THE SENSE OF HONOR

by Ashley Kath-Bilsky

  “I-I was not hiding,” she said with a soft sigh.

  He pulled back slightly and looked into her unforgettable eyes. “I thought you hurt or angry over what happened between us in the hop garden.”

  “Nothing happened in the hop garden.”

  Devlin crooked a brow, unable to hide his amusement. “Is that so? I have never known a woman to deny her first kiss. I am nothing if not wounded.”

  An adorable look of righteous discomfiture came to face. “And what, pray tell, makes you think ‘twas my first kiss?”

  “An experienced man knows these things.” He proceeded to nibble on a velvety earlobe, drawing it into his mouth, and prompting an exquisite gasp of pleasure from her.

  “Is—is that why you regretted kissing me?”

  With a laugh, he backed her up against the trunk of the tree. “Is that what I said?”

  “Yes, more or less.”

  A breath away from her sweet, succulent lips, he whispered, “You mistook my meaning, my dear Miss Tatum. In truth, I would like nothing better than to kiss you again—right here, right now.”

  Pulling her into his embrace, he covered her mouth in a slow, deep, wet seduction that effectively intimated what he wanted to do with a far more potent part of his anatomy. To his delight and amazement, she deftly engaged his tongue in a manner as arousing and enticing as a houri in a harem.

  The world seemed to spin out of control. Between the intensely erotic sounds of their kissing, heavy breathing, and the surge of passion firing his blood, he found himself unable to wait a moment longer to bury his unyielding cock deep within the honeyed harbor of her lush, welcoming body.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “When lovely woman

  stoops to folly,

  And finds too late

  that men betray,

  What charm can soothe

  her melancholy?

  What art can wash

  her guilt away?”

  ~ Oliver Goldsmith

  (1730-1774)

  Vicar of Wakefield

  One more moment and I will end this heavenly madness, Christiana vowed to herself. But before that moment came, her suddenly weightless body drifted to the soft green grass, guided by the strong arms of Mr. Randolph. He came with her, his hard, lean body covering hers yet angled in such a way his weight didn’t crush her.

  Speckled rays of sunlight glistened like crystals through the leaves above her head. A soft breeze sang sweetly about them, and it seemed the very ground beneath her trembled.

  They kissed over and over, feeding upon each other as if seeking nourishment found only by the exquisite joining of mortal lips.

  The cadence of their breathing became a melody unto itself.

  He whispered provocative words of passion and guidance.

  She acquiesced willingly.

  Despite the thrill his wondrous ardor evoked, she moaned with keen frustration, needing something more. Her fingers pulled at fabric, desperate to probe beneath layers of his clothing and caress the naked breadth of his powerful shoulders. He must have understood for he pulled back long enough to hastily remove his jacket, waistcoat and shirt, tossing them carelessly aside onto the emerald turf.

  He returned to her again with intoxicating kisses that melted any lingering reason. Then, with a startled gasp, she realized that all the while he’d been kissing her mouth—at times nibbling upon her neck or laving the pulse point in the hollow of her throat with his tongue—he’d quite effortlessly lowered her gown and loosened the ties of her half-corset, freeing the constraints of her breasts. Though stunned by her immodesty, she became enraptured by the heated desire in his expression as their gazes met.

  He gently squeezed and caressed her breasts, now faintly visible through the simple linen chemise. It proved a scandalously thin barrier between her flesh and his eyes. She bit her bottom lip as the pads of his large thumbs teased sensitive nipples until they resembled cold, ripened berries beneath the fabric. Then he lowered his head and ringed the taut tips with his tongue, prompting a strange, mewling sound from her lips that oddly corresponded with a tingling sensation at the juncture of her thighs.

  He adored each breast using his lips and tongue until she trembled with uncontrollable urgency. The flimsy linen undergarment soon resembled a second skin. Only then did he slide the inconsequential barrier below now aching breasts.

