Bound by Love

by Edith Layton

  “No, no,” he said, laughing. “My brother doesn’t, does he?”

  “But he’s not the earl now, either, Jared.”

  “No, he’s not. That bothers me as much as it does you,” Jared said seriously. “That’s the one flaw, isn’t it?” he asked, raking his hand through his hair in his distress. “The one thing that makes it less wonderful. But two men can’t wear the same title. Sometimes I wonder if I should just return to Virginia and let things go back to the way they were for him. He makes a better earl than I do, doesn’t he?”

  “No,” Della said simply, “You are the earl, and you can’t change that. You shouldn’t, because then you’d just be finishing what your uncle started.”

  “But if he is better suited…”

  “He’s not, brother,” Justin said.

  Della and Jared both started and turned to look at the man who stepped out of the shadows by the door. Justin wore a robe, too, but his hair was cropped short, and without his wig, he looked less like Jared.

  “I’m not eavesdropping,” he said. “I didn’t even bring along a pistol to see who was sneaking around the house in the dead of night, because I think you two were trying to wake the dead. Is this what you do in Virginia? Is that why you people are so marvelously productive? You never sleep?”

  “A new house…” Della tried to explain.

  “New burdens,” Jared said decisively, and they were all quiet for a moment.

  “You make too much of it, you know,” Justin said calmly as he strolled into the room. “It’s not really like having a kingdom, brother. There are no decisions of any importance to the nation to be made here, nothing beyond what to plant next spring or how to fix a tenant’s roof. It’s not like the old days, when we had to muster forces and ride off on crusades or protect the villagers against the Vikings or get together with the barons to plot against our least-favorite kings. No, now it’s merely a nice property with an old title. It’s true that every year, you have to preside over the village fair, and you have to go to a few christenings for goodwill. They’ll nag you to take your place in the House of Lords, and if you feel like shopping in London, you’ll go. But it should be nothing for you. In fact, you may find it dull. After all, you managed a thriving business as well as a plantation in the Colonies.”

  “Yes. But no man could come along and take that from me by simply saying he was my brother,” Jared said with equal calm.

  Della held her breath as the two men spoke, because there in the black and white shadows, she sensed the tension between them over their new roles.

  “No. You’re wrong. He could, even in the Colonies, if it was his,” Justin said. “There’s the crux of it. It is yours. Yes, I enjoyed being earl in your place—what man would not? But I always knew it was your place, not mine. That’s not a good way to live. Don’t try to make me do it again. I give it back to you with an open hand. Our uncle showed us brothers can be worst enemies. Let me show you they can be best friends. Don’t make this harder for us both, brother. Take what’s yours, leave me what’s mine, and rejoice with me for it. And then sleep easy, because it’s the right thing to do.”

  There was silence in the room. Then in a voice made unsteady by either laughter or tears, Jared said, “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made Della cry.”

  She was glad that her tears diverted them, so she let the few sentimental tears become a stream.

  “Little sister, I never meant to do that,” Justin said, as he knelt by her side and produced a handkerchief from his sleeve.

  “I’m…not…anyone’s…sister,” she said through gritted teeth as she snatched at the handkerchief, her tears forgotten in her annoyance.

  “See?” Jared said as he knelt at her other side, “that’s how a real earl behaves. He carries a handkerchief with him everywhere. All I can offer you is my sleeve.”

  She giggled.

  “Earls and magicians, yes,” Justin said with a straight face. “Don’t worry, brother, I’ll teach you the way of it; it’s all done with mirrors.”

  They laughed at that, and then so much more when Della blew her nose and Jared said they could use her on foggy nights to warn ships instead of the Eddystone Light. They laughed so hard they had to hush each other, and then ended up laughing even more.

  Giggling so much she was breathless, Della let the two of them finally accompany her back up the stairs. At the top, Justin bowed over her hand and wished her a good night. When he left, Jared stood smiling down at her. The glass dome above the stairs made a circle of broad, bleached light for them to stand in.

