Blackthorne's Bride

by Joan Johnston

  Seaton saw the flush on her face and knew the fever had returned with a vengeance. Her plan might have worked, if she’d been well enough to dress, well enough to travel. But Lady Lark wasn’t going anywhere tonight. He rose to find the cool, wet cloth he’d been using to ease her fevered brow, then seated himself beside the woman he was somehow going to have to convince, for her own sake, to become his wife.

  JOSIE WAS JOLTED so hard by the train’s sudden stop that she would have landed on the floor, if Blackthorne hadn’t thrown out an arm to stop her forward momentum. Her fashionable straw hat had fallen over one eye, and she shoved it back with one gloved hand while she groped for the edge of the wooden seat with the other. She shot a fearful look in Blackthorne’s direction and asked, “What just happened?”

  “At a guess, the engineer saw a hazard on the track and stopped the train.”

  A murmur of voices in the train car suggested that everyone else felt as confused and anxious as Josie did. Blackthorne seemed completely calm, unlike many of the passengers, who were chattering and frantically racing around, peering out the rain-splashed windows—a futile endeavor, since it was pitch black outside, except for the occasional flash of lightning.

  Fortunately, within a few minutes, a conductor stepped into their car, held up his hands for silence, and announced, “We’ve been flagged down. A train has gone off the tracks north of us and been wrecked. This train will remain here until the rails are cleared.”

  “When will that be?” a passenger asked.

  “Not today. Probably not tomorrow. Perhaps in a day or two,” the conductor said.

  Josie glanced at Blackthorne. His jaw tightened, but otherwise there was no sign of the distress she knew he must be feeling. She was wondering how far they were from the closest town when the conductor said, “Arrangements will be made to take you to the village of Ashington, where you can find accommodations.”

  Josie turned to Blackthorne and asked, “Are we close enough to our destination to finish the journey by carriage?”

  He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and pursed his lips in thought. “It’s about fifty miles from Ashington to Berwick-upon-Tweed. I could probably make the trip in a very long day on horseback, but considering the lightning, the rain, and the mud, the journey will have to begin tomorrow.”

  Josie saw the tension in his shoulders at the knowledge that his rescue of Lady Lark would have to be postponed. “What if we took a carriage and left tonight?”

  “Depending on the weather,” he continued, “and the condition of the roads, even if we travel by carriage, we’ll need to spend at least one night on the road.”

  Which would mean the overnight delay would be necessary no matter how the trip was made.

  “You should go on tomorrow without me,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine waiting by myself in Ashington, until the train can take me the rest of the way.”

  Josie watched the struggle on Blackthorne’s face, knowing he was torn between his duty to his sister and his duty to his wife. She was traveling without a maid, just as he was traveling without his valet. Both servants would be following in a day or so, scheduled to arrive after Blackthorne had rescued his sister, to avoid their discovering Lady Lark in any sort of compromising situation.

  “Taking a carriage makes more sense,” he said at last.

  “Or we could wait for the tracks to be cleared.”

  He shook his head. “It may take longer than the one or two days the conductor estimated. Or there might be another obstruction between here and Berwick-upon-Tweed.”

  She raised a questioning brow, and he explained, “The coal miners in Darlington aren’t happy with the wages they’re being paid by the colliery. Sabotaging the railroad that hauls the coal is one way of making their feelings known.”

  “Then a carriage it is,” she said.

  Except there were no carriages to be had. Ashington wasn’t a large town, and the best they could do was a wagon with a team of plow horses. Josie eyed the wooden bench seat, considered the steady rain, and said, “I think we should spend the night at an inn and rent saddle horses in the morning. If you’re right, and we’re lucky,” she added with a rueful smile, “we can make the journey in a day.”

  “Can you ride so far?” Blackthorne asked skeptically.

  “I expect I’ll be sore, but it seems the only solution.”

