Yes, he wanted more. He slid his hands upward, from her waist to just beneath them. Then he kissed one of those pouting buds through the gown. When she cupped the back of his head, almost to keep him in place, he closed his lips around the nubbin, and suckled her.
Chastity’s sigh, the growing pressure of her hand at his nape, the weight of her as she leaned into him, told him she craved his touch, almost as much as he craved hers.
Reed lifted her into his arms and laid her in the center of his bed, took in the sight, and knew that, here, she belonged. “No children between us tonight, Chastity. Just you and me. For starters, I want to hold you. I’ve dreamed of having you in my bed, since you met me at the door with a knife in your hand.”
She sighed and entered his embrace as he reached for her, fitting so well, he could slip inside her, with there no clothes between them, and if he were totally witless.
Nevertheless, his body thought the notion grand.
Chastity adjusted herself to accommodate his need, paying no mind to his pulsing clamor for entry, while he learned her with his palms. Concave here, convex there, soft, warm, satin. He cupped her bottom, stroked a thigh, made a daring dip inward, inching closer and closer to her core.
She froze.
He grinned. “Question?”
She shook her head, uncertain but curious.
“More?”
She hesitated, but nodded.
His body did an impressive dance of joy, considering its restraints, and he pulled her closer. She raised her knee against him, and he bit off a groan at the blessed friction.
Beneath her gown, he returned his attention to her inner thigh, stopping short of intimacy. “Sweetheart, what you’re doing is driving me daft, wonderfully so, but I want you to feel the same. Do you want that? Will you let me touch you?”
“The children?”
“Are asleep for the night. You know how the boys fight over the covers, and there’s that board in their floor squeaks.”
“I know, but how do you?”
“I can hear them from here. They’ll be fine. We’ll hear if even one of them wakes.”
“Yes, but ... it isn’t fair. You’re touching skin, and I cannot reach any.”
No need to unbutton his britches; he was about to break free and have done. With a groan, he kissed her, hot and hard. “You want to touch skin, you go right ahead. Nobody to stop you.”
She grinned. “Don’t move your hand while I do,” she said. “I like where it is.”
“I have died and gone to heaven.”
“Oh, please, do not bring heaven into this,” she said, as she unfastened the placket on his pants. “It will make me think.”
Reed chuckled. “We cannot have that.” No woman had ever made him laugh like— “Aaahh.”
Sweet Chastity Somers learned some contours and textures of her own and with great attention to detail.
“Do not stop,” he breathed against her neck.
She pushed his trousers off his hips. “They’re in the way,” she said.
He thought of heaven, again, but kept it to himself. His pants were gone, his shirt open. She failed to remove her gown, however, and he decided not to push. When she settled down, he put himself in her hands and floated above the clouds.
“You’ve a rare talent for this,” he said on a gasp.
“I cannot imagine why. I never did it before.”
Not even to her husband? Stunned, Reed took her mouth, stroked her core, and asked no questions. Her sweet warmth spread like spilled honey on a hot summer day. Her short gasps, the way she shifted and opened to him, humbled him so much, he nearly let her go. He was not near good enough for her, after all, but his honorable thoughts were lost in wash after wash of blessed pleasure.
Need drove them as their strokes melded and hastened, the two of hem moving against and along each other, climbing apace, one with the other.
She called his name, and he saw stars, even as she reached them, not once, but three slow-rising times. He wanted inside her so bad, ‘twas a wonder he did not die of it.
When his turn came, she watched, he knew, as he soared in increasing pleasure to the point he thought he might expire after all.
‘Twas some time later that he knew he’d lived, as he relaxed, sated and replete, and pulled her close, his hand on her bottom, hers on his, skin to sweat-slick skin.
They’d watched each other. Amazing. Intimate. He had never made love, before, where his partner could watch, and never by candlelight. And who was he trying to fool; he had never made love before.
Even a sexual encounter with Chastity was different, enhanced, remarkable, and he had not yet entered her. He wanted to, however, to make love to her, really make love to her, all through the night. He swelled again imagining it. But if they did become one in the truest sense, he would never be able to let her go ... and that would be the greatest sin of all.
