by Mary Campisi
“A cuckolded husband never forgets, especially when the man she’s cheating with is his best friend.” Jason downed his drink and said, “As wrong as it was, I believe Father really loved her.”
Holt studied his brother who was fair like their mother and sister, with thick, wheat-colored hair and an easy disposition. Holt was the one who’d been cursed to resemble a younger version of his father, from the black hair on his head to those damnable eyes. “You don’t find it strange that Mother died while you and Julia were away on holiday?”
“Fevers do not follow dictates of a calendar.” Jason’s lips flattened as Holt’s meaning sunk in. “For God’s sake you can’t believe Father murdered her.”
Holt shrugged. “I would not rule it out.”
Jason stared at him as though he’d just committed blasphemy. “He might have been many things, but a murderer was not one of them.”
“He was many things,” Holt said, refusing to refute his brother’s statement.
“At least he’s not here to witness Rendhaven’s lunacy.”
“What’s the man done?”
“Burned three ships and tried to set fire to the warehouse.”
“Rendhaven’s responsible for that?” Revenge proved a powerful weapon, one which apparently still pulsed in the man’s veins.
“Over the years there have been minor skirmishes, mostly childish attempts to blacken our name that always prove more embarrassing for him than us. But he’s never tried anything like this.”
Holt considered his brother’s latest news. If it were his decision, he would destroy the man. “What do you plan to do?”
“Damned if I know, but I’m not about to let the crazy loon ruin our business.”
“Tell me about the family. There was a girl, wasn’t there?”
“Two. Sophie is the oldest, a real beauty, too. She and Julia were best friends, until the old man brainwashed her.”
“What a damnable mess.” Perhaps the older girl was the key.
“I used to think his threats were harmless until the fires started. Now, I fear the drink’s pickled his brain and destroyed his reason. He wants us all to pay for his wife’s death.”
Chapter 2
Caroline Seacrest stroked a brush along an easel with slow, steady movements, her dark brows furrowed in concentration as she recreated the tulips and daffodils that burst forth in the garden at Waverly Manor.
“Splendid, Caroline! Why the tulips look so real I want to snatch them up and make a bouquet.” Sophie pretended to pluck flowers from the air and place them in a make-believe basket. “Oh, yes, this is the perfect tulip. And this one, and this as well.” She continued play-acting as her sister looked on, a faint smile on her lips. There were no tinkles of laughter to accompany the smile, not a single sound since the fatal morning of their mother’s death, ten years before.
“Sophie, what are you doing, snatching at the air like a woman gone mad?”
Both girls darted guilty glances toward the terrace where their Aunt Vivian stood. Ten years had not been kind to their father’s older sister. Frown lines embedded her face in a constant scowl as tightly drawn lips vanished into a narrow trace of flesh that inflated often as she ejected criticism with the speed and skill of a superb marksman. Her one claim to beauty, a luxurious mass of dazzling chestnut hair, had failed her, shriveling to a lifeless mop laced with veins of gray, yanked into a bun with such severity the skin around her eyes stretched upward. She did not share tea or casual conversation with the neighboring women and spoke to the servants only to reprimand and never twice. She did not own a gown other than black and had never attended a soiree or had a coming out party. Whispers abounded she was a witch. To this, Sophie could not say she disagreed.
“Your father received another note from Lord Rollings, requesting you take tea with his mother.”
Sophie wrinkled her nose. “Lord Rollings is a child of eight and twenty who still hides behind his mother’s skirts.”
“Perhaps. But you are equally disinterested in more mature suitors.”
“Phillip Dunning is an odious man with more dead wives than a cemetery. I have no interest in joining them.”
“You have no interest in joining the marriage ranks at all,” her aunt replied, squaring the bony shoulders of her gaunt frame. “You are two and twenty with less than a handful of offers in the last three years. Not many men are willing to show generosity or patience for the likes of your situation.” She inclined her bony neck toward Caroline who sat on the lawn picking blades of grass.
