Lord of the Abbey

by K. R. Richards

  Harry poured a half glass of brandy this time.

  Rowena accepted it with a brilliant smile. “Thank you, Harry.” She sipped the brandy thoughtfully. “I’m very happy William Dulac insisted I tell you I saw him.” A hic-cup escaped her. “Excuse me.”

  She looked so adorable, and rather surprised by the hic-cup. Harry just wanted to pull her into his arms and – no! He couldn’t. He would not breach her trust. “I am pleased you told me, Rowena. What did William Dulac tell you?”

  Rowena relayed her short encounter with the ghost of William Dulac to Harry.

  “He was pointing at your wardrobe, and disappeared when I knocked. I’m sorry for interrupting.”

  “Oh, I am not sorry, Harry. I mean that you knocked on my door.” Rowena felt her cheeks flush when she realized Harry was looking at her. Really looking at her. His eyes were dark and intense. The way he studied her, Rowena felt suddenly conscious of the fact that she was wearing only her nightclothes. She realized then that he wore only his trousers and a partially open linen shirt. She looked curiously at the dark hair on his chest, displayed by the open V of his shirt. Wondered what that dark hair might feel like beneath her fingers if she were to touch it.

  Shadows danced on the wall behind the lamp. The moon broke free of the passing clouds sending a beam of moonlight in through the window. When Harry noticed again, for the second time, how transparent Rowena’s nightclothes were, he decided their midnight discussion had just come to an end. With Rowena looking at him that way, and being a bit tipsy… He must get her upstairs! Safe into her bedchamber before he lost his control. And he did not possess much self-restraint at present.

  Heaven help him, there was an angel in dishabille with the face and apparently the body of Botticelli’s Venus, well on her way to being intoxicated, sitting at her leisure a mere three feet from him. As if on cue, the Venus yawned. “Rowena. It is late, and you need your sleep. Let me escort you upstairs. We can finish our discussion tomorrow.” Harry extinguished the lamp quickly. Took her empty glass and set it beside his on the tray.

  “You’re not going to leave tomorrow morning because I saw a ghost, are you Harry?”

  Harry saw she was nervous. Again, unsure. She bit her lower lip and rose from the chair. She wobbled, ever so slightly. He reached out to steady her.

  Rowena stepped closer to him. Too close. So close she felt the heat radiating from his body. “You won’t leave, will you?” She peered up at him through a tousled mass of golden curls which fell forward, covering one side of her face. She, rather ungracefully, swept the hair from her eyes.

  “No, Rowena. I won’t leave. I will be here tomorrow. We must look for the secret chamber, remember?” Harry was in agony. She was so close he smelled the fresh scent of lavender emanating from her. All he need do was pull her against him. No! He stopped himself. Control. He always was a master of control. He would behave as a gentleman was expected to. He was determined to come through this a gentleman. He would do this!

  “Good.” She breathed a sigh of relief. She turned to leave the room and didn’t seem to notice his hand slipping around her waist to steady her as she weaved slightly to her left. He feared his Angel was perhaps a trifle more tipsy than he originally thought. And it was his fault. But he wasn’t sorry. He grinned despite the difficult situation he found himself in. No. He was not the least bit sorry.

  Rowena leaned into him as they ascended the stairs. The only thing separating her nakedness from him was a nightgown and a thin wrapper. It was agony to feel her hip and her leg brush against him as they climbed upstairs.

  Another hic-cup erupted as they reached the landing. It was followed by a small giggle.

  “Shhh.” He bent to whisper a warning in her ear. Rowena turned toward him suddenly. His lips grazed the top of her ear and landed at her temple. Her hair smelled of lavender. Heaven help him! One of her golden curls had again fallen over one eye. He whisked it away and behind her ear in one swift stroke. “Back to your room,” he whispered, recognizing the thick huskiness in his own voice. If she was an angel, then he was surely a saint to make it through such exquisite torture.

  When at last they reached the door to her bedchamber he bent his head, whispering near her ear, “Good night, Rowena. Get in your bed, now! Stay there. Sleep well.”

  “I don’t think I shall sleep, Harry.” Rowena rose up on her tip-toes, and whispered as close to his ear as she could. Again she wobbled. Instinctively, he reached out to steady her.

  “Why not?” He looked at her curiously. Got lost in those stormy eyes. Remembered to remove his hands from her slender waist.

  “You do believe me about the ghost, don’t you Harry? You won’t think I’m insane tomorrow, will you?”

  Again she chewed on the fullness of her lower lip. Tears welled in her big, sky-colored eyes. She lowered her golden brown lashes. Her brother’s reaction to her seeing a ghost must have hurt her terribly. “I believe you, Rowena. I know you are not insane. I believe you saw the ghost of William Dulac,” He trailed the back of his hand across the softness of her cheek. Her eyes closed and her lips parted. Off balance, Rowena fell into him.

  Harry caught her. Felt the warm softness of her breasts crushing against his chest. There were only a few thin layers of linen between their bodies. Harry burned where her lush body molded against him. Fire, hot and deep consumed him.

