chamber, she shook her head.

  “I thought as much.” Trevor chuckled and deposited her in his bed. How was it possible for a woman to blush from head to toe, he wondered as he divested Caroline of the robe? “My dear, if you must offer some excuse to those who would inquire, though I doubt anyone will, simply say that we took a nap.”

  “But I have already napped.” Her skepticism was palpable, and she blinked.

  “Then you are going to keep me warm.” After stripping off his shirt, Trevor unfastened his breeches and marveled at her innocence despite the fact that he had claimed her virginity months ago.

  “My lord, you are almost twice my size.” Inclining her head, she clucked her tongue. “Who would believe such nonsense?”

  “Caroline, are you going to argue w
ith me for the remainder of the afternoon?” With his breeches at his thighs, he sat on the edge of the mattress and dropped his drawers.

  “I was only--”

  Her mouth fell agape, and her protest died when he stood and faced her in fully aroused glory. How he enjoyed flustering his highborn bride. “You were saying, my dear?”

  “Y-you are insatiable,” Caroline whispered while averting her stare.

  “Get used to it.” On all fours, Trevor climbed atop the bed, nudged her knees apart, and settled his hips to hers. Although he did not love his wife, and never would, he could make love to her. “Because for the next couple of hours, you shall be my pillow.”

  #

  When Caroline checked her appearance in the vanity mirror prior to dinner, the subtle flush in her cheeks from an afternoon of vigorous lovemaking was still evident. Dressed in a low-cut red gown, chosen to bolster her arsenal as she prepared to launch an offensive, she descended the main staircase and strolled into the drawing room. An impressive rumble in her belly signaled a voracious hunger, or a wicked case of nerves, and she was glad her husband had not yet presented himself.

  Tonight signaled a new beginning in the campaign to win Trevor’s heart. In order to have any chance of success, she had to persuade him to allow a monumental breach of etiquette. At issue was a centuries old practice, a stricture governing the marital household.

  Hands settled at her waist, and warm lips caressed the top of her ear. “That was a memorable nap.”

  “Nap?” Inclining her head, she gazed at the man foremost on her mind. “But you did not sleep.”

  “Those are the best kind, darling.” Through her dress, he pinched her bottom. “Shall we schedule a repeat performance for tomorrow?”

  Oh, dear.

  “My lord, that sounds lovely.” Passion battled with a genuine desire for food, and Caroline feared she might waste away if he did not let her eat. “But there is something I need to discuss with you.”