  “Little Della,” Jared said tenderly, “always the right touch for the right moment. Thank you, you little rogue.” He pretended to cuff her chin, but his fist only brushed it, like a lion reaching out with blunted claws to play. “I remember too well how easily you can make yourself cry. Lord, remember the time you started wailing when Alfred was about to kill you for spilling ink all over his important papers? You said you’d cut yourself on the broken inkwell, and you cried so hard, we all thought you were bleeding ink and wound up frantically trying to comfort you for your crime. The inkwell wasn’t even broken,” he chuckled. “I knew how easy it was for you, and yet I believed you, too. Tonight, downstairs, you lightened a difficult moment for us. Little Mistress Mischief,” he said gently. “Thank you.”

  His eyes were the exact color of the moonlight, and just as shadowed as he gathered her in his arms in that moon-drenched circle. He held her tight against his hard body and hugged her fiercely, though his embrace was soft. He bent his head and brushed a kiss against her cheek. She closed her eyes and was sure her heart stopped even though it was beating as though it would leap from her breast. His soft hair brushed her face, and it smelled like good soap and warmth and man and Jared, and she breathed in hard so her lungs would burst. And wished…

  “Good night, Della,” he said, releasing her.

  She stepped away from him. It was the hardest step she’d ever taken in her life, because every instinct begged her to stay. But now she worried. She wore no corset or stiffened bodice, so surely he must have felt how her breasts had peaked in excitement, how her body had heated against his—she felt she’d blazed like a candle in his arms. She was afraid to speak as she backed away, staring up at him.

  He paused, for in that second after he let her go, he felt empty and alone again. She’d felt so very good in his arms. Too good—in the wrong way. He’d been looking for his little sister, but it was as if he held a stranger, a tantalizing stranger. It put him off balance, made him uneasy. He frowned, but a heartbeat later he smiled, realizing it was a natural reaction. He’d have to remember she was grown up now. Very grown, he thought ruefully—he’d felt every one of her supple curves pressed close, her firm breasts growing taut against his chest. He’d felt more than that—was why he’d stepped away so fast.

  But it was simply explained, he told himself. Neither of them had on much clothing, and bodies were traitors, responding even when hearts and minds were otherwise inclined. He, of all men, knew that. Further, he reminded himself, a woman’s breasts were sensitive to things like cold. A man’s body was sensitive to a woman. Her body had reacted to natural stimuli, as had his. He hoped he hadn’t embarrassed her; he knew he’d shocked himself. He’d cut off his arm before he’d offend or upset her or betray her and Alfred’s trust in him. She looked upon him as brother and protector; whether he was nobleman or bond-boy, he could never let her down.

  He’d have to remember to be less free with his embraces so as not to embarrass either one of them again. They were both adults now, after all, not able to snuggle like puppies in a litter, no matter how much familial affection they felt for each other.

  But even so, the embrace had comforted him. Just being close to her did that. He realized it was because she would always understand who he was and where he’d come from and try to help him cope with it.

  “And thank you again,” he said with feeling, “for being Della—when I mo
st needed her.”

  “Oh. But there’s nothing I could do about that. Good night, my lord,” she said breathlessly, sweeping him the deepest curtsy she could, so deep as to be a mockery. She hoped he’d laugh enough to forget, in case he’d guessed her emotions, so that he wouldn’t hesitate to hug her again someday.

  He grinned. “‘Night, love,” he said. “Now go to bed.”

  She did, smiling all the way, because he’d said love, and for tonight, she would believe it, even though she was too smart to fool herself very long. For tonight, she would sleep with his words echoing in her ear.

  Chapter 9

  There was the smell of apples—not a good smell, because they were rotting, fermenting, too sweet and too acid and too heavy in the air. The stink of cider mash was not the sweet scent of cider. But that was how a cider press smelled. Otherwise, it was pleasant, cool and damp, as a cellar ought to be in summer. Then why was he so cold and yet slick with sweat? He listened, hoping he wouldn’t hear anything. But he did.

  A thumping, or was it his heart? Jared twisted in his bed, knowing he was dreaming, and struggled to awaken. But then he was back in the cellar again—only now it was a cupboard in the back of the kitchen—and the smell of apples was stronger, and he remembered there was a cider press he should be tending to. In the way of such dreams, he worked the handle of the press, sweating, straining, bearing down with all his insubstantial weight, and yet he was in the cupboard at the same time, listening.