  Before Harry realized what action he took, before he could summon his renowned control, his arms wrapped tighter about her, his hands traveled the curve of her back. She melted into him then. He felt her nipples harden as they came in contact with his chest, though he doubted she even understood that her body was reacting to his touch.

  She looked up to regard him. Her large, blue eyes were crystalline, as innocent as an angel’s, her full rosy lips beckoning him like those of a siren. Captivating him. Luring him. Harry bent his head. His lips brushed against hers. Once. Twice. Then covered her sweet, rosy mouth. Drank in her warmth, her light. It was a tender kiss in the beginning, until Rowena responded to him. Began to return his kiss. Her lips moved gently against his. Timid, but curious. Then they parted and God help him Harry had to taste her. No more thoughts of control. He surrendered to the lure of the sweet angel siren.

  Rowena was surprised by his tongue at first. Then she sought it and responded with her own. She tried to match his movements. Wanted more.

  Harry’s hands wound through her golden curls, resting at her nape. He pulled her closer, kissed her deeper.

  Harry gave himself up to the fiery need consuming him. The need to touch her, kiss her. Where was his control? He was lost.

  Rowena reveled at the feel of his tongue inside her mouth. Never had she been kissed so before. Well, the lewd excuse of the forced kiss by Dalworth did not count. This was a real kiss. The kind poets wrote of. Painters painted. Her heart raced. She sank against his hard, muscled frame. Everywhere her body met his, her skin tingled and burned. She was unable to think clearly. Molded against him as she was, she suddenly realized what the peculiar hardness was that she felt pushing against her belly. Instead of pulling away as she should have, Rowena felt the need to get closer, to absorb his heat. Feel him.

  She wanted…she didn’t know exactly what it was she yearned for, only that there should be more. There had to be more! She needed something. Something to ease the burning need she felt. Something to assuage the strange hunger she felt throbbing low in her body. The curious heat inflaming her. She knew Harry Bellingham could give her that something.

  When her hands moved from his arms to explore his chest, Harry realized he was almost too far gone. Taking every ounce of control he knew he possessed, Harry lifted his mouth from hers and placed his hands firmly on her upper arms. He spun her to face her bedchamber. He let go of one slender arm to push the portal wider, and gave her a gentle push on her back with his palm. “Inside and to your bed, Rowena. Pleasant dreams.”

  She turned, smiling up at him. It was an endearing smile and nea
rly his complete undoing.

  Rowena sighed. “I will try, Harry. But truly I do not think I will be able to sleep at all after this! I am not at all sleepy now.”

  Smothering an amused chuckle, Harry couldn’t resist, and leaning down, he kissed her atop her golden curls. “Try, Rowena. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow morning.” Again, he gently turned her around, pushed her into her room, and pulled the door closed.

  “Very well, Harry. Goodnight.”

  He heard her through the door.

  He listened at the door to make certain she did get into her bed. After a few quiet minutes, silence reigned, and certain she was safely abed, Harry sighed heavily and made his way to his room. He was deep in trouble. With an Angel who happened to possess the charms and body of Venus.

  Chapter Five

  Harry knew he was still over his head in trouble when he woke with the dawn. His dreams were invaded by the Angel. Cause of said trouble. He woke often, expecting to find an angel in his arms, and that the dreams of sweet sexual torture were real, only to find that he was quite alone. He felt he was no more in control of his thoughts in daylight than he was in the dark hours.

  Rowena Locke intrigued him more than any other woman he encountered. He did not understand why she affected him so. She was a renowned spinster, albeit a beautiful blue-stocking. An innocent. Not his normal type, although he hadn’t yet looked for a wife, his normal type was a seductive and highly skilled mistress. The Angel bewitched him in the span of two days. How could he allow this to happen? He did not become bewitched by women.

  He rose from the bed, deciding a walk to clear his head was just what he needed. Harry dressed, headed downstairs and out into the chill of the April morning.

  Harry enjoyed his quiet walk along Stonedown Lane. After a time, he turned and headed back toward the Manor. The lane was wet from yesterday’s rain, but the sun peeked out from behind the clouds for a few moments, gilding the budding spring landscape around him. Sheep grazed in the fields here and there beyond. The trees lining the lane were bedecked in young green leaves. The birds sang happily as they flew about and settled in the tree tops.

  The Tor loomed beyond on his left. The tower of St. Michael stood boldly, a lone sentinel on the barren hilltop. The tower was all that was left of St. Michael’s Church, the rest damaged after the earthquake in 1275. Three hundred years later, Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries claimed what was left. Save the tower, said to be guarded by St. Michael, the Archangel, himself. The tower remained atop the Tor, a beacon and landmark viewed for many miles from the surrounding Somerset downs and beyond. The grooves of the labyrinth maze that wound around the Tor like a serpent, an ancient path trod by pagans and pilgrims alike, were more than evident from this close a view. It was argued that the Tor was holier and certainly more ancient than the Vetusta Ecclesia, the old church. Later, that church became the Lady Chapel at the Abbey.

  Stonedown Manor came into view on his right. It was a warm and cozy late fifteenth century manor with seventeenth and eighteenth century additions that gave it an interesting and rambling appearance. The Manor was well kept and in good condition. He was always entranced by the house and its colorful gardens, even when a boy. Now a man, it seemed he was entranced by its future mistress.