  Flicking the hardened nubs with his tongue, he teased and nibbled playfully. Soft moans and panting breaths lifted from her throat. His gaze lifted to hers, a seductively wicked smile curving the corners of his lips. Just when it seemed she’d accustomed herself to the intense sensation, he sucked hard upon a distended nipple, prompting a gasp of quivering delight.

  Surprised by the force of his ardor, and thrilled by a powerful need spiraling throughout her body, Christiana arched toward the source of maddening pleasure. Gathering thick strands of his sable hair in her fingers, she held him close against her breast. ‘Twas then she realized his other hand had brazenly moved beneath her gown, drifting slowly toward the hot, wet place between her thighs.

  She started to stay his hand, but maidenly shock took flight when he cupped the heat of her blossoming womanhood. His fingers deftly stroked and plied the honeyed petals, then slipped inside her very core with a thrilling rhythm.

  Struggling to focus on the tantalizing, unyielding bliss, she heard the harsh, labored sound of his breathing. His expression appeared one of both wondrous desire and an aching torment. Pulling his head to her mouth, she kissed him deeply, wanting to share the sensual frenzy that now vibrated throughout her body.

  At the same time, his skilled hand continued its merciless ministration, insidiously finding some hidden spot deep within her woman’s flesh, manipulating it in such a way she found herself quivering toward a mysterious portal of sensual ecstasy.

  The elusive horizon drew near. She no longer possessed a will of her own, restraint, or even control of her body. Unable to speak, she could do nothing more than embrace the magic conjured by this enchanter and pray she survived. And when it seemed she could endure not one heartbeat more of this strange pleasure-pain, she cried out and soared in undulating waves of rapture.

  Christiana didn’t know how long it took to return to some semblance of her former self, but when it seemed her spirit had returned to her body, her eyes opened. The first thing she saw was his handsome face smiling down at her—an expression of pride and something else, something very powerful.

  He rested the brunt of his weight upon an elbow, his mesmerizing gaze steady upon her. His free hand cradled the side of her face with such a gentleness he made her want to weep. More than anything she wanted to confide in him, to trust him with her very heart. She had to hear he wasn’t a spy for Pemberton. And she had to see his face when he said the words. If he truly cared for her, if this wasn’t merely lust for him, he would tell her what she needed to know—and set her fears to rest.

  His eyes darkened. He leaned closer. His lips brushed against hers with exquisite tenderness, and a promise of something more.

  Ask him now, before it is too late.

  Her voice lifted from her throat. “Why are you really here at Bellewyck?”

  He pulled back, his breathing rough like a smithy’s bellows. “What?”

  “Please, I need to know why you came here.” She’d spoken quickly, hoping that by saying the words in haste, he might answer in the same manner.

  Instead, he looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. A heartbeat later, he practically jumped to his feet then roughly adjusted trousers she’d not realized had been unfastened. Lifting his shirt from the ground, he shook it out, and donned it again.

  “I am nothing it not curious, my sweet.” He turned and glared at her. “Why the devil do you think I have come here?”

  Sitting up, she awkwardly corrected her chemise. Her hands shook with the realization she’d just made a horrible mistake. Not only had she shattered the beauty of their intimacy, but if
he was indeed just a steward, he now had more reason to suspect her than ever before.

  She struggled to tighten the front lacings of her corset and situate her gown. Glancing up, she studied his profile. He clenched his jaw so hard, it pulsed. His breathing expelled hard and fast—no doubt in rhythm with his outrage. Then, as if feeling her avid attention, he looked at her. Seeing the palpable disgust in his eyes, she wanted to disappear.

  Death itself seemed enticing.

  Though still trembling, she managed to stand. Bolstering her shoulders back, she feigned courage she no longer felt. “I-I am sorry to upset you,”—she paused to bring some measure of calm to her voice—“but I-I just happened to recall how you said you did not want to be at Bellewyck Abbey.”