  Having a duke for a husband had its advantages, Josie discovered. They were offered the finest room to be had at the nicest inn in Ashington. Unfortunately, that wasn’t saying much. It was also the only room to be had.

  As she surveyed their room, where she’d been sent to refresh herself before supper, an anxious knot formed in her belly. The dip in the middle of the small, lumpy bed suggested it was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to stay on her side, if they shared the bed. And there was no dressing screen, so unless Blackthorne left her alone at bedtime, she would have no privacy to undress. She hadn’t given Blackthorne a chance to inspect her back again after he’d made his discovery of who she was, and she had no intention of giving him a better look. The moonlight had kept him from seeing the true awfulness of her scars. There was no sense subjecting him to another look. If they shared the room, she would have to be sure to be in her nightgown in bed before he joined her.

  And it was only fair that they share the room. They had a miserable journey ahead of them, and it wasn’t fair to ask Blackthorne to sit up all night in a chair.

  Josie felt unaccountably breathless as she sat across from her husband nibbling on a piece of bread, while they waited for the main dinner course to be served. The fact that they would shortly be going upstairs to sleep in the same bed probably had something to do with her agitation.

  For his part, Blackthorne kept rearranging the cutlery and straightening his napkin in his lap, his lips pressed in a grim line, which probably had something to do with the awkward silence that had fallen between them.

  “She’ll be all right, you know,” Josie said as she dipped her spoon into the last of a bowl of oxtail soup.

  “How can you possibly know that?” he snarled.

  It was a sign of just how troubled he was that he’d lost the savoir faire he’d exhibited as they’d made their way to this inn, secured a room, and finally ended up in this private parlor eating dinner. Apparently, he’d reached his limit.

  Josie extended her hand across the table, and Blackthorne gripped it so tightly, she struggled not to wince.

  “I never figured Seaton for the blackguard he’s turned out to be. First hiding you away like that, and now stealing Lark away right under my nose. I can’t believe he’s been lying to me all these years. I can’t believe he’d do something as monstrous as ruin my sister. Why would he do it? I trusted him!”

  The words seemed wrenched from him. Josie realized it wasn’t only his sister’s precarious circumstances that had Blackthorne so distraught. It was the knowledge that his best friend had betrayed him. She knew a great deal about how that felt, based on her own experience with a certain unkept promise made by the English gentleman sitting across from her.

  “Seaton must have some rational explanation for his actions toward me,” she said. “I’m sure you only need to ask him to discover the truth.”

  “I can’t imagine what possessed him,” he mused, his gaze turned inward. “I told him I wanted you sent home. He promised he would see to it. If he decided to do otherwise, he should have said something to me sometime over the next two years when I brought up the subject.”

  Josie’s eyes widened. “You discussed a woman you’d only known for a matter of days for two years afterward?”

  Blackthorne looked shocked, when she replayed his behavior in words, and lowered his gaze, as though he were embarrassed. He murmured, “I wondered what had happened to you.” He met her gaze and added, “And I wondered why I never heard from you.”

  “You really never received any of the letters I wrote?”

  He pulled his
hand free and sat back in his chair. “What letters? How many letters?”

  “I sent at least a dozen letters to your address in London, asking why I was being kept a prisoner at Tearlach Castle.” She bit her lip before she could add that she’d also asked him to come to the rescue of his nephews. She didn’t even want to hint at the possibility that they needed rescuing, since she intended to abscond with them as soon as possible.

  He shook his head. “No one would dare to intercept my correspondence. A dozen letters simply disappear? Impossible.”

  “Is everyone at your home in London so reliable that no one could have been bribed to destroy them?”

  He frowned, apparently running through the list of servants in his mind to determine if one or another could be corrupted. At last he said, “More likely your letters never left Tearlach Castle. Are you sure Seaton didn’t arrange for someone to intercept them there?”

  “He might have. But the castle wasn’t the only place from which I posted letters. I sent several through other means and by other routes. Surely one must have gotten through.”