It would do no good to remind her aunt she had no intention of marrying anyone who would not accept Caroline into his household. “I rather like my spinsterish life,” she said. “It is quite freeing to dispense with the gushing and cooing over men’s silly banter. I do so prefer intelligent conversation as compared to sly smiles and batting eyelashes.”
“That is the most selfish bit of nonsense I have ever had the unfortunate privilege to witness.” Vivian crossed her arms over a nonexistent chest and demanded, “Do you feel no duty to your father?”
“Of course I do.” Sophie fought to keep her voice calm but the emotion slipped through. “Have I not worked hours each day in search of a means to make Seacrest Shipping more profitable? Have I not consulted with several other owners as well?”
“Have you consulted with Langford Shipping?” her aunt asked in a sly voice.
“Of course not. Father would sooner sink our entire fleet than speak with them, as would I.”
“If you do not soon find a remedy to patch the ever burgeoning hole in the company’s profitability, you may as well take that brush from your sister’s hand and paint the Langford name on the side of our ships.”
“That will never happen.”
“You could assure that by making a suitable match.”
Her aunt’s words clung to her the rest of the afternoon and put Sophie in a foul mood. She needed to get out of doors, away from the constraints of obligation and her aunt’s reprimands. When Caroline became absorbed in her French lesson, Sophie donned a riding habit and sought out her father. Unfortunately, he appeared determined to keep her indoors.
“Papa, I will be fine.” She brushed a kiss over his forehead, trying to ignore the shroud of alcohol covering him. “I need fresh air and the skies are only a bit overcast. Besides, I am quite capable of handling Aurora if a storm crops up."
Her father clutched her hand and said, “You are all I have left.” His faded gray eyes watered. “You look so like your mother. Sometimes when I see you in the garden or walking about, I actually think you are Charlotte.”
Saddened by her father’s frequent state of melancholy, Sophie chose to ignore his direct cut of Caroline. She had been about to remind him he had two daughters, but sensing his depressive mood, chose to hold her tongue. Drat it all, how she wished Caroline were the daughter who resembled their mother!
Anxious to be free of the oppressive state of Waverly Manor, Sophie hugged her father and hurried to the stables and the solace they offered.
***
They raced across Langford estate in one fluid motion picking up speed as they marked the property. It felt good to be on a horse again, especially one like Satan, the stallion few dared ride. Holt sped past the boundary of Langford and Seacrest property, so engrossed in the ride he didn’t realize his whereabouts until he crested a hill.
And then he saw her.
Far below and off some distance, a young woman rode a sorrel at breakneck speed. She was not in the conventional sidesaddle as was the accepted mode of the day, but sat astride the horse, her lithe body bent over the animal's mane as she urged him on. Her unpinned hair trailed behind her in a wild mass of auburn. Tantalizing. Seductive. He had a sudden desire to see the woman’s face.
Lightning split the sky, followed by claps of thunder and a shift from gray to black. There would not be sufficient time to make it back to Ellswood before all hell broke loose. A giant slash of lightning rippe
d the sky in half and sheets of rain pummeled the ground. Where had the woman gone? Holt urged a reluctant Satan through pellets of rain in search of the woman. He spotted her seconds before the sorrel bucked and threw her to the ground, then bolted away. Holt inched Satan down the sloping hill toward the unmoving body huddled in the field. When he reached the woman, he threw back the reins, dismounted, and bent to touch her.
Sophie sensed his presence before she lifted her head. She noted the muddy boots, twice the size of her father’s. Her gaze traveled the length of the towering figure to the man’s face. His eyes were dark, his hair, long and black, whipping around a face that was angled and stern, not at all in keeping with the handsome dandies of the day. The man resembled a medieval warrior more than a gentleman.