  “You happened to recall? Just when, pray tell, did you happen to recall that remark?” His voice sounded angry, forceful, though still deadly quiet. “Do tell me, my dear Miss Tatum. At what point during the throes of passion did that particular thought come to mind?”

  Retrieving his waistcoat and jacket from the ground, he also donned those garments in haste. Facing her again, his eyes narrowed into hard slits. “Did you think by gifting me with your body, that I would be so besotted by the honor, I would forget my duty to Pemberton?”

  “Can you not try to understand?”

  He held up a hand to silence her. “I believe I understand well enough, thank you.”

  “Do you?” She raised her chin, determined not to cry. “I think not. You have made it quite clear to me from the moment you arrived that you do not want to be here. You have no interest in ale-making and, judging by the way you are now behaving, I strongly suspect you do not even like me. Am I simply a diversion whilst you are here? A comely country wench to dally with during an imposed exile from London?”

  “Oh-ho,” he exclaimed. “Do not think to twist this around to me. You and you alone are responsible for this manipulative interlude. I see it all too clearly now. You started this encounter when you followed me into this orchard. And, I might add, you were hardly shy or reticent about accepting my advances.”

  Angry now, Christiana put her hands on her hips. “Dare I remind you, Mr. Randolph, that you kissed me and then you. . .”

  He arched a brow and smirked, taunting her for an explanation.

  “You know what you did,” she charged. “You kept touching me in, well, in a most ungentlemanly manner.” She tried again, gesturing madly at his face, his hands, and the rest of his body. Yet all that came out of her mouth was, “You, you, you.”

  Arms folded across his chest, he smiled with arrogant derision. “Do go on. You were saying?”

  Unable to complete her thought, Christiana closed her eyes and took a calming breath. She refused to behave like some stuttering fool. By sheer force of will, she opened her eyes and glared at him. “You know what you did. And I would not have followed you into this orchard had you not been so upset about my coming out of it.”

  He stalked toward her until she found herself backed up against the trunk of the cherry tree. This time, however, he stopped an arm’s length away. “Since the only way one might reach the orchard is through the knot garden where, incidentally, I had been conversing with Rooney, I was understandably curious how you happened to fly over a stone wall and into this orchard without my notice.”

  “You must be mad.”

  “And you are guilty as sin.”

  Christiana felt as if the blood had drained out of her body. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  She swallowed with difficulty. “And of what precisely am I guilty?”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  “I am all amazement. Would you care to be more specific?”

  “Permit me to enumerate, Miss Tatum. You disappear for days then appear as if from nowhere. You are damnably secretive and suspiciously guarded about every enquiry. And I know why. You and the others have stolen from this estate, likely for years, hence explaining its sparse furnishings. I also suspect that you, my impertinent little beauty, have falsified the estate books to cover those crimes. In general, I have not accepted, or believed, one word any of you have said.”

  Christiana tried to hide the terror sweeping into every bone in her body like an acrid, deadly poison. The implications of his words made her weak, nauseous, and dizzy. Apart from the fact he’d spoken too close to the truth, he’d made an important revelation she couldn’t ignore. And it cut through her heart like an assassin’s blade.

  She’d been right all along. He is a spy for Pemberton.

  Feeling trapped, she managed to side-step away from the tree. Bile rose in her throat. She was going to be sick right in front of the man. Then again, she might very well faint. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to cry. Instead, she raised her quivering chin, praying he wouldn’t notice, and said nothing.

  “Heed my words, Miss Tatum.” His expression remained cold, unwavering in its condemnation. “I intend to make it my life’s work to prove everything you have done, and everything you are hiding.”

  Trembling so hard, she could barely stand, Christiana watched Mr. Randolph turn and storm out of the orchard. She heard the gate slam shut. Only then did she allow her knees to give way. She collapsed upon the ground. Stunned by what just happened between them, and the frightening accusations and threats he’d made, she didn’t even try to stop the tears.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Curiosity is one of the most permanent

  and certain characteristics

  of a vigorous intellect.”