Reed woke later in the morning than usual, but alone, as always.
He found Chastity washing clothes in the kitchen and admired the blush working its way up her neck when she saw him. He kissed the top of her head as she bent over the tub, and she placed her cheek against his for a beat. “I have an idea,” she said, studying the wet clothes in the tub.
“Oh, me, too,” he practically purred, though she did not react to his quip.
“What say you to seeking the local gravedigger, to learn what you can about the ‘wee bodies,’ never buried. He might know of Lady Barrington’s death. Seems the kind of story people pass down,” Chastity said.
And so it was that Reed found himself at the Turtle and Hare, quaffing ale and awaiting that formidable Painswick personage known as “Old Duncan the Digger.”
“Old Duncan,” according to the burly innkeeper, “buried ‘em all so far back, he prob’ly planted them as missed the Ark.”
“Do you know where I can find Old Duncan?” Reed asked.
“All but lives ‘ere,” said the pub owner. “Sleeps ‘ere sometimes too, when he canna’ lift his head from the table. A drinker is Old Duncan. M’best customer. Due anytime.”
By ten in the morning? When? Reed wondered. Did Old Duncan find time to dig?
He came stumbling in a bit late; must have drunk a larger breakfast than usual. After taking his seat, he near fell off, at which point Reed almost left, but Chastity was right. Who best to answer his questions?
“Innkeeper,” Reed called, sitting across from the sot. “Give my friend a bucket of your best coffee and a hearty breakfast.”
“Ale,” Duncan said. “Give me ale, I say. And who the bloomin’ devil are you?”
“Reed Gilbride, friend. Eat breakfast and I’ll pay for your day’s drink.”
Duncan’s eyes widened. “I can guzzle, if you can pay,” he said, assessing his benefactor. “What do I have to do?”
“Answer a few questions.”
Reed watched Old Duncan dig into his kidney pie. By the looks of him, he’d drunk his meals for years. A second helping was called for, before he’d talk. Then the digger refused to answer questions until his dessert of ale arrived. When it did, he took a swig and sighed like it was the nectar of life. “Give me questions, I’ll give you answers,” said he, cackling at his muddled wit.
“You know the house on the hill, Sunnyledge?” Reed asked.
Duncan’s eyes widened and he stilled, his nod imperceptible. He emptied his tankard and called for more.
“Did you ever collect a body from the tower, there?”
Duncan’s tankard trembled, so the digger set it down. “Aye.”
“From the tower?” Reed repeated. “And just one body?”
Duncan nodded, again, guzzled again.
“About thirty years ago?” Reed persisted, determined to get the facts straight, considering his source.
Duncan looked at each corner of the room, each customer, and leaned so near, Reed thought he’d gag from the stench. “Aye.”
“No babies? You collected Lady Barringto
n’s body, but no dead babies that night?”
Duncan began to weep like a babe, himself. “Eternal damnation, said he. Eternal damnation, if I told. Three caskets there were. Three. I buried three bloody caskets. One big, two small.”
“So you did take three bodies from the tower?”
Duncan sobbed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and swigged ale. “I’ll go t’hell if I tell. God’s man promised.”
“God’s man?” Reed repeated. “Who is God’s man?”
“Gone,” said the drooling digger. “He got eternal rest. Would that I could.” Duncan shook his head.
“If he’s dead, he won’t know you told.”
“I ... s’pose.” Duncan looked about again. “Spittin’ mad, God’s man, ‘cause Barrington took his sister.”
“All right,” said Reed, getting closer, despite the stink of spilled ale and unwashed body. “God’s man was crazed. Is that why he did it?”
“Did what?” The digger put down his drink and fisted his palsied hands.
Reed ran an impatient hand over his face. “Let’s back up. The Earl of Barrington took God’s man’s sister. Right?”
“Aye.”
“Where did he take her?”
“Ta hell!”
“She’s dead then, too?” Reed winced at his rising ire.
Duncan shook his head in a slow parody of denial. “Might as well be.”