She yelped as he gathered her up in one arm and carried her to his horse where he lifted her onto the saddle, grabbed the reins and deftly mounted the animal behind her. They raced into the rain with Sophie’s head tucked against the man’s broad chest. She tried to ignore the ripple of muscle through his wet shirt but how did one ignore a near-naked man’s chest, especially if said chest was pressed against one’s person, separated by nothing more than soggy garments? The situation proved so unsettling that Sophie didn’t notice the horse had stopped until the rider dismounted, grasped her around the waist, and swung her from the horse’s back.
Once on solid ground, the man made no immediate move to release her. She raised her head and good Lord, but his eyes were captivating. What color were they? Green? Brown? The man’s eyes narrowed and he abruptly released her and headed toward the cottage. She followed him, surprised at the relative cleanliness of the abode which bore no traces of musty odors or layers of dust. It was actually quite cozy with a few hand-crafted pieces of furniture including a rocker and a single bed. As the stranger bent to the task of lighting a fire at the far end of the room, Sophie was again struck by his massive size.
Her gaze flitted from the stranger’s broad shoulders to the cottage door, then back to his shoulders. Where was she? She’d been so absorbed in her rescuer that she’d paid no attention to their destination. They could not have traveled far, yet they were no longer on Seacrest property which could only mean they were now on the closest bordering estate; Ellswood, home of the Langfords. Strangely enough, the man had seemed quite certain of his destination, despite the storm. As she pondered this, the truth of his identity struck her. “You’re the Langford’s gamekeeper.”
The muscles on his back tensed through his wet shirt before he turned and met her gaze. “Yes.”
He was not a handsome man by society’s standards. There was too much bulk, too much hair, good heavens, too much man, but there was something compelling about him that stuck her to her spot. Was it the eyes that appeared to consume her every breath? She could see them now, a deep navy. Or the roughness of his voice that sent a tremulous shiver through her entire body?
“And who are you?” he asked in a too soft voice as he stepped closer.
“Lady Sophie Seacrest.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Ah, a Seacrest.”
“You must know our gamekeeper, Hodge.”
He shook his head and long strands of wet hair clung to his shoulders. “No, I’ve only been at Ellswood a short time.”
Which explained why she had not seen or heard of him before today. Seacrests might be estranged from Langfords but staff tongues still wagged and Aunt Vivian made it her business to stay abreast of all happenings, claiming it was best to keep one’s enemies close.
The man retrieved a blanket from a nearby bureau and settled it around her shoulders. “You shouldn’t ride when a storm is threatening," he said, his deep voice curling around her.
She pulled the blanket closer in an effort to stave off the tingling in her middle and replied, “I’m an accomplished horsewoman.”
He lifted a brow and slivers of amusement filtered his words. “But not so accomplished as to remain seated during a thunderstorm?”
She shrugged and smiled. “Apparently not.”
“Step by the fire so you don’t catch a chill.”
Drops of water slid from her gown as she moved toward the fire’s heat. What would her father say if he knew she was alone in a cottage with a stranger, an employee of the Langford’s no less? He would not be pleased. Nor would her aunt. But they would never know for she would keep this one scrap of harmless adventure to herself and perhaps in nights ahead, pull it from her memories and think of the dark stranger.
“Drink this.” The man thrust a snifter in her hands and she took a healthy swallow, expecting brandy.
A burn captured her throat, stealing her breath as she coughed and sputtered. “This is not brandy!”
“No,” he smiled and his dark eyes glistened. “It’s whiskey.”
She coughed again and cleared her throat. “Why on earth do men find that drink so appealing? It is much too harsh and unrefined.”
“Some of the best things in life are harsh and unrefined,” he commented, glancing at her lips.
“I beg your pardon?” Her lips had begun a slow tingle, obviously a result of the whiskey.
“A kiss for example.” He moved closer and rubbed his jaw. “There are many kinds of kisses. There is the kiss you give your mother or the peck on the cheek for your father or aunt.” His voice dipped. “And then there is the other kind of kiss.”
“Oh?” The room suddenly grew very small.