  “None made it to London,” he insisted. “Seaton had the free run of the house, but he wasn’t there often enough to check every letter coming in.”

  “Who else wouldn’t want you to know I was still in England? Who else would believe you might seek me out, if you knew I was still here?”

  He was silent for a moment before he said, “I can’t think of anyone. Nor do I understand why Seaton did what he apparently did.”

  “I suppose you’ll have to ask him when next you see him.”

  Josie bit her tongue when she saw Blackthorne flinch and realized that thinking of Seaton only reminded him that his best friend was up to no good with his sister.

  A meat pasty and some roasted chicken with vegetables had come and gone while they’d been talking. Josie was surprised to discover she was so full, she couldn’t eat another bite.

  As she shoved an untouched bowl of apple cobbler away, Blackthorne said, “I’ll join you in half an hour.”

  Josie felt a quiver of something that might have been fear as she rose from the table, but she refused to give in to the feeling. She wasn’t sure what to think of the man she’d married, but it was becoming clear that Seaton, rather than Blackthorne, was the villain who’d abandoned her two years ago. Blackthorne had had no inkling, indeed, had never imagined, that his friend could deceive him in the way he apparently had.

  That still didn’t explain why the duke hadn’t come to Tearlach Castle even once during the past two years to check on Spencer and Clay. He might not be guilty of abandoning her, but he’d certainly been guilty of forgetting the very existence of his nephews. He’d shown no inclination to visit them on this trip, either.

  During the train ride, when she’d mentioned visiting the boys at Tearlach Castle, and the possibility of bringing them back to the Abbey to live, he’d said in a brusque voice, “Spencer and Clay are the least of my worries right now. They’re fine where they are.”

  Blackthorne might be innocent of one wrong. But not of the other.

  As she trudged up the stairs toward that small, lumpy bed, the persistent voice in her head piped up again.

  Are you going to let him make love to you? What if you get pregnant? You’re planning to leave. Would that be fair to him? Or to the child? Or even to you?

  Josie shook her head to silence her conscience. She had no idea whether the duke would follow her if she took Spencer and Clay to America for a “visit” and simply didn’t return. But she was certain he would show up breathing fire, if he learned she’d taken his heir with her as well.

  Once she was back in their room, she undressed quickly, slipped under the covers, and waited. And waited. And waited.

  BLACKTHORNE FELT OVERWHELMED by the unfamiliar emotions bombarding him. He had no experience with betrayal, unless one counted what his uncle had done to his father.

  It was the elder son who inherited in England, so even though Blackthorne’s father, Randolph, had been older than his twin brother, Alexander, by only a few minutes, he was the heir. According to Alex, his mother had assured him on her deathbed that he was the elder son, that she’d done her best to persuade their father that he was mistaken in thinking Randolph was born first. But the duke had attached himself to his younger son and refused to accept the truth.

  Alex had fought his brother in court to prove his right to the dukedom. But neither their father nor their mother had been alive to attest to anything. In the end, a nursemaid had been brought in, and she’d sworn that Alex was the younger. His uncle had left London and never been heard from again.

  Had his father felt this awful emptiness? Had his father wondered how someone so close to his heart could want to hurt him so badly? Had his father felt this growing rage that threatened to erupt in violence? If so, it was no wonder Uncle Alex had run away and never come back.

  His best friend had been the raft that kept Blackthorne afloat as Fanny’s illness worsened. Seaton had provided a shoulder to cry on—something Blackthorne had actually done—which had made the difference between mere agony and total madness, as he watched his beloved wife dying before his eyes. Having Seaton there to reassure him that life must go on had kept him from putting a pistol to his head. And after his wife was gone, sharing his memories of Fanny with his best friend had made it possible to move on with his life.

  It was devastating to learn that Seaton had been lying to him all along. That his friend had been manipulating him behind his back. That his friend had never been his friend at all.