  “I got his contract for a full seven years,” Jared heard the man at the table say to the man opposite him, as he jerked a thumb toward Jared, who strained at the cider press and listened from his cupboard. “I’ve only had him for a few months of them. That’s good time left to go. I’ll sell you his papers for a song, but I ain’t givin’ him away.”

  “A song, is it? Ha! A dirge is what you mean,” the other man said and laughed. “He’s not worth two coppers, Smith. He’s a runt, and you know it. Thin as a lathe. You’re in luck; I need a runt—a sizable boy won’t fit in chimneys. But I don’t know if he’ll suit, even so; I’m taking a chance. There’s talk he’s weak-minded, too. We all know you beat him black and blue. You ought to jump at my offer. Why, I believe you couldn’t trade him for a good dog.”

  “A fat lot you know, Brown. I beat him ’cause he’s new to the work and rambunctious, like all boys, rot them. But he’ll train up good. He’ll fatten fine, too, if anyone wants him to; he ain’t sick, just off his feed. ’Sides, I paid good money for him and I ain’t givin’ him away. You want him? You got to pay for him.”

  Jared listened to the two men arguing about him. He trembled, as much with indignation as with fear.

  “Your name, boy?” the huge man demanded, as he led him away, down twisting streets that tilted and changed as they walked on them, as streets do in dreams. But he knew this was no dream, because he’d tried to wake up so many times and could not.

  “I am Alveston,” he said. “Jared Bellington, earl of Alveston,” the boy said in a proud but fearful voice. “I was stolen away, sir, taken in the night and sold into bondage. If you return me to England and Hawkstone Hall, you’ll be rewarded, I swear it. Please believe me, sir; I speak the truth.”

  He groaned in pain now, as he had not then, as he felt the lash on his back, but his tears stung worse, because they were tears of shame. A Bellington did not cry; the earl of Alveston did not cry. If he did, then he would never return to his home again. If he didn’t, then there was a chance he’d be discovered for what he was and everything would be made right again. It was a boy’s magical incantation to keep his mind off the pain, to keep his mind together, but it was a man who groaned now as the dream cast him back to the days and nights of his despair again.

  “See, the way I’m seein’ it,” the hairy man said craftily, as he drained his glass and plunked it down on yet another table, “ye’ll be killin’ him soon. Now, that’s yer business, Brown, to be sure it is. Still, if the guvner hears of it…it be illegal to kill indentured boys, bad as they may be. Ain’t like he’s exactly a slave—worse, to my way of thinkin’, ’cause yer held accountable fer his life. It’ll cost ye a bundle to keep out of the lock-up, do ye kill him, to say nothin’ of the fine! But, say, do ye be sellin’ him to me…ye’ll use yer coins to buy ’nother lad’s papers, or maybe even get yerself a slave. I’m a poor man; I got no choice. I need a lad for me shop. This one ain’t much, to be sure, and addled, to boot. An earl, he says! Why not a duke, while he’s at it? Ha!

  “But it ain’t funny fer long,” he said, wagging a dirty finger, “and ye can’t beat it out of him, can ye? ’Cause if ye could, Gawd knows ye’d have been the man to do it. We hears him yellin’ sometimes, and sometimes we just hear yer old belt singin’ as ye go at him. But still, I need a boy, and I ain’t got much coin. Solve yer problem and mine at one stroke. That’s a fierce temper ye got on ye, Brown. Ye’ll be killin’ him afore long, and we all knows it. What do ye say?”

  “And I suppose that if he does meet with a misfortune, you’ll be the one to inform on me? Ah—take him and both of you be damned!”

  They were buying and selling him. He couldn’t bear it, but he had to. He was alone in the darkness, hiding, shamed, but doing it to avoid a beating.

  *

  But it was the shame and not the pain that made him twist and turn in his bed now, an ocean away from the place of his dreaming, a lifetime away from the boy who was weeping.