He lifted a finger and traced her lower lip with such lazy perfection she forgot the dampness of her skin, forgot everything but the fiery tingle on her lips.
“Yes.” He worked his finger over her upper lip in a faint caress, then dipped into her parted mouth and stroked her tongue with the tip of his finger. “There is the kiss a man and a woman share. Harsh. Unrefined.”
She swallowed. “Oh?”
The man cupped her chin and leaned forward, brushing his lips over hers. “It’s part of an age old mating ritual, a dance which begins slowly with the faintest touch of skin to skin and escalates to,” he flicked his tongue across her lower lip, “more primitive methods of communication.”
“I see.” But she did not. Her lips tingled and burned where he stroked her, filling her with the need to…do something.
“And soon, there is only touching and all refinement slips away.” He captured her mouth once again, this time easing his tongue between her lips. He pulled her roughly to him, his massive arms circling her waist, sliding down her back.
A rush of heat spread through her as he pressed his hardness against her abdomen. She eased her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his long hair as wondrous sensations overtook her. Eager for more, she strained against his chest and sighed when the velvet fabric of her soggy riding habit heightened the pleasure.
“And then there is no more thinking.” He cupped her buttocks with a large hand, and murmured, “Only feeling.” His mouth slanted over hers, urging her lips apart as his tongue delved inside. Sophie moaned when he captured her tongue and gently sucked.
Oh, but this delicious tasting and touching must be wrong. But did she not deserve this one small pleasure after so many years of thinking only of others? Yes, her body cried, smothering logic and common sense. Yes!
The man eased his hand between them and worked the tiny buttons of her riding habit. “Enjoy, my sweet.” He unlaced her chemise and pushed the flimsy fabric aside. “You smell like lavender. I shall enjoy devouring you.” He lowered his head and captured a nipple in his mouth.
Sophie moaned as he licked the peak. Oh, the rapture, the tingling delight! She longed to succumb to the seductive powers of this stranger and revel in the sensations pulsing through her body. She moaned when he sucked first one, then the other nipple, skimming the pad of a callused thumb over the swollen bud. Oh dear Lord. She threw back her head and moaned again, surrendering to pure sensation. Nothing had ever felt more deliciously right.
But this was wrong. She could not add to the
disgrace that clouded the Seacrest name with whispered tales, no matter how untrue. She could not do this to her family. “Stop!” She pushed at the man’s shoulders and jerked away, yanking her riding habit closed.
He stared at her, eyes narrowed, jaw set. Why had she not noticed the sinister aura about him before this very second?
“You were looking for a pleasurable way to pass a stormy afternoon with a commoner.”
“No.”
“One you could moan and writhe about with when he gave you pleasure.” He took a step toward her. “You would not be able to show such zealousness with a dandy from the upper crust, would you? But a lowly gamekeeper? After he gave you hours of pleasuring, you could stick your nose up at his manure-coated boots and walk away without fear of seeing him again.” His breathing escalated with his anger. “I am not your servant and I am bloody hell not your amusement. What would your father say if he knew you were dallying with Edward Langford’s gamekeeper?”
A rush of lightheadedness threatened to topple her but she fought to regain control. “You would not tell him.” Pray, do not tell him.
He did not answer.
“Please. Can we not forget this unfortunate incident and go about our business?”
“And should we have occasion to meet again?” His voice dipped several octaves, almost a caress. “What would we do?”
So, he did see the right of it and wished to follow a prudent course should they have the unlikely occasion to meet again. “We would pretend we did not know one another,” she paused and floundered, “which actually, we do not.”
He lifted a brow but thankfully, made no comment.
She must get him to agree. Not that he would necessarily honor a gentleman’s agreement, but she must make the attempt. She could not let a few moments of ill choice heap more disgrace upon her family. Sophie looked into the man’s unsmiling face and said in her gentlest voice, “I would be most grateful if you would comply.”
“Of course you would.” He threw her a look of disgust and said, “What an excellent schemer you are. Should we meet again, I shall remember that.”