  ~ Samuel Johnson

  (1709-1784)

  The Rambler

  He missed London, the daily rituals of a well-ordered life, the comforts of his home in Mayfair, and the noise of carriages ambling through Hyde Park. He longed to discuss politics in tobacco-scented sanctuaries of masculinity on Pall Mall, or take an early morning ride along Rotten Row. Even the social whirl of parties, musicales and gaming dens seemed of another time, another life. And though he missed the sexual satisfaction experienced as the Duke of Pemberton, his desires remained focused on someone much closer than London, someone with breathtaking violet eyes and raven hair.

  Four monotonous days had passed since his passionate rendezvous and tumultuous argument with Miss Christiana Tatum in the orchard. Accompanying those days, four grueling nights found him unable to do anything but think of her.

  He couldn’t sleep. He could barely eat. And were there anything more substantial to drink than Bellewyck ale, he’d likely find himself foxed every night.

  It had to be guilt. No matter how justified he’d felt at the time, his loss of temper and cruelty in the orchard appalled him now. She’d done nothing more than ask a question about why he came to Bellewyck Abbey. Of course, she’d be curious. Anyone would be. In retrospect, his anger had been more about her timing than anything else. But rather than handle the situation in stride, if not humor, he’d made threats and cruel accusations.

  “What if I am wrong about her—about all of them?”

  He had no proof about the existence of a ward. And despite suspicion and speculation, he’d not found one shred of evidence to condemn the servants of any wrongdoing either. Even his theory about another set of books resulted from mere conjecture.

  He had, however, witnessed how every servant at Bellewyck Abbey worked extremely hard, laboring at a variety of duties for which they were paid pitifully low wages. They woke before dawn and retired early. No doubt exhausted, the entire household slept peacefully at an hour when he would be going out for an evening of social delights in town.

  Flat on his back, hands clasped behind his head, Devlin stared at the collection of nubile nymphs cavorting shamelessly on the gauche French toile bed hangings. But the one figure he wanted to see anywhere near his bed, cavorting or otherwise, now wanted nothing to do with him. Like a bloody fool, he’d destroyed each fragile step taken toward earning her trust.

  Giving up on sleep, he rose from the bed. “Perhap
s if I read one of those damn books on brewing ale, I could strike up a conversation with her about estate business.”

  A moment later, holding a brace of candles to light his way, Devlin walked down the long, darkened corridor toward the staircase. He’d just reached the head of the stairs when a whisper of movement made him turn about.

  What appeared to be the figure of a monk walked down the hallway in the opposite direction. Wearing a traditional long white robe, a deep cowl covered the back of the monk’s head. The apparition seemed to float on air then turned the corner leading to the tower’s third floor.

  What the devil?

  He quickly followed, but by the time he reached the corner where the ghostly apparition had turned, there was no one in sight. Focusing on a logical explanation, he studied the ancient stone walls. A curious thought came to mind.

  The walls that enclose the private orchard are made of this same stone.

  At that moment he noticed a fragrance lingered in the air—a subtle mixture of lemon and rose-scented soap. A slow, knowing grin curved his lips.

  Devlin observed Mrs. Lloyd listening with an attentive, gentle expression as she sat with the housekeeper in the kitchen. A moment later, however, the matronly cook’s expression sobered as her gaze met his in the doorway.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Lloyd,” Devlin said.

  Miss Tatum looked over her shoulder at him. A rush of high color rose upon her cheeks, quite understandable considering they’d not seen each other since the orchard.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Good morning to you as well, Miss Tatum.” He entered the kitchen, making a pretense of scrutinizing the stone walls and various cooking accoutrements, knowing full well the two women watched him. Stopping before the hearth, he warmed his hands then looked inside a pot of bubbling porridge.

  “Is there somethin’ I can do for ye, Mr. Randolph?” asked Mrs. Lloyd.