  Jared woke in a tangled welter of bedclothes, damp with sweat. He sat bolt upright, gulping great breaths of air until he felt his heartbeat slow and his body begin to dry in the cool morning air. He looked around the room, still unsure of where he was and if he was really awake. Dawn’s first gray light was the only thing to illuminate the room; the fire was out in the grate. He’d left orders to be sure no servant came in while he slept to rekindle it before he awoke, the way servants commonly did for men of rank. Keeping his secret was well worth a cold awakening. It didn’t happen often, but often enough. The earl of Alveston could not be known to weep in his sleep. The great earl of Alveston, he mocked himself, in his great mahogany bed, covered in silks and satins—and the cold, damp sweat of defeat—because he had been a slave in all but name once and knew in his heart that he could never be a proper nobleman again.

  But he had to be. Was that to be the story of this life—to always be what he knew he was not, while others insisted that he was?

  Jared rose and paced the room, a massively muscled man at home in his naked body, wearing it like a princely garment. He was as used to his nudity as other men were to their long nightshirts, because unlike them, he always slept without clothes, knowing the toll the dreams took when they came.

  He paced and counted his blessings, as though to be sure of them: He was back home. He had been very lucky in his ill luck, finding Alfred and Della, working to make a fortune, and then, finally, the ultimate triumph—becoming himself again and finding a brother he thought was lost—but he’d taken everything from him by doing so.

  Jared stood by his window with his weight braced on his two hands and stared out as dawn raised a filmy curtain of mist from the landscape. And what a landscape! he thought in wonder. He saw his manicured gardens, his statuary, and, in the distance, his orchards and his pond glittering beneath the rising sun. His spirits rose, too. But then he cracked the window open and breathed deeply. There was a faint scent of windfall apples on the autumn breeze, and he remembered his dream and his life again.

  He rang for his bath but was glum and abrupt with the valet his brother insisted on sharing with him. When the man handed him a towel so he could dry himself before the newly laid fire, Jared happened to glance out his window again.

  As the morning fog lifted, he could see early workers hurrying on their way, milkmaids from his dairy, farm workers going to his fields—and a lady in belied skirts strolling in the formal gardens. Della. He recognized her immediately by the way her lilting step made her skirt sway even befo
re he saw that inky hair, unmistakable even from a distance. He grinned, forgetting the night as he saw the day and Della walking out to enjoy it. It would be good to talk with her; they hadn’t had much time together since she’d come to his new home. He’d missed their talks.

  She was with another woman who was too elegantly dressed to be her maid, too slender to be any of the aunts. She wore a tiny hat perched on a jaunty white wig, wearing a gown as rosy as the dawn—Fiona! Jared’s smile grew and he dropped his towel. It was time to be dressed and out, leaving the night and all its pain behind him.

  *

  Fiona’s laughter lit the morning; just hearing it made Jared pause to listen, because it sounded like dulcet bells. Then he heard Della laughing along with her. It was her usual rich, full-throated laughter; just hearing it made him grin.

  “Ladies,” he said, as he came up behind them, “may I join you?”

  “Jared!” Della cried in delight as she spun around to see him.

  “Why, of course,” Fiona said with a growing smile that she hid behind her floral fan. “But we’re the ones who should ask if we may join you—it’s your house, after all.”

  “One forgets,” he murmured.

  “We two do not,” Fiona said, laughing. “We dare not. Good morning to you, my lord. But what are you doing up so early? Don’t you know that a grand English nobleman should be just getting to sleep around now?”

  “Forgive me. I see I’ll need a little time to become adjusted,” he said with a crooked grin.

  “Never fear,” Fiona said, eyes alight with mischief above her fluttering fan. “We’ll guide you every step of the way.”

  It pinched at Della’s heart to stand beside Jared and watch him being flirtatious with another girl. She’d thought it might happen one day, and now that dreaded day had come. Fiona was too well brought up to simper, but she smiled and batted her eyelashes and gave Jared a roguish look. He stood smiling, his gray eyes taking in Fiona with such appreciation that Della felt she was in the way. No, worse than that, she didn’t feel in the way at all—just entirely out of the picture. And Fiona was Justin’s fiancée! But Della wasn’t worried about Justin now.