  Blackthorne felt a terrible ache in his chest, as though his heart was being squeezed by rough, uncaring hands. He wanted…He needed…

  He found himself blindly taking the stairs two at a time to reach his room. Something was there, someone was there who promised surcease from pain. He opened the door and saw by the light of the lantern that the rumpled bed was empty. He searched the small room for his wife and found her standing barefoot in the corner, her tangled curls flowing over her shoulders, her mouth open wide in shock. She was wearing a chemise and tying the ribbon on a pair of pantalettes. It was unclear whether she was dressing or undressing.

  He crossed to her without speaking, hauled her into his arms and held her tight, as though her physical presence could keep his thundering heart from beating out of his chest.

  “Where have you—” she began.

  He pressed her face against his waistcoat, cutting her off, and said, “Let me hold you.”

  She stood rigid in his embrace for a moment, before he felt her arms slide around his waist and her body align itself with his. He nudged her chin up with a forefinger and found her mouth with his. His tongue surged inside seeking comfort and found a sweet haven. He angled her head to find better purchase and plundered the treasure he discovered within.

  His wife was no passive partner. Blackthorne felt her tongue in his mouth, tasting, touching, seeking. She caught fire in his arms, tugging at his cravat and tearing at the buttons on his waistcoat. He let go of her long enough to help her, yanking the silk cravat over his head and sending waistcoat buttons pinging across the wooden floor, as he tore off coat and waistcoat and threw them aside.

  She shoved his shirt up out of her way, her hands greedy with the need to touch, as he stripped it off. He pulled her close again, pausing only long enough to tear her flimsy chemise in two, so that he could feel warm flesh against flesh.

  His hands found their way to the scars on her back and he groaned as he tenderly traced the marks. She froze and pressed her forehead against his chest, her breathing labored.

  “Don’t look,” she begged. “Please don’t look.”

  “I don’t need to look,” he whispered in her ear. “I see these marks in my dreams. I’ve never forgotten you, Josie. Not for one moment of one day.”

  She lifted her face, and he saw the wonder in her eyes, before he lowered his mouth to capture hers. Her arms circled his neck and held him tig
ht, as his hands caressed her.

  It never occurred to him to wonder why Josie wasn’t fighting him, why she seemed to need him as much as he needed her. He only knew that merely kissing her and holding her was no longer enough. He picked her up and tossed her onto the bed, stopping only long enough to tear off his shoes and socks and trousers and smalls before joining her.

  His eyes flared with desire as she wriggled out of her pantalettes and kicked them away, presenting a brazenly naked feast before him. Her arms were open wide, welcoming him as he covered her body with his own, pressing her knees wide and plunging inside her, making them one.

  He slid his arms around her, but as he pulled her close, gravity sent him rolling with her into the deep trench at the center of the sagging bed, so that she ended up on top, their bodies still joined.

  She looked astonished, as she pushed herself upright, her golden hair tumbling across her naked breasts, her knees bent on either side of his broad chest.

  He arched his body into hers and watched as her eyes closed, and her mouth fell open in ecstasy. Her hands slid across his chest, and she looked down at him with passion-glazed eyes, apparently surprised to discover that his nipples had turned into buds as tight as her own. He pulled her close enough to reach her breast with his mouth and suckle, causing her to moan.

  Their bodies arched and swayed, the pleasure ebbing and flowing like waves on the seashore. Watching Josie’s face, seeing her wonder and delight, eased the ache in his heart. Then her face changed, and he saw a pleasure akin to pain. She threw her head back as her body began to convulse, and a raw, animalistic sound emerged from her throat. Her breathing became ragged, her body boneless, until at last, she fell forward and lay in a trembling heap on his chest.

  He closed his arms around her and turned her under him, his body still pulsing within hers. He held his weight on his arms as he looked into her heart-shaped face, waiting for her eyes to open, waiting for her to come back to herself. She opened half-lidded eyes, and a satisfied, cat-with-the-cream smile curved her lips.