Reed wanted either to introduce Duncan’s slack jaw to his fist, or wring the inebriate’s neck. Why waste his time? Nothing to learn from a man, offensive in every way.
Duncan shook his head. “‘E took the sister of a man of God as his mistress, while his wife watched.” The last ended in a whisper.
“What? Who? Damnation, I sound as daft as you.”
Duncan looked offended. He slammed his tankard on the oaken table and gave Reed a narrow-eyed stare. “Daft?”
“Sorry old man. Ho, the innkeeper. More ale, here. God’s man is the man of the cloth you spoke of, isn’t he?”
“He was a bastard.”
“Literally, or figuratively?”
“Huh?”
Reed shook his head. “Never mind.” Reed spoke slowly, “Barrington took the sister of this man of the cloth as his mistress, and it made God’s man mad? Real mad?”
“How’d ya know?”
Reed slapped Duncan on the back. By God he was beginning to enjoy this. “Which woman died in childbirth, the wife or the mistress? Or did they each give birth to one of the babes?”
Duncan sucked in his breath and stood in outrage. “Blasphemy!”
Reed rose as fast and grasped his shoulders to shove him back in his chair. “The babies, Duncan. The babies the Sunnyledge ghost seeks. Why are they missing? Where are they?”
“Eternal damnation, if I tell.”
“Do you know?”
“Do I know what?”
“Where the twins are?”
“If I did, I couldn’t tell. He would know.”
“Where is he?”
Duncan smiled. “Dead.”
“Then he cannot harm you. Besides, how can a mortal send you to hell?”
“He’s God’s man.”
“Ah. That explains it. I think. God’s man, also known as the man of the cloth, said you could not tell what happened to the babies. All right. Let me guess. Two of the caskets were empty.”
Duncan shook his head in denial.
“There were dead babies in the caskets?”
The digger shook his head, again. “Thirsty.”
“Innkeeper, roll the keg over will you? All right.” Reed rubbed his hands together. “There were no babies buried, but there was something in the small caskets?”
“In one,” Digger whispered close to Reed’s ear. “‘Twas a book,” “Look for yourself.”
It took Reed a minute not to gag from the stench. “Where is the casket that holds the book?”
“St. Yves Chapel. Careful o’ the witch. Somethin’ frightful, that one.”
Reed stood and dropped a goodly number of coins before the man sobbing into his ale. “Take a bath, get some new clothes. I thank you.”
“Aye,” Duncan said. “Pray for me.”
“I’ll have Chastity do that,” Reed said as he left. He climbed toward Sunnyledge, his mind awhirl. God’s men and ghosts, books and empty caskets, mistresses and witches. “Bloody hell, the tale reads like a Gothic novel.”
He found a dozen pieces to a puzzle that needed a hundred, and returned with more questions than he took, but when Sunnyledge came into view, despite his frustration, Reed had the odd notion he was come home. And when Chastity came out to meet him, he forgot the riddle and opened his arms. Home.
She ran to him, and he nuzzled her the way she had nuzzled him in the kitchen this morning, until she sought his lips, and he kissed her the way he’d wanted earlier. She uplifted him.
“Did you learn anything?” she asked.
He steered her along the side of the house toward the shed. “Same grave digger for the past hundred years or so, according to the locals. Drunk as a lord, always, weeping like a babe when I left. He talked a ridiculous muddle. As near as I could tell, a woman did die giving birth to twins in that tower. The babies? Who knows? The old codger was scared to death—of God’s man, said he. I think he suggested I dig up the caskets.”
Chastity pulled away. “Good heavens, you are not going to desecrate a grave?”
“According to the Digger, no one’s there.”
“Oh, but Reed. You cannot.”
“Chastity, I need to know who I am.”
She touched his cheek, and gasped. “Oh!” She slapped a hand to her heart. “Thea, you frightened me. Did you want something?”
Thea’s smile made her look beautiful. “I have a task that needs tending,” their housekeeper said, “one long past due. It may take a day or so before I can return.” She practically skipped away.