  He had not burned so for a woman since he was infatuated by Lady Alice Swindon when he was eighteen. Lady Alice was nineteen to his eighteen years. Their families were engaged much together in London. Lady Alice, who probably never even noticed him, barely spoke more than a total of ten words to him. The infatuation lasted only a season, remaining completely one sided.

  When he next returned to the Grange in Glastonbury for the summer, he discovered Sally Pickley, more appropriately Sally Pickley’s ample bosom, at the White Hart, and he quickly substituted infatuation for the randy lust of a green young man. Harry spent many hours in the company of the buxom and lusty barmaid during the summers when he was in Glastonbury over the next several years. Until he matured and discovered what discreet and delectable delights there were to be found in London. Delights with no strings. No commitments.

  There were many peers’ wives who sought dalliances with young and handsome first, second and third sons. And a good many lusty widows, who enjoyed their social freedoms too much to be again confined by marriage. They used liaisons with handsome and passionate men to sate their renowned lust. There was a well-kept mistress for a little over two years. She became too needy. Too confining. In London, there were countless places for a man to slake his lust.

  This need was different. He felt it to his toes. This need he possessed for Rowena, was not an infatuation, nor was it mere lust. Though he knew it to be deeper than that, Harry could not name it.

  His thoughts cleared somewhat, Harry began to plan his way forward. He entered through the spectacular original Tudor gatehouse opening. The actual gate he guessed to be long gone. His first priority was to see Rowena. To make certain she was comfortable with what transpired between them the previous night. He wanted to make certain she was not frightened by what they shared. He was not sorry for his actions. He had no regrets. He planned on their being more interaction of the same nature between them in the days ahead.

  Harry always planned to delay marriage as long as possible, thinking it was a duty, a chore, an inconvenience to the full freedom he finally obtained. Oh, he’d had freedom the whole of his adult years, but he still at times was forced to bend to his father’s dictates and orders on occasion regarding the family businesses and the running of the estates. And he was instructed to do everything the way his father wanted it done.

  Now, he was free to do whatever he wished. He thought to taste and savor that freedom for a little while before being chained to a wife. Yet, he always knew that upon stepping into his role as the Earl of Glaston it was his duty to take a wife. To beget an heir. It was expected.

  Harry never dreamed there may come a day when he might want to pursue a wife. A day such as today. A fine spring morning such as this. Though such thoughts might be considered premature, Harry knew one thing for certain. At this moment he wanted Rowena Locke. In his bed. And to be his wife. To be his Countess. Though he did not understand the why of it, he knew, deep down to his core, he had to make her his.

  The challenge, he realized, after remembering Rowena’s words the prior evening that she did not want to or need to marry, was to change her mind. He guessed that Rowena did not look favorably on marriage, having so narrowly escaped being forced to wed Dalworth. He wanted to help her through her fear. Help her change her mind.

  He needed to speak with her aunt. Find out exactly why Rowena feared marriage so. For it was obvious to him, Rowena believed marriage was something to fear, and to run from. He definitely had to help her change the way she viewed marriage. At least, change how she viewed marriage to him. Harry was now, as of this very moment, actively wooing Rowena Locke for the purpose of becoming his wife.

  Rowena was mortified. Had she truly kissed Harry Bellingham? Or was it he who kissed her first? She wasn’t entirely certain. It was difficult to remember every little detail. Some parts of it were so foggy in her mind. No doubt because she was tipsy.

  No, drunk was probably the better word. She only remembered the most incriminating of her offenses in perfect detail. That she kissed him back. With her tongue! Touched the muscles of his chest and abdomen through the linen of his shirt, and almost, oh she wanted to touch his – that, oh that – very object which proved the evidence of his desire. The very hard and protruding evidence she felt so acutely against her belly. Thank goodness she hadn’t put her hand on it as she remembered wanting to do! Whatever would he have thought of her then? And she was more than a little tipsy. Why he’d practically carried her up the stairs. Pushed her into her chamber. Oh dear! Rowena gasped. She behaved shamelessly.

  She cringed when she remembered telling him about seeing the ghost of William Dulac. She told herself all the while she dressed to not be surprised if
she found out Harry had returned to Abbey Grange at first light. To escape the mad, spinster from Stonedown. And if in fact it was she who kissed him, stuck her tongue in his mouth first, and because of what transpired between them, he no doubt wanted to escape the mad, promiscuous, spinster from Stonedown. Oh, what he must think of her! Rowena’s cheeks flamed at the memory.

  Rowena decided she could always move to Italy. She liked Italy.

  Her cheeks flamed bright red remembering the kiss they shared and how close he held her. And feeling his muscles beneath her hands and that…oh my, his man thing against her belly. Rowena wasn’t sorry. She never enjoyed a kiss so much. She was kissed all of three times in her life, the first two so innocent, a fleeting touch of lips with a young man in Bath when she had been but eighteen, the horrible kisses Dalworth forced on her had never counted. Harry Bellingham’s kisses were quite enlightening. More than enjoyable. Extremely enjoyable. And left her wanting more.