Something about Thea still bothered Reed.
“Do you not think she’s ... strange?” Chastity asked.
“As a chaperone,” he said, “she leaves much to be desired, then again, I thank her for last night.” He kissed her, and she kissed him back.
The children’s cheers brought them back to earth.
Laughing at Chastity’s chagrin at being caught, once more, by the children, Reed went on to the shed and returned with the barrow, a shovel, chisel, and pickaxe. “Go and care for your cygnets, my sweet sheltering swan. I’ll be grave-digging at the chapel, if you need me.”
Chastity his Reed with a clump of sod as he walked away. He turned to her. “I understand your reservations, but I have to do this.”
Except for the steeple, the exterior of the small boxy structure hardly looked like a chapel. The plaque on the door said it was built in 1136 by a St. Yves who might have been his ancestor. Fancy that.
A hesitation to ... desecrate ... tugged at Reed as he entered a place of worship with an intent to ravage. But he had lost all choice when he received that note.
Inside, angels knelt weeping over alabaster St. Yves laid out in effigy. On one sarcophagus, a man and woman lay side by side, hands clasped for eternity. He found an armored knight, sword over heart. A small girl, carved in rose marble, made him think of Bekah’s dip in the pond, and he shuddered.
He found the woman who supposedly searched for her missing babes, toward the back, in a dark corner, set apart, as in life. Why search, when here they were, tiny and perfect in snowy alabaster, one in each arm?
Emotion filled Reed; it clogged his throat and blurred his vision, as he knelt and touched the woman’s cold hand. “Peace,” he whispered.
He examined her face, and wondered why the beat of his heart did not echo about the chapel as loudly as it echoed in his head.
For her babes, he did not know what to feel, until he saw that the date of their deaths matched the date of his birth. Reed’s hand shook as he raised it to trace the numbers. Did this mark the end, or the beginning, of his q
uest?
He examined the sarcophagus, beneath them, housing their caskets, and grabbed his pickaxe. With regret for his destruction and a plan for reparation, he loosened the slate tiles on the floor around it.
Muscles straining, side throbbing after yesterday’s frantic climb, he lifted the hollow case enough to wedge a tile beneath. Continuing around, he lifted and wedged, until he could hook the pick itself full beneath. He groaned, and cursed, and overthrew the sarcophagus. The stitch in his side gave warning, but nothing could stop him now.
Dizziness came when Reed saw the three caskets, one large, of fine mahogany, below floor level, two small atop it, covered in decayed white velvet.
Reed ran his hand along the large casket’s preserved surface. His mother’s final resting place? Did she leave him unwillingly in death? If so, he’d blamed her all his life for naught. Still, he could not have survived without anger through the dark days of his childhood. What did it matter now, at any rate?
Suddenly forgiveness was within his power to give, so he did.
He experienced a freedom of spirit then, an elation he wished he could share with Chastity. If these two small caskets held remains, he would happily hand Sunnyledge to her.
If they were empty, or held a book, he would continue to search, but whatever the outcome, he would see to it that Chastity got her children’s home ... somewhere. Though nowhere, but here, with him, seemed right.
Had he gone utterly daft over this horrific search?
He lifted a tiny casket—too light—took a breath and grasped the lid, until panic seized him. Looking about, he sat on a front pew, the casket on his lap. He wished he knew how to pray. He feared it empty, feared as much that it held the remains of a babe. Neither sight appealed.
Did he want to be one of the St. Yves twins? Had anyone, before Chastity, ever cared what he wanted?
Reed tore off the lid, his unwitting shout of anguish disturbing the doves in the eaves, their fracas of flapping fit accompaniment to his find. Empty—as empty as his life—of all but a few desiccated beetles on a bed of white satin, a bed that never bore the body of a babe.
Neither did it hold a book.
He rose to fetch the other and opened the second with dispatch, his reaction no less intense. As empty as the first. Yet, when he looked more closely, he found dust of a different sort. Paper dust. Yellowed, and thick like flour, with grainy particles.
Unmistakable Rogue Page 20
